Stability and Security

From the time when we got to know each other in 1947 until early 1953, Brian's life and mine had consisted of a series of extraordinary events. Some were due to circumstances beyond our control; others were of our own creation. If, as I have suggested, our life at Harwell resembled two acts in a drama, then both acts must have been divided into several short scenes, each a play in itself, requiring scene-shifting, changes of costume and the introduction of new characters in rapid succession. Now, although we derived enormous stimulation and interest from the events at work and the company of colleagues, both old and new, we were in for a period of calm. It was as if the tempo of allegro molto agitato gradually gave way to andante cantabile. If we were to draw a chart of the next few years it would show a steady upward curve interrupted by events of small emotional magnitude compared to the violent swings from the sharp peaks to the deep troughs of the immediate past.

Atomic energy was becoming a vital part of the world's progress, and in Britain there were more establishments being set up to take care of aspects other than basic research. Apart from Harwell and Capenhurst, which I have already mentioned, there was the engineering site at Risley, from which Sir Christopher Hinton and his team designed the plutonium production facility at Windscale, and later the world's first nuclear power stations at nearby Calder Hall, and later at Chapel Cross in Scotland. There was the establishment at Winfrith Heath, where a prototype heavy water reactor was built, and where later, when it became a matter of public concern, much work was to be done on the safety of nuclear reactor designs. There was the Dounreay site in Caithness, where there were built two of the world's first fast reactors, so-called second generation nuclear power stations in embryo. And in south Berkshire, and inevitably rather separated from the rest of us, there was Aldermaston, the controversial Atomic Weapons Research Establishment, where our nuclear weapons were designed and built. They were exciting days, and every month there was proposed some new variant of the reactor types already being worked upon. Few were in the end to see the light of day, but one had a feeling of immensely vital and inventive activity, the essential worth and promise of which was never questioned.

Brian's position was confirmed within a very short time of his provisional appointment, and he was granted the rank and the salary consistent with it.

Urged on by Lord Cherwell, the Prime Minister's advisor on scientific matters, atomic energy was taken out of the Civil Service so that relations with industry could be easier and personal rewards not so constrained. In 1954 the Atomic Energy Authority was set up under the Chairmanship of Sir Edwin (later Lord) Plowden. Their headquarters were to be located in Charles II Street, off Piccadilly, in the heart of London, where they are still to be found today. Sir John Cockcroft, who by this time had been granted many well deserved honours for the part he had played, including the much coveted Order of Merit, became the Member for Research. Although he continued to live at and work from Harwell, a Deputy Director was appointed who afterwards took over the running of the Establishment. Basil Shonland was chosen for the job. He was a solid, white-haired South African whose profile looked as if it had been hewn from the rock of his native land. He was known for his work on lightning and thunderstorms, had been Field Marshal Montgomery's advisor, and was an avowed opponent of the apartheid policies of his country's government. He had a firm hand, a humorous touch and lost little time in asserting himself.

Harwell had grown under Cockcroft's inspiration, with very little control on numbers or budgets. It was far larger than even Cockcroft himself had ever imagined it would become. The whole structure of Harwell changed from being a unique and independent institution to part of a much larger organization, one which was to assume significant importance on the national scene, and within which the activities of Harwell for the first time had to be seen to be justified in terms of the whole. With the benefit of hindsight, it was an inevitable transition from the enjoyable anarchy of the earlier years, but it seemed to many at the time that Shonland's appointment was a disaster. Where Cockcroft had shown an immediate interest in any new idea, however trivial, Shonland's immediate reaction was to ask how much it would cost to implement. In fact, Shonland made an excellent Deputy Director, adept at clearing up the difficulties created by a Director who had little interest in, or sympathy for, administrative detail. When he succeeded to the title of Director, however, and the inspiration of Cockcroft was no longer to be so directly felt, the effect on morale was immediate and for the worse.

Staff appointments and salaries came under review and Brian was given what was known as a ``B post'' with an increased salary. Two years later he was promoted to an ``A post'', equivalent to that of Chief Scientific Officer in the Civil Service.

