Epilogue

The car in which we were being whisked away from Harwell, along the M4, to our quiet house in north London, was swift and comfortable. What a joy it was to be driven on official occasions! (Incidentally, I did pass that driving test eventually, and did not need to renew my licence before my seventieth birthday.) We would be home in little more than an hour and both of us looked forward to a peaceful week-end. During the week we lived in a large Georgian house in Bloomsbury five minutes walk from the Senate House. This graceful abode, with wrought iron balconies, overlooks a well-kept public garden. It was the official residence of the Vice-Chancellor of the University of London. Brian then held this interesting appointment, which marked the last chapter before retirement in a long and distinguished academic career.

Was it really thirty-nine years since we met? AERE had been celebrating the fortieth anniversary of its inception, when that desolate, isolated airfield was acquired as the site of those first peacetime nuclear experiments. When viewed beside the mass of heated controversy that later arose over questions of nuclear energy and its war potential, and with recurrent mishaps at the reprocessing plant at Sellafield (as nowadays Windscale is called - as if a change of name makes a hap'orth of difference), and with trouble of much greater import occurring at Chernobyl in the Ukraine, Harwell seemed, despite its growth during the those last two decades, a tranquil place. It was almost uncanny to reflect that it was once the core of what was to grow into a mammoth industry.

I could see the buildings, once so familiar, standing out in silhouette against the glow of the sodium lamps surrounding the area. The house I complained so bitterly about still stood. I was told it had been re-wired and the ``heating provision'' improved. The long windows of Ridgeway House almost seemed to glint in recognition like the eyes of old acquaintances. It was said that carpet had replaced the linoleum we slid along so energetically in our youth. Cockcroft Hall, next door to it, seemed as old as the trees and just as well-rooted in the soil. Despite the lateness of the hour, a few lights were still burning in those prefabs which were visible from the main road. Soon, we were led to believe, they were to be dismantled. The austere and makeshift little shelters had outlasted their usefulness, and their days were numbered.

There was nothing austere about the reception that had just been held. A pleasant and spacious new building for social occasions had been erected at the south end of the security fence. It had thick carpets, lush potted plants and elegant furniture. The provender was tasty and of a sophisticated nature. But most of those enjoying the delectable canapés and champagne were too young to remember the days when we struggled through the mud, in our wellies or on our bikes, to attend some sketchy party in Ridgeway House, or rehearse a play or concert under the noisy tin roof of the gymnasium.

At one end of the large, impressive room was a collection of pictures, depicting Harwell's progress through the years. Most of our fellow guests would regard those old black and white photographs of intense looking scientists, with short hair-cuts and pullovers, as hilariously comic, as much a piece of history as that first exhibit - a fighter aircraft on one of the runways. But if I stood back and shut my ears to the babble of voices, and my eyes to the bright party clothes, I could make the pictures come back to life. The stocky Cockcroft, seated in the middle of his Steering Committee, would take off his glasses and polish them, as he always did when thinking through his answer to a tricky question. Herbert Skinner would run his fingers through his already tousled hair, Egon Bretscher would complain of a migraine, and did I hear Klaus Fuchs's laboured, imperfect ``English''? Other voices came flooding through the hubbub. A gentle piece of mockery from Erna Skinner, a howl of laughter from Hans Kronberger. There were so many figures, mingling in the crowd, who now were merely ghosts. Were we ourselves thought of as having been shaken out of mothballs for the occasion? Brian hunched his shoulders and extended a shaky hand in imitation of senile palsy. I recounted and listened to stories about grandchildren, over the relative merits of dyes for concealing grey hair, with a lady who was a neighbour when we were both in our twenties.

The then Director, Dr Lewis Roberts, understood. He was in the Chemistry Division in 1947, and later became its head. He could remember almost as much as we did of the days before we left the place, still fairly young people, in 1958.

Since then, life has held many surprises, most of them pleasant. The arm of co-incidence is longer than one imagines. For Brian, success came in a series of rapid promotions and appointments. Once installed in the University of Manchester, he was not to remain Professor of Theoretical Physics for long. The prestigious Langworthy Chair, previously occupied by my childhood idol, Patrick Blackett, and before him Sir Lawrence Bragg, needed a suitable incumbent. Earlier, Sir Arthur Schuster and the great Lord Rutherford had held it too, enriching the position with their work that was to alter the course of history. When it fell vacant it was offered to Brian, together with the headship of the department. Although conscious of the great honour, he was well aware of the responsibility of following such renowned predecessors.

