Dear Errol fans,

        I have been besieged with negative comments as to why Errol was not buried in Jamaica as was his wish. Most of the comments blame Patrice Wymore Flynn and think she had a plan for an 'evil last payback' of some sort to punish Errol for any and all wrongs that she thought Errol had dealt her. The real reason could be not further from the truth. Errol died in Vancouver, B.C. Canada. That very fact had everything to do with how the events turned out. First; the Canadian law follows British law, i.e. Anyone who loses their life in Canada who is a foreign national is subject to an autopsy.(for obvious reasons) That being done, the remains are lawfully shipped to the deceased lawful address, (this being Los Angeles County, CA. i.e Errol's legal residence) Errol's remains stayed at the Vancouver Morgue for two days until Errol's friend came to claim the body. The remains were then put on a train for the trip to L.A. That trip took four days in an unrefrigerated baggage car, at which it was turned over to the proper authorities.

                The L.A.County Health Dept. then at some point filed an 'immediate burial writ' and the the remains were then buried at Forest lawn within 24-48 hours. Note that this was 1959 and the threat of Cholera and Typhoid Fever was a very real concern. The authorities did not care who it was, only that the public good was to be protected. The story that friends put several bottles of liquor in the coffin at the wake is simply not true. ( It made for good pulp press though) The fact is: Due to the circumstances, the L.A. coroner filed a "closed coffin" order and Errol was buried in that manner. Also, for Errol to be re-buried in Jamaica would have been a logistical nightmare. In L.A. County, a dis-internment order was almost impossible to get. (unless the asking party was the police) There had already been an autopsy (in Vancouver) and no foul play was suspected. Indeed, the results pointed to a massive heart attack, liver cirrosis, and a laundry list of other ailments.(In fact it seems incredible that he lived as long as he did.) To request it for any other reason would have involved a court hearing, etc, that most probably would have dragged on for months. Let's say for argument's sake that it was actually done: The coffin would have to be encased in a airtight container, shipped by boat or air plane to Kingston, JA where customs would have had the final say. Let me tell you,(as I have extensive experience in JA goings-on) Bringing a body into a country such as JA for re-burial would have been another nightmare. All kinds of health concerns would have delayed the transfer, and the coffin would have most likely sat in the air-freight warehouse at the Kingston airport for two or three months while the bureaucracy slowly ground on, and even then, it would be a 50-50 chance that the remains would have been accepted. Let's not forget that the Jamaican people are very superstitious.(and still are.) They call ghosts: 'Duppies' and believe that have great powers, and there is no 'Duppie so evil' as one who is denied his final resting place. This belief exists to this day.(even in 2010)

       To put it all in perspective, Errol lived a great life, and when he died, the portion left behind was not Errol, but just a shell for a soul. (at least, that's how I see it) As for me, when I pass on, I don't care what they do with the body. Hell, get rid of it in the cheapest way possible! What has made me me, is gone to another place.

         Also, I have heard that there is a rumor that Patrice sent yellow roses to Errol's grave as a 'spiteful last insult'. Patrice at that time was almost penniless, and only had the property in JA and was in no position to do anything. The truth is, Errol's friend Bud Abbott (of Abbott and Costello fame, and a close friend) called a local florist and ordered an enormous amount of roses to be sent to the grave site. The florist was short of red roses, but had a line on yellow roses and did not think it would matter, so that is what was sent, much to the later embarrassment of Mr. Abbott.

         I have often said that there is nothing more bitter and chastising as the pure truth, and I believe this is yet one more example. I hope I have not turned away any readers. There is so much more good in Errol's life that remains to be written, and I intend to do it,(with you readers support.) Errol was, at his core, just a man, a human being with all the faults and warts we all carry. He was a great man in his own way, and to quote Shakespeare; "Here, was a Caesar, When comes another?" It is easy to think of him in Hollywood terms, but Hollywood is make-believe. Errol was the real thing. And rather than to hide his true feelings due to some 'political correctness',(a term coined by Josef Stalin) he was his own man and 'let it all hang out' and if you accepted it, fine, if not, you could go to hell. In my humble opinion, that is the attitude of a real man. That is what made him the legend that he was and still is. That, my friends, is how I view him and I admire him all the more for it.

                                                  Thank You All,  John

         

Dear Errol Fans,

     In this last installment of the series, we see an aging, run-down Titchfield hotel. Although The United Fruit Co. had rebuilt it, and half-heartedly promoted it, World War II and the changing times all played a part in it's gradual downhill slide. Money was scarce, travel by airplane had largely replaced travel by ship, and Port Antonio's remote location combined to create a 'perfect storm' of sorts. It was in this time period that Errol, while traveling to the U.S. east coast by way of the Panama canal on the ZACA suffered storm damage and put into Kingston, JA for repairs. During this time Errol did some exploring and discovered Port Antonio. After the repairs were finished, Errol sailed the ZACA into the now sleepy coastal town and fell in love with the place.

    Timeline: 1951; Needing a base of operations, Errol set about inquiring as to the ownership of the hotel and found out that it could indeed be bought. The owners probably could not believe their luck. Instead of a savvy real estate broker who would have bargained the price down to almost nothing, they had no less than a real-life Hollywood movie star with deep pockets on their hands. And what was even better, he was in love with the place! The words 'ca-ching!' must have came to mind. Needless to say, the deal was quickly struck and Errol was the proud owner of his very own hotel / bar. (Now he could cut out the middle man.)

      Soon after the Titchfield deal was consummated, Errol bought a huge tract of prime land in the Priestman's River / Boston Bay area from the same folks who owned the Titchfield with the idea of setting up a cattle ranch and coconut plantation. There already existed a large 'great house' on the property that was built in the banana heydays and Errol moved right in. The house was to be used as a getaway from the Titchfield until another, more modern one could be built. (to Errol's design, of course) That 'Errol designed' house still exists and is occupied by Patrice Wymore Flynn. Meanwhile, the hotel needed a vast amount of repairs and there still exists a check from Errol for the 'a/c for $10,000. That was a ton of money in those days. (especially in JA) Errol also had the famous artist, Olga Lehman paint a large mural in the reception area depicting Cpt. Morgan, pirates and Cpt. Bligh in a sort of running history of JA.

       Errol brought in his parents to stay at the Titchfield whenever they liked, and stay they did. Errol's mother took over as the defacto manager of the hotel and by all accounts, ran the place with an iron hand. Her word was law and pity those who would try and cross her. All opponents soon 'laid down their shields' and did her bidding, even Errol. Errol had the bright idea of changing the name of the hotel to 'Flynn's Inn'. Mama Flynn put the kabosh to that idea, But Errol succeeded in re-naming the hotel to 'The Jamaica Reef Hotel & Bar. Errol also considered buying the Demontevin Lodge and converting it into a 'New Orleans' style brothel. (and with the fancy gingerbread woodwork, it looked the part)But it never came to be. Errol's father did what he did best and took a position at the Fort George middle school as the master teacher of biology and by all accounts was quite happy. I have a picture of Father Flynn(center) Pat in the foreground and Errol on the Left hand side laughing at some forgotten joke. The lady who provided the photo said Mr. Flynn was a very good teacher who delighted at a student's ability to dissect a frog successfully than most anything else.

       The year is 1958, Errol and his 'small companion' Beverly Aaland (to whom he referred to as 'Dhondi') arrived at the Titchfield. By all accounts, things went smoothly enough in the beginning, although the proper English ladies were soon inquiring about Beverly's 'function' without really seeming to 'inquire'.(in other words, being nosey) They got more than they bargained for when Beverly, a veteren of the cut-throat 'child actor' business in Hollywood, and anything but a 'shrinking violet,' (plus possessing a vocabulary that would do a sailor proud,) smiled sweetly, looked them in the eye, and said "As a matter of fact I'm screwing him, and for 5 bucks each, you old bats can watch us!" This news sent them running like wet hens straight to Errol, who laughed it all off as 'youthful indulgence'. Beverly also had a habit of cavorting through the place dressed in a string bikini.(remember, this was 1958) To the old regulars, she might as well have been stark naked. She would pick out the oldest, most uptight looking pensioner, wait until he was surrounded by his friends and then run up, sit in his lap,stroke his thigh, whisper in his ear and kiss him on the cheek until his face turned beet red. This behavior was 'Errol at his best', who loved nothing more than to put someone on the spot. Once when Errol bought her a goose with goslings for her birthday, she set them loose in the hallways. The reason was (I guess) just harmless fun or to 'raise a little hell'. In that endeavor, she succeeded. The formidable 'Lady's and Gentlemen" of the old order had more than met their match and steered clear of Bev. from then on.

