We parted in Paris. After life with Rupert
I wanted no more arguments over money,
furniture, the flat, that kind of thing.
Harry was different.
He was generous, but unpredictable.
He got moody in the hotel. I think he was depressed.
One morning he went out saying he'd buy
bread and beer and cheese and we'd have a picnic.
He came back six hours later, drunk, dishevelled,
in tears. He was incoherent and shouting
and he frightened me. I don't know
what he was saying but I remember
something about Vikings and childhood.
He was obsessed with his mother,
that she left him and his father
when Harry was just eleven. She ran off
with a saxophonist. His father
was never the same after that.
He pursued them across the country,
took little Harry with him,
tracked them down to a farmhouse in Norfolk
then lost the courage for confrontation.
He smashed the windscreen of their car one night,
drove away before they could catch him.
After that he simply gave up.
Harry was obsessed. In Paris he went mad.
I got the doctor who gave him pills.
He slept for two days then said he had to leave.
I gave him some money and we agreed to meet
in London when I got back.
I haven't seen him since.
Only a postcard.
But that's Harry.