David Niven (38 page)

Niven's next film job was almost something of a favour to him.
The Sea Wolves
was an attempt to follow up on the success of
The Wild Geese
by producer Euan Lloyd and director Andrew V. McLaglen. They wanted Richard Burton and Roger Moore from
The Wild Geese
to star together again, but Burton turned the film down, so Lloyd and McLaglen cast Gregory Peck in his place. Peck wanted Niven in the film, but David wasn't having any of it. ‘I didn't fancy the idea of going to India where they were going to shoot much of it,' he told me. ‘So I said “No.” Roger, bless him, told Euan Lloyd to make me a better offer. Roger knows I can't resist money, and they came back with a much better deal and I said, “Okay, but if I get sick, I'm suing you.”'

He was paid $500,000 plus $1,500 a week expenses. And he got sick. They all did. ‘The whole cast came down with bloody stomach troubles,' I was told by Brook Williams who was in the film.

The Sea Wolves
was based on the true story of a group of ex-soldiers on a mission to blow up German ships in Goa, India, in 1943. It was November when they began filming in Goa, but it still got unbelievably hot, often reaching 140°F (60°C).

I interviewed Roger Moore when he was promoting the film, and he said, ‘It was enormous fun to do. We were all great friends. There was Greg and Niv, and Trevor Howard, Patrick Macnee, and me and a dozen or so other great character actors.'

But fun was not had by all. David hated Goa and begged to be allowed to return home for Christmas. Euan Lloyd gave him permission provided he did no skiing. After Christmas, Niven returned to Goa and took to taking long walks along the beach to strengthen his legs which were becoming increasingly weak.

Filming ended in February 1980 and he hurried back to Château d'Oex and immediately went skiing but found that he was so out of breath he had to lie down and rest.

On 1 March he turned 70 and threw himself a birthday bash at the Eagle Club to which he invited many guests. Hjördis didn't join them. She remained at home, scared to go anywhere and probably too drunk to care. She had not only gone back to her old ways, she was worse than ever.

In desperation David sought outside help. ‘I asked the advice of the wife of an old army friend because she had had a problem with alcohol. The trouble is, Hjördis won't admit she has a problem, so she can't be helped.'

In April 1980, Niven sent his unfinished novel to his publisher, Doubleday. The book wasn't good but Doubleday hoped it could be improved with editing. They met Niven's demand of an advance of a million and one dollars. David explained that the extra dollar was so he could tell everyone that the deal was for more than a million. Doubleday expected the name of David Niven alone to ensure it sold well. The deal included a second book.

On 24 July 1980 Peter Sellers died of a heart attack. He and Niven had remained friends and so his widow, Lynne Frederick, asked David to deliver the eulogy at the memorial service in London at St Martin-in-the-Fields in September.

Kristina, now 19, left school and started a year-long fine-arts course at Sotheby's in London. David went with her to London to help find her a flat, and then he flew back to the Côte d'Azur.

On a trip to New York that year to see the editors at Doubleday, he was struck by a terrible pain in his leg as he walked along Fifth Avenue. He underwent various tests in London but nothing wrong was found, so he returned to Switzerland and there discovered that although he could still ski he couldn't raise his right heel.

In January 1981 he flew out to Los Angeles to speak at a ceremony at the American Film Institute which was giving a Life Achievement Award to Fred Astaire. David's voice was slurred and he apologised to the audience but he couldn't understand what was wrong. He knew he wasn't drunk.

He finally finished his book in February 1981 which he called
Go Slowly, Come Back Quickly;
it is something a little girl once said to him as he left the West Indies. It was set during World War II and told of a young Polish American who joins the RAF, goes to Hollywood and becomes a film star. It was semi-autobiographical and very crude. David was not a good novelist, but he was a good story-teller.

In May he flew to New York to consult an orthopaedic surgeon who said that he might have muscle problems due to a pinched nerve from a very old back injury. He underwent an extensive physiotherapy course in England.