      Errol was also not without his little quirks: After some drinking, he would remove his clothes in full view of all present and do a little 'skinny dipping' when the mood came over him. One story stands out above the rest: Errol, tipsy after 'one too many', mistakenly stumbled into the ladies restroom at the hotel to take a 'relieve himself'. One of the ladies who happened to be also in the room walked up and said. "Sir! This is for ladies only!" whereupon Errol pulled out his 'member' and replied'"So is this madam! But I must water it every now and again!"

      Errol hosted many famous stars at the Titchfield. A short list would read: Tony Curtis, Marilyn Monroe, Katherine Hepburn, Bud Abbott, Lou Costello, Peter Ustinov, Peter O'Toole, and Truman Capote. All the guests were said to be on their best behavior when at the hotel, save one: Truman Capote. Truman was a curious and irritating fellow. He seemed to be allergic to almost everything,(even sand) had to be carried to and from the beach like an invalid, never dared to venture into water more than 2 ft. deep, would bundle up like he was at the arctic to protect himself from the sun, wear his canvas shoes even in the water, and would constantly whine and bitch about everything and nothing at all. Beverly hated him, and never being at a loss for words, called him a "dirty little fag". All the more puzzling was why he kept coming back to the Titchfield over and over.(that puzzle would soon solve itself.) Things came to a head when Errol and a group of friends (Truman included) went rafting on the Rio Grande. Somehow, Truman managed to fall off his raft and nearly drowned. Now for those of you who have not participated in this little adventure, the water is never more than 2 or 3 ft. deep and the current is very lazy. To drown there would be akin to drowning in a plastic kiddie pool in the back yard.

     After this episode, Errol had had just about enough of "old Tru", as he called him. One of the group privately asked Errol just what the hell was wrong with him, to which Errol replied, "The fact is sport, he's absolutely worthless. But don't worry, I'll get rid of him if I have to do it myself." So Truman, pale and shivering, was bundled into Errol's convertible and Errol, with cigarette holder firmly clenched in his teeth, took his place behind the wheel for the journey to the Kingston airport. Everything was fine until they reach the outskirts of town. It was there that Truman, (who had a huge crush on Errol) lost control of his 'unrequited love', and 'seized' the moment. (by grabbing Errol's crotch with both hands in a vise-like grip) Now make no mistake, Errol was capable of walking and chewing gum at the same time, and even sword fighting at four to one odds, but now he had to juggle driving a twisty, mtn. road, smoking his cigarette, and trying to dislodge love-sick Truman, all the while trying to avoid injury to his 'particulars". Well, the whole charade ended with Errol plowing through a large wooden wall and into the backyard pool of an unlucky resident. It is said that Errol sprang from the car so fast that his cigarette was still burning when the owners rushed to see what was the matter. One of the owners said that Errol stood for a moment, hands on hips, surveying the carnage, then coolly asked to use the phone, while ignoring the half-drowned Truman.

      After Errol's death, the hotel was purchased by a self proclaimed 'friend' of Errol's. (one Rex Rand) A man of questionable references and reputation. Most referred to him as a 'con man'. He had an old Grumman Goose seaplane and would land it at the beach at the foot of the hotel. He would stage large parties at the hotel and try to get guests to invest in one venture after another and all the while shamelessly dropping Errol's name. Eventually he was broke and his properties were mortgaged to the hilt. It was at this point that one night in 1969, a mysterious fire seemed to spring up from at least two different places in the hotel. The local firetrucks were out of service as a direct result of JA declaring Independence in 1962 and the UK no longer paying for their upkeep. So the trucks stayed in the station and the hotel was pretty much burned to the ground. Mr. Rand immediately packed up and walked away, never to come to the area again. Insurance eventually payed Mr. Rand but only after a protracted court fight.

     Little stands today that would hint of the Titchfields grandeur. Only an open field with the remains of the large foundation and the deck of the bar, the empty swimming pool that Errol and friends frolicked in, and memories, like the breezes that seem to whisper something just out of ear shot. The palms that ringed the hotel are still there for the most part, as is the now enormous banyan tree that graced the entrance, now growing over the long unused concrete pathway. It is a sight worth seeing, and as for me, provokes happiness and sadness at the same time.

                                                                                 John 

    

        

Hello Fellow Errol Fans,

Although most of you are familiar with Navy Island and the 'Errol Connection', There are some facts that are not widely known. (At least I was not aware of them until recently) Navy Island has a rich and varied history that goes back to the 1600's. Originally, at that time it was named 'Lynches Island' after being given to Sir Thomas Lynch (the then overseer of that portion of Jamaica) for "Services to the British Crown". In the 1700's, the Royal Navy constructed a small cannon battery to provide crossfire to Fort George, (which is just across the inlet some 200 yrds. or so) The remains of this battery still exist(Photo 1) on the barren N.E. portion of the island. Also constructed were several rough buildings for Naval Stores and a small barracks, and the island took on the name; "Navy Island".

It is worth noting that Captain Bligh himself spent 6 months docked at navy island on his ship, 'Pandora' after returning from Tahiti. This time was spent careening his ship in the shallows, making urgent repairs, offloading some of his Breadfruit specimens to replant in the rich soil, and even exploring for new species of plants. He even collected samples of Ackee fruit and introduced it to the Royal Society of Britain, who gave it it's current name: "Blighia Sapida" in honor of Bligh.

How ironic it is that an island that was once commanded by Capt. Bligh of "Mutiny on the Bounty" fame should end up being owned by one Errol Leslie Flynn, a descendant (by way of his mother) of Midshipman Edward Young who served aboard the HMS Bounty with Fletcher Christian and Capt. Bligh! No doubt it is a small world indeed.

In the early 1800's, the Royal Navy abandoned the island and it passed through several hands, both Govt. and private until Errol sailed into the harbor on that fateful day and fell in love with both the island and the N. coast of Jamaica. Although rumor has it that Errol won the island in either a poker game or a roll of the dice,(Both being very "Errolish") The truth of the matter is that he contacted a local attorney by the name of Vincent Grossett and arranged the sale of the 64 acre property for the sum of approx. $80,000 in the winter of 1946. He then purchased the Titchfield Hotel across from Navy Island, and at his wife Patrice's good advice, a very large chunk of prime property in the Boston Bay area from the Lorenzo Baker Dow family. This was the same family that had brought tourism to this part of Jamaica and had built the Titchfield Hotel some 50 yrs. earlier.(another ironic twist)

The island was virtually barren due to various hurricanes which swept over the island unabated, so Errol went about planting Royal and Coconut palm trees(over a hundred) and also planting various vines, flowers and lemon, lime and avocado trees. These still exist, and I helped myself to a half-dozen avocado when I visited there last. The palms still stand and have provided the island with much needed windbreaks so the local fauna has not only survived, but thrived.

Errol also laided out pathways that criss-cross the island. To add to the "paradise" atmosphere, he brought in peacocks and other exotic birds and animals. Later he even brought in chickens, goats, cattle, and even horses to the menagerie. There has also been heated speculation as to whether or not Errol ever built a house there. When I visited there last(oct-nov 2009) I vowed to explore the island by foot and solve this mystery once and for all. Aided by a detailed map and a large photo taken by satellite(Google Earth) I set out. Dear readers, I almost got in over my head! I found the remains of a large house at the S. end of the island, straight up the hill from the now deserted 'Admiralty Club' on the highest part of the island. It looked to have been a fairly large, substantial home with a proper foundation of concrete and a detached kitchen. This was not a 'rude slat house for a caretaker'. There was even a large cistern for storing water nearby. Hmm. So I pressed on. I did not have a machete, (Mistake) so I plowed on as best I could.

Anyone who has not had to make his way through sub-tropical jungle in 90+ degree heat has no idea just how hard it can be. The vines and branches(half of them stinging or poisonous) seem to reach out for you and a person can lose sense of direction very quickly. Add smothering, steaming heat, and you have a bad recipe. By dumb luck, I had brought a large bottle of drinking water and a compass, and believe me, I used them both. I finally made it out to the clear where I continued to the N. end. The foliage got shorter and more stunted until I suddenly broke out to the jagged, windswept cliffs. There I saw the remains of the Battery, but the cannon were long gone. Only a large metal tangent used for aiming remained.(Photo) I circled back around W. till the cliff ran out and jungle began. Having no choice, I dove in again. I saw a huge clearing that looked like a large manicured lawn, and what seemed like the way back. No such luck. The 'lawn' consisted of 3ft. deep vines that made the going impossible. What next?

