LETTING GO

In May 1991 Queen released their single ‘Headlong’. The lyrics seemed to sum up what was facing us at Garden Lodge: ‘You’re rushing headlong out of control, and you think you’re so strong. But there ain’t no stopping, and there’s nothing you can do about it at all. ’ There was certainly no way of reversing Freddie’s weakening condition and we all knew it. But he was cheered greatly by his new flat in Switzerland. We went over to Montreux a couple of times to see it. Freddie knew exactly how he wanted the flat decorated and chose everything himself. The only thing that Joe and I were allowed to choose was the colour of our bedrooms – pastel green and pastel blue respectively. On the first visit Freddie wanted an instant garden created on the balconies, so I was sent off to blow a small fortune on plants.

‘I want plenty of everything and lots of greenery, ’ said Freddie.

Three hours later the balconies were transformed, and complemented the extraordinary views out across the lake.

Freddie hired Montreux’s most exclusive interior designers, demanding vehemently that the whole thing must be finished by Christmas which he’d decided to spend quietly there.

The last picture Freddie bought was a fabulous Tissot from Christie’s. It was a portrait of the artist’s mistress, Kathleen Newton, in a bonnet with her left hand delicately raised to her cheek. Freddie paid £ 160, 000 for it. But there was a sad side to the picture, and it was deeply ironic. Kathleen Newton looked fit and well in the picture, but in fact she was suffering from a terminal illness. She died young a short time after the picture was painted.

That summer Freddie posed for a camera for the very last time – mine. It happened like this. I was out in the garden photographing some of the flowers in full bloom and Freddie walked towards me. I trained the lens on him and he told me to hold on – he wanted to move back a bit so it wasn’t a close-up. Then he posed while I took four pictures, and he managed a smile for each. He was so pale and drawn that he knew he didn’t look his best, but it didn’t matter a bit; of all the pictures I have of Freddie, those are the ones I love most.

In August we heard that Paul Prenter had died from Aids. Freddie was visibly shaken. Freddie knew Paul had the disease but I don’t think he realised how quickly it might claim his life. Paul’s death troubled him for many weeks, and inevitably reminded him of his own fate.

The same month I asked Freddie what he wanted for his birthday. ‘Some lovely Irish crystal champagne glasses for the flat in Switzerland, ’ he said. So, on the way home from a visit to Ireland, that’s what I bought and, unlike the previous year, this time I kept them a complete secret. For most of the next few weeks I hid myself in my workshop, making a presentation box in wood to keep the new glasses in. I French polished it, then lined it with blue velvet.

Freddie’s birthday, 5 September 1991, was a very quiet affair. He came downstairs in the morning in his dressing gown for a cup of tea. ‘My God, ’ I thought to myself. He seemed to look so frail that day.

With us in the kitchen were Mary and Dave Clark, who’d both come by to wish him a happy birthday. The box I was giving Freddie was hidden from him in a kitchen cupboard and, after Mary and Dave had given him their presents, I thought it was time for mine, too.

‘Well, ’ I said to Freddie, taking the box from the cupboard, ‘happy birthday. ’ He looked at the box and ran his hands over it, saying how beautiful it was. A few minutes later it dawned on me that Freddie thought the gift was the box itself, and he seemed happy enough with that.

‘Aren’t you going to open it, then? ’ asked Dave, who knew the glasses were inside. When Freddie did, he looked so surprised. ‘Well, you did say you’d like some lovely champagne glasses for the flat in Montreux, ’ I said. Sadly, the glasses never did get to Switzerland.

Freddie’s forty-fifth birthday was perhaps the quietest of his life. He was very aware that he wasn’t on top form and that he could no longer disguise the fact that he was coming to the end of his life. He didn’t want a huge bash for his friends because he didn’t want them to see how sad he looked. The only thing he wanted from anyone for his last birthday was privacy.

Yet the press were still on his tail. One day we went for lunch to Pontevecchio’s in Earl’s Court. The manager told us that a News of the World reporter and photographer were hanging around outside, waiting for Freddie to emerge. Liam Byrne, the manager of the Coleherne pub nearby, had phoned to tip us off. So Freddie and I made our exit by the back door.

