Barry Norman's moving tribute to his late wife

The film critic on Diana, who died two weeks ago.

At this time of year, with the red-and-pink assault of Valentine's Day looming, it's very easy to be cynical about love. As a corrective to that, may I suggest reading Barry Norman's wonderful tribute to his wife, Diana, who died two weeks ago? The couple had been married for more than 50 years.

In the piece, published in today's Daily Mail, Norman writes of finding Diana with "her glasses perched on her nose, a novel by Patrick O'Brian (one of her favourite authors) in her hand . . . She was resting peacefully against the pillows." She had died in her sleep.

As the death was so sudden, the police and paramedics arrived, followed by family members and the undertaker.

Once his representatives arrived, the whole situation began to resemble the stateroom scene in the Marx Brothers movie A Night At The Opera -- more and more people pouring in and the family (me, my daughters and grandsons Bertie, Harry and Charlie) being totally outnumbered by complete strangers.
Thus passed the worst morning of my life. The only word to describe what we, the family, were feeling was desolation. I always thought we'd had a pact, Diana and I, that I would die first, but I should have known she'd have the last word. She usually did, sometimes because I let her, often because she insisted on it.

Norman then pays tribute to Diana, whom he married within months of their meeting. "She was beautiful, witty, highly intelligent, quirky, stubborn and always immense fun to be with. She was a devoted wife, mother and grandmother and she was also -- this is not just my opinion -- one of the most gifted historical novelists around."

But perhaps the most moving part is his description of their marriage -- and all its ups and downs.

People who have been married for more than 50 years, like Diana and I were, are given to making remarks like: "We never had a cross word." To which I can only ask: "What kind of a marriage was that?" The only person I could imagine living with for any length of time without a cross word would be someone for whom I felt total indifference. Diana and I had many a cross word because we disagreed frequently and I loved her to death and beyond.

It's a beautiful piece of writing, from someone who -- from my very limited personal dealings with him -- seems to be a thoroughly decent person.

Helen Lewis is deputy editor of the New Statesman. She has presented BBC Radio 4’s Week in Westminster and is a regular panellist on BBC1’s Sunday Politics.

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The Negroni fools no one – it’s easy to make and contains nothing but booze

It is the colour of danger, a red rag to anyone jaded by cocktail-world bull.

The cocktail is designed to lie about its origins; no wonder it reached its apogee during Prohibition, which forced everyone with an unrepentant thirst to lie about their cravings. Even today, when only extreme youth, religious belief or personal inclination prevents a person from draining the bar dry, the cocktail continues its career of dishonesty. It hides ingredients or methods. It provides a front for poor-quality booze. And it often dissolves, within its inscrutable depths, mountains of sugar, enabling drinkers to pose as sophisticates while downing something that tastes like a soft drink – to get drunk without leaving the playpen.

This is why I love the Negroni, which fools no one. It is easy to make and contains nothing but pure booze. Despite being a third sweet vermouth, it isn’t saccharine: the other two thirds, equal measures of gin and Campari, may have something to do with this. And it is the colour of danger, a red rag to anyone jaded by cocktail-world bull.

They say it was invented in Florence at the request of a Count Negroni, who wanted a drink unsullied by club soda – a drink stiff enough to get a man back on a bucking horse, perhaps, since this Count may have been a rodeo rider. I prefer to believe that the Count, if Count he was, came in, tossed down enough strong liquor to start telling stories about his American adventures, and, when he finally staggered out into the night, the exasperated bartender poured three straight shots into a single glass and baptised this wondrous reviver in grateful homage to the fabulist who had inspired it.

In a former glue factory a very long way from Florence or America, the East London Liquor Company now makes very good gin – Batches One and Two, the former tannic with Darjeeling as well as cassia bark, pink grapefruit peel, and coriander seeds; the latter redolent of savoury, bay, thyme and lavender. Transforming these plants into excellent alcohol seems an improvement on boiling down horses for adhesive, and the company also makes superb Negronis from Batch Two.

We sit outside, in a carpark made marginally more glamorous by border boxes of Batch Two botanicals, and marvel at the transformation of this grimy part of East London, next door to a park intended to give Victorian working men brief respite from lives all too lacking in myth or fantasy. It is a reincarnation at least as miraculous as the transformation of three strong and entirely unalike spirits into the delectable harmony of the Negroni. The sun shines; a fountain plashes. Nuts and charcuterie arrive. All is right with the world.

I leave my herbaceous bower and dangerously pleasing drink for a peek at the large copper distillery behind the bar, walking in past the fountain, a whimsical stone construction that pours vermilion liquid into two, tiered basins topped by a chubby putto clutching a rather reluctant fish.

And then I stop. And double back. Vermilion liquid? It is, indeed, a Negroni fountain. There are even slices of orange floating in the basin. I dip a finger: the taste is slightly metallic but still undeniably that potent mixture of booze, botanicals, bitterness, and just a hint of sweetness. A streak of citrus from the orange slices. It turns out that the world’s most straightforward cocktail lends itself to a decadent neo-Renaissance fantasy. There’s a message here, one forthright as a temperance tract: without imagination, we would have no lies – but no Negronis, either.

Nina Caplan is the 2014 Fortnum & Mason Drink Writer of the Year and 2014 Louis Roederer International Wine Columnist of the Year for her columns on drink in the New Statesman. She tweets as @NinaCaplan.

This article first appeared in the 20 July 2017 issue of the New Statesman, The new world disorder