I turned and made my way to the rocky beach, intending to wade my way out by following the W. coast. It was there I discovered a large concrete foundation.(Photo) I am still puzzled at it's origin. As I went on, I also discovered a fresh-water spring coming out of the side of the hill, and after gingerly testing it, refilled my now empty bottle. The going got easier and firmer and before long, I was in familiar territory on "Trembly Knee Beach". I must confess my own knee's were more than a little 'trembly' at that point. From then, it was a short walk to the pier where a cell phone call brought the boat for the ride back to the mainland, in a tropical, pouring deluge of a rainstorm. Checking my watch, I was surprised that over 5 hrs. had passed! Other than being filthy, exhausted, and humbled by Mother Nature, I was O.K. (Although when I reached my apt., I stripped off my clothes and flopped on the bed in a dead sleep for about 12 hrs. and was sore all over for about two days afterward)

Two months later, I still have the scars on my shins, a new found respect, and a story to tell from this old Errol fan.  John 

P.S. There is a lesson to be learned from all this. I got lucky that day. If I had fell and broke an ankle, or hit my head or forgot water, or a hundred other things, I probably would not be writing this. I got to be 'Indiana Jones' for a day and the good Lord, who protects children and fools (in my case, old fools) cast his eye on me that day. My wife almost crapped (can I say that?) when she found out. For the record, never travel alone, and be prepared. Having said that, I can truthfully say I was never more alive than that 5+ hrs. I spent on my own. Sometimes you just have to go for it and 'Devil take the backside', eh? Errol would agree, I think. Nevertheless, I will cherish that memory for the rest of my days.  John

  

  Some people might be surprised that these three men, with their wildly different backgrounds were ever even acquainted, much less close friends, but friends they were and were part of the "British Mafia" as they were often jokingly referred to in Jamaica at that time. They made a habit of visiting each other for drinks and stimulating conversation.

  Usually, Errol and Patrice would make the drive from their base in Port Antonio to The sleepy town of Port Maria to Noels "Firefly" bungalow or Ian's "Goldeneye" beach house in Oracabessa. Other times, Errol and Pat would host the get together on the ZACA, which was moored at his Navy Island pier. Noel was better suited for visitors and owned the Blue Harbour hotel just down the hill from Firefly to accommodate his many famous guests.

  By all accounts, the get togethers were memorable, with Noel and Ian having diametrically different viewpoints on almost everything. i.e. Noel being unabashedly liberal and animated, and Ian just as apologetically conservative, stoic, and possessing a razor-sharp biting wit. Add Errol, who's views were someplace in the middle acting as defacto referee.(with Pat and Ian's longtime lover Annie Rothermere, whom Ian referred to as "Pussy Galore" in the cheering section) and you had the recipe for dynamite.

  Errol being Errol, would play one off on the other and it was "off to the races". The squabbling would begin and just when it was whipped up to a fever pitch, Errol would burst into raucous laughter, fall out of his chair and roll on the floor while Noel and Ian would look on dumbfounded, and the situation was defused.

  Although the three truly loved and respected one another, it almost didn't happen. Noel wrote,"I was very hesitant about meeting Errol as I had heard many things about him, and not all of them were good, but I found him to be most gracious and pleasant, one of the most charming individuals I've ever met, So it worked out fine"

  Sometimes Noel and his long-time partner Graham Payne would make the trip to see Errol and Pat. An entry in Noel's diary dated Tuesday 27 March, 1951: "Left for Port Antonio 7:30 A- arrived 9:30 A. Rafted down the Rio Grande. Lovely weather. In the evening dined with Errol Flynn and his wife Pat. Drinks on his yacht, which is beautiful, then barbecue dinner on his island - palm trees - lit by torches. Both of them extremely nice; a really lovely evening."

  Today, much has changed but a few things have luckily been preserved. Firefly is a virtual time capsule, looking for all the world as if Noel has just stepped out for a moment. Twin baby grand piano's in the living room, Noel's typewriter with paper still inside and unfinished correspondence, towels with Noel's monogram "NC" hanging in the bath, and even shirts still hanging in the closet, waiting for an owner who will never return. Ian's Goldeneye is much the same, with letters and memento's under glass in the living room, typewriter ever handy and my favorite: Ian's outdoor bathtub gracing the back yard.

   Navy Island and Port Antonio haven't fared as well, with the island overgrown and deserted. (Although the 100+ Royal palms that Errol had planted are doing fine) and the grand old Titchfield Hotel, long gone by a devastating fire in 1969. To visit those places is to visit history and memories that I, when going there today, could easily imagine and feel, even 50+ yrs. later.

I recently made a trip down south and incorporated a visit to Forest Lawn and a visit to Errol (my first).  I traveled Mulholland Drive and made it to Torreyson Place and Flynn Ranch Road.  What an adventure!

Errol owned the famous Titchfield Hotel in Jamaica and lived in a small house on Navy Island (which he also owned) opposite the hotel. He had a rowboat with which to row over to the hotel to have breakfast, visit the bar or sit around the pool...

from THE PROVINCE - Friday, October 9, 1959By JOHN ARNETT, Province Staff Reporter

"My future is dedicated to two things—women and litigation," movie star Errol Flynn said at Vancouver airport Thursday evening.

"Women—well that speaks for itself, but I have been sued so often that I think I should start suing somebody else, and perhaps I should make a start with some of those scandal magazines."

                                                        

WITH STARLET
Flynn, a paunchy, greying edition of the debonair hero of Hollywood movies, was accompanied by 17-year-old Hollywood starlet Beverley Addland.

He is in Vancouver to complete the sale of his schooner "Zaca" to George Caldough, 1026 Eyremont, West Vancouver.

The actor put on spontaneous show for newsmen and some pop-eyed employees at the airport terminal. He clowned with a bowler hat for photographers and graciously kissed the hand of a woman reporter.

FEEL FAINT
Asked if he ever watched for old movies of his now enjoying a strong rebirth on late shows on television, Flynn replied:

"It just makes me feel faint to see how energetic I used to be in those days. No, I don't often look at them."

Chimed in his travelling companion: "Oh yes you do, and I've often heard you say 'my, I used to be good looking.'"

BUSINESS DEAL
George Caldough, with whom Flynn will be staying until early next week, will pay more than $100,000 for Flynn's 116-foot schooner.

"It's strictly a business deal," explained Mr. Caldough, who has sailed nothing larger than a dinghy. "I think it is a good investment."

The schooner, reported to be the second largest privately-owned sailing boat afloat—there's one owned by a member of the Spalding sporting goods family which is 22 feet longer, is currently moored at Majorca, a Spanish island in the Mediterranean.

 

 

Errol went home often—got away from it all

from THE PROVINCE Newspaper - Friday, October 16, 1959

LONDON (Reuters) - Zoologist Theodore Flynn, 74, father of movie star Errol Flynn, said in an interview Thursday his son's biography "My Wicked, Wicked, Wicked Ways," will be published despite Errol's death.

                                        

The 28,000-word manuscript purports to tell the true story of Flynn's love life.

Prof. Flynn said: "Publication will go on. The truth will be told. There is no reason now to hold anything back."

Flynn's father said, "the world seems to have got a fantastic picture of my son. But the real truth is in this house—where he was coming inside a fortnight.

"He came here more often than people ever knew to get away from that life outside.

He would telephone, talk to his mother, and say he was coming. And he would be quiet with us—chatting to his mother and resting from the rush of his public life.

"We would try to give him the orderly regular life of a small household. He loved it so that he hardly ever went out.

"Now it's over—and I can not even go to the funeral. It's so far and I am only a professor, I cannot afford it."

 

Errol, telling about his Cuban exploits, looked "pretty silly" on Jack Paar's television show. July 1959 HUSH-HUSH Magazine-- He carries his famous sword cane, and looks tired...

from LIFE Magazine - October 26, 1959

There was just one word for Errol Flynn—outrageous. In his real life as on film he was constantly sprinting out from behind the arras pursued by an angry husband or a flummoxed female. He was married three times, fathered four children and won a law suit charging him with fathering another. He loved the company of young girls and he was accused three times, but never convicted, of statutory rape. In 25 years of movie-making he earned and grandly spent more than $7 million. He drank two quarts of vodka daily, three when he got up early enough, and he was a scamp, bounder and barroom brawler in the great and mannered tradition of Cellini, Casanova and Don Juan. The truth was not in him when a lie made a better story. Large numbers of people loved him dearly.

Last week, at 50, Errol Flynn lounged about a Vancouver doctor's apartment while the classic pains of a coronary spread through his body and down his arms and legs (he knew them, for he had suffered them twice before) and talked of other things, of long-gone friends, of John Barrymore, W. C. Fields. He said, "Hell, dying is not so much," and asked for a room to lie down in. Soon he died.

