Dear Friends and Relations,
I am sorry to have to tell you that Bill died in the evening of Sunday May 2nd at the Edinburgh Royal Infirmary. We had perhaps expected a few days more. He had been in the UK for 45 years on May 1st, and we were able to have a quiet celebration with him, with one of the last bottles of his sparkling wine (grown and made at every stage by Bill himself in Norfolk).
Our three daughters are with me and we have plans to make now for the funeral and the future. It is likely, given our distance from most of you, the remnants of the pandemic and Bill’s wish for ‘no fuss’, that the funeral will be a very small ceremony restricted to our immediate family, but we shall keep you informed if that changes.
We shall be unable to speak to you on the phone, or answer messages during this period… I am sure you will understand. I would like to thank everybody for their kindness and support during the past 20 months, you have been wonderful.
With love from
Alison
Address by George Laurence Monday 17 May 2021
Bill and I go right back. To be precise, 62 years. If you have felt deep affection for first the boy and then the man for 62 years, you become the beneficiary of the resulting friendship in many and unforeseen ways. But for my friendship with Bill I’d never have met Alison or their lovely daughters, or had the chance to share the company of some of his many friends and colleagues. The gifts he came bearing included, of course, his enthusiasm and his multiple talents. These were not always immediately apparent, because he hid them so effectively behind his trademark chuckle, his glorious dimple and his innate modesty.
Bill taught me many things during our long friendship, starting with the thing he taught me the day I met him for the first time. He was batting for the Sunnyside Primary School in the South African summer of 1958. The School B team was playing the Brooklyn Primary School B team. I was in the Brooklyn team, fielding at mid-off. We were 11 years old. Our fast bowler came in to bowl. Bill prodded forward, audibly scraping the pitch with the bottom of his bat, but not making contact with the ball. The wicketkeeper caught it as it went through to him. He appealed for a catch. The umpire (outrageously) gave Bill out. As he walked disconsolately away, I couldn’t help seeing a tear or two as they flowed down his cheek. On the face of this boy, writ large, were frustration, rage, disappointment and despair. He had lost his precious wicket through an unjust decision. Three things were immediately obvious: cricket wasn’t just a game to Bill; injustice made him very cross; but the law was the law. And the law said: If the umpire gave you out, off you went.
18 months later we found ourselves in the same class at our big school, Pretoria Boys High. After that we were together for the next 8 years – 5 at school all in the same class and, after a break for military service, 3 more years at UCT in the famous Smuts Hall, named after Field Marshall Smuts whose statue stands in Parliament Square.
If you spend 8 years with first a boy and then a young man – go to your first dancing classes together, play every manner of sport, compete in the classroom for academic honours and share everything going on in your head and your heart – the way boys can do if they feel safe with each other – if you do these things, you become bound together as if by hoops of steel.
Mr and Mrs Moodie, Bill’s parents, doted on their clever, fair-haired sporty boy. My parents were very fond of him, so were and are my sisters. He made friends at school, one of whom, Bruce Currer, became a life-long friend. There were many others. 17 years ago, our classmates gathered in Pretoria from around the world to celebrate 40 years since our matriculation in 1964. As the dawn broke after a long night of revelry, our friend Tom Roy was batting with an umbrella, and Bill was bowling to him with an orange in place of a ball.
On his wedding day – how stunning you both looked, Alison – I recalled Bill’s exploits as a slightly-built, fearless 14 year old fly half. He intercepted a pass and was away, racing for the try line 75 yards away. A big, bruiser of a 6ft boy set off in pursuit and caught up with him just short of the line. The bloke hurled himself on top of Bill, crushing him down so that he lay more or less flush with the turf. You couldn’t really see him anymore. After what seemed like an age, first a foot, then an arm, then a bit of leg and shoulder appeared. It became apparent that a boy was materialising out of the Highveld before our eyes. The boy shook himself off like a wet dog shakes off the rain water. And, without more fuss, bloodied and bruised, carried on playing. I was so proud of him that day and remained so ever since.
That courage, lightly worn, later stood him in very good stead when he found himself appointed head of intellectual property at Herbert Smith, in the City of London, one of the world’s top law firms. Bill was an inspired choice. He had the brains and the necessary qualifications of course, not just as an able electrical engineer but also an astute lawyer. But he had another other fantastic quality: he trusted, and had the courage to trust, those less experienced in his department to do what was asked of them. So a whole generation of fine young lawyers found out at a very young age what they were capable of. One of those lawyers, Nick Gardner, later became head of the department himself. I read the most moving tribute he wrote to Alison, and agree with every word of it.
Bill could also be simultaneously both an utterly disarming opponent and an exceptionally effective tactician. A solicitor friend of mine (call him Stephen) had never met Bill. Stephen was the opposing lawyer in a piece of fraught litigation. Stephen rang Herbert Smith and was put through to Bill as the lawyer on the other side. Bill was new to the case – one of his colleagues had previously been handling it – so Stephen told Bill what the case was about and that there were three main points Bill’s clients were arguing for: points X, Y and Z. “What!” says Bill, “Are you telling me we really are arguing for point X? Point X is complete rubbish.” Pause. “Mind you (chuckle) Points Y and Z sound pretty good to me”. The two guys settled the whole case (very much to the advantage of Bill’s client) a week later.
The last 20 months of Bill’s life, especially with the Pandemic raging for most of it, were extremely exacting for him and his family. I know because he told me so.
From my position as one of the many concerned onlookers, I think I can nevertheless say this. Bill left me in no doubt that he was up for the fight. Only now do I realise how important to me that was. It was an ongoing reminder that, even as he faced the inevitable, one thing that his friends and all who loved him would be able to take for granted was that he would stay in character.
He spoke as he had always spoken, directly and to the point. He kept things short and simple, as he always had. With Bill, less was always more. You sometimes didn’t get much; but what you got was gold dust. A true and stalwart gentleman has passed from our midst. I will miss you, my friend.
George