In October the band released their single ‘The Show Must Go On’, with the B-side ‘Keep Yourself Alive’. As Freddie expected, the press weren’t slow to report its questioning, haunting lyrics. They speculated on possible hidden meanings in lyrics like ‘What are we living for? ’ and ‘I’ll soon be turning round the corner now’ at a time when he looked so frail. To me, the most autobiographical line was: ‘My make-up may be flaking but my smile still stays on. ’ That was true. No matter how ill Freddie felt, he never grumbled to anyone or sought sympathy of any kind. It was his battle, no one else’s, and he always wore a brave face against the ever-increasing odds against him.

The last video Freddie made was for the single ‘These Are the Days of Our Lives’. (It was released, shortly after his death, on the flip-side of ‘Bohemian Rhapsody’. ) It seemed a very apt swansong. When Freddie was making the video he looked worse than I had ever seen him. Now the thick make-up he used to disguise the markings on his face only seemed to highlight his gaunt features. The security at the studio was very tight and only the essential technicians were there. During the shoot, Diana Moseley and I sat on the edge of the stage at Freddie’s feet. At the end of the final take, Freddie gave a cheeky little grin and winked at me. I turned crimson, prompting Diana to say: ‘For goodness sake, Jim, pull yourself together. ’

Freddie was now very feeble, but he did summon up the strength to host one last special dinner party at Garden Lodge. It was to thank all the doctors who had nursed him through his illness. Dr Gordon Atkinson was there along with five other specialists, including a man called Dr Graham Moyle.

No one around that table knew of my condition, although I feel some may have had their suspicions. During the meal, Dr Moyle got around to the subject of my taking an Aids test. He didn’t beat around the bush.

‘Have the test, ’ he said. ‘If you turn out to be HIV positive at least you’ll know. And if you test negative you’ll lose nothing more than a few grey hairs. ’

I knew the answer anyway. A second opinion was likely to do nothing more than reinforce the sad truth. Still, taking a second test seemed a good idea, so I agreed.

Freddie wanted to visit the flat in Switzerland one last time. We flew there in a private jet: the two of us, Joe, Terry and Freddie’s long-standing friend Tony King, who was Mick Jagger’s assistant.

I went to see Dr Atkinson at his surgery to let him take a blood sample for the Aids test. As it would take a while to get the results back from the lab, he promised he would phone me in Montreux the moment he got them.

It was our third visit to the flat in Montreux, and it was clear that Freddie and I wouldn’t be there together for a fourth and our planned quiet Christmas. We went out to restaurants every night for ten days, but now Freddie was very slow and needed a helping hand to walk.

He used the Swiss trip to find some peace in which to make a few final decisions. It was during that visit that he made the important decision to come off his medication and die. He decided not to let any of us know what he was doing. The fight against his disease was over; he was ready to slip away without any further struggle.

During our time at the flat Freddie began spending more time in his bedroom, retreating to his bed in T-shirt and boxer shorts to doze for large parts of the day. We took it in turns to look after him. Tony King stayed with Freddie the whole day, and Joe and I would leave Freddie to sleep when he felt too weak to chat.

Four days before we were due to return to London, Dr Atkinson was due to phone with the results of my Aids test. Although I knew what the result would be, I was a bundle of nerves. It was a one-in-a-million chance that the result of the first test had been a mistake. Freddie and Joe didn’t know I was expecting a call that morning. Joe was around and I couldn’t sit next to Freddie lying on the sofa watching television; I couldn’t relax.

I paced the room for hours waiting for the call. I kept wondering how Freddie would take the news if I decided to come clean about my own condition. After I had almost worn the carpet bare from walking around in circles, Freddie asked me what was the matter.

‘I’m bloody annoyed with our doctor, ’ I said. ‘He promised me he’d phone with the results of the Aids test today. ’

‘Why don’t you phone him yourself? ’ Freddie said.

I did. I got through and the doctor was very matter of fact about it all.

‘I’m sorry, darling, ’ he said, ‘you’re HIV positive. ’

I rang off and looked at Freddie.

‘Well, what’s the result? ’ he said.

‘I’m positive, ’ I replied.

The colour drained from his face.

‘The bastards, ’ he said, referring to whoever had given it to him, and whoever had given it to that person, and so on along the endless chain.

Later in the day, while Freddie was resting, Joe and I talked about my condition. He said he and Freddie knew what the result would be before I’d even made the call; I was pale and the outcome was written all over my face.