THE WILD OLD DAYS in Hollywood were the subject of Flynn's favorite stories about prodigious drunks and questionable escapades. Here he tells how John Barrymore's body was spirited from the funeral parlor a few hours after his death by some of Flynn's drunken friends, including a famous movie director. Flynn pantomimed the body (far left), the drunken friends and their difficulties as they carried it to Flynn's house and put it in a chair. Flynn arrived, saw the body and fled screaming (far right). Flynn wound up the story by adding that he did not think it was the correct way to say goodby to John.

 

from THE VANCOUVER SUN Newspaper - October 1959

Surrounded by melodrama in death as in life, the body of actor Errol Flynn left Vancouver by train Friday night bound for burial in Los Angeles.

The coffin was accompanied by stuntman friend Buster Wiles, of Hollywood, who said on leaving he had received a telephoned threat that Flynn's body might be "hijacked."

They were seen off at the Great Northern station by an unidentified, tearful blonde girl in black, who said she knew the actor in Paris, a few newsmen and railroad officials.

Wiles was undecided whether the threat was serious, but said he was taking "reasonable precautions."

He said he also planned to "have a few drinks" beside Flynn's body in the baggage car.

"Errol would have liked that," he said.

As Flynn's body left, his former traveling companion Beverley Aadland arrived in Los Angeles to continue her fight for a burial in Jamaica.

Flynn's widow Patrice Wymore has rejected Jamaica and insisted on Los Angeles.

Miss Aadland collapsed in tears after tripping over a small retaining wall as she left the airliner and had to be carried from the plane by a newsman.

Miss Aadland almost ignored her mother who was in the welcoming party and refused to go home with her.

Instead she went into hiding accompanied by a lawyer and a press agent.

Flynn died here Wednesday following a heart attack. He arrived last week with Miss Aadland to sell his yacht, Zaca, to West Vancouver promoter George Caldough.

On the flight from Vancouver to Los Angeles Miss Aadland revealed her age as 22 and not 17 as both she and Flynn had claimed recently.

She was refused a drink by a waiter in the cocktail bar of Seattle airport because he recognized her from newspaper pictures and said he could not serve minors.

Miss Aadland then produced a passport showing a birthdate in September, 1937.

It was rumored in Vancouver earlier that she and Flynn were giving her age as 17 because he wanted to star her in "Lolita"—a part which requires a child.

Newspaper company logos and mastheads are under copyright. Article text published without a copyright symbol is within the Public Domain.

from THE PROVINCE Newspaper - Friday, October 16, 1959By LOUELLA PARSONS, Special to The Province

A world of living was crowded into the 50 years allotted to handsome, tumultuous, devel-may-care, exciting and adventurous Errol Flynn.

The last time I spoke with Errol was when his lawyers and the lawyers of his present wife, Patrice Wymore, were battling for a settlement.

He told me then, "I want a divorce, but she wants a separation and I always yield to the ladies."

That remark was characteristic of Errol's thinking.

My acquaintance with Errol dates back to the days when he made "Captain Blood" and was the handsomest and most charming actor I think I have ever seen.

He used to come out to Marson's farm, our ranch in the San Fernando valley.

He was as delighted as any happy new father when he telephoned to tell me that Lili Damita, the beautiful French actress who was his first wife, had presented him with a son, Errol Sean Flynn, who is the image of his father and is now seventeen.

WHAT CHARM
What charm Errol had in those days, a charm he never really lost even though he had abused his youth and his health—still, women couldn't resist him.

I know I used to get annoyed with him when he got into the fighting scrapes and court battles, but let me meet him and I was like all the rest, I couldn't help liking him and making excuses for him.

Errol's friendships among men were strong and lasting, no matter what sort of trouble he got into they stood solidly back of him and were as staunch in their devotion as were all the women in his life.

ALL LOVED HIM
Although the legal battles with his ex-wives about alimony were numerous, all of them admitted loving the handsome, attractive, dashing, swashbuckling Flynn.

Errol was actually a replica of all the characters he played on the screen—Don Juan, Robin Hood and other legendary heroes.

With all of this he did not take his career lightly.

DELIGHTFUL HOST
There was a phase in Errol's life when he was married to Nora Eddington, when he fancied himself a country gentleman.

He built a beautiful home on top of Mulholland drive surrounded by acres of land.

I remember going there to a party and what a thoughtful, delightful host he was.

It was all done in good taste and there were no fights nor unseemly conduct.

He showed his real breeding and what he might have been that night.

Errol was well-born.

TAUGHT AT QUEEN'S
I had met his father, Prof. Thompson Flynn, who taught at Queen's University in Belfast, and he was a scholarly gentleman who worried over his errant son's escapades.

After 30 odd years in Hollywood, I think I can safely say that there will never be another Errol Flynn, who secretly loved the reputation of "My Wicked, Wicked Life" the title of his book which is coming out and which he sought to shock his readers.

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Errol explains to reporters he was "not seriously injured" during campaign with rebel forces of Fidel Castro. Originally Flynn said he'd been nicked in the leg by a bullet. Scarf over shoulder is a gift of friendship from Premier Castro. July 1959 HUSH-HUSH Magazine

Flynn's Companion Rescued From Harm by Sun Writer

from THE VANCOUVER SUN - Friday, October 16, 1959By PAUL KING, Sun Staff Writer

Hours after she had thrown herself on the body of her friend, Errol Flynn, in an attempt to breathe life back into his lips, Beverley Aadland refused to believe he was dead.

"He's alive," she insisted. "They've taken him to the hospital, but he's all right. He'll be home again in the morning."

I found Flynn's 17-year-old blonde travelling companion wandering down a road in British Properties, dressed in undergarments and housecoat. It was 10:15—three hours after the actor's death. She was almost invisible in the fog.

GHOST-LIKE FIGURE
As I pulled up at the George Caldough residence where Flynn and "Woodsey" Aadland had been guests, I noticed the ghost-like figure.

I parked and walked back to where I had seen her.

She had wandered farther down the road.

As I looked, another car came up the road. I saw her framed in the headlights. She was walking into its path.

"Woodsey," I hollered. She didn't turn.

SAVED FROM AUTO
I ran to where she was and jerked her to the roadside.

The car rolled past. The driver hadn't seen her.

She looked up at me; her eyes were glazed but untroubled.

She was smiling. "What did you do that for?" she asked.

I realized she was hysterical. "What are you doing out here, like this?"

"I just wanted some air—it was so stuffy in the house."

Then I told her I was sorry about Errol. He had been kind to me when I talked to him two nights before.

Her reply was casual.

JUST IN HOSPITAL
"I don't know why everybody is being so sorry. He's just gone to the hospital."

I was walking her back toward the house. She was shivering. Then she started to laugh.

"Oh lookit the little puppy."

A small dog had trotted out of the darkness and was whining at our feet.

"What's the matter little fellow," she said, bending to pat it. "You're lonely aren't you baby?"

Gone was the harshness in her voice, the cocksure attitude of a vibrant young woman. She sounded like a lost, lonely child.

She refused to believe that Errol was dead. Her body was filled with the sedatives she had received at the hospital.

She had blotted the tragedy of the previous three hours from her mind.

We were nearing the house. The little dog padded alongside.

I said, "Just get some sleep now."

BACK IN MORNING
The smile broke out again. "That's right. I just need some sleep. Errol's coming back in the morning you know."

I nodded, but I couldn't speak.

We came into the light from the door.

And then she started to hum. A tiny sound in the night.

Ten minutes later she was asleep.

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ERROL FLYNN'S Confession
"I Can't Fence Worth a Damn."

from PIX ANNUAL Magazine - Winter 1958
By ROY BRITT

A MAN who enjoys a good laugh as much as a bad girl, Errol Flynn had the staid British in stitches recently with two letters to the editor of a weekly newspaper. A Scotch fencing instructor, arrested on fraud charges, tried to build up his standing as a solid citizen by claiming he had taught Flynn all he knew about sword play.

The Errol of Hollywood read about this testimony and dispatched this note to News of the World:

"I read with interest your article concerning a certain Donald Stewart who is now in the hoosegow and who reputedly taught me how to fence. Well! I have never met Mr. Stewart, which is a pity. If he had been in my company long enough to teach me how to fence, don't you think I would have been able to teach him how to stay out of jail?"

The paper then asked Flynn how he did learn the noble art of the foil, and the star thrust back this rapier retort:

"I really can't fence worth a damn. I just know how to make it look good." •

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CAN A TEENAGE GIRL LEARN TOO MUCH ABOUT LOVE TOO SOON?

from MODERN SCREEN Magazine - February 1960

•The girlfriend really wanted to say, “Look, Errol Flynn is dead. The funeral was two weeks ago. He’s gone, Beverly. Sad, tragic, heartbreaking as it is, the man you loved and lived with for two years is gone. And it’s time you realize that now, and try to pull yourself together.”