In family matters, the time had come for us to think seriously about the boys' education. I wanted them to live with us and go to one of the excellent schools in our area. Having been to a boarding school myself, which I loathed, I was impatient to get them away from theirs. It was a pleasant place, but I felt it had served its purpose in filling the gap where there was no permanent base for them. I have always regarded life at home to be the natural environment for children of their age, and boarding schools, however excellent, second best. For only children, children with parents stationed abroad, or continually on the move, they are doubtless a good solution. When I cast my mind back to my own schooldays, I remember thinking during the time I was away: ``I have a happy and comfortable home. Why on earth can't I live in it?'' I had more than a hunch that Peter and Michael had similar feelings.

Peter did sufficiently well in what was known as the ``eleven plus exam'' - the test which determined a child's academic potential and decided whether he or she merited a grammar school education. He also passed the necessary entrance requirements for Magdalen College School in Oxford. There was in Abingdon, about half a mile down the road, an up-to-date state primary school where, because of its location between two of Harwell's housing estates, the pupils were drawn mostly from families with academic interests, thus creating a competitive atmosphere and increased probability of success in these exams. Michael could attend there for a year until he too could sit for them and hopefully join Peter in Oxford. I proposed to bring them both home to live in the happy and stable atmosphere that Brian had helped me create. I felt it was also important that in view of past events they remain together. Their relationship as companions as well as brothers was essential to their emotional security.

They spent part of every school holiday with Oscar who had established himself, with his wife and a new son, in a flat in Cambridge. Another son was soon added to their family. Unfortunately, Oscar did not agree with my plans, and said he would prefer the boys to continue at a boarding school. These differences of opinion had to be resolved somehow. I did not want my children to be the subject of quarrels as to their future. Oscar had his reasons, which I'm sure were well-founded. I, on the other hand, remained convinced that they had had quite enough disturbance for the time being and deserved a bit of the continuity that normal home life could offer. I may have been wrong, but subsequent events would indicate that my actions were, at any rate, certainly not disastrous. An expert in child-care whom I had consulted advised me that the most important thing in a child's life at that stage of his development, particularly when the parents are living apart, is to know where his home is. It can never be in two places. He further stressed that, unless it is unsuitable because of some obvious lack of amenity, or personality defect in parent or partner, home should be where the mother is.

Rather reluctantly I had to apply to the Court for formal custody. I should far rather have kept as they were the relaxed, informal conditions governing the children's care, but there was another important consideration. This had some sad aspects; and I set it down here to illustrate how the conditions of national security in which we lived affected our private lives.

At that time, once a custody order was made, a child could not be taken out of the jurisdiction of the Court - and that meant out of the country - without special application for permission to do so. Henry Arnold had frequently persuaded me not to attempt to take the children with us on trips abroad. If I did, he pointed out, Oscar would want to have the same rights, and for a number of reasons he thought this inadvisable. He was very keen that the custody order be made without delay. Moreover, both Henry and my lawyers persuaded me to seek an opinion from an expert in German law.

Counsel's findings were revealing. Oscar, as a refugee from Nazi oppression, could regain his German nationality at the drop of a hat. But, believe it or not, Peter - in the eyes of the Bonn government at any rate - was a German citizen, because his father, still waiting for his naturalization, was German at the time of his birth. Once again I found myself caught up in a web of nationality problems. Should Oscar want to return to Germany to live and work, and should he take the children with him, I would certainly be powerless to extradite Peter. I thought it very unlikely that Oscar would want to make such a move. I knew that his experiences in Germany had, not surprisingly, left him with bitter feelings about his country of origin. He owed much to Britain; it was his chosen home, and had provided the soil in which he had put down fresh roots.

There was another problem which seemed even more absurd and quite ludicrous. East Germany was building up a programme of nuclear research and would have been in a position to offer Oscar a commanding position there. I was quite shocked at the idea, and told Henry that I was convinced, beyond any shadow of doubt, that Oscar's loyalty to Britain and the western way of life would never allow him to defect. The whole question was not only hypothetical but totally preposterous. Even were the East Germans to tempt Oscar with the best facilities and conditions they had to offer, he would certainly resist it. Henry explained with patience that it was not the PROBABLE that concerned him but the POSSIBLE. He agreed with me that it was hardly likely that Oscar would do such a thing, but the fact remained that he COULD. Should he take the boys and keep them in Germany, particularly in the German Democratic Republic, my being denied access to my children would immediately represent a security risk. This was Henry's prime concern. It was considered that the emotional deprivation which I was bound to suffer as a result might render me unreliable and open to all manner of pressures, even blackmail. This, in turn, would jeopardize Brian's position and national security.