I became very depressed by it all. Regardless of my fate, I finally came to accept that Freddie wasn’t going to live much longer. We were in the last few days before the end.

Most of the time I simply wanted to cry. While Freddie was asleep, I would go for a short walk or sit alone chain-smoking. I’d walk through the night rather than go to bed, as I knew I wouldn’t sleep. One time Tony joined me in a long, slow walk around the lake. We got chatting.

He told me of some of the things he and Freddie had been discussing. With me in mind, Tony asked Freddie: ‘What’s going to happen to the boys? ’

‘Well, Jim will be staying in Garden Lodge, ’ Freddie replied.

Tony, astonished, told him: ‘But Mary doesn’t get on with Jim. ’

According to Tony that night, Freddie answered: ‘Well, they’ll just have to work it out, won’t they? ’ I wasn’t surprised to hear that Mary didn’t like me.

A few days later Freddie and I were together on the sofa in the lounge watching an old thirties’ black-and-white movie. The heroine asked her partner: ‘Will we spend the rest of our lives together? ’ Freddie looked at me and asked the same thing.

‘Of course we will, ’ I answered. ‘Don’t be silly. ’

A lump came into my throat.

Coming back from Switzerland, Freddie was in good spirits. We’d arranged for him to be sped through customs. In his final few weeks he’d refer to it proudly. ‘Even Liz Taylor doesn’t get away with that, dear! ’ he’d say.

Of course, Freddie was given special permission to avoid the queues at customs and passport control because he was so ill. He tired easily and looked terrible, and it would have been cruel to allow him to attract the attentions of the crowd. None of us were allowed to accompany Freddie and for a while he was split from the rest of us, dependent on total strangers for the first time in years. We tried protesting, but it was no use. We still had to go through immigration like everyone else while poor frail Freddie was left in the Customs Hall to wait for us.

‘It would have been just as easy for me to have come through with you lot, ’ he laughed. But he said that he had been well looked after by the customs staff.

Back at Garden Lodge, Freddie set out on the last three weeks of his life. As in Switzerland, he remained in good spirits, though he took to his bed for long parts of the day. He didn’t once talk about work. Some days he’d get up in the morning and come down in his dressing gown for a cup of tea before returning to his room for the rest of the day. And I’d take him a cup of tea, along with his beloved Delilah for company.

We kept ourselves sane by doing jobs around the house and still pretending that everything was normal. I got round to putting fairy lights in the second magnolia tree by the corner of the house. It made the place look like a fairy grotto, but who cared so long as it made Freddie a little happier.

I waited until Freddie and I were alone in the bedroom before showing him the lights.

‘You haven’t passed any remark about the tree, ’ I said.

‘What tree? ’ he asked.

‘Come over to the window and I’ll show you, ’ I said.

He walked to the window and his face lit up when he saw the tree twinkling away.

‘Oh, you’ve done it, ’ he said and hugged me.

Before, he would have responded differently, perhaps snapping sarcastically: ‘Why has it taken you so long? ’ But now he no longer had the strength.

I found solace in working in the garden. I lived for the enjoyment he could get from looking at me and the garden from his window. Right up to the very last day I worked on the garden. Even on the Sunday he died, I mowed the lawn.

I abandoned a planned trip to Ireland as time was so clearly running out for Freddie. Joe told me it was in that second week that Freddie came off most of his medication except painkillers. It was a decision he took against the advice of his doctors.

Much of the time Freddie slept or watched television. Joe or Phoebe stayed with him through the day, relieved for short breaks by Mary or Dave Clark. Dave came every day, and we appreciated his help immensely.

AlthoughI was busy working in the garden where he could see me, Freddie needed to hear from me more and more that I loved him. So I got into the habit of flying upstairs and quickly sticking my head around the door.

‘Hey, ’ I’d say. ‘I love you! ’

Then I’d run back down to get on with the gardening. I knew it made him feel good for a few minutes at least. Sometimes when I got downstairs again I’d look up at his window and he’d be there waiting for me to emerge outside; then he’d blow me a kiss.

I spent the evenings alone with Freddie. We would talk or watch television, or I would doze alongside him. He’d rest his frail head in the cradle of my arm and I’d gently massage his scalp.