In 1961, we celebrated the fiftieth anniversary of the discovery of the nuclear atom by Rutherford during his Manchester days, that mightily significant experiment of which my science teacher at school was so lamentably ignorant. Earlier that year Brian had been elected Fellow of the Royal Society at the age of thirty-six. This was a splendid encouragement in our efforts to organize a conference to mark the great jubilee. Most of Rutherford's early collaborators honoured us by attending. Niels Bohr and his dear wife, Margrethe, Sir James and Lady Chadwick, Sir Ernest and Lady Marsden from New Zealand. The Peierls's, as one would expect, were a tower of strength in helping us with all the preparations and arrangements, whether helping us receive our guests or rushing out to buy a bar of chocolate for the celebrated Professor Lise Meitner who had forgotten to have lunch, they were constantly on hand.

Manchester University agreed to mark the occasion by awarding some honorary doctorates. To our delight, Giulio Racah and Aage Bohr were among those who received them. The amount of effort needed to organise the meetings, lectures and the entertainment for all these illustrious men and women was immense. We had to make sure that the style of the proceedings should be consistent with the greatness of the founding father of nuclear physics. A few years later we were overwhelmed when Brian received from the Institute of Physics the medal which bears Rutherford's name.

My sons grew in stature and intellect during our stay in Manchester. Peter won a major scholarship in mathematics to Brian's old Cambridge college, Gonville and Caius, while Michael developed a marked talent for modern languages. Both turned out to be musical and benefited from the proximity of the Hallé orchestra, for whose concerts my father would provide an inexhaustible supply of tickets.

Towards the middle of the 1960s, Brian was to reach another crossroad in his career. He had become increasingly involved with national committees which formulated science policy, and he felt it time to bring his active participation in research to a close, or rather to phase it out. He still had one research student in 1970. During a relaxed evening, while gazing into the fire, he said to me, after one of those long silences during which he habitually arrives at decisions, ``I am no longer a composer. From now on I shall be a conductor.'' The statement was made and heard with mixed feelings.

In 1967 he was offered and accepted the Chairmanship of what was then the Science Research Council. The appointment was for five years and the University granted him leave of absence. In fact he remained at the SRC for six years and we never returned to Manchester. The Langworthy Chair remained vacant a long time.

Shortly before our departure for London a dream was realized. This was a time of expansion in the universities, and new ones were springing up like mushrooms all over the country. There were funds for new buildings and new labs at the older universities too. During the nine years Brian spent at Manchester University he was to see the famous Schuster Laboratory where all his predecessors had worked, taken from a grimy and inconvenient corner of what amounted to a Victorian monument, and together with the whole physics department re-housed in an elegantly constructed and practical new building which he had helped to design himself.

Bragg and Blackett came for the inauguration, and yet again many a great scientist travelled to Manchester, this time to gather in the domed, glass octagon with a fountain playing in the sunlight, to admire on the longest wall a gilded mosaic depicting the tracks of nuclear particles that had been discovered there.

Our first six years in London passed in a flash. Peter got a PhD at the University of Warwick and subsequently an excellent job in the Department of Artificial Intelligence at Edinburgh; Michael obtained a good degree in German and Economics from the University of Keele, studying both there and in Hamburg. Alas, the old Bünemanns did not live long enough to enjoy his sojourn, but he brought great joy to the rest of that family, particularly to his beloved aunt, Gertrud. During this time both boys married. Michael had two children, a boy Marcus and a girl Naomi, but sadly was divorced in 1987. Peter and his wife remain happy to this day. We were able to help Michael with the care of his children during the upheaval in his life. They brought us great joy and still do. Michael has since happily remarried. Marcus, our grandson, has provided us with a great-granddaughter.

Another notable event occurred during this period in our lives. We had returned somewhat exhausted after driving from the channel coast. We had taken a spring holiday in Italy, and though fit and tanned by the Mediterranean sun, were tired out by the traffic coming up from Dover. As usual, there was an enormous pile of post waiting to be coped with on our return. Usually it consisted of a few personal letters, some bills, and an infuriating amount of advertising matter destined for the wastepaper basket. This time our thoughtful neighbour had placed on top of the stack of paper on the antique chest in our hall a rather distinguished-looking, large envelope bearing the words ``Prime Minister's Office'' and ``Confidential''. If our neighbour had guessed its contents, she never let on. Brian had been offered a knighthood. We were both rather shaken, but it was a wonderful recognition of his work, and even provided a lot of fun which we later shared with our friends.

