Apple Tart is Off

Coastwise Lights, the second volume of Alan Ross’s autobiography has been lent to me by William (Bill) Sansom’s son, Nick. His father features prominently.

Alan depicts him with affection as a great writer and a great friend. It is perhaps unfair to choose this extract – except that you probably won’t read the book and I hope it amuses you – as in other parts of the book he pays tribute to Bill’s literary virtuosity, professionalism and discipline (none of which are in evidence below) but here goes:

I had to go into the London Clinic about the same time for a minor operation and Bill insisted on accompanying me. First, we would go to some fish place where there was singing and there were waitresses in black silk stockings and they made wonderful apple tart. It would be his treat.

We got there in good order, and the fish, the singing and the black silk stockings were all as promised. But the tart was off. By now Bill had drunk enough for any inadequacy or provocation to call for immediate retribution. Nothing on earth would stop him from sending for the head waiter, the manager, the proprietor, the landlord. He himself had declined the fish and the tart, saying he only wanted baked beans, which of course they did not have. Then he demanded to see one Brussels sprout, which, when produced, he ignored. As a consequence of this turbulence the dinner took a long time, and the situation was not enhanced by Bill’s efforts to pull the waitress’s knickers down each time she leaned over.

At last we were ready, the account settled. It was now long past the Clinic’s requested admission time, but despite my protest Bill insisted that he himself would explain the reasons when we arrived. I knew what that would be like. Still, we sought out a taxi and set off. I tried to persuade him to take the taxi on but he would have none of it, it was his responsibility to see me safely in.

Once he had stumbled out of the taxi, the cool air must have gone to his head, for he suddenly plunged forward, grasping the revolving doors at the entrance. Under his full weight they gave way, propelling him at some speed into the foyer. There he slid to a stop, apparently out to the world, his brown bowler at his side. Simultaneously, the lift doors opened and an elderly, much made-up patient gingerly emerged, to be confronted with what seemed to be a corpse. A stretcher had to be found, for Bill had struck his head and was unconscious.

He appeared a day or two later at my bedside, in full Arab dress. Most of the Clinic’s patients at that time were Arabs, whose retinues squatted silently in the corridors. Since the Arabs tended to be rich rather than poor and paid lavishly, they were well looked after. I expressed some trivial complaint about the service to Bill, whereupon, breathing fumes of gin, he took it upon himself to give the nurses a severe reprimand in phoney Anglo-Arabic. They appeared impressed, especially since he had claimed princely status.

Alan also has this to say about William Sansom: “between 1945 and the appearance of the first novels of Kingsley Amis and Alan Sillitoe, and of the plays of John Osborne, Bill was among the most prolific and admired of writers whose careers began during the war”.