Joe, Phoebe and I also started taking turns to stay with Freddie through the night, usually lying awake next to him on constant stand-by. We had an intercom system installed so we could summon one another, and pagers so we could be reached instantly. We wanted to be with him at the end.

In the last ten days before Freddie died, the press set up camp outside Garden Lodge. In the early morning one or two would arrive, followed by more as the day went on. After an hour or so there’d be six or seven dozen.

One of the reporters was a grey-haired man with a big moustache who slipped me a note for Freddie. Letters from the press were given to us daily and this man’s was typical. He said he and his colleagues were dreadfully sorry for causing a nuisance, but if Freddie could come out to have just one photograph taken they could quash the ‘terrible rumours’.

A few days later pushier reporters and photographers began covering both entrances to Garden Lodge. They got up to everything. They’d stand on the walls on the other side of the road to snatch pictures of the house. Their lenses were trained on all the windows. Anyone arriving or leaving the house was instantly interrogated and they ran after visitors down the street. I usually kept my head well down, said nothing and barked at them: ‘I suppose you’ll want to know what colour toilet paper I use next? ’ When they asked how Freddie was, I’d say he wasn’t at Garden Lodge but out of the country.

I got my own back one day, too. A favourite place for the press to wait was sitting on the other side of the wall to a sunshed we nicknamed the ‘Number 27 bus shelter’. I got the water pressure machine from the garage and turned it on, training the spray over the roof. There were a number of startled screams from the other side of the wall. I had soaked them.

Terry came in for more than his fair share of flak from the press. They knew he was one of Freddie’s most trusted employees and towards the end he too got his own back.

We were stopped on the way in to Garden Lodge the day the body of rogue newspaper proprietor Robert Maxwell, who owned the Daily Mirror, was found washed up in the Canary Islands.

‘How’s Freddie doing today, then? ’ asked the Mirror reporter.

‘Better than Maxwell! ’ said Terry.

One night Roger Taylor was pulling out of The Mews late at night and made a sharp left turn into Logan Place. The photographers let off their flashes and, blinded for a moment, he crashed into a police car.

The siege of Garden Lodge posed enormous problems for some of the celebrities who came to pay their last respects. We used a secret entrance in and out of the premises, via the garage adjoined to The Mews, to let them slip in and out. Elton John would warn us by car telephone that he was on his way, and he would slip past the press in a plain old Mini.

Freddie was obviously aware that the press were waiting outside, since you could often hear them from the bedroom. But he never knew to what extent they were there. He thought that at any one time there were no more than a handful and none of us ever corrected him. It wouldn’t have helped anything.

Contrary to some newspaper reports at the time, Freddie’s bedroom never became a ‘mini-hospital’. He had a drip-stand at his right-hand side, in case he needed a blood transfusion, but everything else in the room was exactly as it had always been. In the last few days Freddie stopped eating solid foods; he just ate fruit and drank fruit juices.

At the end of the second week, some pictures arrived which Freddie had bought at auction but sent away for cleaning. They included the portrait of the boy he’d bought on Valentine’s Day. We knew where Freddie wanted them to hang and I was left to light them properly.

The picture of the boy was for the lounge. This Freddie wanted next to the window, and I lit it with a concealed spotlight.

Mary could say some clumsy things, but perhaps she said them without really thinking. One day she suggested to me that we should ask Freddie to take his wedding ring off, as when her mother had died her fingers had swollen badly.

‘The ring stays on, Mary, ’ I said.

Later, when I was alone with Freddie, I mentioned the idea of slipping the ring off in case his finger should swell up, but didn’t say any more.

‘No, ’ he said. ‘I’m keeping it on. ’

It never came off; he was even cremated with it on.

On Sunday, 17 November Freddie asked me to give his beard a trim. Whenever he asked me to trim his beard, he would pretend I was still a barber and would make an appointment.

‘Ok, ’ I said. ‘I’ll do it for you on Tuesday at 10. 30am. ’

That Tuesday I went to his room at the allotted hour and Dave Clark was with him. Freddie looked at me and said: ‘Oh, I’m sorry darling, I can’t do it today. Can we do it another day? ’

‘Yes, all right, ’ I said. ‘We’ll do it tomorrow, same time. ’

I returned the next morning and Dave was with him again. But this time Freddie wanted to go ahead with the beard trim.

