by Tom Rubython
Murray Walker regarded delivering the address at James Hunt’s memorial service as the “hardest thing I’ve ever had to do in my life.” But his was the performance of the day. His voice charged with sincerity as he spoke of the man who was once his enemy but had become his friend. Walker had rehearsed the speech the day before with his BBC producer Mark Wilkin until it was word perfect. He said: “We’re here today to remember and to honour James as a very special person, who in different ways has been part of the life of each and every one of us. To his family, he was a loving son, brother, father. To the motor racing world of which he was such an outstanding part, he was a great competitor, a forceful teammate, a determined and gifted rival. And to millions of Formula One fans all over the world, from Adelaide to Andover, who listened to the calm, authoritative and witty television commentaries he gave, his was the voice that made sense out of an involved and complicated sport. And to me, he was a respected and admired colleague, whose wit and wisdom added immeasurably to our joint efforts to communicate the sport that meant so much to both of us. But to everyone, James was a charismatic personality whose untimely departure has made our world a duller place. In today’s world, most of us stand out like grey against black; conforming to the general standard, unable or unwilling to do their own thing, make their own mark, be their own man. This is something that you most certainly could not say about James. Quite apart from his talents, his success, his commanding presence and his natural dignity, he was an immensely likeable, warm, different kind of human being. One who made wherever he was a livelier and more stimulating and enjoyable place to be. Because James didn’t think like other people. He didn’t act like other people. He refused to conform to the rules that govern most of us. And he had the presence and the charm to get away with it. I bet almost everybody here could tell a personal story about something that James did or said. And they’d tell it with affection and warmth to emphasise that he was no ordinary person. The first commentary I ever did with him was on a Formula 5000 race at Silverstone. James, with his leg in plaster, lay on the floor, looking up at the monitor, at an extremely boring and uneventful race. When I handed him the microphone to sum it up, he simply said: ‘What a load of rubbish!’ and handed it back to me. But later, at Monaco, for his very first Grand Prix commentary, wearing no shoes, a t-shirt, shorts that had certainly seen better days, and clutching a bottle of rosé, he planted his plaster cast in my lap and sailed into the comments that were to endear him to his vast following for 13 years. Now our gathering here is to celebrate James’ life rather than mourn his death – much as we all do so. And I’m jolly sure that that’s what he’d like. You don’t need me to tell you about his twin careers: about his ‘Boy’s Own Paper’ leap from virtual obscurity to world champion in an incredibly short time; about how he became the nation’s sporting hero and the focal point of their obsessive interest –which was something he hated, incidentally; about how he retired from Grand Prix racing far too soon, dispirited by his lack of success in an uncompetitive car, when there isn’t a shadow of doubt that his talent could have made him world champion again, and again; or about how he effortlessly changed gear into a new role, as the BBC’s voice of authority in Formula One. James raced in an era where it was possible both to succeed and enjoy yourself. And he did both to the full. And then he matured, to pass on his experience and his knowledge to his successors, and an enormous audience, by means of that commanding voice, presence and his natural authority. His sudden death, totally unexpected, and tragic for one so young and seemingly so fit, touched the nation like few other things in my experience. It’s a theory of mine that television communicates people to the viewer like they really are. And it certainly did in James’ case. I have had dozens and dozens of truly moving letters telling me that the writers felt they’d lost a real and valued personal friend, whose warmth and humour had enriched their lives, and whose experience, knowledge and outspokenness had kindled and developed their interest in Grand Prix racing. Now if my theory is correct, it’s not difficult to see why. They saw James as a character, which he certainly was. They saw him as his own man, which he most certainly was. They saw him as a having a bright, breezy, lively personality, which he did. And they loved his irreverence and his provocative comments because James, anywhere and everywhere, was never reluctant to speak his mind. An incredibly clear-thinking and analytical mind, which may sometimes have produced words his targets didn’t like – I didn’t like some of them – but which he was always ready to defend to their faces with logic and eloquence that usually won them over. ‘I’m just off to have it out with so-and-so about last week,’ he’d say. And then you’d see him calmly justify his case in the paddock, when most people would have laid low and hoped that it would go away. But then he would always apologise if he felt he’d been wrong. Apropos of which, I have never known a public figure of his magnitude, of his very considerable magnitude, who was as unaffected by his success and as self-effacing as James was. Letter after letter told me how the writer had met him somewhere and been overwhelmed by the fact that he found the time to stop and just chat like any other enthusiast. You know, the paying public on the other side of the track get next to no direct contact with their heroes these days. But they got the consideration they deserved from James. ‘One of the reasons I retired, Murray,’ he told me, ‘was that I just couldn’t stand being a human honey pot wherever I went; restaurants, pubs, out on the street. Everyone wanting a part of me. No privacy. No way could I lead a normal life.’ Hardly surprising when practically everything he did created national headlines at the of his racing fame. But James was essentially a private man, and he didn’t really like the ceaseless adulation. When his racing career was over, he was glad to get away from it, go about his new life – forever accompanied by his beloved Oscar – become a truly loving father, and do something which must have seemed totally out of character to most people: successfully breed and show budgerigars. So, a paragon of humanity? Nothing to criticise? No weak points? Well, of course there were, and thank heavens too. None of us is perfect. There are people here who could write a book about James Hunt’s escapades. And an immensely readable bestseller it would be, too. And when the adrenaline was running high, he could be a fearsome chap. I’ve seen him fell a rival competitor who angered him. I’ve seen him do the same to a marshal who incurred his wrath. I bet Teddy Mayer hasn’t forgotten the roasting he got at the end of his Japanese Grand Prix whilst he was vainly trying to tell a furious James, who thought he’d failed, that he had in fact clinched the world championship. And I certainly won’t forget the tongue lashing that an unfortunate technician got in Australia when a communication failure made James look silly. But, that same adrenaline surge gave him the selfless courage to rescue Ronnie Peterson from his blazing Lotus at Monza. Bravery can take many forms, but surely none greater than voluntarily plunging into fire to save your fellow man. James could charm the birds out of the trees, but sadly he wasn’t spared hard times in recent years. Personal and financial problems had made things very tough indeed for him. But you’d never have known it. He was unfailingly cheerful and remained the kind, courteous and helpful English gentleman he had always been. And he industriously knuckled down to getting out of the trouble he was in. In his job as racing consultant, he passed on his hard-won knowledge and expertise to a new generation of drivers. Ask his friend and mentor, John Hogan. Ask Johnny Herbert. Ask Mika Hakkinen. In his job as a TV commentator, he was a friend and talented contributor to his colleagues. Ask Jonathan Martin, the BBC’s head of sport. Ask Mark Wilkin, the producer of Grand Prix. Ask me. And in his new job as a journalist, he was a very welcome and lively addition to the press room; one who had shown the same dedicated determination to succeed as he had at the last three Grands Prix of 1976, where quite outstanding drives against the odds won him his world championship. On Sunday 13th June, James cycled from his home in Wimbledon to the television centre at Shepherd’s Bush, gave his customary, authoritative commentary on the Ca
nadian Grand Prix, did his column and cycled home again, seemingly his usual self. Little more than 24 hours later, to stunned disbelief, he was no longer with us. Even now, it seems hardly conceivable that we’re no longer going to enjoy his ebullient presence and it hasn’t, somehow, all been a ghastly dream. They say the gods take those they love early. In which case, we can only console ourselves with the knowledge that 45 years of James’ life contained at least as much as 90 of anybody else’s. His loved ones, motor racing, his countless friends and all those who admired him from afar are infinitely the poorer for his passing. May he rest in peace.”
It was the performance of Murray Walker’s life, and every word was heartfelt.
The service climaxed with ‘Glory! Glory! Hallelujah!’ It all fitted together perfectly, as befitted a Nigel Davison production.
Of those who attended the service, no one can forget the image of Hunt’s two small boys, Tom and Freddie, at the end of the service, walking out down the aisle and smiling to each other as they went. Freddie Hunt, then approaching his sixth birthday, was shocked by the number of people at his father’s memorial service. He said years later: “I knew we weren’t a normal family and that daddy was special in some way, and I’d been to a funeral before so the funeral itself was no big deal. Don’t forget, I wasn’t quite six, so I was too young to take it all in. But when we had the memorial service and I saw how many people were there, that’s when I knew he was very special to everyone, not just Tom and me.”
Outside in the courtyard, friends and family mingled together as the wives and girlfriends posed happily for photographs and smiled knowingly at each other. It was a time for coming together, and Suzy, Jane, Sarah and Helen all knew things no one else knew about the man they had just honoured. They shared a common bond which would unite them forever.
David Gray, amongst a host of advertising agency people present, said: “The memorial service was amazing. It was perfect – the Wellington side of it and the English side of it.”
Stirling Moss reflected the views of many when he said: “What a terrible waste because finally James seemed to have become his own person.” He added: “I remember laughing because I’d been to a couple of memorial services and sat next to him, and he’d complained about the music, saying: ‘Well I wouldn’t have this at mine.’”
Gerald Donaldson, whose life had been devastated by the loss was very moved and said: “It was brilliantly done, there wasn’t much sadness, it was a celebration of his life.”
Helen Dyson said: “It will be a great comfort to all his friends to know that James was happier than he had ever been just before he died. He was famous for living life to the full, but I knew a much quieter man. He was a wonderful father to his sons and he was my best friend. He is and always will be the love of my life.”
The shock was over and the sadness had subsided for most of those present. That is, except for one man who could not be joyful that day. Tony Dron, Hunt’s friend and racing partner from that first year in Formula Ford in 1969, was absolutely desolate. For him, it was even worse than Tuesday 15th June, when he had first heard the news. The memorial service had brought back so many memories and now he couldn’t stop crying for his friend, as he said later: “I can remember being extremely disturbed in my head, and I couldn’t account for it at the time. I think that’s when it sunk in that he had really gone. I was really quite distressed by the whole day. I wouldn’t describe it as a happy occasion for me.” That afternoon, he paced the streets of Piccadilly for hours looking at the sky and talking to his great racing buddy.