Although I have mentioned our worldwide travels, there is one expedition which deserves a mention on its own. In 1973 Brian was invited to give the first of the annual public lectures intended to commemorate the Queen's earlier state visit to Berlin. Germany was still divided, but East Germany was not recognized by the British. However the city of Berlin was divided into two parts and we were to stay with the British Ambassador, Sir Nicholas Henderson, and his wife at the Residence in West Berlin (the British Embassy being in Bonn in those days). It was very exciting. The Military Governor, General The Earl Cathcart, gave a dinner party for us at which we met several local notables.

The interesting part of this story is that I had some old friends who lived in East Berlin. I had met them through Oscar. They had both come to England as refugees from Nazi Germany. He, Ernst, was a communist and she, Ursula, was Jewish. They had met and married in Manchester just before my own first marriage. However, they were not going to apply for naturalization. Their avowed intention, after the war ended, was to return to their native land and help to build up the socialist Germany of their dreams. Therefore in 1945, with a small child, they returned to dreadful conditions in East Berlin. But we kept in touch, and from time to time they visited us over here. This shows just what trusted Party Members they were. Usually couples from the Eastern bloc or from behind the ``Iron Curtain'' were not allowed to travel together for fear of defection to the West; one had to remain behind as a hostage, so to speak. We kept in touch in spite of the fact that we did not share their political views. When I wrote to them saying that we were hoping to visit Berlin I got an enthusiastic welcome and an invitation to stay the night with them. We accepted and the Ambassador didn't seem to mind. Afterwards, however, we realized that it had caused some consternation.

Lord Cathcart, especially, thought us very foolish to take such a risk. Although we visited East Berlin during our stay to go to the theatre and other places of entertainment, it was always under diplomatic aegis, escorted in the Ambassador's car; but as this was to be a private visit we were to cross the frontier on our own. I believe that a discreet telephone call was made to the Chargé d'Affaires in the East, but we could not expect any help if we got into difficulties. So we set off in the Ambassador's car as far as Check-Point Charlie but were then left to our own devices. A small yellow Escort car appeared driven by a British representative from the other side who told us he was not allowed to drive us across the frontier but would wait for us until we were through the frontier. After some argument at the check-point concerning a large laminated chopping board I had brought as a present for Ursula as it had a medieval map of their beloved Lancashire on it (and maps were suspect!), we were eventually let through and found the yellow Escort waiting to drive us to our destination. Ernst and Ursula were more than kind and hospitable, and it didn't take us long to realize that they were very privileged people, he a professor at the Humboldt University while she occupied a key position in the East German tourist industry. They had a large flat with a cleaning lady, and we were given an excellent meal with good wine, luxuries which were not accorded to the rank and file of the population of ``The German Democratic Republic''. Some slight reserve in our hosts' conversation suggested to us, however, that we were perhaps being bugged discreetly. Brian tried to provoke them politically by saying that he disliked the Soviet system, but he was met only with benevolent silence.

The next day our friends took us on a sight-seeing tour of their part of Berlin. It consisted of all the sites favoured by their regime: the Soviet War Cemetery where we saw soldiers goose-stepping, the communist leader Thälemann's grave, and the memorial to the communist ``heroes''. It was extremely dull, colourless and drab. On subsequent visits to the city we were amazed at the fine architecture and places of historical interest they had left out. It was with relief that we took a taxi back to Check-point Charlie where, to our intense relief, the British Ambassador's car was waiting to take us back to the West. Everyone at the Residence was relieved to see us back and with the benefit of hindsight we realized that we had put them into a state of great agitation. Several people from the West had previously been arrested on trumped-up charges of spying, and Brian as a prominent functionary in the British hierarchy would have been a prime target. It was indeed a very foolish thing to do and we are sorry for the consternation we caused, but we are glad to have returned unscathed from this hazardous journey into what could well be regarded as a danger zone.

After the unification of the two Germanies, we met Ernst and Ursula again in what had earlier been West Berlin. We had a very congenial dinner together, and this time there was no trace of the reserve we thought we had detected before in our friends' conversation. Ernst merely said ``We did not want to start a revolution. We just wanted to find an alternative to capitalism.''

There was to be another move in 1973. From the modest house we had bought after leaving Manchester, for the period of supposed ``leave of absence'', we went to one of the most palatial and luxuriously appointed homes in London. To call it ``a flat'' would hardly be an appropriate designation for the two middle floors of a magnificent town house in South Kensington. Designed in the style of Queen Anne by the celebrated architect Norman Shaw, it had housed in succession prosperous cement merchants, the 6th Marquess of Anglesey, and the London College of Secretaries before being acquired for Imperial College of Science and Technology in l962. It was to provide faculty accommodation and an imposing Council Chamber on the ground floor, as well as a lodging upstairs for the ``Rector'', as the principal of this venerable institution is called. That was to be Brian's next job. The concrete jungle of laboratories, libraries, lecture theatres and administrative buildings forms a substantial campus amid the Edwardian elegance of this part of London and the gracious old house, set at right-angles to Queen's Gate, is at its westerly boundary. The heavy front door, with its ornate, carved architrave, leads on to a spacious forecourt, where some of London's tallest plane trees grow.