Even during the boys' visits to their father, when the old Bünemanns were in Cambridge too, Henry would get rather nervous lest their grandparents should attempt to take them back to Hamburg with them. Such was his anxiety that he once told me that he was having a watch kept at the appropriate ports.

The tragic aspect of this particular problem was that Oscar's parents were by this time becoming frail, and his mother was being treated for cancer. Visits to England were going to be increasingly difficult for them. It was therefore not surprising that Oscar expressed a desire to take the children to Hamburg before they embarked on any continental holiday with us. However, the expert opinion we sought through our lawyers was quite clear. The view expressed was that in no circumstances should Peter and Michael be allowed to enter Germany without me. I felt sorry for the old people and had no desire to add to all their suffering, particularly as they had been separated from their only son for so many years. I immediately volunteered to take the boys to visit their grandparents, and said I would be responsible for all the expenses involved. I would seek the cooperation of Oscar's sister, whom I loved and trusted, to help me conduct the visit in the most diplomatic way possible. Alas, my offer was turned down. Oscar said that my appearance would cause his family distress. Whereas I could understand their dislike of me, I felt extremely sorry at this turn of events. Knowing now just what it means to have many miles between me and my grandchildren, I am surprised. I feel fairly certain that even were mine brought to visit me by a particularly hated bête noir, I should be so glad to see them that it would prove worthwhile to smother my feelings and welcome their escort, provided that they came to no physical or mental harm.

When the case was heard, I was granted full custody with, surprisingly, the right to take or send my children wheresoever I pleased; but Oscar was not granted these rights, and he never applied to the Court again. However, I always made sure that he had plenty of access to his sons, and their German grandparents saw the boys on their last visit to England. To the best of my knowledge the old people never saw their youngest grandchild - Oscar's second son by his new marriage - at all, but that, of course, had nothing to do with legal jurisdiction. Shortly afterwards, Oscar went to Stanford, California for a sabbatical year, and subsequently took his new family to live there permanently. Several years later, when the boys were old enough to make their own decisions, Michael wanted to visit his father in California, and we ran into another of our nationality problems. We had registered his birth with the British consulate in San Francisco, thereby making him a British subject. As his birthplace was in California, however, the Americans deemed him to be a US citizen. This became clear when we went to the US consulate in Manchester to apply for a visa, necessary in those days for holders of a British passport, of which he was one. The war in Vietnam was raging, and as an American citizen he would have been eligible for conscription! Heaven forbid that my son should be regarded as a coward. But he owed no allegiance to the country of his birth, which he had left when he was two months old. After having been assured by the US consul that he would not be drafted he was nevertheless sent his conscription papers by the Draft Board. Fortunately, Oscar cooperated and we jointly fought the Board. In due course, our lawyers and Oscar's got his release, citing a protocol of the League of Nations intended to protect citizens of dual nationality from being recruited into the armed forces against their will in the country that was not their main home. It had been championed by the United States but never before used against them. Nowadays Michael's dual nationality is recognised by all and he proudly carries two passports.

At the time I was given custody, several years earlier, it was decided that my arrangements for the boys' schooling were to stand. Peter enrolled at Magdalen College School where he seemed happy enough and quite grown-up in his new, long trousers and the regulation black and scarlet blazer and cap. The grey stone buildings in which he worked were mostly quite old, and the great College, whose name they shared, exuded an atmosphere of scholarly and almost monastic antiquity. The school was situated in the shadow of that magnificent chapel from which some of the best choral music is to be heard. On fine days he could walk across the tranquil Christchurch Meadows on his way from the bus. Michael spent a year at the local primary school in Abingdon, where, being a great extrovert, he specialized in spotting railway engines and making friends. A typical boy of ten years old, he had to be dragged from the railway line in summer and the TV set in winter to complete his homework. He did well enough despite these distractions, and after passing his exams in 1956 joined his brother at school in Oxford.

