This Was A Man

52

His instructions couldn’t have been clearer, but then they’d been at it since 1621.

The Rt Hon. Lord Barrington of Bristol Docklands was to arrive at St Paul’s Cathedral at 10.50 on the morning of April 10th, 1993. At 10.53, he would be met at the north-west door by the Very Reverend Eric Evans, canon in residence. At 10.55, the canon would accompany the Lord Chancellor into the cathedral, and then they would proceed to the front of the nave where he should land — the canon’s word — at 10.57.

As eleven a.m. struck on the cathedral clock, the organist would strike up the opening bars of All people that on earth do dwell, and the congregation would rise and sing, the dean assured him. From that moment until the final blessing by the dean, the memorial service would be in the safe hands of the Rt Reverend Barry Donaldson, the Bishop of Bristol, and one of Harry’s oldest friends. Giles would only have one role left to play on the ecclesiastical stage.

He had spent weeks preparing for this single hour, because he felt it had to be worthy of his oldest friend and, equally important, that it would have been approved of by Emma. He had even carried out a practice run from Smith Square to St Paul’s at exactly the same time the previous week, to make sure he wouldn’t be late. The journey had taken 24 minutes, so he decided he would leave home at 10.15. Better to be a few minutes early, he told his driver, than a few minutes late. You can always slow down, but London traffic doesn’t always allow you to speed up.

Giles rose just after five on the morning of the memorial service, as he knew he wouldn’t be able to get back to sleep. He slipped on a dressing gown, went down to his study and read the eulogy one more time. Like Harry with his novels, he was now on the fourteenth draft, or was it the fifteenth? There were a few changes, the occasional word, one added sentence. He felt confident he could do no more, but he still needed to check the length.

He read it through once again without stopping, just under fifteen minutes. Winston Churchill had once told him, ‘An important speech should take an hour to write for every minute it took to deliver, while at the same time, dear boy, you must leave your audience convinced it was off the cuff.’ That was the difference between a mere speaker and an orator, Churchill had suggested.

Giles stood up, pushed back his chair and began to deliver the eulogy as if he were addressing an audience of a thousand, although he had no idea how large the congregation would be. The canon had told him that the cathedral could hold two thousand comfortably, but only managed that on rare occasions, such as the funeral of a member of the royal family, or a memorial service for a prime minister, and not even all of them could guarantee a full house.

‘Don’t worry,’ he had added, ‘as long as six hundred turn up, we can fill the nave, block off the chancery and it will still look packed. Only our regular worshippers will be any the wiser.’

Giles just prayed that the nave would be full, as he didn’t want to let his friend down. He put down the script fourteen minutes later, then returned to the bedroom, to find Karin still in her dressing gown.

‘We ought to get going,’ he said.

‘Of course we should, my darling,’ said Karin, ‘that is, if you’re thinking of walking to the cathedral. If you leave now, you’ll be there in time to welcome the dean,’ she added before disappearing into the bathroom.

While Giles had been going over his speech downstairs, she had laid out a white shirt, his Bristol Grammar School tie, and a dark suit that had come back from the cleaners the previous day. Giles took his time dressing, finally selecting a pair of gold cufflinks Harry had given him on his wedding day. Once he’d checked himself in the mirror, he paced restlessly around the bedroom, delivering whole paragraphs of his eulogy out loud and constantly looking at his watch. How long was she going to be?

When Karin reappeared twenty minutes later, she was wearing a simple navy blue dress that Giles had never seen before, adorned with a gold portcullis brooch. She’d done Harry proud.

‘Time to leave,’ she announced calmly.

As they left the house Giles was relieved to see that Tom was already standing by the back door of the car.

‘Let’s get moving, Tom,’ he said as he slumped into the back seat, checking his watch again.

Tom drove sedately out of Smith Square as befitted the occasion. Past the Palace of Westminster and around Parliament Square before making his way along Victoria Embankment.

‘The traffic seems unusually heavy today,’ said Giles, once again looking at his watch.

‘About the same as last week,’ said Tom.

Giles didn’t comment on the fact that every light seemed to turn red just as they approached it. He was convinced they were going to be late.

As they drove past the mounted griffins that herald the City of London, Giles began to relax for the first time, as it now looked as if they would be about ten minutes early. And they would have been, but for something none of them had anticipated.

With about half a mile to go and the dome of the cathedral in sight, Tom spotted a barrier across the road that hadn’t been there the previous week when they’d carried out the practice run. A policeman raised his arm to stop them, and Tom wound down his window and said, ‘The Lord Chancellor.’

The policeman saluted and nodded to a colleague, who lifted the barrier to allow them through.