With great joy, and as very new grandparents, we moved into the large, warm rooms whose walls were soon to echo with the sound of childrens' laughter as our family grew. We lived there for what we like to think of as ``twelve golden years''. It became a centre for family and friends. Because of the ease in parking cars outside and the number of rooms, we were able to entertain as never before. It was also easy for me to care for my parents during their declining years, and make a home for my mother after my father's death. She lived with us until she followed him at the age of ninety-three.

The work of Rector was tough, but Brian's other assignments were even more taxing. He became a part-time Member of the Atomic Energy Authority and kept in touch with many old colleagues. Life wasn't too easy when, as Chairman of the Royal Commission on Environmental Pollution, he had to oppose many of his former comrades regarding their stance on the processing of nuclear waste. There were other committees of enquiry too, and the horrid job of chairing one for the University of London to formulate suggestions for merging some of the London medical schools. This caused a furore in medical circles and beyond. For a while there were anonymous letters and threatening telephone calls.

He was involved in the newly formed European Community too. For six years he was the first President of the European Science Foundation, which had its headquarters in Strasbourg. This lovely old town in the heart of Alsace became our second city, and many were the visits we paid there to enjoy the architecture, the nearby Vosges mountains, the Black Forest, the fine wine and food. It was fortuitous too that during this period, Michael was posted to Frankfurt and we enjoyed many of these delights with him, his wife and their two young children, either from Strasbourg itself or from their home in Oberürsel, a short two-hour drive away from Strasbourg.

Many of the meetings of these various bodies took place at our home in Queen's Gate, because when the going was rough Brian found that the informal family atmosphere helped. The hard work and the endless decision-making took their toll, however. Normally healthy and active, Brian eventually suffered a coronary. This showed just how much of himself he had given, not only to Imperial College, but to education and science policy at home and abroad. However, true to form, he set about the process of applying himself to a total recovery, which has been so complete that none of the three cardiologists who examined him could find any reason for his not continuing a full working life.

The relentless professional grind also brought its compensations and its gratifying moments. Another ``confidential'' letter from the Prime Minister informed us of a life peerage in December 1978. Brian was introduced the following year into the Upper House as Lord Flowers, of Queen's Gate in the City of Westminster, with every member of our family present, and our large house full of friends, celebrating until late into the evening of the very day when in England the Callaghan Labour Government fell and in America the Three Mile Island reactor suffered its fateful accident. We were both to be part of the scene when the Queen opened Parliament with the first woman to become Prime Minister of the United Kingdom standing behind the Bar of the House of Lords, beautifully attired in an apricot coloured summer outfit. It was a warm, cloudless day in May 1979, and we had lunch after the ceremony on the Terrace, wearing full evening dress. I still love nice clothes, and for the occasion made myself an appliquéd dress of blue and green, hand-blocked silk that I bought on a trip to Thailand. Brian sweltered in his baronial robes. The impressive gathering of peers and peeresses under the red and white striped awning overlooking the Thames was magnificent, but secretly, it put me in mind of a Gilbert and Sullivan opera, and the solemnity of the occasion was spiced with laughter.

Brian began his parliamentary career as an independent, on the Cross Benches. Despite Margaret Thatcher's friendliness and pleasing appearance, however, her government's social policies caused him such concern that two years later he became a founder member of Britain's new political party, the Social Democrats. He frequently spoke for them from the front bench, on education and science and the environment, and looked forward to the time when politics could occupy a greater part of his life. Indeed it did, but from the Cross Benches to which he returned with relief when the SDP collapsed.

There have been other honours too: medals, fellowships, and honorary doctorates by the sackful. Most of all I like the little red rosette which proclaims him an Officier de la Légion d'Honneur. It can sometimes speed up service in a restaurant or produce a much-needed parking space the other side of the channel. He was elected President of the Institute of Physics, spending two years at the top of his profession, and still maintains his interest in modern developments in physics. He also served as Chairman of the Nuffield Foundation, which brought us into contact with many interesting people and institutions.

Time has passed so quickly that I sometimes forget that all this took place many years ago, and I am grateful for all the times I have spent with this kindly and learned man.