Chapter 25: Ghost

November 1971, age 16

The remainder of my time in the United Arab Emirates was rather less stressful than the morning of our little war. In retribution for Dan setting me up for a fall, Sheikh Maktoum had him shackled and carted off to prison for ritual torture. I’m kidding. He insisted we join him at his father’s palace for lunch as honoured guests. His father was the Emir of Dubai, a very wealthy man, second only to the Emir of Abu Dhabi in the UAE. We ate well and built a useful relationship for the future.

Tuesday, Iran invaded Greater and Lesser Tunb, as predicted. Loud condemnation followed, with a protest filed at the United Nations. But somehow, nobody mentioned Abu Musa. At noon there was a ceremonial transfer of command from the British Army, and by the end of the day, they’d mostly packed up and flown out. Dan and I also flew home that afternoon, leaving the place in safe hands.

The next morning I staggered to school bleary eyed, but at least I was back in Britain in time to open the first door on my Advent calendar. Best month of the year!

December’s social calendar peaked at the premiere of the latest Bond: Diamonds are forever. The downside was that I had to figure out who to take as my date. I had invited all my mates to come along as usual, and Caity would be surrounded by her gaggle. I was stunned and a little hurt when Harry declined my invitation. When I pressed him, he told me, “I haven’t got a date to go with.” I worked out what that really meant, and it made me sigh. It can’t have been easy being gay at his age in the 1970s. Despite saying he could go without a date, he stuck to his guns. I thought about saying I wasn’t taking a date either, but with everyone else having a partner, that might have seemed odd. The last thing I needed was Rupert Murdoch running another story about me in his paper.

Finding a date was solved by Peter, as usual. He had unceremoniously dumped Jacqueline a few weeks earlier and found a group of three friends to accompany me, Tommy and Pete. That worked out nicely with no expectations attached. Meanwhile, my 13-year-old sister had her hooks well into Simon, her long-term friend-not-boyfriend. I think the ‘not boyfriend’ thing was to stop me worrying about their relationship. If so, it didn’t work. They were both well into puberty now, and while I liked Simon, I regularly threatened him with bodily harm should he ever let his hormones take over.

We did the premiere at the Empire Leicester Square this time, as we apparently owned it. It had belonged to Mecca, the bingo and dance hall company, which we’d bought, stripped of several valuable properties, and sold on. The Empire’s basement dance hall had been closed, and the building was gradually being converted into Britain’s first multiplex.

I made a point of seeking out the producer, Mr Broccoli, after the film. Two years earlier I’d ranted about On Her Majesty’s Secret Service. This time I gushed, making it clear how pleased I was with the new film and, hopefully, repairing our relationship a little.

Christmas was perfection that year. With Charlie and his mum down to stay, I had everyone I cared about there and no major worries on my mind. It was probably the happiest I’d felt in years.

Things turned a bit surreal on New Year’s Eve, as that was when the honours list was released, and the papers were full of it. (Not much else to report at that time of year.) All of them seemed to mention my MBE, as my age made me a novelty. Some were kindly, talking about our charities, some ... well, you can guess what Murdoch’s lot had to say.

We saw in the new year in style with a party at the house, our friends and their parents joining us. Despite having to suffer numerous silly questions about the MBE, we had a great time and the security guys put on a firework display in the garden at midnight.

At the end of the holiday when Charlie left, his mum promised that she’d bring him down for my investiture at the palace, whenever that might be. A package of information came from St James’s Palace a few weeks later, and the ceremony would be early-March. But it would be Prince Charles, not the Queen. Bit of a letdown, really.

At the end of January 1972 came a horrible event I couldn’t stop: Bloody Sunday. The foreknowledge made me sick. Similarly the car-bomb that would follow in February as retribution, but for different reasons. The latter I could have stopped with an anonymous phone call to Crimestoppers. But if I had, the Official IRA might have planned another bomb, perhaps bigger, and perhaps jeopardising the permanent ceasefire that would come in May. So Dan and I sat watching the events on the TV news, feeling ill together.

In February, Dan flew off to St. Moritz in Switzerland, for an important trip. He planned to bump into a German chap named Andreas Pavel, who had invented a belt-worn portable cassette player with personal headphones. Dan planned to ‘notice’ the ingenious device while the guy was testing it around town, and strike up a conversation. Dan would, of course, immediately see the potential of the product and offer Pavel a contract. We would tweak it, patent it and sell it: the Walkman.

