ANOTHER VOICE

How Petronella broke my heart and drove me to Desolation

MATTHEW PARRIS

Petsy, what happened? There I was, waiting by my telephone from dawn to mid- night on 29 February. When would she ring? Before breakfast? Does a girl like Petronella take breakfast? A fluffy little bluebird's-egg omelette, perhaps, with the smallest glass of Chateau d'Yquem and some lightly sparkling mineral water, taken on the terrace by the garden room, in dress- ing-gown, silk, impertinently short . . Oh, be still, my beating heart! Perhaps I should one day have the honour of finding out? Breakfast passed, and no call. I felt sure she would telephone. Having so mis- chievously propositioned me — twice — in the columns of The Spectator — a flutter of the eyelashes, as it were, made print — she would surely not now fail to follow through. Insistent still in my fevered brain was the recollection: 'Matthew Parris, why don't you want to sleep with me?' There could be no mistaking such words. Could there? And yet by lunch still noth- ing. Had I mistaken the courtesies? Is the gentleman supposed to telephone after the lady has advertised her intentions in the public print? I thought not. The columnist's remarks were meant, I had surmised, as a sort of tease. To have taken them too liter- ally and invited her out to the pictures with me would have been plonkingly indelicate. Perhaps, in retrospect, I should have replied in these columns with a tease of my own. Or written to Dear Mary.

But life is short and I had supposed my admirer might take the chance offered by fate only once every four years, to turn a tease into an honest proposal. I could not believe a woman of Miss Wyatt's noble character was suggesting a mere 'fling'. Call me old-fashioned but for me it would be everything — or nothing. So I waited. Teatime passed and the sun set. I imagined her showering, changing for the evening, selecting her gloves. She was taking her time, torturing me. How deli- cious.

By ten I was distinctly on edge. Towards midnight I began to panic. But still nothing. The clock struck. I prepared sadly for bed. Perhaps a letter written on 29 February, with a 29 February postmark, would count? But on 1 March the postman brought no cheer, and I abandoned hope.

And so I write this now in the final hours before departure for the sub-Antarctic. I am to winter with French scientists in a hut on Desolation Island in the teeth of the Roaring Forties for five months. You, Petsy, have driven me to this. The offer, from the Territoire Austral et Antarctique Frangaise came on 2 March and found me in bleak mood with little left to live for here in England. I fly to Mauritius tonight, to La Reunion tomorrow, ready to depart from there on the Marion Dufresne, a French supply ship, for the island Captain James Cook called Desolation and the French call Kerguelen.

The climate is vile, the wind unbelievable and the fog unceasing. There are no trees. Seafarers describe great black cliffs from which waterfalls tumble to the sea, as from the sky. Even the elephant seals will be departing after the short summer for kinder climes.

I have packed razor blades for 20 weeks and a waterproof notepad. Yesterday, by satellite telephone, I reached the base there at Port-aux-Frangais and asked if there were any little treats the English visitor could bring them? `Female company,' was the doleful reply.

Oh, Petsy. But no. Not in a Portakabin.

Planning all this, most hurriedly, has been like making provision for a small death. I've written a will, arranged powers of attorney, watched my last, glorious, frosty Derbyshire dawn, drunk in all the greens and blues of England which I shall miss — and said goodbye to my llamas. One of them, Llesley, is pregnant and I had hoped to be here for the first patter of tiny camelid feet, and to write about it for you. But I shall miss that. I understand now how brave are people who emigrate. And there are thank-yous and apologies to make too: settling the account before departure.

I owe Lord Lamont of Lerwick an apolo- gy for suggesting, on a Nick Ross show on BBC television, that he had changed his 'He threw himself under a BMW in protest.' tune between a private dinner which pre- ceded Jonathan Dimbleby's Any Questions? and the live radio broadcast which fol- lowed. I said that he and Don Foster (the Liberal Democrat MP) had disagreed about the quality of Charles Kennedy's first conference speech as his party's leader, Lamont liking it better than Foster; but that when asked on air to assess the speech, Mr Foster praised the speech and Lord Lamont rubbished it. I've checked the tapes. Lamont did not rubbish the speech, he was just less enthusiastic than he had been over dinner. It was Mr Foster who completely changed his tune. My fault, and I am sorry, Norman.

I owe Stuart Bell, MP an apology too, but have lost my record of precisely what for. All I know is that Mr Bell, who speaks in the Commons for the Church Commission- ers, got into a slight muddle while quoting the `Lay not up for yourselves treasures upon Earth' passage from the New Testa- ment, and that I teased him about this in a parliamentary sketch, noting that he would doubtless have the last word on this and put me right, probably in ancient Greek. He has, by letter, quoting chapter and verse, which I have lost, but which I remember vindicated Mr Bell. My fault, and I am sorry, Stuart: I'll try to put it right in the Times, too, when I return.

Finally, there's someone I have never bothered to thank, and should. Penny Per- rick more or less invented me as a colum- nist. She it was who, as literary editor of the Sunday Times about 15 years ago, hired me to write regular book reviews for the paper, which I loved doing and which went well enough to make me worth consideration when Charles Wilson, then the editor of the Times, sought a parliamentary sketchwriter. I had no real track record in newspapers when Penny offered me the contract and she took a risk. So did Charles.

I wish more editors took risks with young journalists today. If, on my Desolation Island, I find myself blown by the wind off the edge of one of those great black cliffs, I shall be comforted as I fall by the thought that this will open up a gap for someone new, as Penny did for me.

And Petsy will weep for what might have been. . . Will you, Petsy?

Matthew Parris is parliamentary slcetchwriter and a columnist of the Times.