When I’d finished he said: ‘You know, I haven’t had a bath for a few days. ’

‘Don’t worry, ’ I said. ‘We’ll soon fix that. ’

Having a real bath would have been too much of an ordeal for him by this stage. So I went downstairs and found Peter. ‘I think it’s time he had a good wash, ’ I said. So Phoebe returned with me to Freddie’s room to prepare the bed.

As Freddie’s skin was a little dry it was to be an oil bath. Mary came in while we were in the middle of it. She could see what was going on and decided to make herself scarce. Just as she was leaving she turned around and looked at Freddie, saying: ‘Do you know what? You’ve got the cheekiest, impish look on your face. Aren’t you sorry now you didn’t get them to do this long ago? ’

Freddie thoroughly enjoyed the bath and it seemed to perk him up. His face was a picture: an innocent but cheeky childish expression all over it. We left him chatting happily with Dave. By this time Freddie was beginning to spend more time listening and less talking.

One paper claimed he’d asked Dave to ensure that his music never died, but it wasn’t true. He didn’t need to. Freddie was confident his music would stand the test of time. He listened to a lot of music in those last weeks, but none of it his own. More than anything he adored listening over and over to Natalie Cole’s album made up of old love songs. Freddie liked them because they were so familiar to him; they were familiar to me, too. One day he was playing the album and when it got to the track ‘Mona Lisa’ I started singing along.

‘You know this one? ’ he asked me.

‘Of course I do, ’ I said. ‘I know all the old ones. ’

Then he listened to me singing and came up with the funniest of ideas.

‘We should have recorded a song together! ’ he said.

The morning of Thursday, 21 November was a very sad day for me. It was the last time Freddie appeared at his bedroom window calling ‘cooee’, and I knew the end was very near.

That night I took special care of him. He dozed and I lay next to him on top of the bed. He only had to elbow me gently and I’d be awake if he wanted anything.

When dawn broke I was already wide awake, quietly watching television. Freddie was still asleep, cuddled inside my arm and holding on to my hand. Every so often he’d softly squeeze it. ‘Do you love me? ’ he asked when he woke. More than ever he wanted to hear how much he was treasured. ‘Yes, I love you, ’ I whispered and kissed him on the forehead.

At about 6. 30 Freddie needed to go to the loo and I walked alongside to steady him. He sat down to have a pee and I leaned against his shoulder to support him. ‘You’re in the way! ’ he grumbled, and elbowed me painfully.

‘If I move away from here you’re going to fall over, ’ I insisted.

I got him back to bed where he sat quietly for a while. Then he just looked up to me and said: ‘You know, there’s something I’d love to see. ’

‘What is it? ’ I asked.

‘I’d love to go down and see my pictures, ’ he said.

He had no control of his muscles by this time, and he couldn’t even place his arms around someone’s neck to support himself to be carried.

‘I’ll carry you, ’ I said. ‘It’s not a problem. ’

Freddie sat on the bed for another five minutes summoning up his strength, then his brown eyes twinkled and he said: ‘OK, let’s go. ’

He was wearing a Mickey Mouse dressing gown and was barefoot. Although I said I would carry him, he was adamant that he would at least try to walk as far as he could. He supported himself on the banister and stumbled down the staircase. I kept slightly ahead of him, putting my arm out to steady him. He kept pushing my arm away. It was a typical act of defiance.

When he got to the bottom of the stairs Freddie looked around the hallway at some prints Peter had rehung there. He sighed gently, looking at them for a few moments.

‘Wow, they look great, ’ he said.

Then I led Freddie into the lounge and sat him on a chair. He sat with the newly arrived portrait of the young boy immediately ahead of him in the darkness.

One by one, I slowly flicked on the light over each picture, left to right around the room. Finally I lit up the portrait of the boy. The light fell mostly on the face, then spilled over the boy’s clothes.

‘They’re beautiful, ’ said Freddie. But most of all he was mesmerised by the boy. He let out a succession of small, contented sighs. After ten minutes he announced: ‘OK, let’s go. ’ I carried him back upstairs and it was a bit of a struggle. As we reached the door he said: ‘You know, I never realised you were so strong. ’

‘Yes, you did, ’ I said. He knew from our early nightclub days when I’d hurl him around the crowded dance floor. I think he said it as his way of thanking me for looking after him.

