by Tom Rubython
One of the last occasions in which Hunt was seen in public was the memorial service for 1967 world champion Denny Hume, held in Chelsea, London, in 1993. A former world champion, Hulme had died at the wheel of a race car the previous October after having suffered a heart attack whilst racing a saloon car for fun. Hunt had raced against the New Zealander in 1973 and 1974 in Formula One, and they had become good friends. Both he and Hulme enjoyed chasing women around the Formula One paddock.
Everyone was crowded outside before the memorial service began, and they remember Hunt arriving on his bicycle, stripped to the waist, in nothing but shorts and sandals. Nigel Roebuck remembers: “We were standing around outside the church when the former world champion rode into sight: ‘Morning, chaps! Back in a minute...’ And, with that, he briefly disappeared but soon he was back, immaculate, having popped round the corner to change into a suit, shirt and tie he had been carrying in a haversack on his back.”
Another occasion which marks one of Hunt’s last appearances in public was one of journalist Eoin Young’s famous media lunches, held at the Barley Mow pub, in Surrey. Hunt thoroughly enjoyed himself and did not drink at all. Another Hunt nemesis, Ken Tyrrell, whose factory was situated nearby, regularly attended the lunches and sat opposite Hunt at his last one. The two men argued throughout the lunch and finally agreed to disagree about Formula One. Tyrrell memorably said to Hunt: “James, sometimes you should keep your mouth shut.” Hunt told him: “Unfortunately, Ken, the BBC pays me to keep it open.”
In mid-May 1993, a few weeks after his parents’ golden wedding celebration, he invited his parents to Wimbledon for Sunday lunch with their grandchildren and to meet Helen. In the afternoon, Sue, Wallis, Helen, Freddie and Tom walked to the pond at Wimbledon Common to feed left-over bread to the Canadian geese that gathered their every spring. Sue Hunt told Gerald Donaldson she had never seen her son so happy as that day feeding the ducks with his sons and Helen. It was the last time they would see their son alive.
Sue and Wallis returned Tom and Freddie to their mother that evening in Sussex. They hadn’t seen their former daughter-in-law for nearly four years, and they all greeted each other warmly.
By then, Hunt had forgiven his ex-wife for all the acrimony of the divorce and had decided to bury the past for the sake of the children. His parents did as well.
When they left the house, Wallis noticed that the whirlpool bath in the garden was covered in long grass and obviously hadn’t been used in a long time. He thought it a poignant symbol of how much his son’s life had changed. Seeing the long grass obstructing a part of Hunt’s hedonistic past, Wallis was made glad by the thought that the bad times were over, and that it represented a new hope for the future.
But there was to be no future.
CHAPTER 45
Premature goodbye to a great champion
£5,000 pays for his farewell party
On Monday 21st June, James Hunt’s immediate family gathered for his funeral. There were less than 30 people present and the family was joined only by very close friends. The rest would have to wait for a memorial service a few months hence.
Hunt had vaguely indicated that if the worst was ever to happen, he would like his funeral to be in Wimbledon; and the natural venue was St Mary’s, an Anglican church which sits on the edge of Wimbledon Common. It has an imposing exterior and an intimate interior and it was where Tom and Freddie Hunt were christened. The service was conducted by the local vicar, Andrew Studdert-Kennedy.
Oddly, even though he was due to be cremated, intimate personal objects were placed in the coffin, including Tom and Freddie’s christening blankets and Oscar’s lead and collar. Helen Dyson had earlier kissed her boyfriend farewell privately before the coffin was sealed.
A trumpeter played, and Wallis and Sue Hunt, with the help of Nigel Davison, had chosen a selection of appropriate hymns. Wallis read the lesson and tried and failed to lighten the mood by saying that his son would have wanted everybody to cheer up. But it had been too soon and it had been too sudden, and the mood was very heavy indeed. Hundreds of letters of condolence had been received by various members of the family, and another few hundred more were on their way. Wallis read some out.
