Cornwall Online Census Project—1841

I walked into a fish-and-chip shop in Truro, about 15 years ago, and joined a queue. At the head of it was an elderly man with wild white hair and beard, wearing a grubby raincoat. I recognised William Golding. I mused about the odds against walking into a chippie and seeing a Nobel Laureate having fish and chips wrapped. He shuffled past me without recognition and I didn't say hello. It seemed an embarrassment to do so, almost as if I'd caught him buying a top-shelf magazine. We had something in common beside fish-and-chips, wild white hair, grubby raincoats and writing novels. I had returned to my native Cornwall in 1987, a few years later than he had done. We don't think of Golding as Cornish, but his mother was Cornish, and he was born near Newquay. His parents had married in Truro Cathedral. I lived with my wife Denise and our son in Truro, Golding a few miles away, in the village of Perranarworthal. He'd moved back from Wiltshire, I'd heard, partly to escape from the hordes of fans and trashcan-raiders, partly because he was proud of his Cornish roots.

I admired his novels, and had taught Lord of the Flies and Pincher Martin. I was also well-disposed towards him, since he had picked The White Hotel as his Book of the Year in 1981. Living close, we might have been expected to form at least a warm acquaintance, but it hadn't happened. We'd met only a couple of times, shaking hands at large formal occasions in country houses. William and Ann, his wife, had driven up in a long, sleek black car, to be instantly fawned on by Cornwall's minor gentry. I imagined that for the Goldings these invitations were ten-a-penny. They were rare for me, the gentry having quickly decided I wasn't "one of them". I smoked, and spilled wine and ash on their carpets, and my novels were indecent.

Then, in June 1993, came a card inviting us to a party at Tullimaar, the Golding residence. My wife didn't want to go; at heart still a working-class Cockney girl, she felt even more uneasy than I in grand surroundings, and among people many of whom she considered snobs. I drove off alone, taking the narrow winding road towards Falmouth, then in leafy Perranarworthal turning into the drive which led up to Tullimaar, the Goldings' stately Georgian house. It was a beautiful June evening; the sun glinted off a couple of dozen parked cars.

Golding was greeting his guests in the hallway. We shook hands and I asked him, "Are you writing a novel?" - that most infuriating question to a writer, since if you are, you don't want to talk about it, and if you're not, your spirits crash. But he was charitable, saying, with a sly smile, and tapping his nose, "No. But I have an idea for one." I said, "That's good," and moved past him.

I walked into a large room packed with guests sitting at card-tables, reminding me of village whist-drives in my youth. But the people crowded around the little tables weren't playing cards, they were eating. I took a glass of wine from a waiter's tray, and found one or two people I vaguely knew. After a while I was pointed to another room, where guests were lining up to be served carvings from a giant salmon, a giant ham. I manoeuvred my plate back through the crowds, to the card-tables. I was pleased to find two kindred spirits, Professor Charles Thomas - a fellow Cornishman - and his wife, the novelist Jessica Mann. I could talk easily with them, spilling food and wine. Charles is down-to-earth, as befits an archaeologist.

They probably introduced me to Judy Carver, the Goldings' daughter, who had driven from her home in Bristol. A friendly woman, she showed me a plaque stating that General Eisenhower had stayed at Tullimaar while planning D-Day; then took me upstairs to show me where Eisenhower had slept; and a bullet-hole in a wall, caused by some drunk and trigger-happy American serviceman, or maybe a would-be assassin - I don't remember which.

We went back down the broad stairs to the crowds - who were suddenly rushing for their coats and vanishing. It was as if another shot had been fired, announcing: "Our revels now are ended." I looked at my watch. Ten o'clock! I couldn't believe it. I only get started at ten o'clock. I guess everyone thought, they're in their 80s, they like an early night, so we must go. In no time, the house was empty, apart from caterers clearing up, the Golding family, and me.

I didn't feel like leaving. And Judy said, "Come into the kitchen and we'll have another drink."

Her brother David was there, sitting at the table. A gentle, silent man. Ann Golding came in: stately and regal. Judy vanished and returned with a few bottles of red wine from the cellar. I opened one and we drank and chatted. I was gazing at a large portrait of Ann, next to the high wide window. "A beautiful portrait of you," I said, and she blushed. "I was beautiful once," she replied, looking wistful. I asked if she had any youthful photos she could show me. She went out and came back with an album, and showed me pictures of herself. "Yes, you were stunning."

William Golding entered, and stopped short. "You're showing him those photos!" he said accusingly; and she seemed to wince. I said I'd asked her to show them to me, and she was beautiful; and his face softened as he sat down at the table. But then, noticing the wine bottles, complained to Judy, "You've brought up my best wine!"

She murmured reprovingly, "Oh, dad!" His face softened again, as if accepting that he'd sounded rather mean; he poured himself a glass and relaxed. I asked them about their earlier lives; and my questions gradually ushered in an intimate, though veiled, father-daughter discussion across the table. When it turned to silence Golding stretched his hand to hers, and said, "I do love you, you know."

She gazed intensely at him. "I know you do."

Time passed, in a blur of wine and talk. He said he'd come to Cornwall to escape the crowds, but now people felt too intimidated to invite him out. "I'm lonely."

It surprised me, but also struck a chord. When Denise and I had moved to Cornwall we'd hosted big, noisy parties, hoping - expecting - that at least some people would invite us back. It rarely happened. Plenty of "You must come to dinner", but then usually nothing. Not even a phonecall saying let's meet for a drink. The hospitable social life I'd known in my childhood seemed to have vanished from Cornwall along with the fishing fleets, herring shoals and crowded melodious chapels. We'd given up. Now here was the Nobel Laureate saying, "I'm lonely." It wasn't just us.

"So would you like to meet at a pub some time?" I asked.

"I'd love to!" He tore off a scrap of envelope and scribbled down his phone number for me.

Suddenly he gazed at his wife's portrait, then the window, the twilight beyond, and said, "This is a beautiful house, isn't it?" As though it came to him as a joyous revelation. And one that encompassed much more than a house.

I drank a lot, as did he. The window darkened. Ann stood up and said she was off to bed. As she passed him he took her hand, and said he would be up soon. A tender glance passed between them. I didn't take the hint; I was enjoying myself too much. I started to sing, as I often do when I'm drunk and at ease. I remember warbling the Beatles' "Yesterday". There were uneasy smiles, and I realised it was time to leave. One o'clock. I staggered out to my car, and saw them standing outside waving as I drove erratically away, seeing double. Two sets of cats' eyes. Luckily there were no police around.

The next evening I went to the opening of an art exhibition in Falmouth. Charles Thomas greeted me on entry: "Such a shock about poor old Bill." Golding had died at about 1.30am, while getting ready for bed, of a massive heart attack.

I thought, My God, I've killed him! Keeping him up too late and causing him to drink too much... Perhaps Ben Jonson had the same feeling about Shakespeare. I wrote to his daughter expressing those fears. She wrote back saying he had been suffering from severe heart problems and so his death was inevitable; and how better to die, than after seeing all his family and friends, on a beautiful midsummer evening?

That was true; and after telling her he loved her, and squeezing his wife's hand, and having some vision of beauty, peace and fulfilment, symbolised by his house - and savouring his best wines. It was an enviable departure. I feel privileged to have had a share in it; and I still treasure the last writing of William Golding - his phone number.

( http://books.guardian.co.uk/review/story/0,,1793962,00.html )