But aloud she said, instead, “You’ve barely touched your salad, honey. Here I take you to lunch at—ahem, excuse me for bragging—one of the most expensive restaurants in Hollywood. And what do you do? You sit and look at your food like it was a decoration, a display… Now come on. Perk up and eat a little. This isn’t on any expense account, you know. This is on me, your old hard-working chum!”

Seventeen-year-old Beverly Aadland looked up from her plate. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m just not too hungry.”

“I’ll make you pay for your share of this if you don’t eat,” her girlfriend said, laughing.

“I’ll pay, if you want,” Beverly said. She looked away. There were tears in her eyes.

Her girlfriend stopped laughing and sighed and reached across the table for Beverly’s hand. “I was teasing you-” she started to say. “Hey, what’s happened anyway to the gal who used to be able to take a joke and who could—”

“I think I’m pregnant,” Beverly said, softly, still looking away.

Her girlfriend squeezed her hand now.

“Yes,” Beverly said. “I’ll know for sure in just a little while. I have an appointment with the doctor. At two o’clock.”

She pulled her hand back from her friend’s and brought it up to her face to wipe away the tears that were there.

“There,” she said, “I’ve told you. What I’ve told nobody else... Are you surprised?”

Her friend nodded.

“I am,” she said. “Yes.”

Beverly smiled a little.

“It’s funny,” she said. “I’d thought it would be so different... I mean, here it is, the middle of the day, a bright and sunny day, in a restaurant, over lunch, a cold chicken salad, me in my black dress, my eyes still burning from all the crying, looking like I-don’t-know-what because I haven’t looked in a mirror for two weeks now—looking like I-don’t-know-what and caring even less... and—”

She shook her head. The smile was gone from her lips already. The muscles in her slender white neck seemed to be pushing hard against her skin.

“And what, Bev?” her friend asked.

“And I’d just thought,” Beverly went on, straining to get the words out, “that it would be so different... that’s all.”

She picked up a glass of water and took a sip.

She held up the glass for a long minute, looking into it, at the insipid and colorless water—silently, neither she nor her friend saying anything.

“I want this baby...”
And then, talking again, almost as if to herself, she said, “For two years I’d thought exactly how it would be, if and when this moment ever came, when it came time for me to tell... It would be night, I’d thought. I would be wearing something new, and special. I would be beautiful. And I’d joke with him for a while. And then I’d run into the kitchen, to the refrigerator, and grab hold of a bottle of champagne I’d had icing all that day, hidden behind a milk container or something. And I’d run back to where he was sitting and, holding the champagne up high, I’d say, ‘It’s time for a little celebration, my darling.’ He’d ask why, of course—‘And what is it we have to celebrate now, Woodnymph?’ he’d ask. And I’d make him try to guess. Till he did guess. And then we’d both begin to laugh. And he’d get up and kiss me and hug me and squeeze me, hard, so hard that I’d have to remind him to be more gentle, that I was very fragile now, that I was different now and had to be treated very tenderly. And he’d stop. ‘Yes, that’s right,’ he’d say, ‘you’re not a little girl any more, Woodsie, are you? You’re the woman I’ll be marrying someday soon, as soon as I get my divorce. You’re the woman who will be my wife, and the mother of my child. Aren’t you?’ And as I would say yes, happily, he’d take me in his arms again, only much more gently this time, much more tenderly. And we would kiss. That minute. The next minute. All night. Kiss and hold each other and make love, forgetting all about the champagne, all about everything. Everything but us...

“I had it all figured out, dreamed out, if and when,” she said, putting down the water glass. “It would have been so wonderful. Except that he died, before I even knew about the baby myself, or had a chance to tell him.”

She smiled again, a small and bitter smile this time.

“It’s all what I guess some people would call ironic, isn’t it?” she asked.

“Beverly,” her girlfriend asked, “are you sure? About the baby?”

“Pretty sure,” Beverly said. “I wake up sick. I hurt up here... I’m pretty sure.”

“And do you feel all right about it?” her friend asked.

“Do you mean how do I feel about it in my heart, a young, husbandless, loverless, broken-up girl like me?” Beverly asked back. “Do you want to know if I’m happy or sad about this? Ashamed or proud? Is that what you mean? Honestly. Is that what you mean?”

Her girlfriend’s face reddened and she tried to say something to explain.

“This baby—” Beverly said, after a moment, “—this is all I’ve got left of the only man who has ever meant anything to me, or ever will... I want this baby... More than anything else on earth.”

A waiter came over to the table now, as she said this, and he asked the two girls if they would care for something else.

“A brandy, Beverly?” her girlfriend asked.

“No, thank you,” she said.

“Coffee?”

“No,” Beverly said. She looked down at her watch. “As a matter of fact,” she said then, “it’s about time for me to be going. Two o’clock, the doctor said. It’s nearly that now... Do you mind if I go? Now?”

“No, not at all,” said her friend.

Beverly rose from her chair and began to reach into her purse.

“Forget about splitting anything,” her friend said. “I told you I was only kidding. Lunch was on me.”

“Thank you,” Beverly said.

Then she bent and kissed her friend, quickly.

“Excuse me if I was-” she started to say.

“Never mind,” her friend said. “I know how you must feel right now.”

Beverly turned, and began to walk away.

And her girlfriend, watching her, thought: “God, protect this poor lost kid....”

All that’s left of the man she loved
The doctor was a busy man. He minced no words. “Miss Aadland,” he said, after he’d completed his examination, “there is no way of telling immediately whether you’re pregnant or not. We just don’t know yet. It takes a laboratory report and that won’t be back here in this office till tomorrow. Tomorrow morning at nine. Now why don’t you go home and try to relax and give me a ring then? Tomorrow—nine o’clock. That’s all I can say to you now. Good-bye, Miss Aadland....”

Beverly stood at the door of Errol Flynn’s house. She hadn’t been here since that night, three weeks earlier, when they’d left for Vancouver, together. She’d thought, when he died, that she would never come back to this house. Not alone. Not without him.

But she did not feel alone now.

Inside her, she knew, somewhere deep inside her, lay the little germ of the baby that was hers and Errol’s.

It didn’t matter to her that the doctor she’d seen a few hours earlier had been evasive about the whole matter. Baby doctors, for all the humanity they tended, were men of science, she figured. They never said yes or no to anything, she knew, till they’d checked with their test tubes, their blood specimens, their rabbits and mice, their laboratory reports; till they’d scratched their graying heads and studied these reports and come to their ‘conclusions.’

Well, she thought now, let the men of science do their scratching, their checking.

But she—she was a woman.

And women knew these things, instinctively.

As she knew now.

That inside her, somewhere, lay that child of hers and Errol’s.

As she knew, too, that, though her lover and husband-to-be was dead and gone, she was no longer alone....

She opened the door and entered the house.

She flicked a switch that turned on all the lights downstairs.

She walked through the foyer, past the living room to the right, past the raised dining room to the left, to the sunroom in the rear of the house—the room that had been their room, complete with shining checkered linoleum and well-stocked bar and big fat TV and view of the pool, and with the old soft couch, where they used to sit—so close, so much of the time—still there, just like always.

She walked over to the couch now, and she sat.

After a moment—the room was quiet, too quiet—she reached for the little TV switcher that sat on the end table to the right, blew off some of the dust that had gathered on it, and pressed a button.

The television, across from her, lit up.

A man said something to her about a 1960 car. “Big, beautiful and roomy; a totally new idea in automobile styling,” he said. “Made for you!”

Beverly pressed another button.

A girl in a ruffled dress sat at a piano, playing something Schubert-like, candlelight playing on her face. She looked over at a man, who stood listening to her, watching her. He began to approach her—

Beverly pressed another button.

This time she got a Western, two men in big hats arguing, slurringly.

She pressed another button.

Another western.

Another button.

A cartoon lady, advertising bread.

Another button.

Another.

Another.

Till she rose from the couch, suddenly, the room quiet once more, the television off, and walked over to the bar, in the far corner of the room.

“My life won’t be over...”
Among all the bottles there, a small split of champagne had caught her eye.

She reached for it and took it from its shelf.

She struggled for a moment with the wiring and silver foil around its neck, and finally she opened it.

“My darling,” she said, aloud, as she reached for a glass and poured in some of the champagne, “—it’s time for a little celebration.”

She lifted the glass to her lips, and took a sip.

She shuddered.

“It’s warm, much too warm,” she said. “I know how you like it iced... but, you see, I’ve been so busy today, at the doctor’s... because, you see, we’re going to have a baby—Yes, yes, my darling—A baby. And it’s certain. Oh yes, of course it’s certain....”

Her hand began to tremble.

She let the glass she was holding fall.

