About the Author

     Large, male-dominated families are part of my make-up. My mother’s grandparents produced a family of nine - seven boys and two girls. I have on the stairs a series of watercolours of the “Hodge boys”: five soldiers, one sailor and the odd man out, Harry, who became Resident of the Ilorin Province of Nigeria. Twice a day I look at these young, dutiful faces with their eager little moustaches. All were wiped out by World War I, either physically or emotionally. The males were too decent. They viewed matters with too little irony. Slowly they became extinguished.

     My father’s side, the Flemings, came out of Dundee. They proved more resilient. My grandfather was also killed in World War I, leaving a widow and four young sons.

In 1926 my grandmother had a daughter, the cellist Amaryllis, whose father was Augustus John. (My brother Fergus has written an excellent biography of Amaryllis, who was universally loved.)

Richard (1910-77) – my father, a man of such extraordinary humility that few would ever have known him as one of the ablest international bankers of his time.

Peter (1907-71) – traveller and writer. His two most famous books, both still in print, were Brazilian Adventure and News from Tartary. “No modern writer can equal Peter Fleming as a story-teller,” wrote Harold Nicolson. Duff Hart-Davis wrote a biography of Peter Fleming, published by Jonathan Cape in 1974. Link to Peter Fleming

Ian (1908-64) – journalist and novelist, of James Bond fame. I used to think it leech-like to mention this family connection, as if I was trying to rub some of his gloss off upon myself. But now I have grown more confident of my own skills. There is a substantial literature on Ian’s life and the Bond phenomenon. The first biography, by John Pearson, was published by Jonathan Cape in 1966. Link to Ian Fleming

     To celebrate the fiftieth anniversary of the journey described in News from Tartary, I led a tour from Beijing to the Hindu Kush, following, as far as possible, in Peter’s tracks. Here is a photo from that trip.

In the footsteps of Peter Fleming: Chinese Central Asia

     Richard and my mother were the parents of nine children: six boys and three girls. Daniel, the eldest, died in infancy, in January 1940. My great-aunt Kathleen sported an enormous red handkerchief at the funeral to cheer everyone up. I was born in 1944 – number four, behind Daniel and two sisters.

     My schooling was commenced by Miss Malins, a governess we shared with neighbours. She wielded power via a thick, blue oval crayon that would be jabbed into our ribs if ever we faltered over, for instance, the subjunctive of the verb pouvoir. As a result we never did falter. By the time I went to boarding school at the age of eight, I was ahead of the game. And since the education I received at Abberley was liberal, old-fashioned and excellent – the headmaster would have no truck with the sciences and let me go off fishing – I remained ahead of it.

Taken about 1948. Note the tie-pin	At the age of eight

     However (which as Thomas Gage observed is one of the most ominous words in English), things went downhill thereafter. I went off the boil; did as I was told and no more. By a whisker I got into Oxford and by its twin I got a second in Modern History. Accountancy was reckoned the thing for chumps like me, so for a salary of £600 per annum I signed up as an articled clerk.

     I am grateful to those four years for a knowledge of double entry. I have taken the name, Doig, from the Glaswegian book-keeper in one of the firms I used to audit for the narrator and hero (or anti-hero, depending on your take) of my latest novel, White Blood. With the qualification, which in my case was totally cosmetic, I was able to get a job with Angus & Robertson, an august Australian publisher with an office in London. Otherwise this period was pointless to my life.

     From about the age of ten onwards I was always dickering with words. During my twenties I tried three or four ideas for popular accounts of everyday goods. The closest I got to success was with A Social History of Tea. But none of them came to anything, which was a blessing in disguise.

     And it all had to stop when I got married and had children, started a one-man publishing house and was sent off to look after the family farm on the death of my father.

     The short history of these years says only that twenty-four is too few hours in the day. Then, suddenly, at the age of fifty – my marriage broke up, free time became available, and I started The Temple of Optimism.