Transcript
Narrator (0:03)
It's August 1941, in the glamorous Portuguese coastal resort of Estoril, about 15 miles from Lisbon. In the intimate lounge bar of the exclusive Hotel Palacio, two men sit in plush armchairs. They're both smartly dressed, one in his 50s, the other in his 30s. The younger man knocks back the last of his martini. The pair get to their feet. They walk across the bar's distinctive checkerboard floor and out into the warm evening. A gentle breeze rustles through the trees as they pass the hotel's imposing white stone facade, along the promenade, and through the carefully manicured courtyard to the nearby casino. When they arrive at its entrance, the younger man shakes a cigarette from a pack he's had specially made for him back in London. He fits it to his long ebony cigarette holder and lights up. A doorman steps aside and ushers them into the casino. A jazz band is in full swing as patrons dine and dance. Gambling tables stretch in every direction, but this is business as well as pleasure. The elder of the two, John Godfrey, is director of British Naval Intelligence, a man who trades in finding out the enemy's secrets while protecting those of his own country. The younger man is his personal assistant, and it is his contacts who have persuaded him that a night at the casino is worthwhile. While the Second World War rages across Europe, Portugal has maintained its neutrality. Lisbon and Estoril are luxurious havens for spies, places where they can carry out their business of espionage in comfort and relative safety, meeting informants and making exchanges. Godfrey's assistant has been told that there are always German spies in the casinos. The pair make their way to a baccarat table and lay down some chips. A tuxedoed croupier deals a hand for the newcomers and one for the house. The house wins. The young man shrugs and puts down more chips. The same result. And again it seems like it's not his lucky night. Smoke swirls from his cigarette, and he puts in an order for another drink. He glances at the other players. Not spies, he determines. Probably just, well, to do locals. But an idea creeps into his head. With a glint in his eye, he leans over to his boss. Imagine, he says as he subtly gestures, if all these fellows were German agents, what a coup it would be to clean them out entirely. The croupier deals, and the young man loses again. But maybe it's not all such bad luck, because this idea of rinsing enemy spies at the baccarat table will change the course of his life. A little more than a decade from now the Estoril Casino will be reimagined as the Casino Royale in a book of the same name. Its central character will be the greatest spy of them all, James Bond. As for Godfrey's assistant, the name is Fleming. Ian Fleming. James Bond is a cultural icon, the epitome of a particular sort of masculinity. A man who enjoys the finer things in life, but who's prepared to risk everything to defeat the bad guys. To paraphrase one critic, Bond is someone men want to be and women want to be with. It is, of course, a rather chauvinistic generalization, but then the world of Bond is regularly chauvinistic. The attitudes expressed in the books about class, race and sexual politics are often strikingly out of kilter with modern ideas. But behind one of the most enduring fictional characters in history is Bond's creator, Ian Fleming. Born into privilege, he was involved in the worlds of finance, journalism, defense and espionage before Bond was even a twinkle in his eye. Although his early career seemed to falter before it began, his inventive mind became a potent weapon for the British in the Second World War. So what inspired him to write the ultimate spy novels? Did his success bring him happiness? And how much of his own character, with its determination, quirks and flaws, did he lend to the most famous product of his imagination? I'm John Hopkins from Noiser. This is a short history of Ian Fleming. It's the 20th of May 1917, three years into the First World War. On a farm near the River Somme in northern France, as German artillery fire rains down, a British major is struck by shrapnel. There is nothing that can be done to save him. His name is Valentine Fleming, a married father of four and the Conservative Member of Parliament for Henley in Oxfordshire. Back home in England, his death is marked by an admiring obituary in the Times written by none other than Winston Churchill. But that is little consolation to his second oldest child, Ian Lancaster Fleming, who is eight days from his ninth birthday when he loses his father. Ian's family background is comfortable. His Scottish paternal grandfather Robert is a self made man who earned a fortune in finance. His maternal grandfather is a baronet. Ian himself was born on 28th May 1908 in the exclusive London enclave of Mayfair. And his family live in a series of spectacular properties, most notably a Jacobean revival style mansion on the sprawling Joyce Grove estate in Oxfordshire. But that privilege hasn't necessarily led to happiness for Ian so far. He has been attending Dunford Preparatory School in Dorset since he was 6. It's the sort of establishment that believes in classical education and a good dose of beatings. Each morning, the children are made to strip off and take a dip in the sea, and Ian cannot abide the place. Edward Abel Smith is author of Ian Fleming's inspirations, the Truth behind the Books.
