James was part of the British establishment. His father, Malise, was a military man, a colonel in the Black Watch, who served in the Boer War and the First World War. His uncle Alexander, the Earl of Gowrie, won the Victoria Cross in the Sudan and became Governor-General of Australia. His mother’s parents were Lord and Lady Manners – he who, as a ‘gentleman jockey,’ rode his own horse to victory in the Grand National of 1882. James was educated at Eton and then studied in Grenoble, where he gained his love of the French language and culture.
His parents had been introduced to Moral Re-Armament, or MRA, and as a result James made several visits to its international conference centre in the lovely village of Caux in Switzerland. It was there that he gave his life unconditionally to God – and also that he later met Dron.
The struggle against Hitler had been won at great cost. The power of the British and French Empires was waning and many countries were clamouring for independence. The Communist world was growing in strength. Much of the Western world was abandoning its Christian faith. Just as appeasement had been the prevailing attitude in the 30s, so in the 50s and 60s moral appeasement became rife. The name Moral Re-Armament symbolised the determination of some to turn this tide. The need was and felt urgent. James enlisted – as a full-time, unpaid, voluntary worker - and soon found himself in America.
He wondered later whether he might have been better advised to continue his studies first – having gained a place in Oxford - and pursue a military career for a while. With his abilities and background he could have performed well not only in the military, but in Parliament, the Civil Service or business. We must remember that as a boy, when his friends were playing cowboys and Indians, he wanted to play ‘offices’. He was, indeed, a born administrator.
Of the many initiatives with which he was involved, I am picking on a few which reveal the trajectory of his life’s journey. He sometimes said to me as we planned meetings together. ‘I’ll do the practical part, you do the spiritual bit’. It wasn’t that he considered that less important rather that he found it difficult to express some of the deepest things he felt. So today, the last time I can, as it were, speak on his behalf, I want to be able to reflect both the practical, about which he had an easy fluency, and the deeper note which he approached with reserve.
In the nineteen sixties, the MRA campaigns in America which had concentrated on youth, and the work in Europe which had depth in many areas of life but which had much less in the way of a programme for young people, began to drift apart.
James, with others, recognised the need to reach a new generation. He managed, first a simple revue called ‘Sixty-five alive’, then a slightly more sophisticated ‘It’s Our Country, Jack’ and finally an international revue ‘Anything to Declare?’, which travelled the world with a cast of ninety young men and women. From that time James and Dron always had the needs of younger people in the front of their minds. He faced opposition from those who, disapproving of the American model, had become fearful of a concentration on the young. But it gives the measure of the man that from the beginning he trusted his own convictions and was prepared to struggle to achieve what he believed in. And indeed the soundness of his judgement and the robustness with which he backed it up was an inestimable gift to the work to which he had committed himself.
When he and Dron were living in central London, the chimney of the Department of the Environment, which was easily visible from their windows, began smoking badly. In vain did James write to complain, not once but several times. So he delivered another letter, by hand, at 12 noon. It read ‘I have now photographed your chimney. The print will be delivered to The Daily Express at nine tomorrow morning.’ By 3pm the chimney had stopped smoking. James was never someone who allowed his views to be ignored.
Of all the adventures with ‘Anything to Declare?’, I want to mention two venues, Madras and Hong Kong. The goals in Madras were to reach the students of two of the best colleges in the city, and to do something about the strike-cum-management lock-out of the vast Standard Motors company which had been going on for eight months, had defied the efforts of the Government to resolve, and was bringing starvation to the workers’ families.
A lecturer at one of the colleges wrote inviting the leadership of the students to come to supper to meet the cast. They all accepted. During the evening these students decided that they were meant to end the strike, and set about inviting the managers and the trade unionists to come to the show since it illustrated the reality of forgiveness and reconciliation. They came and at the end of the performance the students sat them down together. During that night the strike was settled. This had a profound impact on the college students enabling them to see how they could use their lives to serve others rather than themselves.
It was such inexplicable, wonderful occurrences which encouraged those who were travelling with the show to stay committed to the God they had chosen to serve. Most still hold the same convictions some forty years on.
But I see James standing there with his feet firmly set at ten-to-two, rubbing his hands together, making clear that rather than dwell too long on the wonders of what had already happened we should be ready to turn to the next adventure. ‘Let’s keep going’ could easily have been his motto.
The visit to Hong Kong was important for James, for there he came face to face with the harm which Britain had done to China at the time of the opium wars. He came to realise that there was a need for a humble British person to admit that we had been wrong and say sorry for it. It led later to him studying the history of the Empire at London University, so that he could understand it in greater depth. Since it had been people of his background, from Scotland and England - and he was from both - who had fashioned the Empire, he knew he had a role in setting the record straight. He made several visits subsequently to mainland China, and developed many friendships there.
He felt the same about Ireland, came to know a number of the leadership of all persuasions, and saw his role simply as a humble British person, learning and not trying to tell the Irish what to do. When I went with him to spend time with people there I realised just how important his background was – for he was welcomed very specially because of it. It led him to try hard to educate our Establishment and to challenge it to act appropriately.
He used to have a clip board, in the days before modern technology, and on it every day he had a list, not of things but of people – those he should write to, those he should phone, those he was going to see. His life was always people-centred. He and his beloved Dron spent a lot of time entertaining in their home, looking after people and caring for them. They got to know many MPs well, for James loved politics and had faith in Parliament.