Later, many of the people present drifted over to 136 Grosvenor Road, where Peter Hunt had hired the Westminster Boating Base for his brother’s farewell party. Hunt had left £5,000 in his will to pay for it. That money wouldn’t be realised until his house was sold, but still the party went ahead – paid for by someone.
The party was a huge success and Peter Hunt, ever the accountant, made sure his brother’s UK£5,000 was well spent and went a long way. But no man was more desolate that day than Tony Dron, as he said at the end: “And then I went home, went to sleep, got up and carried on with my life.”
CHAPTER 46
Life after James 1993
The aftermath of a premature death
There were a lot of people interested in James Hunt’s last will and testament, not least editors of Britain’s national tabloid newspapers. It was well known that Hunt had lost all of his money in 1989 but still managed to live in a grand house in Wimbledon; albeit with his brown Mercedes SL500 up on jacks to avoid paying any road taxes and insurance. The jacking up of his Mercedes had been a symbolic gesture by Hunt to tell the world he was poor. He planned to put the wheels back on as a signal that his financial troubles were over. He never lived long enough to do that.
The newspapers loved it, especially the Daily Express, which headlined its front page: ‘The hero who died penniless.’
When details of the will were published, the horrible truth was revealed. The value of his assets, made up exclusively of his house, was UK£1.233 million but he owed the banks UK£856,000. Once all that was settled, there then remained some UK£377,000 which was shared between his two sons and put in trust for them. The welfare of his sons was already catered for by an earlier trust fund that made maintenance payments to his ex-wife, Sarah.
Although his ex-wife threatened to sue the estate over disbursement of the will and her own maintenance payments, it was all settled out of court. Peter Hunt gathered all of Hunt’s trophies and memorabilia in order to disburse them to his sons. They were then of little value, but would be rather more valuable 17 years later.
The Hunt family had to go on without its most famous member. But one member, who was not really a member at all, faced the greatest difficulty – both emotionally and financially.
The widow who wasn’t, Helen Dyson was left in a very difficult position when Hunt died. She had given up her life for him and was left with literally nothing. Her circumstances were an accident of fate. He had not expected to die and had not made a new will to reflect their circumstances. But she had no regrets and did not blame her boyfriend for her plight at all. They were not even formally engaged. She said: “He was in the process of changing his will in accordance with our marriage plans. We hadn’t set a date but it was going to be soon. We would probably have married that autumn.”
It now fell to Peter Hunt to deal with Helen, who was living in Hunt’s house. The house had to be sold and Helen had to move out – these were the cold facts of the situation. He eased her transition by telling her she could live in the house until after Christmas and that he would somehow find her some cash from Hunt’s estate so that she could put down a deposit on a flat. She was grateful to Peter Hunt for allowing her to stay until January 1994. Those months in the house helped exorcise her grief.
Despite that, there is no question that Helen had the hardest time after the funeral. She got through it by blanking out the trauma surrounding his death. She resolved to remember only the three and a half years they had been together, the last year of which had been effectively as man and wife in everything but name.
During those seven months following Hunt’s death, she kept a detailed diary of her feelings day by day; it was one way of dealing with her grief. She also carried on painting in her studio and pretended her boyfriend was still in his office. Some days that summer, it really seemed as if he was, as the sun streamed in through the windows and she got lost in her own world, completely alone and unmolested. At night, she recreated the past and cried herself to sleep in their bed. She said: “I was like Miss Havisham. I was in cuckoo land.”
Eventually, Helen decided to celebrate Hunt’s life rather than mourn him and she entered what she calls a “euphoric stage” She said she was “so happy to be alive, celebrating life and feeling very strongly that James was with me in spirit.” It helped her recover, and by the time of the memorial service, she was well on her way.
After an emoti
onal Christmas and New Year, effectively on her own, Helen left the house one day in late January, and all her memories went with her as a removal company with a big furniture van quickly removed everything she had cherished into storage. She was allowed to keep none of it. Everything had been listed and itemised on the orders of Sarah. Helen was not granted any of Hunt’s personal effects, and that hurt her.
Hunt’s second wife ensured that everything was taken into storage, saying to Helen: “It’s all for the boys.” Helen also missed seeing his sons, Tom and Freddie, whom she adored. All she was able to take with her were her personal belongings and a gift that Hunt had given her on her last birthday. It was an art book and she had wrapped it in brown paper. Inside the cover, Hunt had written in gold ink: “To my darling Helen. May your colours soon surpass even the power and vibrancy of those in this book. With all my love, James. P. S. In the unlikely event that they don’t, I will still, and always, love you anyway.”
She moved back in with her parents, Mike and Molly. But at nearly 30 years of age, that was not a permanent option. Eventually, Peter Hunt came through with the money he had promised and she was able to get a mortgage on a one bedroom flat at the top of a big, old converted house in Wimbledon, less than a mile from the house she had once shared with Hunt.
She said: “When I was at our old house, I kept thinking, any minute James is going to come through that door. When I was with my parents, I couldn’t help thinking that one day I’d be going home to James.” When she finally moved into her own flat, his death suddenly became final. She was in her own home; a home with absolutely no connection to him, a place he had never been.