The coffin was carried out by the remaining male Hunts: Wallis, Peter, Tim and David, along with Mike Dennett and Bubbles Horsley. Two miles away at Putney Vale Crematorium, the coffin was incinerated and the urn handed to Helen.
A reception was held at Peter Hunt’s home afterwards and it was felt to be an appropriate occasion to open a 1922 claret that James had given to his father 11 years earlier for his 60th birthday. In truth, they had all thought they would be opening it some years hence, for Wallis’ funeral, not his son’s. It was a desperately sad occasion.
And with that, they all drifted away to begin the rest of their lives. It had been a traumatic seven days, not least for Peter Hunt who went home to rest and reflect on what had happened. To him had fallen the biggest burden, and he had endured some pretty awful tasks and taken some difficult decisions since that fateful phone call from Mike Dennett, which had woken him up in the early hours of the previous Tuesday morning.
No words can describe the scene when Peter Hunt arrived at the house in the early hours of that morning. But Peter, as ever, took command of the situation, reserving his own private grief for later.
Peter Hunt had always carried the burden of his brother’s life on his shoulders and, now, the ending of it was no different. And he had carried it stoically and served his brother well to the end of his days. Few knew or appreciated what Peter had done for James. Everything he had done had been very much for the best.
Ian Phillips did not attend the funeral but was surprised how quickly and swiftly his friend’s burial was scheduled, as he said: “The whole thing was very strange, he was dead and buried within about three days. It was very fast. I don’t know why and I never asked, but a few people thought it was strange.” In truth, Phillips, like many of his friends would have liked to have been there for the end.
Fast forward three months to Wednesday 29th September 1993 and to the appropriately named St James’s Church in Piccadilly. That day, there was a gusting wind blowing the autumn leaves off the tress and a threat of rain. A Union Jack fluttered in the wind at the chosen venue for a memorial service entitled: ‘A Celebration of the Life of James Hunt.’
The church that sits in its own garden oasis in that busiest part of London had been all but destroyed by Herman Goering’s Luftwaffe in the autumn of 1940. Long since rebuilt, it provided an appropriate venue for the last hurrah of James Hunt, 1947 – 1993.
In fact, St James’s is one of London’s premier Anglican churches situated in the heart of the west end, just west of Piccadilly Circus. It has a small market in front of it and sits tucked back behind railings, with a garden and meeting rooms. It holds regular classical concerts.
St Mary’s vicar, Andrew Studdert-Kennedy, was once again called on to preside.
A large turnout was expected, but not the 600 people who turned up to pay their respects. The absolute great and good of motor racing were gathered outside that morning to celebrate the life of their friend. It was a truly extraordinary turnout, unmatched previously and one that may not be matched again. Tony Dron remembers: “The church in Piccadilly was absolutely packed out, and there were a lot of very elegant people there.”
There were also plenty of photographers. Their targets were Hunt’s girlfriends and partners, who were all getting together for the first time. Suzy Miller, widowed by an ex husband for the second time, was there with Bette Hill; Jane Birbeck was there with Daley Thompson, the Olympian who had replaced Hunt in her affections; and Sarah Hunt was there with Tom and Freddie and flanked by her mother, Rosemary Lomax. Only Taormina Rich, now Rieck, with her husband Peter, went unnoticed. No one but a few friends from the really old days knew who she was.
Outside the railings, a crowd had gathered to witness the arrival of so many famous faces.
Nigel Davison, the former director of music at Wellington College, organised the music as he had done on so many occasions in James Hunt’s life. Davison co-opted a trumpeter, two organists, two soloists and the Wellington College Choir to create a magnificent ensemble of musicians. He created the perfect atmosphere to celebrate his former pupil’s life. 600 people sang lustily along with the choir.
