Honest, kind, resolute, wise, faith-filled, faithful correspondent, great friend and, as Peter Everington remembers especially his gusty laugh, are all echoed in many of the messages and e-mails that have been sent by great friends. And for us, a loving father and grandfather to four grandchildren, always full of interest and stories.
So, where did it all begin...
My father was born on 10 August 1927 in Camberley, Surrey, the eldest child of Cecil and Amy Pugh, an event that was recorded on a wonderful silver spoon we used for jam, that included the precise time of birth 4:20 AM, his weight 8lbs 10oz and length 21 inches!! The family moved soon afterwards to Friern Barnet in North London, where his brother, Alastair and sister Fiona, were born. There, through the work of the Oxford Group or Moral Re-Armament as it was known later [now Initiatives of Change] for which his parents, my grandparents, were among the pioneers, they were part of the North London team—as were my other grandparents—and so started the first connections with my mother.
With my grandfather enlisting as a Chaplain for the RAF based in Bridgnorth, the family went to join him there and had many wonderful memories from that time. Including the two brothers in their crammed bedroom, with Alastair’s planes and my father’s ships battling it out and woe betide any who entered, or so Fiona was warned!
From there, Alastair and my father went to school at Tettenhall College, in nearby Wolverhampton, and while looking through my parents' desk, we found a medal he won in 1945, for high jump, half mile and one mile! Giles wrote that my father was a prefect and rugby captain and his father was a prefect and head of cricket and believes they shared honours as Victors ludorum [‘the winners of the games'] — forces to be reckoned with — devoted brothers to each other and Fiona for 90 years.
It was from there he remembers his mother fetching them from school and telling them that their father had died but that ‘he would have listened to God and done what he was told’ and so now they would listen. My father often told the story of his father, which was recounted by the survivors, as have many since, of his bravery and absolute trust in God. During my father’s final week, Giles came to visit him with the George Cross that my grandfather was awarded and was able to recall the events with his grandchildren. It was a very special moment for him to hold the medal again and one that we will treasure.
In January 1946 he was called up for National Service. He was stationed in southern Palestine and the experiences there stayed with him always and were often retold. He remembered one occasion he went to have lunch with a Druze chieftain - a high honour. When they returned, they were arrested as French spies, the guards having read their British passports upside down! They were rescued by the nephew of the local Emir who took them to meet his uncle and they had tea with him in his palace. Over the past few weeks, we looked through many photos with my dad that he took at the time, and he was able to recall the places and people as if it were yesterday.
Then, last week, while doing some sorting, we discovered the medal that he had been awarded for his service in Palestine.
After being demobbed, he helped with the play “The Good Road” which went to Germany. Everywhere they went, there was terrible destruction, but some theatres remained standing and they had packed out shows. All they could offer the German audiences was their own, real experience of honesty, change and doing what God said. That experience decided my father and from that day, he never had a salary and yet was always amazingly provided for, as he gave his life to the work of MRA.
Early in 1950, thirty young Europeans, my aunt Fiona and my Dad among them, were invited to America. Washington friends welcomed them, and he was invited to stay by the Hoar family. There he remembers meeting their about-to-be 16 year old daughter, Wendy, and her two brothers, John and Robin, who became great friends over the years. While there, he got to know editors and journalists all over America and remembered an unexpected encounter when Bunny Austin, the well-known English tennis player, took him to meet the President of the Screen Actors Guild, one Ronald Reagan, later, of course, the President of the USA.
India called next with a myriad of stories and adventures. Lloyd Mullen recalled with gratitude, the trips my father made from Delhi to Pakistan to register the car every 6 months, as it would give him friendship and fellowship, and as my father, with others, tried to support peace during the rocky times following partition. He met trade unionists, ministers, journalists such as Russi Lala, with whom he became great friends, civil servants and people such as Rajmohan Gandhi, who became a leading figure for MRA in India and a friend of my father for more than 60 years.
Italy saw my Dad doing press and PR work for another play which took him from North to South, even giving a broadcast in Italian, which he had never spoken before! He was there with my uncle Robin Hoar, which I hadn’t known until recently. He recalls my father standing with others of the group in a crowd in St Peter’s square in Rome listening to Pope John XXIII (23rd) and working on an illustrated report of the events they had experienced there.
The time came to return to England to be at Fiona’s wedding. One of her bridesmaids was Wendy. A few weeks later my father asked Wendy to marry him and to the joy of both, she accepted. She had hoped for 15 years that he would ask! It was worth the wait, as they went on to enjoy 55 years together.
My parents went to Manchester initially but then they were asked to help host the beautiful Edwardian house, Tirley Garth, the MRA conference centre, in Cheshire, where for many years he was also a trustee. It is here that so many friends remember my parents most, as following our time in India and Australia, we returned to Tirley again. They were, as so many have kindly written, welcome hosts, always showing great hospitality and care and Nigel and Jane Cooper reflect on the fond memories of their dignified, warm-hearted way, their interest in so many lives and their faith and certainty of God’s leading them both. Margaret Lancaster wrote of being lent my father’s car despite her youth and his faith in her abilities. Brian Thirlaway commented that my father was always a perfect gentleman and dressed accordingly but recollects an incident when my father helped push a car out of the mud and ended up covered from head to toe. He disappeared and returned clean - commenting, ‘I think I would be better helping on the bookstall!’ Blair and Sarah Cummock remember their time at Tirley, when Blair took over being Secretary to the Trust from my father, which meant they worked closely together for many years, as with so many others, with great commitment and faithfulness.