Life for us may have been serene, but there was nothing in the least dull about it. Brian continued his work on the structure of atomic nuclei and on nuclear reactions, although increasingly tied up in the running of his Division. He was anxious to increase its intellectual breadth because of the wide variety of problems being thrown up by the research programme generally. It was in this connection that he recruited Mick Lomer, an erstwhile pupil of Sir Laurence Bragg, who was eventually to succeed Brian as head of the Division. Mick took charge of the theoretical studies of what happened to materials inside a nuclear reactor. Together they recruited a number of young staff for that purpose. One of them, whom Brian had taught during his stay in Birmingham, and who like him was therefore a student of Rudi Peierls, was the late Walter Marshall. Later Lord Marshall of Goring, he was to enjoy a spectacular career, and Brian, no slag himself, watched this former pupil with fascination as he rapidly rose to become first an expert on the magnetic properties of neutrons, then Head of the Theoretical Physics Division, then Director of Harwell, then Chairman of the Atomic Energy Authority, and subsequently Chairman of the General Electricity Generating Board.

Another young colleague, who became a friend and who opened up a whole new perspective in our lives, was a young Russian who had been sent to work with Brian by the USSR Academy of Sciences. We called him Alik. For obvious reasons he could not be supervised at Harwell, so it was arranged that Brian would give him the necessary tuition at the Clarendon Laboratory in Oxford. By this time Brian had become a Master of Arts of that University and attached to Brasenose College in recognition of the growing relationship between Harwell and Oxford.

It was quite a historic day when Brian first brought Alik to our house. We knew virtually nothing about Soviet citizens. The only time Brian had observed any at close quarters was when Bulganin and Krushchev, who had jointly ascended to power after the downfall of Malenkov, paid a formal visit to Harwell in the company of the great Academician Kurchatov. They might nave been visitors from Mars to judge by all the excitement their visit caused. Most of us had to be content with a glimpse of them being driven away in a swift, black limousine from their Embassy. We had certainly never conversed with a Soviet Russian before. Alik was shy, youthful and blond. His clothes had an odd, rather old-fashioned cut of the sort I had noticed on refugees from central Europe before the war. He had never been away from his home until now, and his English was halting. We soon found out how sad and lonely he was. Having been sent to this country for a year, he was facing a separation from his young wife and their nine-month old daughter. We and our friends set about cheering him up. That first evening we were to have unexpected help in communicating with our visitor by a television programme. That brilliant comedian Victor Borge was due to appear at eight-thirty and I insisted we finish our dinner by that time. Brian and I argued. He said that we must put our guest first and our entertainment last. As it happened, we had finished our meal before the concert started, and as is so often the case, laughter broke down the barriers. Borge was at his funniest, playing the opening bars of Tschaikovsky's piano concerto with his bottom, falling off the piano stool, slamming the lid down to coincide with heavy moments from the percussion, and displaying all that expertise in musical slapstick for which he was so justly famous. Alik nearly choked with giggles and so did we. We had found a happy common denominator, and he became great friends with us and the boys. We were able to introduce him to so many of the people we knew, and we all talked informally and frankly about the differences in our two cultures. Towards the end of his stay, Alik thanked us for taking care of him so well and told us how much he had enjoyed his tuition and getting to know us all. But he confessed to feeling more sympathetic to the Soviet way of life than when he first arrived in England. He felt we were obsessed with inessentials, and having noticed the disparity between rich and poor he said, ``Really I find it unnecessary to have so many cars or washing machines to choose from.'' We saw him again once at a meeting in Moscow, and once in Canada where he greeted us warmly. After a few years our Christmas cards went unanswered and we lost touch.