When I went back downstairs to switch off the lights I looked around the pictures slowly, soaking them in. I think that Friday morning was the last time I could honestly say Freddie was happy, the last time that Freddie Mercury was still there, the last time he radiated that Freddie Mercury excitement.

The rest of that morning he seemed alert and well aware of what was going on. Jim Beach arrived for a private meeting, and it triggered a flurry of activity to do with Freddie’s statement to the press that he was suffering from Aids. I’ve always been very doubtful that Freddie made that statement of his own accord. He’d kept it all quiet for so long it seemed odd that he’d suddenly want to start confessing things as if he had something to be ashamed of. I’m sure he felt his fate should not become a matter for public debate. It was only a matter for him and his immediate friends. And I’m sure he didn’t want to risk Joe and me being subjected to the publicity. I did not even know that Freddie was going to issue a statement.

I believe Freddie was coerced into making the statement. However, once he had been persuaded I know that Freddie specifically told Jim Beach to release the statement worldwide to prevent the British gutter press from having a scoop to themselves. It was Freddie’s way of saying to those so eagerly awaiting his death: ‘Fuck the lot of you! ’

That Friday I slipped out for a relaxing drink at the Gate Club in Notting Hill. When I got home I went straight up to Freddie’s room. He was asleep and Peter was dozing next to him on top of the bed covers.

He dozed through much of the next day, and in the evening I went up to see him. We were lying together on the bed when he asked me what time it was.

‘It’s eight o’clock, ’ I said.

‘Soon the whole world will know, ’ he sighed, looking at me with sad, brown eyes. This was the first indication I had that something was going on.

When Freddie nodded off I went downstairs and mentioned what he’d said to Joe and Peter. They confirmed that a statement explaining his condition had been prepared. It was due to be released at midnight.

I wasn’t supposed to be keeping watch over Freddie through Saturday night – Joe was. But he’d gone out to the gym, then out for a drink, and didn’t reappear. I was with Freddie in his room at around ten when he got terribly agitated. He kept asking me where Joe had got to.

‘Why, what’s the problem? ’ I asked.

‘Well, I have to take my medicine, ’ he said.

‘Oh, that’s not a problem, ’ I answered. ‘I can give you the pills you want. Which ones are they? ’ He knew exactly which three or four pills he needed – the painkillers. He had been taking AZT, but had abandoned the treatment along with the rest.

Freddie and I chatted away all night. I don’t remember what we wittered to each other about, even when Freddie was well. It was all happy, inconsequential stuff. We didn’t watch television any more. We just lay on the bed cuddling until he dozed off. And sometimes so did I.

Occasionally he gave me a quick jab to the ribs to stop me snoring, or a harder one if he needed something. Then he asked me to prepare some fruit for him in the kitchen. I sliced some mango and added a little sorbet to help fight his chronic dehydration.

We drifted asleep again. When Freddie next woke me it was about three and he seemed incapable of explaining himself. He couldn’t talk properly and kept pointing to his mouth, frowning. Something was terribly wrong. I tried to work out what he wanted, but couldn’t.

About half an hour later Joe came back home and saw I was having problems. As soon as Freddie spotted Joe, he pointed to his mouth.

‘What is it, Freddie? ’ Joe asked. ‘What do you want? ’

I told him this had been going on for half an hour, ever since I had prepared some fruit for Freddie which he’d then eaten before dozing off.

Joe leaned over Freddie and opened his mouth. A piece of mango had lodged at the back of his throat which he could neither swallow nor bring back up. Joe prised Freddie’s jaw open wide and flicked out the offending piece of fruit with his finger. Freddie didn’t say anything. Joe and I were fully aware that a healthy Freddie would have been furious with me for not understanding. He sipped some juice, then went back to sleep.

I went downstairs for a coffee, followed closely by Joe. He was about to apologise for not having turned up for night duty, but I wouldn’t let him speak.

‘Don’t worry about it, ’ I said. I guess I knew where Joe had got to. It was a very heavy strain to bear; he’d found it all too much that day and had had to get away from Garden Lodge to forget about Freddie for a while.

Joe went upstairs to Freddie’s room and lay next to him on the bed. A few minutes later I went back, told Joe to get some sleep and took his place next to Freddie, who was fast asleep.