My parents time in India was meant to have been for a few weeks and was in the end, two and a half years. I stayed in Tirley for the first year and remember letters illustrated by my father showing different things they had seen as well as receiving cassette tapes of stories about the prince and his horse that ate Weetabix! During his time in India, my Dad would, among other things, visit factories and meet the workers, often to be taken to visit them where they lived. I remember him telling me about a family who lived under a canvas awning, who served him the tiniest glass of milk he had ever had, as a gift — such enormous generosity though possessing so little.
Many people came through the flat in Mumbai (Bombay) to stay or visit. The Lockes remember staying with my parents and going to the Taj Mahal Hotel, as my father was longing for a steak! Others were friends who lived in the city. Bhanu Kale recalled my father visiting him one day, to discover after his visit, my father’s car had been towed away by the police. They had to go to the police station to get it released - no mean feat and quite an adventure!
My father recalls that one day a food parcel came, and my mum tipped the postman with her last rupee, so we had food and no money. Then, in the afternoon, the letters came, with one letter which had a cheque from a friend in England. My father always said we were never without and always wonderfully provided for, wherever we were, which was something he had learned from being at Tirley in the early years, living on ‘faith and prayer’ when there were many needs for financial support.
The time came for us to move on to Australia—my parent’s original destination. We made our base in Adelaide, in a succession of houses in Belair, a suburb up in the hills above the city. From there, my father visited steel mills, mines and sheep farmers, travelling all over Australia, supporting, encouraging and trying to seek positive change.
We greatly loved our time there and made many life-long friends, many of whom have kindly written in the past weeks—the Browns, Lancasters, John Lumsden, Alveys, Frasers and the list goes on, remembering his friendship and service.
Following our return to Britain and Tirley, and after my father turned 60, over the next ten years my parents found themselves flying back and forth across the Atlantic for long periods in America.
Dick Ruffin wrote of the myriad of ways in which my parents supported the work there, especially a number of key individuals. In Atlanta, my father became friends with Judge Jack Etheridge, who was close to Jimmy Carter, those in the Martin Luther King Centre and people in the Georgia legislature. Jack would introduce people to my father as he knew my Dad would bring out the best in them.
In Allentown, my father became friends with the mayor and encouraged an exhibition of Frank Buchman’s life, whose faith began the Oxford Group. It is still there and seen by thousands. His care for many helped all that was being done by those in the US. To quote Dick Ruffin, ‘of course, none of us who knew him well, will ever forget that his detailed care for his car was exactly parallel to his detailed care for individuals. And he was never without driving gloves, even in the summer!’
On their return to Britain and with the sale of Tirley, which my father helped with, along with many others including Philip Boobbyer to name but one, my parents moved to Ticehurst, East Sussex. This was an extremely happy period for them as they made many new friends, enjoyed the company of long established friends, including the Wises and many others and took part in church and village life as fully as they could. For many years, my dad enjoyed being a guide at Batemans, Kipling’s home at Burwash. We did try to find a direct family line to Kipling but never could, despite it being his third name! Friends, such as John Munro, enjoyed the monthly play readings they used to host and the comfort and cooking they provided. Then, in later years, when my father could not travel, the valuable weekly phone calls, to chew over ideas and projects and just talk, which I know my father also much enjoyed. Books were also his great love and he would hugely enjoy discussing John Buchan with John Symons who shared his passion.
I quote my Dad: ‘We have been wonderfully led and provided for throughout our life. The future is in the Hand of God.’
They came to live with us only a year ago and who would have known what this year was to hold. As it says in the poem, The Weaver by BM Franklin:
Not til the loom is silent and the shuttles cease to fly
Shall God unroll the canvas and explain the reasons why...
Peter Everington wrote that my dad followed ‘A Christian calling, in the tradition of MRA, that led him into costly but joyful service alongside Wendy across the world. He lived into the needs of others with salt and encouragement, believing all had a part in building a new society, based on the renewal he himself needed morning by morning. A true Brit with a heart for the world.’
To return to Geoffrey’s experience in Palestine; while in Jerusalem he got to know an Armenian family, who invited him to join them, with the St George’s choir, on Christmas Eve 1947, to go to Bethlehem. They sang carols outside the Church of the Nativity and afterwards, Geoffrey walked up the shallow steps leading out of Manger Square into the quiet, unlit streets of the town where the lines of Philip Brooks’ carol came vividly to life:
‘Oh, Little town of Bethlehem, how still we see thee lie.
Above thy deep and dreamless sleep, the silent stars go by
Yet in thy dark streets shineth the Everlasting light...’
by daughter, Ann Smith
English