This was the time that the USSR was showing a few chinks in the impenetrability of its iron curtain, and discussions between scientists from east and west were arranged. There was a tremendously thrilling conference on the Peaceful Uses of Atomic Energy (``Useful Pieces'' it was inevitably called), where delegations from an enormous number of countries met in Geneva. Another was to take place in 1958. This was a period of rapprochement. Experts in all walks of life exchanged visits, and it was fascinating to be able to meet and talk with people from Eastern bloc countries in normal circumstances, and apparently unsupervised. Shortly afterwards, tourism began to open up. We were all disappointed when, in 1956, the suppression of the moderate Nagy regime was crushed in Hungary and Russian tanks rolled into Budapest. It was to be one of the many set-backs in the improvement in relations we had all hoped for since the death of Stalin.

We entertained many guests from overseas during these years, and enjoyed reciprocal invitations. Whenever there was a conference at Harwell we would endeavour to give some sort of party, and our house was usually teeming with guests from home and abroad. The boys benefited greatly from meeting people from widely differing backgrounds.

We invited the Racahs to stay with us after a conference in Birmingham, and we subsequently visited them on Giulio's spectacular vineyards in Italy, which he had reclaimed after the war. I had feared that this would be no holiday for Brian as the men were bound to be immersed in discussions concerning nuclear physics. As it happened they only discussed it for one day; the rest of the time was happily consumed by Brian receiving valuable tuition in viniculture as they walked up and down between rows of vines in the autumn sunlight.

We visited them in Israel too, in 1957, when the first nuclear physics conference was held in that country. This was among the most interesting of the many trips we made at that time. It had always been an ambition of mine to visit the Promised Land, and I was glad that our first experience there was at about the time of the country's ninth birthday. We travelled widely within the somewhat peculiar frontiers existing then, from what was the Lebanese border to the Negev, looking at newly-planted forests, towns in the process of being planned - a few short steps from the drawing board - and a variety of vegetation from banana plantations to rose gardens. ``If we have water we can grow almost anything,'' we were told.

In the Judean Hills, as well as in the conference rooms at the new Hebrew University in Jerusalem, experiments were described and ideas exchanged. It was a poignant sadness that the original University which bore that name, built with such enthusiasm and hope on Mount Scopus in the 1930s, lay unused and uninhabited in the Eastern part of the city that was then in Jordanian hands. Giulio, among many of the professors who had held appointments there since before the formation of the state, was obliged to leave valuable books and papers there. It was also unbearably frustrating that the old city was barred to us on that first visit. The minute glimpses we were able to get from the top of the YMCA tower and the terrace of the King David Hotel only served to aggravate the feeling that our stay in that most notable of cities was incomplete. Technically it would have been possible to cross the border at the Mandelbaum Gate after waiting for the necessary visas and permits which had to be applied for months in advance, but we did not have the time. Brian needed to get back to his work and I had to meet the boys who had been staying with friends in France.

Those were the days when Israel was an enthusiastic and hopeful young democracy. Many of the European visionaries and founding fathers were still alive and active; we were introduced to David Ben Gurion, Golda Meir and Moshe Dayan. The belligerence and bitterness one observes among so many of the young there to-day, who have grown up in two generations of strife, had not yet set in. I have a clear memory of an enormous meeting of great minds in the Jewish homeland - and such an amazing preponderance of the great scientists of the time were Jews - of lively discussions, vigorous arguments and above all, laughter. I remember a tremendous argument concerning collective motion in the nuclear shell model between Brian and Aage Bohr, son of the famous Niels, who with his family became close friends. The whole assembly was riveted by the sparring match, even Pauli, frequently sarcastic about the theories produced by the young, becoming as enthusiastic as a spectator at a ball-game. His oscillations became faster as he bellowed with laughter and referred to them as Scylla and Charybdis.

Brian was frequently invited to lecture in the United States and in many parts of Europe. In Scandinavia we consolidated our friendship with the Bohrs and made many new ones. We drove to Yugoslavia where Brian was to pay one of his visits to the Ruder Boscovic Institute at Zagreb. The country had not yet been charted by the Automobile Association and the maps were rudimentary, and we rarely managed to make ourselves understood except by mime. In contrast with the holidays offered by the glossy travel brochures of to-day, this was an adventure requiring every scrap of initiative we were capable of.

Although I accompanied Brian on his trips whenever possible, I sometimes had to stay behind because I could find no suitable arrangements for the boys. My parents were always glad to look after them, but Brian was extremely definite about school taking absolute priority and unscheduled days off were not allowed.

