My Bonnie: How dementia stole the love of my life. John Suchet

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СКАЧАТЬ Dutch couple at the next table couldn’t help smiling as I took picture after picture, my face beaming happiness from every pore. ‘Here,’ said the man, ‘let me take a picture of both of you. That’s what you really need.’ The picture he took shows two people totally in love, with not a care in the world.

      The week soon came to an end, and if there had been no care in the world down in South Carolina, that was not the case back in Washington. I filed the occasional story, with no encouragement from London. Then, on 18th June, the space shuttle Challenger took off with a female astronaut on board. Sally Ride became the first American woman in space. It was a big story and News at Ten wanted a piece from me.

      It was the sort of story I knew I excelled at. Plenty of good pictures, with a strong storyline. I put a report together, and for the last 15 seconds I overlaid a song, ‘Ride, Sally Ride’, which had been written and recorded to commemorate the event. I was pleased with my efforts.

      Sadly, London was not. They took my voice off the report and gave it to a London-based reporter to re-edit and script. That was just about the most humiliating thing they could have done. I was mortified, and maybe for the first time began to understand the true import of what was happening. It seemed that I had gone past redemption. I could have gone up on that shuttle myself, become the first journalist in space, and still they would not have been satisfied.

      I didn’t know what to do, but knew I had to do something. I felt aggrieved. Were my reports really that poor? Was I failing in the job quite as much as my bosses judged I was? The answers didn’t matter. They thought that, and that was all that mattered. Still I pondered what to do. But it wasn’t long before my mind was made up for me.

      One afternoon the phone in our little love nest rang. It was ITN’s managing editor in London. ‘The editor wants you in his office tomorrow afternoon, 2 o’clock.’ ‘But I’ve…I’m not sure…The flights…’ ‘Two o’clock tomorrow afternoon, in his office,’ and he hung up.

      I put the phone down, thought for a moment, and turned to Bon. ‘I’ve got to fly to London tonight. David Nicholas wants me in his office at 2 tomorrow afternoon. I think they may be about to sack me.’ I braced myself for I knew not quite what. At the very least, I expected dismay from her, at worst frustration, even anger, that I had allowed things to come to this, put my job on the line, our future at risk.

      She smiled. ‘That’s all right,’ she said, ‘we’ll do something else.’

      I remember that moment as if it were yesterday. I can hear the managing editor’s voice, remember his words and my words to you exactly, my Bonnie, and of course your response. It was a seminal moment in our fledgling relationship. The full import of it didn’t immediately sink in, but it didn’t take long. What you were saying was that for us to be together was not only more important than my job but the only thing that truly mattered.

      I remember returning your smile, and feeling as if a ton weight had been lifted from my shoulders.

      Memories. So wonderful when shared, so painful when not. Today is 27th April 2009. I am writing these words 26 years to the day since I collected you at Baltimore Washington airport and we began our life together. I have not mentioned this date to you for some years now, my Bonnie.

      Tonight I cooked dinner, a pretty motley affair, which relied on the microwave. We sat eating together, not talking much. You said a couple of things. They made sense, but bore no relationship to what was happening. When I said the carrots tasted good, you said of course they did, you had made them specially.

      Then a nice bubble bath, except that for some reason you hate it, and those little sobs as I get you ready cut into me like needles again. But once I get you out, into your nightie and into bed, you are happy. You are sleeping peacefully now as I write about our past together.

      We flew to London and took our suitcases to my parents’ flat in that block in Baker Street. I walked to ITN in time for my 2 o’clock meeting with the editor. I was in a pretty grim mood, made worse by the few familiar faces I saw in the building, including the receptionist, all looking at me as if I had the plague. Word was out. So was I, or at least I was about to be. I thought better of putting my head round the newsroom door. Frankly I just wanted the axe to fall and the sooner I got out of the building, the better.

      Reuters, the BBC and now ITN. All flops. Good going, John. Bon’s words were, of course, ringing in my ear, in a kind of gentle sound loop. That’s all right, we’ll do something else. It was wonderful to know I had her support, particularly since I had so little right to expect it. But the question remained: what else could I do apart from journalism? In a word, nothing. I had always wanted to be a professional musician. I wasn’t bad on the trombone, but turn professional? I hadn’t touched it for 15 years or more. I could busk in a tube station. The thought brought a wry grin to my face.

      Even the editor’s secretary wouldn’t look me in the eye. ‘You can go in,’ she said, as she tidied some papers on her desk. David Nicholas was sitting behind his desk, a look of thunder on his face. I sat in the single hard chair facing him. He kept his voice low, his natural authority enhanced by the dramatic quality of his Welsh accent.

      ‘I don’t know what’s happened to you,’ he said, ‘but you have let me down, me and ITN. You are a disgrace. I gave you the top job because I believed in you, and you have blown it, quite simply blown it. Your reports have been appalling. The Sally Ride piece—you put music on it, for god’s sake. What on earth were you thinking about? This is a news organisation, News at Ten is the country’s premier news bulletin, it’s not light entertainment.’

      I said nothing. There was nothing to say. I had messed up. But I knew I had Bonnie to go home to. That’s all right, we’ll do something else. He spoke some more. I honestly can’t remember what he said. My mind went onto a kind of autopilot, prepared to kick back in when he delivered the coup de grâce.

      ‘Right, this is what I have decided. I am bringing you back to London at the end of the year. You will go back on the reporters’ desk at the most junior level. It’s up to you to work your way back up again.’

      I didn’t take in the words at first, but ran them rapidly through my mind again. Back at the end of the year, back on the reporters’ desk. I was dumbfounded, so much so that I actually said, ‘Aren’t you going to sack me?’ The faintest smile played on the corners of his lips, but swiftly disappeared. ‘There are those who think I should. Very senior people. But no, I am not going to sack you. You were a good reporter before you went to Washington. That’s why I gave you the job. I don’t think that has changed. Something has gone badly wrong. I know about your marriage breaking up, and that can’t have helped, but that’s not why I am keeping you on. I am doing it because I believe you have it in you to put this behind you, and I am giving you the chance to prove me right.’

      I thanked him and left.

      A few years ago, shortly after I had retired from ITN, I received a letter from David Nicholas asking if I would come to south London to give a talk to young people from deprived backgrounds, at an event organised by the charity of which he was President. ‘Just tell me where and when, and I’ll be there,’ I replied.

      More recently, in fact only a couple of weeks after I went public about Bonnie’s condition, he phoned me. He wanted to tell me how sorry he and his wife were to hear the news, what a lovely person Bonnie was, and how obviously happy we always were. I asked him how he was. ‘Pretty good for someone who’ll be 80 next birthday’ he replied.

      In June 1982, Israeli forces had invaded southern Lebanon, then in the autumn there occurred the infamous massacre in the Sabra and Shatila refugee camps, and a СКАЧАТЬ