It crashed to the floor, the wine splashing against her ankles.

She walked back to the couch.

She sat once more.

She closed her eyes.

“Darling,” she whispered, her voice breaking as she made her confession to the silent room, “—it’s almost certain.” She brought up her hand and ran it through her long blonde hair. “Only a phone call,” she said. “I have only to phone the doctor, tomorrow, and he has only to say ‘Yes, it’s true... And then everything will be all right with me again. And I’ll know that my life isn’t over.”

She fell back on the couch.

“Our child,” she said. “I’ll have at least that... It will grow inside me, and then it will come. It will get big. I will take such care of it, such loving care. And one day I will tell our child about its father—about how good and glorious a man he was. And when I am done telling our child, he will smile, proudly—and he will ask me to tell him even more about you, his father. And I will. And so you will always still be with us—with me, with our child.”

She nodded.

She brought her hand up to her stomach.

“Little baby,” she whispered, “I want you so much.”

And then, desperately, she tried to fall asleep, so that the morning would come that much more quickly....

Too hard from here on in
It was exactly 9:00 a.m.

Beverly picked up the receiver and dialed the doctor’s office.

“Hello?” she heard the busy-sounding voice ask.

“This is Miss Aadland,” she said. “Beverly Aadland... I wondered—“she started to say nervously.

“The report, yes,” the doctor said. “It should be here—among my papers.”

She heard the rustle of the papers; the short silence that followed; then the doctor’s impatient voice, calling out, “Nurse!”

Another silence followed.

Till, finally, the doctor spoke up again.

“Miss Aadland?”

“Yes,” Beverly said.

“Now, the report,” the doctor said, “yes. It’s negative.”

Beverly repeated the word after him.

“That’s right,” said the doctor. “You’re not pregnant.”

“That can’t be,” Beverly said. “There must be a mistake.”

The doctor told her that the report was conclusive. “The nausea, the other symptoms that you told me about,” he said, “are probably the result of the tension you’ve been undergoing these past few weeks.”

“But that can’t be,” Beverly said again, her hand clutching hard at the receiver. “There must be a mistake!”

“Miss Aadland,” the doctor said—there was a different tone to his voice now; softer, friendlier—“let me tell you something, please... I think I know most of the facts of this case, more than the medical facts.

And I think I should tell you this. There is nothing more beautiful in life, for a woman, than to have a child by the man she loves. This I know. I have delivered many babies in my time, seen the expression on the faces of many new mothers right after the deliveries... But I have seen, too, the faces of mothers whose children arrived fatherless, girls who thought that this was what they had wanted—thought. And these girls—girls like you—they did not smile when the important moment came. For it was as if they had realized suddenly that it would be too hard from here on in—not for them—but for the little son or daughter they had just given birth to. As if they realized that from here on in it would be a life of continual explanations, of terrible incompleteness, of foisting a mother’s memories on a child who knows only the present, and does not, never will, understand a distant and far-removed past....

“Do you understand, Miss Aadland, what I am trying to say, to tell you?”

Beverly did not answer.

“Miss Aadland? Do you understand?”

“No,” Beverly said, finally.

“I know, I know,” the doctor said. “It doesn’t make much sense to you now, does it? But someday it will. Believe me....”

He said good-bye.

And they hung up.

And Beverly, looking around the room she and Errol had shared, felt cold suddenly, and she rose, looked down at the wrinkled dress she had slept in, picked up her purse and walked, slowly, alone again, towards the door.

Beverly stars in CUBAN REBEL GIRLS, Exploit Films.

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ACTOR'S ARRIVAL in Vancouver a week ago was relaxed scene at international airport. Errol Flynn and protege Beverley Aadland (centre) were welcomed by West Vancouver hosts, Mr. and Mrs. George Caldough. Caldough and Flynn negotiated sale of star's yacht.—Deni Eagland photo

'BOY PROMOTER'

from THE PROVINCE Newspaper - Friday, October 16, 1959

George Caldough, 30, host to Errol Flynn during the last days of his life is a self-styled "boy promoter."

"Just call me an entrepreneur," said the dapper, likeable West Vancouver resident who has a penchant for continental suits and bowler hats.

A resident of West Vancouver for the past three years, he lives in a sprawling ranch home on Eyremount Drive in the British Properties. His parents are Mr. and Mrs. Wallace Caldough, 3751 Cypress.

"No, I'm definitely not a millionaire. In fact I'm far from it.

"I'm in the promotional business—in mining and oil. I have an interest in some companies in the Yukon."

His Vancouver interests include real estate. He is sales manager of Mt. Baker Investments and is associated with Derek M. Gunderson in Centennial Holdings Ltd., a firm that bought nearly 100 acres of Crown land near Whytecliff at $95 an acre.

His biggest interest just now is taking over Flynn's yacht and hiring it out for charter. He signed a contract with Flynn a few days before the actor died.

The yacht, now moored at Majorca, near Gibraltar, is to be offered for charter in the West Indies. Flynn sold the 116-foot craft reportedly because he needed the money.

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But he grabbed a million dollars worth of free publicity when he rode to glory by holding on to Fidel Castro's Beard.

from HUSH-HUSH Magazine - July 1959
By JEFF O'BRIAN

When swashbuckling Errol Flynn swaggered onto Click to EnlargeJack Paar's TV show recently he fizzled with all the effectiveness of a damp firecracker. He tried to present himself as a hero but a worse performance he has never given. As one columnist remarked, he "looked pretty silly."

Flynn, the "reckless rebel" who cashed in on Fidel Castro's Cuban conquest, strode before the TV cameras with a cane in his hand a flag of Cuba draped around his neck. He followed this piece of horseplay with a confused account of his dashing exploits with the Cuban rebels. But all he managed to convey to his awestruck (he hoped) audience was the impression that his daring deeds in Cuba were so much ballyhoo.

Even before his touted appearance on the Paar show, rumours were rife that eloquent Errol's version of his valor should be taken with a grain of salt. And the TV fiasco confirmed these rumours.

Flynn arily passed around "exclusive" Batista cigars-but even Errol ought to know that, for a year before the wrappers were removed,Click to Enlarge those cigars were selling on New York's Eighth Avenue at two-for-a-quarter.

Now, without the wrappers, they're the only 5¢ cigars.

Perhaps audacious Errol is himself beginning to believe the fantastic stories he tells about his dare-devil exploits in Cuba. But there is one particularly amusing contradiction in the saga of Flynn, as related by Errol.

FAIR WEATHER FRIEND

In the first instalment of his widely syndicated, first-person memoirs entitled "I Fought with Castro," Flynn refers to the "five day period" he spent with the rebel leader.

But HUSH-HUSH has another story by Lee Besler, staffwriter of the Los Angeles Mirror-News, headlined: Errol Flynn Views Cuban Rebel Battle"

This article begins: "Swashbuckling Errol Flynn told the Mirror News by telephone today from Havana that he has been with Fidel Castro and his rebel troops for two months."

This statement was made in December 1958—but the Flynn memoirs were published in January 1959.

How come Mr. Errol Flynn suddenly changed his story? Or was it just a slip of the memory that reduced his stay with Castro from a boastful two months to a timid five days?

Since he's been palsy with Castro, the errant Errol doesn't want to be reminded that once he was also very palsy with the deposed Cuban dictator Fulencio Batista.

The other day Broadway columnist Lee Mortimer asked this significant question:

"Isn't Errol Flynn's East 57th Street apartment (in New York) full of autographed photos of Batista, whom he overthrew single-handed? (It is.)"

Surely Errol, the Robin Hood of the movie screen, doesn't belong to that unsavory group of people who jump on a bandwagon for their own advantage?

Seemingly he does, for while he now hysterically eulogizes Castro, he has only mocking remarks for his former pal, Batista. For instance, in his memoirs Flynn mocks:

"I remember the strictly ridiculous instance of having seen the former dictator at his home very bare-skinned in an unruly bath towel. I got a shock. Because you expect to see a be-medaled dictator in all his uniforms, and there he was, with his towel a little too short, and it kept getting loose, and he didn't look like a dictator then at all—and he doesn't now."

Come, come, Errol, that wasn't a nice thing to say about the guy whose autographed photos, dedicated to you, are still hanging on your walls!

But nobody takes Errol's antics seriously—it just happens that the Cuban episode coincides with a time when his movie career has reached an all-time low. Conveniently, his brief encounter with revolution has brought the name of fightin' Flynn to the fore again.

The truth, however, is that even Fidel Castro is fed up with Flynn.

GIN FRIEND IN HOCK

Errol may deny it, but HUSH-HUSH can reveal that Castro was furious when a story spread that Flynn had been wounded. It was a phony rumour—spread by Errol himself! But since Castro had taken every precaution to see that the movie star didn't get hurt, that irresponsible story put a chill on Castro's friendship with Flynn. The only shot Errol had at the rebels' headquarters was out of a bottle.