In early December of 1957 Brian was the first from Harwell to be invited to visit Moscow. I was sent a formal invitation too, but was unfortunately forced to decline and didn't go there until later. I had been pregnant but had lost the child very prematurely. Brian and I had delayed starting a family of our own until we felt that the one we already had was secure enough not to feel excluded by a newcomer in its midst. This was a disappointment, particularly as I never managed to replace this loss. An early admission to hospital was necessary which I could not postpone in order to go on a journey. It was a sad time but Brian's early venture into what was virtually the unknown territory of Russia helped to take our minds off the grief we shared.

Once again the security services had to have a good think and we gave Henry Arnold another of his headaches. Brian was naturally trusted to carry out his mission with all the diplomacy required in such circumstances; but there had been one or two occasions when visitors from the West had been reported inaccurately, and unfortunate words put into their mouths. Whether this had been deliberate on the part of the Russians or not it was decided that in view of Brian's somewhat special circumstances, no chances should be taken. He was to take his own ``interpreter''. This was quite a reasonable step in the eyes of everyone, for it made sure that even if Brian's public utterances were misrepresented there would be a witness to set the record straight. The linguist chosen to accompany him was a young reader in Russian, later to become a professor, from Edinburgh University. His name was Dennis Ward, and he possessed an uncanny gift for languages. He had picked up Russian during military service in Berlin, when the city was under quadripartite control. He even distinguished himself by becoming interpreter to the Russian Commander-in-Chief. He was so successful at it that he not only spoke it with the fluency of a native but researched into its literature and history as well.

The manner of their arrival in Russia provided the material for many an after-dinner story. Planes were cancelled, flights delayed; there was an unexpected stop-over in Brno in Czechoslovakia, for which place they had no visas; and from which there appeared to be no connection for several days. There followed a seemingly endless wait until a message was flashed through giving instructions that Dr Flowers was to be brought to Moscow by the first available transport. The only aircraft on the tarmac able to make the journey was Krushchev's private 'plane. Zapotec, the President of Czechoslovakia, had just died and China's Chow En Lai had come to pay his respects via Moscow. He had been duly despatched in this air-borne Victorian drawing-room. Brian and Dennis told of an extraordinary flight, lolling on velvet sofas, smoking cigars and drinking vodka amid the plushest fittings, with no mention of safety regulations or fastening seat-bells.

Upon their arrival in Moscow, Dennis was regarded as Brian's bodyguard or commissar, which in a sense he was; and their hosts were somewhat taken aback when quite casually one day they went their separate ways by mutual agreement (such was their embarrassment), Dennis accepting an invitation to deliver a lecture on Old Slavonic Poetry at Moscow State University. Those who had been told off to watch him from their side had no idea that British policemen were so resourceful. They caused further confusion among the ranks of the interpreters by walking home unaccompanied, by way of a late night cafe, after a reception one evening at the British Embassy. Whether this consternation resulted from an affronted sense of Russian hospitality, or from fears that their guests had trodden an unapproved path, we shall never know. At all events, they were greatly surprised that Brian had turned down the offer of a diplomatic car in favour of a stroll.

In subsequent years we were both to have other experiences in Russia and its satellite countries. Some were pleasant, others alarming. But they have demonstrated to us both that the theories of Marx and Engels may make inspiring reading to some, but when put into practice a great deal seems to go wrong and the outcome is very different from the Utopia of their imaginations.

The start of 1958 found us with a big decision waiting to be arrived at. Brian had made what was generally regarded as a success of his assignment at Harwell, not only in putting the Theoretical Physics Division back on its feet but in helping to formulate the future of the whole establishment. Should he continue at Harwell or expand his academic work a bit further?

The chair of theoretical physics fell vacant at Manchester University. Although Brian had previously refused one or two such offers, we eventually decided that he would accept this one when it was offered. Manchester was hardly the place I wanted to return to, but it was to prove worthwhile for me to put my feelings in the matter to the back of my mind. It was just the job Brian needed at the time, and moreover the High Master of Manchester Grammar School, Sir Eric James, who was to be one of the first life peers the following year, examined the boys' scholastic records and accepted them as having reached a suitably high standard for what at the time was considered the best school in the country.