Also in February came the grand opening of two new properties. First was our new research campus in Cambridge, which we called Silicon Fen. All our various research teams moved in, and Andreas Pavel soon quit his day job and joined them. Second was a new studio lot in Borehamwood, Britain’s answer to Hollywood. The town had three neighbouring studios, one of them belonging to MGM. At 130 acres, it was the largest of its kind anywhere in the world and had seen countless big-name stars on its stages. But MGM had had a mass sell-off of the family jewels (even selling Dorothy’s ruby slippers — sacrilege!), so we bought the place. They sold it to a housing developer for £2.5 million. It turns out, that was us. We’d spent the last year refurbishing the place and installing the latest equipment, and it got its grand re-opening to much fanfare (and grinding of teeth from MGM).

Then in March came my investiture to the Most Excellent Order of the (former) British Empire. I was allowed three guests, so I was taking Dan, Caity and Charlie. (I don’t think Uncle Will was too impressed with that.) We each got invitation cards with our names on, signed by the Lord Chamberlain. Mine had ‘Finnley Harrison MBE’, which was the first time I’d seen my name like that.

The tradition at these things was to wear morning dress: top hat and tails. That seemed a bit extreme to me, so I would wear my suit. Caity had a nice dress that was suitable, and Charlie’s mum had dragged him off shopping in Sheffield to buy a boy’s suit. When they arrived the night before the shindig, he insisted on he and I dressing up to show everyone our matching suits.

Walking through the gates of Buckingham Palace and onto hallowed ground was quite something. We walked through the archways, under the front section of the palace, and through the courtyard to the grand entrance. My guests were then shown to the ballroom, while I was put in another room with the other recipients. I have never felt more out of place!

When the time eventually came for my name to be called, all I had to do was walk up to Prince Charles without tripping over my feet, wait as he pinned the little medal on me, and then shake his hand. He said something complimentary about our charities, and then I was moved on. That was it. Time for some photos outside, then off.

Anatoly Volkov of the KGB sent me a card offering his congratulations, but I didn’t let that spoil my day.

“Happy birthday to you. Happy birthday to you. Happy birthday dear Fiiiiiinn”, fuck their singing was awful! “Happy birthday to you!”

It wasn’t my birthday, but my party was the weekend beforehand as the day itself was mid-week. This year we had hired a hotel ballroom and had it decked out as a casino. There was a central dance floor, and game tables around the edge. For a bunch of 16 and 17-year-olds who were too young to gamble properly, this was truly cool.

Seventeen in Britain was when you could get behind the wheel of a car for the first time. More importantly, it was when I could get my pilot’s license. I’d been flying solo for ages and looked forward to being able to take passengers with me.

I got presents from my family at breakfast, and was intrigued when Dan’s card said ‘present to follow later’. I had my usual Wednesday flying lesson that afternoon, and when I got to the field, I knew what Dan had done. He was stood there waiting for me, a bright yellow biplane behind him bearing an RAF roundel.

“You bought me a Tiger Moth?!”

“Happy birthday, Finn”

I was a bit overcome and grabbed him for a man-hug. He was an arsehole sometimes, but he had his good moments.

So my flying lesson that day was not quite what I expected.

Business-wise, everything was ticking along under Dan’s watchful eye. There weren’t any big acquisitions that year; it was more of a ‘batten down the hatches’ year in preparation for the approaching recession. But there was one meeting Dan asked me to attend. He needed a ‘good cop’. I would have preferred it the other way round, but hey.

We shook hands with Sir Donald Stokes, head of the British Leyland Motor Corporation. His company was a competitor to Rolls-Royce, but we were there as friends. Dan and Don were on first name terms.

“So, what brings you to my neck of the woods, Dan?”

“I’m afraid I’m here to spoil your day”, Dan replied. “Hear us out, and don’t forget that we’re on your side, alright? Finn...”

“Sir, your creditors are worried. They have a lot of faith in you personally, but they’re worried about some of the things they hear about British Leyland.” I made it sound apologetic. And true, which it wasn’t exactly. “So one of the banks asked us to investigate what’s going on, not just because we have knowledge of the industry from our other holdings, but because we have shares in your company and a vested interest to see it do well.”

Dan took over. “We’ve had a team dissecting your company to get a good look inside. We’ve had forensic accountants looking at your publicly available books, people talking to your staff and unions, people working undercover in your plants, people talking to your dealers, people inspecting a wide sample of your vehicles to assess quality control, and, most importantly, people canvassing your customers. The report does not make easy reading.” He handed it over. “It demonstrates that British Leyland has a good heart, but a rotten gut.”