Those who know the truth about Errol's Cuban capers suggest that if he ever does make that much-boosted movie it should be the untold story of his amorous antics in Havana. It should, of course, be a light comedy and one of the highlights should be the episodeClick to Enlarge which two American businessmen, Bob and John Keljakan, reported when they returned from Havana.

When Flynn left the Hotel Nacional on December 26 to join Castro he owed the hotel a $2,000 tab—which he couldn't pay! So the ever resourceful star left his curvy blonde girl friend, Beverly Wood, as security!

This was not much fun for Beverly, who was hard pressed for cash herself—and ham sandwiches in Havana during that troubled period cost $2 apiece.

Flynn, of course, has not boasted about that seamier side of his Cuban epic.

Not long ago, Flynn, in a jocular mood, said: "My attitude toward money is simple. I care nothing for it provided I have plenty of it."

That is the real Flynn philosophy—it also obviously applies to his attitude toward publicity. He cares nothing about it so long as he gets plenty of it.

But flippant Flynn should try in the future to tell his tall tales more consistently—be consistent—even if they're consistently phony.

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from PHOTOPLAY Magazine - January 1960By SARA HAMILTON

He lived and died—just as he pleased. Errol Flynn, the last of the swashbucklers, marks the end of an era epitomized by the late Jack Barrymore, Errol's friend, and by so many other colorful individuals. Errol was the Don Juan of romance, of high adventure, of complete charm.

He was one of the handsomest men ever to hit Hollywood. His brown hair, blue eyes, patrician profile, the handsomest legs ever seen on a male, his more than six-feet of height, his beautiful accent, soft voice, quiet manner, magnetic charm, made him a target for women. And for hecklers and tourists anxious to prove themselves heroes by picking on the great Flynn. He knew this. He once said to an actor, a quiet young man of breeding, "No, Bobby, I won't join you all at Mocambo tonight. You see, wherever I go, trouble follows and I don't want you to share this problem with me."

A few nights later, at this same nightclub, an out-of-town heckler—for no reason at all—heaved an egg at Flynn, who was quietly minding his own business, and once again the headlines blared.

His adventures, before he ever hit Hollywood as a young man, surpassed anything he ever did on the screen. Born in Hobart, Tasmania, the island south of Australia, he very early began trading with the natives of New Guinea, traveling up rivers on a boat. There was something very amusing about the way he acquired this boat, and something very comical about his deals, but the details, as he told them to me, escape me now. Anyway, they'll all be revealed in his forthcoming book, "My Wicked, Wicked Life."

His rare good looks brought advice to become an actor so, as a British subject, he took off for England and the stage. His first role was that of a free-talking, slangy American. He shuddered when he told me about this. Other roles followed and at last he tried Hollywood. His first part was that of a corpse lying flat on the floor for the movie "The Case of the Curious Bride." One of his early pictures, "Captain Blood," made him world famous as a hero who conquered all enemies single-handed.

I can't remember exactly how or where I met Errol. I didn't know him at the time of his first marriage to Lili Damita, who won a million or thereabouts in alimony. They met on shipboard when Lili was on her way to Hollywood for the first time and whamie!—she took one look and flipped for Flynn. It wasn't a happy marriage. They had one son, Sean, a handsome boy, now eighteen.

I came to know him well and love him as a friend shortly after he married Nora Eddington. He met Nora in the courthouse during that dreadful ordeal when a 17-year-old girl accused Errol of rape on a boat he owned at the time. Nora, the daughter of a Los Angles deputy sheriff, was working behind the counter of the courthouse cigar store. Errol was acquitted by the jury.

He was a good friend. Actors and actresses, Panamanian rebels, notables, riff-raff, writers, artists all loved him.

His charm, his ability to see the humor in everything, no matter how threatening to his own security, was delightful. Only once, did he let down the mask with me. We were driving home from Palm Springs through a mean section of Los Angeles, when Errol pointed out a dilapidated old hotel, and said, "Ever know what it is to live in a hole like that, old girl?" Something in the way he said it, revealed to me that Errol had gone through much he never talked about. No one ever guessed that hurt and humiliation cut him deeply. No one.

One thing the world doesn't seem to realize is that Errol was a gentleman and something of a scholar. When I first knew Errol, his gentle father, a zoology professor, was teaching at Queens University in Belfast, Ireland. Errol himself became interested in marine zoology, and launched many expeditions with professors at Scripps College in California. They respected and loved Errol. His father visited Errol in Hollywood, often for several months at a time.

Errol was a rogue and a schemer. He'd go to any lengths to frustrate law enforcers, tax men, process servers. Not that he objected to them, personally, but it gave him a terrific kick to outwit legal-beagles.

He used to stop by my apartment on Olympic Boulevard on his way home from M-G-M, when he was making a movie with Greer Garson (I think it was "That Forsyte Woman"), to regale me with the elaborate schemes he'd concocted to outwit some legal action of some sort. I once said, "Wouldn't it be simpler, Errol, just to face it and get it over with?" He looked at me as if I'd lost my mind. "Old girl, what would be the fun of that?"

I remember, I had an interview scheduled with actor Richard Basehart one evening around six at my home, when who should burst in unannounced, but Flynn. "Mind if I take a bath, Sara me darling?" he said, and was off to the bathroom before I could open my mouth. In the meantime, Basehart, who had played a small part in one of Errol's pictures, arrived and there was Errol, wrapped in a towel, flitting from telephone to tub, making long distance calls and finally settling down for a drink. Basehart told me afterwards, it was the most wonderful, delightful evening he had ever spent. That was Flynn for you!

He had fallen in love with Jamaica and had his new yacht, the Zaca, brought from California to Port Antonio in Jamaica, where it was docked next to a private island owned entirely by Flynn. It was called Navy Island, and on its highest hill, still stood the old guns that had withstood pirates years before.

Errol insisted I fly with him and Nora to Jamaica to be his guest on the yacht. They were making personal appearances in Denver, at the time, and I was to meet them there. I remember my plane was late, held up along the way, and it was about two in the morning when I arrived. Flynn's agent was at the airport to meet me and under my hotel door was a note of welcome.

Next day, Errol insisted I make a hospital tour with him and Nora in Denver and the next day we took off, stopping in Miami for dinner.

Those weeks on the Zaca were unbelievable. It was moored in port because of litigation of some kind (wouldn't you know?), which delighted me, for I'm a poor sailor. Errol was a wonderful sailor.

We visited the banana boats that put in from England, toured the island in Flynn's car (I can't remember how it got there), swam in the unbelievably blue lagoons near the island, and Flynn even made a movie while there on his island. I acted in it. We all did. He directed it. I later saw it as a travelog and it wasn't bad. Thank heavens my walk-on was cut out.

We dined by candlelight on deck and, for some reason—it delighted Errol—the calypso singers all referred to me as "Miss Sara T." A few years later, Errol brought me from Paris a suede notebook initialed in gold, "Miss Sara T."

He lived and died—just as he pleased... believing: "After the first death, there is no other…"

I met Noel Coward through Errol in the Myrtlebank Hotel in Kingston. Our table in the dining room was always the mecca for visiting celebrities and tourists. I remember some Australian lads, who had arrived in port on a small boat, were broke and discouraged. They got in touch with Errol, who set them up with a party right on the dock, had them over to the yacht in Port Antonio for the day and gave them money to get them going.

Errol bought a pineapple plantation near Port Antonio that had a house of sorts on it. He and Nora and I went over it together, suggesting alterations and repairs, and here, some months later, he installed his parents. They later went back to Ireland, where Professor Flynn resumed his teaching job.

Later, back home, Errol and Nora invited me to be their guest for a weekend in Palm Springs, and in all my life, I've never had as much fun nor laughed as much. From the time we arrived at the Racquet Club, Clark Gable and his girl of the moment joined us. We were the envy of everyone there. It was just one of those weekends when everything happened. We played practical jokes and had a ball. Clark hated to see us go on Sunday evening. I remember, Errol and Nora and I stopped at a Chinese restaurant in some little town on the way home, and we telephoned back to Clark with some more crazy nonsense. Clark and Errol called each other "old Dad." I never did know why.

I was having dinner at Clark's home one evening, some months later, when Clark told me he'd heard on the radio, Errol had an operation. I telephoned his home immediately. There he was—all alone. (I don't know where the family was.) So the next morning, early, I went up and stayed the day with him. I saw to it that he ate something.