Giles was glad they were early because they were moving so slowly. Crowds of pedestrians were overflowing from the pavement and spilling on to the road, finally causing the car to almost come to a halt.

‘Stop here, Tom,’ said Giles. ‘We’re going to have to walk the last hundred yards.’

Tom pulled up in the middle of the road and rushed to open the back door, but by the time he got there, Giles and Karin were already making their way through the crowd. People stood aside when they recognized him, and some even began clapping.

Giles was about to acknowledge their applause, when Karin whispered, ‘Don’t forget they’re applauding Harry, not you.’

They finally reached the cathedral steps and began to climb up through a corridor of raised pens and pencils, held high by those who wished to remember Harry not only as an author, but as a civil rights campaigner.

Giles looked up to see Eric Evans, canon in residence, waiting for them on the top step.

‘Got that wrong, didn’t I,’ he said, grinning. ‘It must be an author thing, always more popular than politicians.’

Giles laughed nervously as the canon escorted them through the north-west door and into the cathedral, where those who had arrived late, even if they had a ticket, were standing at the side of the nave, while those who didn’t were crammed at the back like football fans on a crowded terrace.

Karin knew that Giles’s laughter was a cocktail of nerves and adrenaline. In fact, she had never seen him so nervous.

‘Relax,’ she whispered, as the dean led them down the long marble aisle, past Wellington’s memorial and through the packed congregation, to their places at the head of the nave. Giles recognized several people as they made their slow progress towards the high altar. Aaron Guinzburg was sitting next to Ian Chapman, Dr Richards with Lord Samuel, Hakim Bishara and Arnold Hardcastle representing Farthings, Sir Alan Redmayne was next to Sir John Rennie, while Victor Kaufman and his old school chum Professor Algernon Deakins were seated near the front.

But it was two women, sitting alone, who took him by surprise. An elegant old lady, who bowed her head as Giles passed, was seated near the back, clearly no longer wishing to be acknowledged as a dowager duchess might have expected to be, while in the row directly behind the family was another old lady who had travelled from Moscow to honour her late husband’s dear friend.

Once they had taken their places in the front row, Giles picked up the order of service sheet that had been prepared by Grace. The cover was adorned with a simple portrait of Sir Harry Clifton KBE that had been drawn by the most recent winner of the Turner Prize.

The order of service could have been chosen by Harry himself, as it reflected his personal tastes: traditional, popular, with no concern about being described as romantic. His mother would have approved.

The congregation was welcomed by the Rt Rev. Barry Donaldson, the Lord Bishop of Bristol, who led them in prayers in memory of Harry. The first lesson was read by Jake, whose head could barely be seen above the lectern.

‘1 Corinthians 13. If I speak in the tongues of men or of angels...’

The choir of St Mary Redcliffe, where Harry had been a chorister, sang Rejoice that the Lord has risen!

Sebastian, as the new head of the Clifton family, walked slowly up to the north lectern to read the second lesson, Revelation 21 to 37, and only just managed to get the words out.

‘And I saw a new heaven and a new earth: for the first heaven and the first earth were passed away; and there was no more sea...’ When he returned to his place in the front pew, Giles couldn’t help noticing that his nephew’s hair was starting to grey at the temples — which was only appropriate, he reflected, for a man who had recently been elected to the court of the Bank of England.

The congregation rose to join all those outside the cathedral in singing Harry’s favourite song from Guys and Dolls, ‘Sit Down, You’re Rockin’ the Boat’. Perhaps for the first time in the cathedral’s history, cries of ‘Encore’ rang out both inside and out; inside, where the Salvation Army were led by Miss Adelaide representing Emma, while outside were a thousand Sky Mastersons playing Harry.

The dean nodded, and the choir master raised his baton once again. Giles was probably the only person who didn’t join in when the congregation began to sing, And did those feet in ancient times... Becoming more nervous by the minute, he placed the order of service by his side and clung on to the pew, in the hope that no one would see his hands were shaking.

When the congregation reached, Till we have built Jerusalem... Giles turned to see the dean standing by his side. He bowed. It must be 11.41.

Giles stood, stepped out into the aisle and followed the dean to the pulpit steps, where he bowed again, before leaving him with In England’s green and pleasant land echoing in his ears. As Giles turned to climb the thirteen steps, he could hear Harry saying, Good luck, old chap, rather you than me.

When he reached the pulpit, Giles placed his script on the small brass lectern and looked down on the packed congregation. Only one seat was empty. The last line of Blake’s masterpiece having been rendered, the congregation resumed their places. Giles glanced to his left to see the statue of Nelson, his one eye staring directly at him, and waited for the audience to settle before he delivered his opening line.

