Harry and I got on very well with the whole science fiction crowd with which I was in disagreement in many respects because they thought science fiction was fun. Now, I didn't think it was fun. I didn't think it should be fun. And in my misery, in this one room in Paradise Square, I started to write a novel that would encompass my wretchedness.
And that novel is about an England where there are no children, and so the place gradually falls apart in misery and wreckage. And while I wrote that book, I thought, oh God, this is so miserable, no-one's ever going to want to read it.
I sent it to Faber, they published it as science fiction and it became a great success... [Greybeard]. This book written in misery, it seemed as though it had echoes all over the place. And after all, I was not the only person who was miserable or whose marriage had broken down, or had lost their children. And so, Deathworld [sic – should be Greybeard] or whatever it was called, became a great science fiction success on both sides of the Atlantic. Really strange how things happen.
So, I was able to buy my way out of this little room and I bought a small house from someone who was working on the Oxford Mail, but was then leaving. And he had a house in Marston Street; it was a terraced house. And Marston Street ran between Iffley Road and the Cowley Road, and I paid him I think possibly £3000 for it. It was a nice little place.