Vanished Years (40 page)

Authors: Rupert Everett

Cole Lesley, his butler, and Graham Payne, his ex-lover (big cock, small talent), went up to see him on the evening before his death.
They were not invited to stay for dinner. In those days he ate alone. They left him at 8.30 and walked down the hill to Blue Harbour, Noël’s other house, cackling in Polari, as the frogs beeped. Noël settled down on the plantation bed – still there – with a tray, to read a bit of E. Nesbit.

‘Goodnight, my darlings,’ he said, watching Cole and Graham disappear into the fragrant night. ‘See you tomorrow.’

The old queen on the edge of the jungle turned out the light.

I have been writing here for a few days now. Occasionally the sound of a minibus grinding up the hill, nearer and nearer, breaks the silence. Minutes later six or seven fabulous hags from Broadway hobble over the brow of the hill. Sometimes upper-class couples from the UK make the pilgrimage. They are Noël Coward’s last living fans – people who actually saw him in shows.

‘Gee, look at Myrna Loy,’ chants a Texan lady downstairs, while an English lord, face the colour of a blood orange, remembers how much his nanny loved Lilian Braithwaite.

One woman looks at me and gasps. ‘Rupert? Is that
you
?’

‘Yes,’ I reply, still typing.

‘Omygod! Geena, get over here! We saw your last performance in
Blithe Spirit
.’

More ladies appear. They all came to
Blithe Spirit
. It’s a party. I am thrilled, moved and suddenly – inexplicably – Noël is absolutely there and the hairs on my arms stand up.

Night swoops in fast as the sun falls behind the mountains. I drive down through the hills behind the coast road, past small villages clustered on the edge of the jungle. The lazy smell of burning wood wraps itself around the evening breath of the forest and the day fades dramatically. People walk along the side of the road towards the car, suddenly lit by the headlights, expressionless and unreal, zombies almost. It is Saturday evening. Lights twinkle from all the tiny wooden churches of unheard-of denominations that are scattered
along the winding road. They overflow with large women singing or listening to the shrieks of the loopy preachers predicting meltdown. The roadside bars – shacks, really – are the churches for men, silhouettes now in the glow of paraffin lamps and fairy lights. The music blares and the air is sweet with ganja. They stare as if one was the first arrival on the island.

‘White man,’ they shout.

Even a little baby, learning cricket between his father’s legs in the middle of the road, converted into a family pitch, looks at me as I drive carefully past. ‘White,’ he whispers, smiling.

Fade to black. The End.

On the wall of Noël’s studio, his last poem hangs, typed, framed and fading.

When I have fears, as Keats had fears,

Of the moment I’ll cease to be,

I console myself with vanished years,

Remembered laughter, remembered tears,

And the peace of the changing sea.