‘Many people over the years have asked me if it was obvious, when I first met Harry Clifton, that I was in the presence of a truly remarkable individual, and I have to say no, it wasn’t. In fact, only chance brought us together, or to be more accurate, the alphabet. Because my name was Barrington, I ended up in the next bed to Clifton in the dormitory on our first day at St Bede’s, and from that random chance was born a lifelong friendship.

‘It was clear to me from the outset that I was the superior human being. After all, the boy who had been placed next to me not only cried all night, but also wet his bed.’

The roar of laughter that came from outside quickly spread to those inside the cathedral, helping Giles to relax.

‘This natural superiority continued to manifest itself when he crept into the washroom. Clifton had neither a toothbrush nor toothpaste, and had to borrow from me. The following morning, when we joined the other boys for breakfast, my superiority was even more apparent when it became clear that Clifton had never been introduced to a spoon, because he licked his porridge bowl clean. It seemed a good idea to me at the time, so I did the same. After breakfast, we all trooped off to the Great Hall for our first assembly, to be addressed by the headmaster. Although Clifton clearly wasn’t my equal — after all, he was the son of a docker, and my father owned the docks, while his mother was a waitress, and my mother was Lady Barrington. How could we possibly be equals? However, I still allowed him to sit next to me.

‘Once assembly was over, we went off to the classroom for our first lesson, where yet again Clifton was sitting next to Barrington. Unfortunately, by the time the bell sounded for break, my mythical superiority had evaporated more quickly than the morning mist once the sun has risen. It didn’t take me much longer to realize that I would walk in Harry’s shadow for the rest of my life, for he was destined to prove, far beyond the tiny world we then occupied, that the pen is indeed mightier than the sword.

‘This state of affairs continued after we left St Bede’s and progressed to Bristol Grammar School, when I was placed next to my friend once again — but I must admit that I only gained a place at the school because they needed a new cricket pavilion, and my father paid for it.’

While those outside St Paul’s laughed and applauded, decorum allowed only polite laughter inside the cathedral.

‘I went on to captain the school’s first eleven, while Harry won the prize for English and an exhibition to Oxford. I also managed to scrape into Oxford, but only after I’d scored a century at Lord’s for Young MCC.’

Giles waited for the laughter to die down before he continued.

‘And then something happened that I hadn’t been prepared for. Harry fell in love with my sister Emma. I confess that at the time I felt he could have done better. In my defence, I wasn’t to know that she would win the top scholarship to Somerville College, Oxford, become the first female chairman of a public company, chairman of an NHS hospital and a minister of the Crown. Not for the first time, or the last, Harry was to prove me wrong. I wasn’t even the superior Barrington any more. This is perhaps not the time to mention my little sister Grace, then still at school, who went on to become Professor of English at Cambridge. Now I am relegated to third place in the Barrington hierarchy.

‘By now I had accepted that Harry was superior, so I made sure that we shared tutorials, as I had planned that he would write my essays, while I practised my cover drive. However, Adolf Hitler, a man who never played a game of cricket in his life, put a stop to that, and caused us to go our separate ways.

‘Harry shamed me by leaving Oxford and joining up even before war had been declared, and by the time I followed him, his ship had been sunk by a German U-boat. Everyone assumed he’d been lost at sea. But you can’t get rid of Harry Clifton quite that easily. He was rescued by the Americans, and spent the rest of his war behind enemy lines, while I ended up in a German prisoner-of-war camp. I have a feeling that if Lieutenant Clifton had been in the next bunk to me at Weinsberg, I would have escaped a lot sooner.

‘Harry never talked to me or anyone else about his war, despite his having been awarded the prestigious Silver Star for his service as a young captain in the US Army. But if you read his citation, as I did when I first visited Washington as a foreign minister, you’d discover that with the help of an Irish corporal, a jeep and two pistols, he convinced Field Marshal Kertel, the commanding officer of a crack panzer division, to order his men to lay down their arms and surrender. Shortly afterwards, Harry’s jeep was blown up by a land mine while he was travelling back to his battalion. His driver was killed, and Harry was flown to the Bristol Royal Infirmary, not expected to survive the journey. However, the gods had other plans for Harry Clifton that even I would not have thought possible.

‘Once the war was over and Harry had fully recovered, he and Emma were married and moved into the house next door, although I confess a few acres still divided us. Back in the real world, I wanted to be a politician, while Harry had plans to be a writer, so once again we set out on our separate paths.

‘When I became a Member of Parliament, I felt that at last we were equals, until I discovered that more people were reading Harry’s books than were voting for me. My only consolation was that Harry’s fictional hero, William Warwick, the son of an earl, good-looking, highly intelligent and a heroic figure, was obviously based on me.’

More laughter followed, as Giles turned to his next page.