He saw administration, which was his natural forte, as providing the means to enable the work with people to run smoothly. His was a servant leadership and he sat on the Council of Management for over thirty-five years, and also on the Caux Foundation and the International Council. He sold a number of MRA properties which had outlived their usefulness – for he felt that unnecessary buildings were a drag on everyone – and he bought others which were better fitted for the work being done. I do not mean that these were decisions for him alone but he handled effectively and efficiently so many of the negotiations. I was always challenged by his desk because there was never anything on it. Paper simply served him and did what it was told.
If today ‘Initiatives of Change’, or ‘I of C’, as it is usually known, which grew out of the campaign for Moral Re-Armament, now moves forward effectively in its determination to bring reconciliation into our fractured world, then it is built on the work of consolidation that James accomplished. He is owed a lot.
Of course, there was much more to his life than all this. His marriage was a happy and fruitful one. He was proud of his family and loved being with them. He was a competent sailor, loved North Devon, and walking the coastal paths, latterly with his dog Jasper. He enjoyed swimming. He had a passion for travelling. He cherished quality, had impeccable taste, and tolerated with good grace those who didn’t feel these things were important. He could mix with anyone.
He was always fond of his two sisters. Sally is here. But Nancy skidded in her car on a wet night in 1989 and was killed instantly.
James and Dron returned to Clovelly around the millennium. I say ‘returned’ because an aunt of James’ mother owned Clovelly Court. It then passed to his mother’s twin sister and ultimately to his cousin, John Rous. For James, Clovelly Court held many happy childhood memories. He and Dron loved Clovelly and its people. Dron rapidly became involved with the WI, James with the RNLI and both with this church. They became well-loved figures.
But further tragedy was to come because in 2002 dear Dron died unexpectedly and without warning at the early age of 62 and lies in this churchyard. James felt this loss hugely. His grief was compounded later by clinical depression. He experienced waves of intense loneliness. And if that was not enough he developed prostate cancer and then suffered several mini-strokes which caused him bouts of confusion, and then dementia began to set in.
He told me that in the depth of his depression he had walked the coastal paths and shouted into the wind his anger at God. He could not understand how he could be treated like this after a lifetime of loyal service. I found his reaction very natural and in its way reassuring, because only those with a real relationship with God will vent their anger at Him in this way. One of the great saints whose cart toppled over throwing her into a muddy ditch also shook her fist at God and said ‘If you can do this to your friends, it’s not surprising that you have so few of them’. James was in good company.
Liz and I spent a weekend with him just weeks before his final illness. This was one of the things he wanted to talk over. It was a precious opportunity. He was troubled that he could do so little and rarely could see something through. But in reality he had done what he was called to do. There was one thing remaining which he had not managed to fulfil. He had wanted to visit America to see friends, especially Dave Allen, one of the longest-standing of those friends. He was so aware of the cost of the old divisions with the work in America with their result that many friendships had not been as fruitful as they could have been. I mention it simply to reveal his desire to see any lingering separation erased, so that his friends, including Dave, can know what was in his heart.
He had so enjoyed the sparkle of those early days in America. He had always, I suspect, had the bearing and uprightness of his Dad but with a love of ‘the unexpectedness, sense of fun and lack of orthodoxy’ of his mother, Angie, which those early days in America activated in him.
He chose the path of humility. And in these last years it is hard to escape the reality that his suffering deepened and purified it. For the man who was such a fine ‘do-er’ and so helpful to so many, had to become dependent on others and had to learn to be content with doing little and understanding less. But in the way in which he bore this pain and continued as best he could, and in the graciousness that he retained throughout, one could see God shining through him, not now because of what he could do but simply because of his givenness, steady even in the midst of frustration and confusion. He learned the hard way how simply to ‘be’.
When he was lying unconscious on his hospital bed, Liz and I sat with him for a while with Sandy and Angela. We realised that, sad and sudden though the stroke had been and final though it would prove, he was being spared the slow inevitable decline that could have been his lot.
There was something fitting in the fact that as he lay there our Queen, the physical embodiment of the Establishment, went to Ireland and bowed her head in the Garden of Remembrance – the attitude of heart that James had championed for so long and had fought to bring into the nation’s consciousness. That simple act was surely a vindication of his life’s work.
Liz and I rejoiced for him that he would soon meet Jesus face to face, having followed Him for so long and been faithful to the end, in spite of the wobbles his suffering induced, and that he would be with Dron again.
Our hearts go out to Sandy and Caz, to Angela, and to Josh and Nell. Your love for your father and grandfather runs deep. You will miss him terribly. But you have a rich heritage to build upon. We think of Sally and all her family, and the numerous in-laws. We think of his cousins, especially Henrietta, his companion in many adventures during these last years. We think with gratitude too of his carers, who made it possible for him to remain in Hugglepit. They represent the best of Clovelly.
James and Dron were among the closest and dearest of our friends. They were always a joy to be with, and both honesty and laughter were never far away. They gave such friendship to so many around the world, in Japan, India, Malaysia, Australia, Turkey, parts of Africa and America as well as Europe, to ordinary people and to statesmen. It is impossible today not to think with great affection of both of them. Today perhaps can be a thanksgiving not only for James’ life but also for their union, which we believe will continue.
James’ life on earth is complete. His legacy is there for all to see. He did not need, after all, to have had an army position, or loads of degrees. Instead he had a calling - and it worked out wondrously. May his baton pass to the next generation and may he now rest in peace.
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