By Nigel C. Winter
The Authors’ Club has already written a touching tribute to our friend Geoff Gudgion. However, the duration of my brief association with Geoff followed a very particular course. During that time, I bore witness to the esteem in which he was held, the influence he could call upon and his gentle way of exercising it, to my very great benefit.
It is perhaps important to give some context. I am currently engaged in writing the true story behind The Day of The Jackal. My agent advised me that he knew a fellow member who knew the man himself Freddie Forsyth.
Although I sat ‘next door but one’ to Geoff at my first Authors Club lunch, I only noticed this urbane figure out of the corner of my eye; he being engaged with others. He then sat opposite me at the subsequent dinner and the impeccably turned-out Geoff that we all knew so well opened up about his ‘low-key’ literary festival in which Freddie was his guest of honour. Thus, we conversed about Freddie, French history and de Gaulle: Geoff sharing with me a joke the locals tell in de Gaulle’s home village of Colombey les deux Eglises (Colombey of the two churches) which went:-
Tourist – ‘why do you have two churches?’
Local – ‘because in the other one we worship God’.
I promised it would make it into print with the correct attribution.
During our conversation, I expressed an interest in the literary festival and Geoff promised to endeavour to orchestrate an introduction with someone whom it was notoriously difficult to get close to and who was famed for not suffering any intrusion lightly.
The following day I received an email in which he wrote, ‘It was a great pleasure to meet you yesterday at the Authors Club. I enjoyed our chat’. Then with typical modesty he added, ‘You expressed an interest in the literary day in September with Frederick Forsyth as top billing… more church fete than lit fest, but should be fun…I hope you think it worth the trip. Let me know if you plan to come, and I’ll do my best to make the right connections.’
Bearing in mind that we had spoken but once, it was a remarkable offer and given the writing journey on which I had embarked, there was perhaps no one in the world whom I would prefer to meet. And with that, I put the date in my diary and returned to writing.
Geoff and Bally
That date came around, and Geoff emailed me, revealing another side of his life. It turned out that he had spent that day ‘careering’ (his words) ‘around Windsor Great Park on horseback’, stimulating the observation that it was ‘great fun, but the ensuing fatigue told me that decrepitude comes ever closer’. In turn he expressed his delight at my travelling north to an event which I suspected modesty compelled him to undersell.
In the meantime, it became clear that Geoff and Freddie were well acquainted, and he seemed to rely on his historic experience that once Freddie was on a riveting subject, you ‘pull the string and let him go’. It promised to be a day to remember.
The top billing would then gently follow Geoff’s meticulous choreography. Geoff advised that the opportunity to introduce us would arise when he took Freddie ‘…through to the church hall and installed him behind a signing table. There’s likely to be a queue of people buying his books…for him to sign. You may find you get more of his attention once that queue has thinned’.
Then in a subsequent e-mail, Geoff revealed he had thought of a scheme that would in his words ‘… guarantee you time with Freddie…’ He required me to ‘… stand at his shoulder while he is signing books, pass him each book to sign… and as sensitively as possible, make sure people don’t linger in front of him gushing their enthusiasm, when there is a queue behind waiting their turn’.
I believe I was the only member of the Authors Club who was in attendance on that memorable day. The beautiful church of St Mary’s and All Saints Beaconsfield was packed. The first sign of Geoff was when he and Freddie took ‘centre stage’. They sailed through the question-and-answer session. Without notes and unprompted came Freddie’s life story. When he went slightly off piste, Geoff gently brought him round again. If you didn’t know who was who, it would be impossible to work out where the influence lay. On the one hand sat Geoff, tall and urbane, perhaps even commanding. On the other sat Freddie, responsive, no-nonsense but friendly. The two men had mutual respect.
On speaking of The Day of the Jackal Freddie announced:- ‘Overnight I was suddenly wealthy!’ Geoff gently threw his head back, smiled and added ‘Have you any idea how that makes other authors feel?’ This drew a murmur of humorous assent from the packed congregation.
As Geoff and Freddie filed out down the aisle, I duly followed. Once outside, Geoff gently turned to Freddie; ‘Can I introduce you to Nigel Winter who is writing…’
Geoff handled the situation to perfection. Job done, as I believe they say these days.
As I watched Freddie eventually leave, I suspected his public appearances might thereafter be few.
Geoff’s Literary festival turned out to be Freddie’s penultimate public appearance.
I wandered over to Geoff’s desk and his book DRACA caught my eye. Geoff kindly signed my copy, and I strolled out into the autumn sunshine. It had been a day to remember.
Consumed by my own writing journey, I put DRACA to one side. I saw Geoff on one further occasion at the club after that. There he held court, regaling us with the time his corporate life demanded he learn to speak German. On his first outing as a linguist, he dialled a number and pronounced his well-rehearsed lines only to find out in very blunt terms that he was speaking to Bootle rather than Berlin.
Geoff was still ‘casting the bait’ towards Freddie for me thereafter. He found him ‘amiable but not interactive’. Then tantalisingly Geoff added, ‘I too, for example, have some Cold War stories to tell’.
Author, pianist, yachtsman, equestrian and businessman – my self-consumption in my project seems to have left me blinkered. I wish time had allowed us to converse further, as I thought it would have.
My last email from Geoff was kind to the very end. He had read one of my articles that impressed him and he promised to pass it on to Freddie. However, as Geoff subsequently advised: ‘Sadly, and worryingly, I learn that Freddie is very unwell, so I didn’t push the issue. The mutual friend was deeply distressed at Freddie’s condition, and the family is gathering. Draw from that what you will. I hope to see you in the club before long.’
It wasn’t to be. I received an e-mail from my agent advising that Geoff was terminally ill. And then Geoff passed away. It was as quick as that.
Laurel is right in her own reflections of Geoff. Writing is a solitary endeavour. We turn up at the club, reveal one facet of our lives and return to our desks. There seemed to have been so much to Geoff that we will never explore. I didn’t know until reading Laurel’s piece that Geoff was a keen shot and a chef, as am I. And those Cold War stories will never be shared.
I hope to read DRACA shortly, which Geoff dedicated to those members of the armed forces struggling with the aftermath of conflict. He chose to split the author’s royalties with the charity, Combat Stress, which I don’t doubt Freddie approved of.
Wherever my writing journey takes me, I am saddened that Geoff will never read the product of his encouragement and kindness.