Sir Donald was now ashen.

My turn. “Sir, we’re here to give you a sneak peak at the report before it goes to your creditors tomorrow. The report makes clear that you’ve made real progress in turning the company around since it was created. But BMH was almost bankrupt when the merger happened, and all their old problems are dragging you down. There’s a list of recommendations in that report, and we honestly believe that the company could have a bright future if they’re implemented.”

Bad cop again: “You’ve got five different brands of family car competing with each other. You’ve got three brands of sports car, two brands of executive car, and two of those compete in dual categories. Top of the task list is rationalising your product line. Next, you’ve got to sort out your union problems once and for all. You’ve got identical cars being built in two factories, seventy miles apart because your Austin workers refuse to build Morris badged cars and vice versa. Quality control is appalling! We found one car with a permanent rattle, took it to pieces and found empty beer cans inside the door frame! Presumably drunk by your workers inside the factory. And your management structure is chaotic. Too many people doing the same jobs. Too many people reporting directly to you. And you’re a military man! What happened to chain of command?!”

I provided a calming tone. “The point is that there’s nothing that can’t be fixed. The good news is that your customers like your products and generally forgive little problems. So when your creditors start calling tomorrow, tell them that you wholeheartedly back our recommendations and you’ll be putting them to the board.”

Sir Donald replied glumly, “The board will never support me after reading this. I’ll be out.”

“I don’t think so,” I told him, “because you can also tell them that you’ve negotiated a deal with us to license two new car designs and a new engine that runs on unleaded petrol, gets far more miles to the gallon and will help save the planet.”

“Really?”

“Yes”, Dan replied. “The prototypes are in the car park.”

“You’ve built them?!”

“We have”, I replied. “We needed to be able to test the engine on the road. There’s a Mini-on-steroids, and a mid-sized family car we’ve been calling the Montego.”

“But they come with strings attached”, Dan insisted. “You implement every one of our recommendations. Otherwise, the company is doomed. There’s no point in us licensing our work to you in that case.”

He was looking at the page of recommendations. “You want us to retire the Austin and Morris marques altogether. Sell Triumph and either Jaguar or MG? The unions will go nuts!”

“The list isn’t negotiable. I wouldn’t advise asking your creditors to take sides, either.”

“And I suppose you’d be interested in buying the brands we sell off?!”

“Yes, but only if it’s an open auction. We have a reputation to protect, and you need the maximum funds to clear debts and fund new lines.”

“And when should I expect to find this leaked to the press?”

I answered, “That depends on how loyal your board is. It won’t come from us. Like I said, we have a vested interest in your success. And so do your creditors.”

Dan smirked, “On the other hand, if there’s someone on your board who causes problems, just let us know. Being a newspaper proprietor does have its perks.”

At Easter, I took Charlie camping. He had loved sailing the previous summer, so we were going to the Lake District. We had booked into a camp site on the banks of Ullswater, which had its own boats available. The weather cooperated about half the time, alternating between glorious sunshine and light drizzle. We managed to capsize at one point, which I’m sure panicked Ewan. The water was fucking cold, and I swore in front of Charlie, but that served as comedy enough to distract him from being wet. We both had life jackets on, and righting a little boat like that isn’t too hard.

The summer term went well until I went and got myself suspended. In retrospect, I was pretty stupid. Not because I stood up against a guy who was bullying a younger kid, but because I hadn’t figured out it was a set-up.

It was between lessons when a guy right in front of me deliberately bumped a younger kid. I was on autopilot when I yelled “HEY”, and reached to stop the kid from falling. Somehow, I managed to knock the older guy, and he went tumbling.

One of the guy’s two friends yelled, “Don’t hurt him” at me, which of course brought a teacher running. Then began the circus!

We all ended up in the deputy headmaster’s office, including Ewan, who’d been right behind me. The bully claimed he’d accidentally bumped into the younger kid and I’d gone mental, pushing him over and making threats. His two mates backed him up. I gave my version, confirmed by Ewan. Then the younger kid was asked whether he thought he’d been knocked accidentally or deliberately, and he went with the former. Why, I do not know. The kid also said he hadn’t seen how the other guy ended up on the floor and didn’t remember any threats.

Now, you’d think that the deputy head would take the word of an adult. Yes? No. Apparently, when that adult was an employee of my family, his word counted for nothing as he would be bound to take my side. So the deputy head decided he didn’t much believe either of our stories and sent us both home with one-day suspensions.