Peter Hunt spoke first. He extended a welcome and greeted everybody: “On behalf of James’ family, it is my great pleasure to welcome you to this celebration of James’ life. We would, of course, all much rather not have to be here. But it is wonderful to see a full church and so many old friends. Several things I know for sure: Firstly, that James would have loved to have been here with all his friends. He’ll be absolutely livid he’s missing all the fun. Secondly, that we’re having lots of his favourite music – lots of trumpet, lots of noise and lots of singing. We know he liked the hymns because he had two of them at his first marriage service and three of them at his second. Thirdly, that he would have wanted everybody to enjoy the music and sing as loudly as possible. Now, a lot of you are aware that he left me instructions in his will to organise a party for his friends after he died. That party is being held this evening, and I hope James would approve. One of my hardest jobs has been trying to decide who to invite. James had so many friends, it has simply not been possible to invite all of you. Please accept my apologies if you think you should have been on the guest list. Anyway, the point is that the message to me and to all of James’ family is that we should enjoy ourselves today. We all have very happy memories of him, and our aim today is to share those memories with his friends and to see lots of laughter and smiling faces. I should like to thank all of you very much for coming to this service and for all your wonderful letters, tributes and messages of support over the last few months. You have all been fantastic. I should particularly like to express my sincere thanks to Mike Dennett for all his invaluable help both to Helen and me immediately after James died, to Ron Dennis for his thoughtfulness and generosity, and to Roger Carey and his assistant Patricia for all their help, support and enthusiasm in organising today’s service. My thanks also to everybody taking part in the service and for those who have helped make it possible. I am now going to hand over to my parents, Sue and Wallis. The last time the family got together before James died was to celebrate their 50th wedding anniversary, in April this year. It was a wonderfully happy day for all of us and their many friends. Since then, we have been dealt a terrible blow, but with your help we are getting through it. Let’s try and make today as happy and memorable as we possibly can for James’ family and friends.”
His mother, Sue, in her wonderful warm English voice, made the most poignant impact by reading an incantation from Ecclesiastes, chapter three, which began: “To every thing there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven” and ended: “A time to love, and a time to hate; a time of war, and a time of peace.”
Innes Ireland, speaking in his role as the president of the British Racing Drivers’ Club, in one of his last public appearances, read Rudyard Kipling’s highly appropriate poem ‘If…’ which reads: “If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster/ And treat those two impostors just the same...Or walk with Kings – nor lose the common touch...”
Sally Jones, Hunt’s sister, read Hilaire Belloc’s family poem ‘Jim’, and a radiant Helen Dyson, looking every inch the widow she was not, also read a psalm.
Lord Hesketh, the man who had saved Hunt when he was at his lowest point, introduced the preface and said: “When Peter honoured me by asking me to introduce this preface, I was told that I could only speak for 90 seconds. I reminded Peter of the last time that he gave me an instruction, which was asking for James’ retainer, and I recited to him at that time the two Belloc poems – or telegraphic poems – which came from a boy at prep school, which said: ‘No Mon’, No Fun, Yo’ Son. Too Bad, So Sad, Yo’ Dad.’
“I first met James 21 years ago in the paddock, if you can call it that – it was a sort of a mucky meadow in Belgium – at Chimay. I’d arrived there from Monaco, and Bubbles had resigned as chief driver for Hesketh Racing and become team manager by his own appointment. We had no driver and James had no car. Twelve months later, we lifted him exhausted from a car which had finished and broken down on the last lap at Monaco and we were classified ninth. Twelve months later, he won his first Formula One race at Silverstone and the Daily Express International Trophy. Twelve months later, he won his first Grand Prix. And twelve months later, he was world champion. It was an honour for me, in my life, to be able to call him a friend. But he was much more than that. He represented something very, very English. He was the combination of the Corinthian casual and the anarchist. Hesketh Racing gave him very little. He gave a great deal to us. What we gave him was because we were also anarchists. We didn’t get embarrassed when he kept flying off while in the lead while educating himself in the craft of driving. What he gave to Hesketh Racing was the difference between being in the record book at the back of the Autosport Annual Review under Did Not Qualify: DNQ, DNQ and DNQ. I know that in many ways his career was dogged by criticism, which had nothing to do with his ability. And the judgment on James’ career will improve as the years go by, and the turnout today, I believe, reveals his real quality. I know that the people who care about racing, the fans who are, after all, the lifeblood of the sport, are the people who held him in the highest regard. And it is in his passing, in the obituaries that were written, that something of his real, international, all-time ability can be seen. I know this: that when his two boys, Freddie and Tom, by whom he put so much, grow to be men, there will be by then middle-aged and older men and women – hopefully wiser, certainly greyer – and they will come up to those two boys who will then be men, and they will see them and they will talk to them and they will touch them. And of the memory that I will always hold – of that spring day in 1974 when James overtook Ronnie Peterson with two wheels on the grass at Woodcote, a corner that no longer exists and, now sadly, the driver who no longer exists – they will speak to those boys who will then be men, and they will say, possibly with misty eyes: ‘We were there.’”