‘But it got worse. With every new book Harry wrote, more and more readers joined his legion of fans, while every time I stood for election, I got fewer and fewer votes.

‘And then, without warning, as is fate’s capricious way, Harry’s life took another turn, when he was invited to be the president of English PEN, a role in which he was to display skills that would be the envy of many who consider themselves to be statesmen.

‘PEN assured him that it was an honorary position and shouldn’t be too demanding. They clearly had no idea who they were dealing with. At the first meeting Harry attended as president, he learned about the fate of a man few of us had ever heard of at the time, who was languishing in a Siberian gulag. Thanks to Harry’s sense of justice, Anatoly Babakov became a household name, and part of our daily lives.’

This time the cheering inside and outside the cathedral went on and on, as people took out their pens and held them high in the air.

‘Thanks to Harry’s relentless determination, the free world took up the great Russian writer’s cause, forcing that despotic regime to give in and finally release him.’

Giles paused and looked down at the packed congregation, before he added, ‘And today, Anatoly Babakov’s wife, Yelena, has flown from Moscow to be with us, and to honour the man who had the courage to challenge the Russians in their own back yard, making it possible for her husband to be released, win the Nobel Prize and join those giants of literature who live on long after we have been forgotten.’

This time it was over a minute before the applause died down. Giles waited until there was total silence before he continued.

‘How many of you present here today are aware that Harry turned down a knighthood because he refused to be so honoured while Anatoly Babakov was still languishing in prison. It was his wife Emma who, several years later, when the palace wrote a second time, convinced him he should accept, not in recognition of his work as a writer, but as a human rights campaigner.

‘I once asked this modest, gentle man what he considered to be his greatest achievement: topping the bestsellers lists around the world, becoming a knight of the realm or making the world aware of the genius and courage of his fellow author, Anatoly Babakov? “Marrying your sister,” was his immediate reply, “because she never stopped raising the bar, which pushed me to greater and greater heights.” If Harry was ever boastful, it was only in the pride he took in Emma’s achievements. Envy never entered his thoughts. He only delighted in other people’s success.

‘In our family, we have a tradition that every New Year’s Eve we each reveal our resolution for the coming twelve months. Some years ago, Harry admitted somewhat diffidently that he was going to try and write a novel that would have been admired by his mother, who was his most exacting critic. “And you, Giles,” he asked, “what’s your New Year’s resolution?” “I’m going to lose a stone,” I told him.’

Giles waited for the laughter to die down, as he placed one hand on his stomach, while holding up a copy of Heads You Win in the other for all to see.

‘I put on another five pounds, while Harry’s book sold a million copies in the first week after publication. But he would still have considered it more important that his sister-in-law Grace, a former professor of English at Cambridge, hailed it as a masterpiece of storytelling.’

Giles paused for a moment, as if reflecting, before he continued. ‘They tell me Harry Clifton is dead. I suggest that whoever dares to repeat that slander should look at the bestseller lists around the world, which prove he’s still very much alive. And just as he was about to receive the accolades and garlands that would acknowledge his life’s achievements, the gods decided to step in and remind us that he was human, by striking down the person he most loved.

‘When Harry first learned of Emma’s tragic illness and had to face the fact that she only had a year to live, like every other obstacle that life had placed in his path he faced it head on, even though he accepted that this was a battle that could yield no victory.

‘He immediately dropped everything, even his pen, in order to devote himself to Emma, and do everything in his power to lessen her pain. But none of us who lived with them through those final days fully realized the toll and strain that pain was inflicting on him. Within a few days of Emma’s death, in an ending worthy of one of his novels, he was to die himself.

‘I was at his bedside when he died, and had rather hoped that this man of letters might deliver one final, memorable line. He didn’t let me down. “Giles,” he said, clutching me by the hand, “I’ve just come up with an idea for a new novel.” Tell me more, I said. “It’s about a boy born in the back streets of Bristol, the son of a docker, who falls in love with the daughter of the man who owns the docks.” And what happens next, I asked. “I’ve no idea,” he said, “but I’ll have the first chapter ready by the time I pick up my pen tomorrow morning.”’

Giles looked up towards the heavens and said, ‘I can’t wait to read it.’ Trying desperately to hold himself in check, the words no longer flowing, he turned to the last page of his eulogy, determined not to let his friend down. Ignoring the text, he said quietly, ‘It is true that Harry requested a quiet exit from life’s stage, and I ignored his wishes. I am no Mark Antony,’ said Giles, looking down at the congregation, ‘but I believe the Bard’s words apply every bit as much to Harry as they did to the noble Brutus.’

Giles paused for a moment, before he leant forward and said, almost in a whisper,