It was with regret that we left Abingdon and our friends, but we kept in constant touch and made frequent visits. Brian was appointed as a consultant to Harwell which gave us good reason to make frequent trips to the place where such a happy and vital part of his career had been spent.

At about the same time, the Cottrells moved to Cambridge, where Alan was appointed professor of metallurgy; and Denys Wilkinson moved to Oxford to become professor of nuclear physics. We kept in touch with them all, and we were destined to see much of each other in the years to come.

The Theoretical Physics Division gave a tremendous farewell party which Mick Lomer organized with enthusiasm and humour. It was clear that he too had a natural flair for leadership, and the transfer of authority was going to be easy. We were presented with a fine set of silver dishes which were intended, so Mick said, as a gift to us both and a compliment to my cooking. Brian's colleagues collected souvenirs from his life: pictures, sheet music and even a shabby old fur hat left over from his days in Chalk River. These they arranged like an illustrated biography, interspersed with the inevitable dash of foolishness, on the walls around the room. John Cockcroft, in a reminiscent mood, picking up the mangy head-gear and examining its sorry state of dilapidation, said, ``I remember Brian in the days when this was quite new''.

Thus the curtain fell on the final scene of that fantastic play - the first fifteen years of atomic energy - in which I had played an exceedingly trivial walk-on role, even though I made my exit with the juvenile lead. The involvement with secrets, spies and security tailed off, although we were always vulnerable. The old saying, ``You can't ride a tiger and expect to dismount,'' is very telling. Wherever we go and whatever we do, we have been taught through the lessons we learnt so early in our lives, to be careful in our actions and our utterances. Not just in the interests of the safety of the realm, but in the confidentiality expected of those who hold positions of high responsibility.

Our friendship with Henry Arnold continued for the remainder of his long life. He retired at about the time that we left Harwell; but he too was kept on by the Authority as a consultant. We knew that if anything worried us concerning an involvement which came within his terms of reference, we could always talk to him as a friend. Once or twice we felt it necessary to get in touch with him.

There was one curious occasion a few years after we left Harwell. It occurred while we were at a conference in Dubrovnik. I made friends with a pleasant lady from East Germany. Her name was Barwich and her husband was in charge of the experimental nuclear reactor in that country and was also, incidentally, Klaus Fuchs's boss. They were not happy and told me in great secrecy of their hopes of settling in the West. Frau Barwich also told me that she needed some new boots, but found the type she wanted unobtainable in their part of Berlin. Would I get her some? Naturally I agreed, and she gave me twenty dollars which should have been adequate for the purchase. On the 'plane home I panicked. I had been party to a crime. She muttered something about the need to keep quiet about the money, but foolishly I didn't realize until later that for a citizen of the German Democratic Republic to be in possession of Western currency was a very serious offence.

I lost no time in telephoning Henry. He was reassuring, but cautioned me, ``Send boots to anyone you like, but for God's sake don't take money.'' There followed a lot of correspondence and even a telephone call about those boots. Each time I heard from Frau Barwich I reported it to him. Afterwards I realized that these attempts at keeping in touch were merely obscure cogs in the vast wheel that the couple were endeavouring to turn in order to bring about their eventual defection to West Germany. Happily they achieved their goal, and had a short but happy respite there before he died. She was able to write the last chapter of his autobiography in freedom. She no longer needed the boots I sent.

There were for some time scares and scandals. Secrets were leaked from one power to another, and convictions for spying were, alas, all too frequent. Sometimes these were clearly justified; but often they were questionable. Brian always supported the cause of any scientist incarcerated for crimes of which he was clearly innocent, and was instrumental in helping achieve the release of some notable Russian figures, while, at the same time, keeping in touch with Soviet scientists who were sympathetic and friendly but had chosen to stay in their mother country.

Until Brian's retirement we spent the time from those far-off days mostly in academic life. Brian held a number of interesting and significant posts and achieved a considerable measure of success and recognition of his efforts. It was my role to support and help him in any way I could, and for this I shall be as grateful in the future as I was then, after thirty-five eventful years.