This Was a Man (The Clifton Chronicles #7)(130)

‘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.

‘His life was gentle, and the elements

‘So mixed in him that Nature might stand up





‘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,

‘His life was gentle, and the elements

so mixed in him that nature might stand up