On 31 May 1961 Ian Fleming wrote to Michael Howard at Jonathan Cape, publisher of his James Bond novels: ‘I am now sending you the first two “volumes” of Chitty-Chitty-Bang-Bang. Heaven knows what your children’s book readers will think of them.’ He ended his letter: ‘I am gradually reactivating myself and I hope to be up in London for about two days each week. Though much will depend on a gigantic medical conference this afternoon.’
Six weeks earlier, Fleming had suffered a serious heart attack. He was 52. Despatched to convalesce at a seaside hotel on the south coast and forbidden a typewriter to prevent him from working, he passed the time writing out in longhand the story for his eight-year-old son, Caspar.
Michael Howard replied: ‘Chitty-Chitty-Bang-Bang’s adventures have me enthralled. She is truly an invention of genius, and I trust you can reel off at least ten more episodes with no trouble at all.’ The professional readers also gave it the thumbs up. ‘Absolutely gorgeous. This is really alive and splendid … BUT BUT BUT… and again but, it is terribly sloppily written.’ Michael Howard asked Fleming: ‘Do you want us to put the editorial sandpaper over it?’ He concluded: ‘All in all … the concert of opinion is that you have struck gold again.’
Fleming delivered book three later that year. (The book was first published in three volumes and later combined into one). The readers thought it less good than the first two, commenting in particular on the lack of a cliffhanger at the end. Fleming wrote back: ‘I will take note of your advice on the third adventure and get that off to you as soon as possible. But God knows when I am going to get round to a fourth!’ Perhaps he knew that he never would.
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