Sun On The Water - The Brilliant Life And Tragic Death Of My Daughter Kirsty Maccoll. Jean MacColl. Читать онлайн. Newlib. NEWLIB.NET

Автор: Jean MacColl
Издательство: Ingram
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Жанр произведения: Биографии и Мемуары
Год издания: 0
isbn: 9781782192671
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      I had always dreamed of finding a plot of land on which to build my very own house and this seemed the opportunity I had been waiting for. I went with Kirsty in her pushchair to Croydon Town Hall and asked to look at the large-scale planning maps of the region to find out if there was any vacant land for sale. They were neither entirely helpful nor particularly optimistic and so I started to widen my search, scouring the southern outskirts of Croydon. Whenever I came across a likely piece of land, I would return to the planning department to ask who owned it and whether it was for sale. The regular replies either pointed out that there was no public access, or else there were electrical substations on the site.

      After working my way through the first of these maps, I asked if I could look at the adjoining one. It was obvious they were getting tired of my search for land when they told me that the map I wanted was stored in the cellars and they couldn’t get it out. However, quite by chance, I bought the local paper on the way home, and there I found an advertisement of a plot of land for sale. I phoned them up, took down the details and within a few hours travelling with Kirsty to Beech Way, an unmade road in Selsdon, about four miles south of the centre of Croydon. Here was the plot of my dreams.

      We looked across acres of woodland that dipped into a valley before rising again to the skyline. It was so exciting that we both attempted to walk through the briars for a little way. Kirsty was a willing little companion but very soon we had lost sight of civilisation – our car, the road and a nearby house had all disappeared. With more luck than judgement I eventually found our way back to the car, excitedly returning home to tell Hamish all about it.

      We were eventually the owners of an acre of land – now all I had to do was find an architect and see if my small budget would be sufficient to build a house for the three of us. When I took Joan Littlewood to see the land, she told me, in typical Joan style, that she knew just the man for the job. If my long association with her had taught me anything, though, it was to add a smidgen of caution to her wonderfully exuberant remarks – and so it proved.

      The design her architect came up with was for a five-storey building that would have completely blocked out the view for the two houses on the other side of the road. Joan had told her architect, Cedric Price, that I needed a studio and this had been designed for the fifth floor: there was a ground floor, a mezzanine, then the children’s bedrooms, then my bedroom, and finally my grand fifth-floor studio. He had also proposed under-drive heating, after I had told him of the difficulties with ice in bad weather. Alas, I was not ready for Cedric Price’s vision of my future – and nor, more to the point, was my bank balance. I later learned that my neighbours had complained to the planning office. Joan’s architect subsequently went to America, where he collected a number of awards.

      I was driving with Kirsty through Biggin Hill in Kent one day when we caught a glimpse of a very nice chalet-type house, set back from the road. A large notice announced: Eric Mayne, Architect. Without thinking twice, I turned into his driveway, Kirsty and I got out of the car and we rang the bell. The door was opened by a bearded man. ‘I like your house,’ I said.

      ‘And I like you,’ he replied with a smile. ‘Come in.’

      I had found my architect.

      And it was in this utterly random way that I eventually realised my dream of a warm house with large garden – and the total cost came in at only a fraction of the price of the properties for sale in Croydon. The house was scheduled for completion by May 1965, but in the event it was another four months before we moved in. The three of us, along with our cat Solomon, briefly joined my mother in Croydon.

      I found a little time for my own leisure activities. Tosh Rapoport was a willing and reliable babysitter and I would occasionally go out for dinner, but usually preferred to invite friends over. Once a week I would go with a friend to classes in central London to continue my study of the Russian language – a discipline I had imposed on myself as a child, when I thought my ballet studies would take me to Moscow. But the Russian classes stopped abruptly when Kirsty fell ill again. When things temporarily improved, I tried a life class at Croydon Art College. Tosh’s brother David joined Hamish in babysitting Kirsty. They got on very well. At the age of twelve, David asked his mother if it was possible for a man to marry a woman ten years younger than himself. Many years later, when both he and Kirsty were each married with children of their own, David and his wife Sandy came to a party Kirsty held for me. When I reminded them of this, Kirsty laughed and turned to Sandy with a single word: ‘Jezebel!’

      Hamish invited me to a social event at Trinity School – a film show – and we sat together on hard benches to watch Alec Guinness in Kind Hearts and Coronets. In the interval between reels, Hamish bought me a cup of tea and a biscuit, and after the show he escorted me home. We had both enjoyed the outing tremendously and his manners had been meticulous. Ewan bought him a motorised go-kart at around this time, and I remember a few exciting rides on it, whizzing round a track in the old school playground.

      • • •

      The three of us – four, with Solomon II the cat – said our goodbyes to my mother and finally moved into Coombe Cottage, as our new house in Selsdon was to be called, in the summer of 1965. Hamish carried Solomon in his basket and settled him comfortably near the central heating boiler in the laundry room. Meanwhile I carried Kirsty into the house, encouraging her with tales of the foxes and badgers that lived in our new garden. But she was not well enough to respond with her usual enthusiasm. Under normal circumstances this would have been a joyous day and I would have attempted some small celebration to mark the occasion – but Kirsty was clearly unwell, and I began to worry that we were now five or six miles further out from Croydon, and I would need to change to a local GP.

      I got her to bed as soon as possible in her new bedroom and was delighted that the house was warm throughout – unlike our old draughty flat. Kirsty lay down facing the large windows that overlooked the garden, which stretched for an acre or so before disappearing into woodland. I left the curtains open so that she could look out, and I talked to her not only about the animals she would be able to see in the morning but also about the stars. My knowledge of astronomy was not great but I could still show her the North Star and the Plough. I also told her about the small shed in our garden which I promised to clear out, and which would be for her use only: she would have to think about what she wanted to put in it.

      The bedrooms were on the ground floor, and Hamish and I went upstairs to the lounge to start some unpacking. He was very impressed with his new surroundings. Would Kirsty and I mind spending the night with my mother, he asked casually, so that he and David could have a party there? I thought about it, and agreed – at least someone was in a celebratory mood. It was a couple of weeks before everything was in place and I kept my promise, though I must say I was rather nervous that things might get broken or damaged. In fact, everything went very well: those 60s teenagers all had a good party – and the girls loved playing house, continually wiping up and tidying in the kitchen. I was quite impressed – and quite relieved too.

      There is no doubt that Kirsty was frustrated at not being able to explore her new surroundings as much she would have wished. I remember looking at her pale, slight figure, in her blue dressing gown, as she fought for breath. It didn’t seem fair that all her friends were outside playing while she had to spend so much time in her bed. I kept reminding myself that Kirsty was physically strong: it was just this crippling asthma that was holding her back. Sitting on the end of her bed, I sensed her weariness and determined to try some gentle encouragement. While eager to learn, she had been disappointed with school. I started to talk about people’s talents. Some were good at music, I said, others at mathematics; some could design houses and others became surgeons. Some people were born lucky, with more than one talent, and I told her I thought she was one of them: it was important for her to enjoy trying out anything that interested her. We would get over the asthma eventually, I said; nothing was impossible. I tried to encourage her by telling her about Albert Schweitzer, explaining that he worked as a doctor in Africa but was also a famous musician who toured the world, playing the organ to fund his medical work. This mixture of music and politics, as it turned out, seems to have stuck in her mind. A few years ago I came across an interview she gave in a German magazine where she recalled the story