David Jnr produced another film in which his father starred,
Ménage à Trois
which was retitled
Better Late Than Never
. It was a good comedy about an elderly cabaret star, played by David, now trying to make a living in a strip club in the South of France. It was filmed close to Lo Scoglietto, but somehow David managed to get a living allowance on top of his fee of $150,000.

When the studio saw the rushes and heard how slurred Niven's voice
had become, they told the film's director, Bryan Forbes, to have it dubbed. To Forbes' eternal credit, he refused, knowing it would be a humiliation to David.

In October David went to London for the publication of
Go Slowly, Come Back Quickly
. He again appeared on the
Michael Parkinson Show
–this time I wasn't in the audience but I remember watching it on TV and being shocked at how slurred his voice had become. I knew he wasn't drunk because he never got noticeably drunk.

Jamie also saw the programme and became concerned that something was seriously wrong with his father and called him by telephone, urging him to go to the Mayo Clinic in Minneapolis for a thorough medial examination. David flew to the States and checked himself in. He was there for several days.

His PR people at Theo Cowan's office called me to let me know he was due back in London and asked if I'd like to interview him. Of course, I said yes. The day before the interview was due to take place, I got a call to say it had been cancelled and I was confidentially tipped off that David was actually unwell. That was enough for me to call the Connaught Hotel and speak directly to him, and he said to come on over in the morning. I did, and there he told me the grim news.

He had been diagnosed with Motor Neurone Disease. ‘It's going to kill me, Mike,' he said. His voice was quavering as well as slurred.

‘I'm so sorry,' I said.

‘Don't be too nice,' he said.

We sat in silence for a few minutes while he collected himself. Then he ordered coffee which I had to decline because I had by then become a Mormon and couldn't drink coffee. He knew a bit about Mormons. He had been to Salt Lake City and was welcomed by the Mormon President there. ‘Nice people,' he said. And then he talked a bit about the old days, and about his problems with Hjördis. Then he asked me, ‘Any chance you could convert Hjördis? Maybe that would stop her drinking.'

I tried to say the right things but it's difficult when a friend has just told you he has a death sentence from which there seems no reprieve.

However, I'd brought him a present. It was a copy of my first book – about epic films. I'd even signed it. He said how wonderful that I'd become a published author and that we were both ‘in the same club'. He flicked through the pages. It really wasn't well written but fortunately it was highly illustrated and he loved looking at the photographs. He would say, ‘Ah, Gable as Rhett Butler. Nobody else could have played that part. Lots of Chuck Heston I see. Well, he was Moses and Ben-Hur, wasn't he? Nobody else could ever be. And here's me in
Around the World In 80 Days
.
God, I've got a bit older since then. Here's Larry Olivier in a Roman toga. What wonderful memories of Hollywood.' He thought
my
book was full of wonderful memories? He was the one who virtually invented the Hollywood memoir.

As I was about to leave, he asked me to keep his secret. It was one all his journalist friends kept. The public didn't know for another year.

—

D
avid returned to Switzerland and told Hjördis the terrible news. She recalled, ‘When David told me, I couldn't speak. I don't know how it seemed to him. I probably just seemed like I always did. But I was so stunned. It's hard to remember everything clearly. I had become so drunk most of the time that much of it is a haze.'

On 18 November 1981 David's sister Joyce died, aged 81. Every Christmas for many years, David had sent Joyce and Grizel generous cheques. He'd never forgotten to take care of his sisters. Now there was only he and Grizel left from the family.

Two weeks later he heard the news that Natalie Wood had drowned at sea off Santa Catalina. He had remained friends with Natalie's husband Robert Wagner, and he called Wagner every day, desperate to help him through the tragedy. He told Wagner to come to Switzerland as soon as he could. Wagner arrived with his children in a snow storm to be greeted personally by David who had organised a chalet for them to stay in.