Freddie woke up again at six in the morning and uttered what were to be his last two words: ‘Pee, pee! ’ He wanted to be helped to the loo. He looked terribly weak and I had to carry him. As I lowered him back on to the bed I heard a deafening crack. It sounded like one of Freddie’s bones breaking, cracking like the branch of a tree. He screamed out in pain and went into a convulsion.

I yelled for Joe. I needed him to pin Freddie to the bed to stop him injuring himself. Over the years Joe had seen Freddie have one anxiety attack after another and he knew just how to handle him – by pinning him down until the anxiety had passed. He said: ‘Freddie, calm down. Freddie, calm down. ’ Then Freddie’s hand shot up and went straight for Joe’s throat. He was like a drowning man clutching for air.

Joe freed himself from Freddie’s grip and eventually he calmed him down. Then, exhausted by the strain, Freddie promptly fell asleep. We phoned his GP, Dr Gordon Atkinson, and he came over and gave Freddie an injection of morphine to help him through the day. Joe later told me Freddie was allergic to morphine, but it was now so late in the day it didn’t seem to matter.

Mary came by later in the morning and we all stood around in the kitchen, waiting to hear Dr Atkinson’s prognosis. He said: ‘Freddie will probably last until Thursday. ’

Joe and I looked at each other. We both knew that there was no way Freddie could last that long.

Mary left shortly after that. The rest of that day Freddie nodded in and out of sleep. Elton John came to visit him one last time, driving himself in his green Bentley. He parked right outside the gate, blocking Logan Road completely. His attitude to the press was ‘Stuff you lot. I want to see my friend and I don’t care about any of you. ’ He didn’t stay very long.

I felt the need to get well away from Garden Lodge, so that afternoon I took myself off in the Volvo to Holland Park where I moped around for an hour.

By the time I got back, Freddie was as ill as I’d ever seen him. He seemed to know what was going on around him, but couldn’t respond to any of it; he could hear, but couldn’t move his eyes to acknowledge he’d heard. He just stared straight ahead, eyes glazed.

Dr Atkinson stayed at the house all afternoon and left just after 6. 30. I thanked him for having stayed so long, saw him out, and then went straight back to be with Freddie.

All that day Delilah had been in the bedroom, but not once had she sat on the bed; she remained crouched at the foot. Dave Clark was sitting by the bed, massaging Freddie’s hand. I picked Delilah up and placed her next to Freddie. Dave then took Freddie’s hand and started stroking Delilah’s coat with it.

‘It’s Delilah, ’ he told Freddie. He seemed to recognise what he was being told.

Freddie made clear he wanted to go to the loo. After the terrible convulsions which had followed his morning visit to the bathroom, I wasn’t bold enough to try to cope with him again single-handed. I flew downstairs and found Phoebe.

By the time we got back upstairs, Freddie had wet the bed. Dave Clark didn’t seem to have noticed.

Peter looked over at me and asked: ‘Shall we change the bedclothes? ’

‘We’d better, ’ I answered. ‘If we don’t and he wakes up he’ll go absolutely ape-shit. ’

I don’t know why I said that; perhaps it was my subconscious trying to make out that things were less serious than they were.

Peter started changing the bed while I took care of Freddie. As I was about to change Freddie into a clean T-shirt and pair of boxer shorts, I asked Dave to leave the room for a few moments.

It was when I was getting his shorts on that I felt him try to raise his left leg to help a little. It was the last thing he did. I looked down at him, knowing he was dead.

‘Phoebe, ’ I cried out. ‘I’m sorry, he’s gone. ’

I slipped my arm under Freddie’s neck, kissed him and then held him. His eyes were still open. I can remember very clearly the expression on his face – and when I go to sleep every night it’s still there in front of me. He looked radiant. One minute he was a boy with a gaunt, sad little face and the next he was a picture of ecstasy. Freddie’s whole face went back to everything it had been before. He looked finally and totally at peace. Seeing him like that made me feel happy in my sadness. I felt an overwhelming sense of relief. I knew that he was no longer in pain.

Dave Clark had only got as far as the doorway when Freddie died. He came back in to stay with me, and Phoebe ran to find Joe.

I stopped the tiny fly-wheel of the wind-up carriage clock by the bed. I’d given it to Freddie because he told me he’d always wanted one. It read twelve minutes to seven. I’ve never started it again.

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