Lord Hesketh’s speech was extraordinary in its quality and delivery, and reminiscent of Winston Churchill in content.
Nigel Davison prefaced the second reading and said: “James was one of the most remarkable teenagers I have met in a long career of teaching. He was very single-minded and always seemed to know exactly what he wanted to achieve. He also had a very clear view of how to achieve it, which sometimes conflicted strongly with conventional wisdom. He must have been quite a trial to some of the more narrow-minded school masters. I don’t think he was too interested in team games, preferring what he saw as more individual sports: squash, tennis, racquets and cross-country running. He represented Wellington College at all of them. I couldn’t repress a smile when I re-read the other day what I’d written for the 1965 Wellington Yearbook about the year’s cross-country running. ‘With one notable, if successful, exception, the team threw themselves wholeheartedly into the rigorous training programme.’ The notable exception was, of course, James. He had quickly decided that team training was not for him. It probably wasn’t rigorous enough. He thought he knew best how to train himself, and events proved him right. For he either won or came first equal in every race of that year that I can recall, including a particularly gruesome and arduous inter-house match, whose finish involved wading through a large lake. James was also a talented and enthusiastic trumpeter. If he had decided to make himself an instrumental virtuoso, he might well have become the James Galway of the trumpet. As it was, trumpet playing was for him a rare form of relaxation and we spent many enjoyable half hours working away at the Trumpet Voluntary, which you didn’t hear this afternoon, incidentally, or the Haydn Trumpet Concerto or, in his final term, the finale of a Mozart Concerto which he thought would be fun to play an octave higher than Mozart had ever intended. James was full
of original ideas. I well recall playing the organ for his wedding to Sarah. He had planned the music in great detail. I had to bring with me a trumpeter and a soprano so there could be lots of trumpet tunes, lots of descants to the hymns and, using all three of us, Handel’s ‘Let the Bright Seraphim’ during the signing of the register. Who but James could have chosen for a November wedding the hymn ‘O Come All Ye Faithful’? I have only happy memories and am grateful for the way he once brightened my life.”
Stirling Moss prefaced the next reading and talked with unconcealed affection as he said: “Well, as we have heard, James was truly unique. He was a man of immense personality and charm. A total non-conformist who was a curious mix of wit, intelligence and unparalleled stubbornness. Someone who stood firmly behind his actions and beliefs. Right or wrong, he certainly provided food for thought and fuel for debate. Whatever else he may have been, James was not boring. Never. He was definitely no saint, either. Particularly for one of my generation, his behaviour could be quite appalling. I’ve been with him on occasions when it was difficult to admit I even knew him – let alone that he was a friend of mine. But somehow, because it was James, one could overlook it. The contribution he made to our sport, through his television and his writing, was enormous. He brought to televised motor racing a dimension that had not previously existed. His explanations and pithy comments, often controversial, brought to the general public an interest and understanding that raised the level of Formula One far above that of being merely a spectacle. He turned moderately interested viewers into well-informed enthusiasts. He brought in thousands of extra followers and fans to our sport. Now, I never raced against James. In fact, I had to wait until later in his life before getting to know him as a friend. Over the years, he was a man that I grew to know, to like, to trust and respect. A man whose opinions and friendship I valued greatly. Like all of you here today, I miss him.”