In February 1982 he sent his old friend Trubshawe a cheque for £2,000. Trubshawe told me, ‘My wife had Alzheimer's Disease and I was struggling to care for her. Money wasn't too good. I wasn't trying to get David to send me money. I just let him know my wife was ill, and he said he would send me some money. I told him not to, but he insisted. I said I'd think about it, and a week later, knowing I was in trouble, I accepted his offer. It was wonderful of him. That's when you know you have true friends, even if there has been a great distance between you – physically and emotionally.'

David's new novel didn't sell well, and since his deal with Doubleday was actually for two novels, he had to start thinking about what his next book would be. He decided it would be another novel, this time about a young man who goes to Sandhurst and is sent to serve in Northern Ireland. He wrote by hand and gave up after little more than 40 pages.

That's when he decided he would write about the story of an author living in Switzerland who has an affair with a schoolgirl. He managed to write 200 pages but when he abandoned that idea, he came up with the story about an author who does an exhausting tour of America, checks into the Mayo Clinic in Minneapolis, is diagnosed with Motor Neurone Disease, and returns to his home on the Côte d'Azur.

In March 1982 he started to make his last two films, shot back to back. They were
Trail of the Pink Panther
and
Curse of the Pink Panther
. For the first film, Blake Edwards had come up with the dreadful idea of utilising out takes from the previous Clouseau films and bringing back actors such as Niven, Robert Wagner and Capucine to fill in the blanks.

David was barely able to work at all but he'd promised Blake he would do the films. I didn't care for either film, and neither did Lynne Frederick who successfully sued Blake Edwards and the producers for using Peter Sellers' image in the first of the two films without her consent, winning over a million dollars.

Because David's voice had deteriorated so much, impressionist Rich Little dubbed his lines. No one thought to tell David this and he found out only when Rich Little spoke about it to the Press.

I received a letter from David early in 1982 in which he said that he would love it if I could come to visit him, or if not, he would see me the next time he came to London. I hadn't realised how desperate he was to see me, or why, and I neglected to try to overcome my fear of flying and get over to see him.

But he did come to London in July and I met with him at his Mayfair flat, recording, at his request, his confessions.

Regarding everything he said about Hjördis, he told me, ‘I wish you could talk to her. I'm prepared to take responsibility for my part in this disastrous marriage, but I'm sure she could give you a better insight. Of course, my dear chap, she's never going to be in a fit state to have her say. I think that's a terrible shame because she is entitled to put her side of the story forward. But she never will, you know. She's a lost soul and I don't think she'll live much longer. Really I don't.'

As if I hadn't had enough shocks, he then said something that came like a bolt out of the blue. ‘Look, old bean, I don't want to die in agony and without dignity,' he said. ‘I'm doing everything I can to beat this thing, but
none of it is working. I can't save my own life, but I can take it. And I think I will.'

He was very matter of fact, very unemotional, and there was even a certain twinkle in his faded eye that, for a moment, made me think he was pulling my leg. I said, ‘You
are
joking, aren't you?'

‘Not in the least, Mike. I'm in deadly earnest. I nearly did it before.' He said he wasn't going to try and blow his brains out again. ‘Awfully messy if it works, but also damned inconvenient when the bloody thing doesn't work.'

The he told me his plan. ‘I have a doctor in Switzerland who will give me an injection that will put me gently to sleep. So when I know that I can't stand any more, when life becomes too unbearable, I'll exit this world under my own steam. I want control over my life and death. I don't want this bloody disease to take me. I want it to be
my
decision.'

He fell silent. The air in the room was very still. There didn't even seem to be any traffic noise from outside. I no longer have the religious beliefs I had then, but I do believe that human beings have the capacity to be spiritual, and I am convinced that David was experiencing something very spiritual. He was struggling to defeat something dark and destructive inside of him, battling it with his own incredible will.

I could see that he wanted to cry but he was holding it in.

‘Do you want to pray with me?' I asked him.

‘Yes. Very much.'

‘Would you like me to give you a blessing?'

‘Yes,' he said. Then he added, ‘What is that?'

‘I'll place my hands on your head and say a prayer.'