Nick Cornwell was one of few people who got to witness the collaboration between his mother Jane and father David, who wrote as le Carré
A little while before she died – when it seemed she might have almost any amount of time left, from days to months – I screwed up my courage and suggested to my mother that, given that she was 82 and suffering from significantly terminal cancer, it might not be too early to give some consideration to retirement, or, failing that, a week off. On her sickbed, she continued to search through her notes from late last year, looking for anything my father David, who wrote as John le Carré, might have written that would otherwise be missing from the body of work he left behind. It was an unnecessary labour; we have everything, and we had it then. While I didn’t want to take away something that was a mainstay of her life, I was concerned that she was growing unhappy in the search for new material that did not exist.
She looked back at me as if I’d said she should grow wings.
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