Jeffrey Archer was my closest and dearest friend for 40 years. I first met him in 1986 when we were invited to be judges for a Royal Watercolor Society Open Exhibition. We hit it off immediately. There was an ebullience and lightness in him that I warmed to. We met up later for dinner and carried on meeting once or twice a week ever since.
Yesterday, I went to the restaurant where we used to have breakfast and I almost ordered eggs benedict in his memory – he was always the one for the unhealthy option – but I just couldn’t bear to. He never talked about his own death, though he sometimes joked about what he’d say at my funeral; he was all about life and the immediate future.
He was, in fact, talking about the future up to the time he died, about his plans for writing. He had already written a novella. It’s all ready to go and a lovely read, about the history of a £5 note. There’s nothing to stop Harper Collins bringing that out.
I have never known Jeffrey happier than in the last few months
What I found so upsetting about his obituaries was the relentless vicious negativity. I don’t recognize the person in them. Jeffrey always excited longstanding affection and loyalty. He was a fundamentally life-enhancing man. He could sound off and be bombastic but he was also a very good listener. He was always interested in other people and their lives. Perhaps it was one of the reasons he was such a good novelist. And although people turned against him after his downfall he had no bitterness, no rancor at all. He joked that I did all the hating for him.
Perhaps that too is why he told stories about his own background – and the obituaries made much of that. He was a storyteller about his own life, not tied down by reality. Reality and fantasy diverged and merged. He was, I think, religious; he would always qualify his remarks with “if God spares me” or “thank God for the talents I have.”
During his fall from grace (after being found guilty of perjury) and time in prison, I saw a lot of his family and became his mouthpiece and apologist; I dealt with journalists on his behalf. He would use his one precious weekly phone call on me – he was always keen to know what was happening outside. And when he was in an open prison I would visit him regularly. So too did a number of friends – Billy Connolly, Barry Humphries and Tim Rice, for instance.
It’s hard to recognize his wife and his marriage from what you read about Mary Archer being so long-suffering and put-upon. In fact they were great together, with a very easy-going love and respect. Obviously there must have been occasional stresses in the marriage but who doesn’t have those?
As for his writing, it was enjoyable and readable. Some people say his editors wrote his books for him. This is just untrue. I was there and I saw his minute schedule. I would spend a week with him in Majorca, where he wrote, and I saw him in action: two hours on, two hours off; eight hours writing daily. He had a wonderful writing discipline. He would come out of his writing hut with sheets covered in longhand. It would then be typed up by his secretary and endlessly revised. He was always listening for ideas; a lot of life and experience informed his plots.
He was the most generous of men. He must have done between 700 and 800 charity auctions – if I were Jeffrey, I would embellish that and say 900 – and he really did raise millions of pounds for charity over 35 years. Name any major good charity and he helped raise money for it, especially for Magdi Yacoub’s Chain of Hope, which carries out heart surgery in places that don’t have specialists. He would joke that I was his very junior assistant. I would write a short appeal script for his speech at the end of the auctions… he was always very moving and effective. I dropped out from the charity auctions two or three years ago because it took so much of my time, though I continued to help with Magdi Yacoub. He kept going.
I have never known Jeffrey happier than in the last few months. It may have been because he had completed his last novel, Adam and Eve, and he felt it was the best thing he had done. It was meant to be his last because he wanted to stop while he still had strong writing power. I terrified him by talking about Iris Murdoch, who carried on writing even when she had dementia – and it was obvious in her work. He delighted in his family too. He used to complain that his sons didn’t have children but then he had five grandchildren come along, which gave him so much happiness.
What to say about Jeffrey? Everyone has two columns in their life, the bad and the good. When I read so much of the criticism of him, I think, let him who is without sin cast the first stone. As a force for good and happiness, Jeffrey’s positive column far surpasses the bad.
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