Wherever he went, trouble followed. One of the funniest brawls he ever got into, was the time he kicked a New York cop in the shin and was promptly arrested. Humphrey Bogart, who was with him, tried to explain it wasn't all Errol's fault—but to no avail. He quarreled with his old pal Bruce Cabot in Rome, was constantly being sued by women for rape and assault. But he came up smiling. And what a smile.

In his dressing room, out at Warners, the wine flowed from 4 o'clock on and yet he never missed a scene. He was always on time and made no trouble on sets. Jack Warner loved him. Everyone did. You couldn't help it. He met Patrice Wymore, when she came out here to make movies, at Warners. Nora had divorced him and married Dick Haymes. Errol went back to Kansas (I've forgotten exactly where) to meet Pat's family and get married. They had one daughter, Arnella.

Errol slowly shed the Hollywood scene, after marriage to Pat, and went to Europe. But, when he came back to sign for "The Sun Also Rises" at Warners, he saw that across the way "Marjorie Morningstar" was being filmed.

In that picture, was a girl called Beverly Aadland, who had a small dancing role. She caught Errol's eye and 'tis said that, when Errol went to Mexico for "The Sun Also Rises" (he was absolutely marvelous in it), Pat heard that Beverly went along.

When Errol returned to Hollywood recently, for a Red Skelton TV show, Nora invited all his old friends to a party. Unfortunately, I was unable to attend, though I wanted to see Errol. Nora said he was disappointed. Anyway, it seems that at the party, Beverly made a remark Nora resented and the fur flew. Flynn went home, taking Beverly with him. She later returned alone. Nora said the fracas took place in the parking lot and the reporters picked it up and exaggerated the story.

Beverly gave each of Errol's and Nora's children, Deirdre, 14 and Rory, 13, a pair of their father's cuff-links as a memento, and returned to Nora an expensive pencil she had once given Errol, marked "To E.F. from N.F." Errol's women never forgot him. I believe Pat Wymore still loves him, too.

Deirdre always called her father The Baron. He was devoted to his children, and they loved him, too.

Recently, he was on TV with Bette Davis in an old movie, "Elizabeth and Essex," and he was so handsome, you could hardly think of him as ever growing old. Olivia de Havilland, Bette Davis, Ann Sheridan and all his other leading ladies, were his friends. So were Greer Garson, Pat O'Brien, Jack Oakie. And I am very proud to say that Errol was my friend, too.

I went to Errol's funeral with his daughters, Deirdre and Rory. As I stood there, with tears in my eyes, I remembered the words he'd written in a recent letter to me: "…I'll wager, Sara me darling, you knew better than anyone. I never gave a damn what was said of me, rightly or wrongly. When I was a somewhat notorious, resentful one 'round town, I figured I deserved all the brickbats that came my way; all the knocks, the lampoons, the festoons, the harpoons; but it was nobody's business—and what the hell could I do about it anyway? 'Better never deny, never protest, never counterattack.'"

And he ended the letter, "Do you think I might become a pillar of society?"

I knew the answer, even as I paid him my last respects. "No, Errol, you couldn't. Because if you had settled down, you wouldn't have been you." And you, Errol, were something special.

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He Picked It Out Himself—
'A Wonderful Place to Die'

from THE VANCOUVER SUN Newspaper - Friday, October 16, 1959
By PAUL KING, Sun Entertainment Writer

"Vancouver would be a wonderful place to die."

In the last newspaper interview before he died, Errol Flynn leaned across a smoky table in a Vancouver nightclub and uttered these prophetic words.

Two nights later he was dead.

The nightclub jaunt at The Cave Supper Club was the last "on the town fling" for the 50-year-old former pearl fisher who skyrocketed to the heights of Hollywood fame during the last quarter century by flashing a sword and a scintillating smile.

Flynn sat at the table with his good friends, Click to EnlargeGeorge and Dorothy Caldough, and his 17-year-old "protégé," Beverley Aadland. He wore a grey suit and a crumpled blue tie.

"I love this town," he said.

"The people, the mountains, the sea. I've travelled a lot, and I've lived,"—and he grinned, "and loved a lot—that's what I'm expected to say isn't it?—but I've seldom found a country as magnificent as this. It would be a wonderful place to die."

Flynn smiled at the people who crowded his table for autographs.

His Little Game Netted Him Pens
"It's my pleasure," he beamed at the women that shoved menus and folded napkins under his nose for him to sign. And he seemed to mean it.

Carefully adjusting the pens that the pack handed him he scrawled each autograph—"MY DARLING—FROM ERROL."

"Excuse me for not rising honey," he murmured to many. "My back isn't well."

It wasn't. For the last two days a slipped disc at the base of his spine had caused excruciating pain whenever he walked.

To compensate for "my lack of manners," he lifted the out-thrust female hands and kissed them. Many of them walked away without retrieving the pens they had given him. Errol slipped one in his pocket.

"It's my little game," he laughed.

He talked of many things—movies, his past, his future, and Beverley.

Beverley: "I call her Woodsey—she reminds me of a little wood nymph."

"And how do you know what a wood nymph looks like," I asked.

Some Are More Than Some Are
"Ah-h my boy," he murmured. "They all are—only some are more woodsey than others."

"Woodsey" nudged him playfully. "Now Errol, that isn't..."

"I know honey, I know," he nodded smilingly. Then his face grew serious as he stroked her shoulder length blonde hair.

"You're my ONLY Woodsey."

He looked at me. "She's been so sweet for me. She's been in my last three pictures, you know. She makes me feel so alive again. For the first time in ages I've really wanted to live."

Woodsey bent over and kissed his cheek.

"You will Errol," she said softly, "you will."

The band was crying in the background. Woodsey asked him to dance. He put his hands to his back and shook his head slowly. "Sorry baby... you know..."

As she waltzed off to the crowded dance floor with the Caldoughs', his face grew serious.

"I don't think I'll be taking Burma singlehanded anymore."

He enjoyed my appreciation of his not-so-subtle joke.

Real Sweet Guy Jammed Things
But it was his invasion of Cuba (almost singlehanded) that captured the conversation next.

"I was one of the first down there," he said quietly, reminiscing.

"I got to know Castro very well. I was writing about the revolution and helping out the other newsguys that came down."

He suddenly looked up and pointed East.

"One of them was a reporter from Toronto, Bruce West, of the Globe and Mail. A real sweet guy. I found him sitting alone in a little bar one night—dejected and upset. He told me he'd tried everything, but couldn't get through the rebel lines.

"I made an effort to help him. Bruce got some good stories from then on, but when they appeared, Castro got mad—at me. I don't know exactly what his reasons were, but after that he wouldn't speak to me again."

He waved his arms as if to dismiss the memory.

"It's probably just as well. Castro's become the top American heavy recently. Yesterday's hero—today's target."

Bravest, Loveliest Women He Met
Did he feel the same way about his film career? "No, it's been on an upswing again since The Sun Also Rises. Darryl (Zanuck) gave me a chance to play myself. I loved it. I think the public did, too."

As for his famous bullfighting scene with a cheque for a cape in the film, "That was my idea. Eddie Albert and I got horsing around and we did the bit just for fun. They shot the scene and as you know, it became sort of a classic."

Beverley returned to the table. Another warm kiss on Flynn's cheek.

"She's starring in my last film," he said, again stroking her hair.

And as I started to speak, he shook his head as if anticipating my question.

"No, I'm not in it—I produced and directed it. It's called Cuban Girl Rebels. I started thinking about it when I was in Cuba, and it's not about Fidel.

"It's my tribute to the girls who fought so bravely in the revolution. They were some of the bravest, loveliest women I've met. I hope I've done them justice."

Was this his first directing job?

"Not at all—but my other efforts behind the camera were never given screen credits."

Well, Don't Die, Take Some Air
And his future plans?

"I'm doing a CBS special on Nov. 5 with Irene Dunne, Pearl Bailey and Gypsy Rose Lee on Big Party." He smiled, "it's one party I don't want to miss."

As he spoke, his head suddenly flopped to his arms. "I'm sorry old boy—I don't feel well. Would you mind if we got some air?"

He put his hands over his ears to drown out the screams of the band, and rose slowly to his feet. He walked quickly from the room, oblivious to the curious eyes following his flight.

Softly he murmured, "I feel very strange all of a sudden."

"Well, don't die just yet," I replied. "Take some strong gulps of fresh air."

He did—then wheeled into a nearby parking lot where he crouched by a wall and was painfully sick at his stomach.

The Caldoughs were waiting in the car when he came back. Errol climbed into the front seat beside George.

He was smiling again—that broad, eye-twinkling smile that has flashed from every cinema screen in the world for 25 years—Captain Blood, Robin Hood, Master of Ballantrae—and held out his hand. "Goodbye old boy. We'll see you soon."

But he never did.

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