He is a controversial choice for a speaker.

 

Although it doesn’t seem so at the time.

The Herefordshire County Branch of the National Farmers’ Union is nailing its red white and blue colours firmly to the mast.

 

The men, they are mostly men here, who dirty their hands producing the nation’s food are now dirtying their hands in politics.

 

Europe?

 

Good for subsidies and not much else.

 

Mr Powell has come calling as the guest of honour at their Annual General Meeting.

 

And I have come calling on Mr Powell.

 

Mr Powell. Smaller than I expect. Performs.

 

John Major, as an aside, is taller than you imagine.

Leaders both.

Mr Major of a party with no members although a lot of people who pay their subscriptions. Mr Powell leads nothing but himself.

It is difficult not to like both men.

 

Mr Powell has come to stir up the Herefordshire yeomanry.

 

And they are suitably stirred. At least I am.

 

Mr Powell looks at me. I place my microphone under his rock solid lip.

 

Enoch is giving me the reasons, all of them, why Britain should leave the Common Market.

It is, he is, full throttle.

 

‘Do you want a slogan?’

 

I do. He isn’t asking me.

 

‘I’ll give you a slogan,’

 

‘Out by the year 2000.’

 

It is a fine slogan. There is nothing more likely to impress a reporter than a sound bite crisply delivered. And there is 15 years to go. He could be right.

 

I meet Mr Powell once more.

 

I’m working for Farming Today and hunting is all the rage. At least there’s a rage about hunting.

 

A ‘J.’ Enoch Powell has penned a piece in a national magazine extolling the virtues of riding to hounds.

Is it, could it be?

It might be. I’ll phone and ask. If I can find him.

 

I arrive at Sloane Square. Smart house, smart address.

I am meeting Mr Powell for a second time. His wife, a former secretary, acts as chaperone.

 

I have a theory.

 

‘Hello we met in Hereford.’

 

‘I remember,’ says Mr P.

 

I don’ t think Mr Powell tells lies for a living. I’m flattered he’s remembered me.

 

You are difficult to find I explain. I’ve tried your agent, your publisher.

 

I’m interrupted. You should have looked me up in the phone book.

 

Mr Powell teaches me a lesson I’ve not forgotten. Try the simple things first. He is in the phone book, listed under P.

 

Enoch is old now.

 

I record my interview with his wife watching over me. Here’s my theory. Women are a good judge of character. I get the sense that Mr Powell is a nice man.

 

Rivers of blood? Maybe.

 

But he comes home and it’s a loving home. At least I hope so.

 

As I recall he doesn’t get up during the interview. He is seated at his desk. I am to be given the impression, the carefully considered, the calculated impression, of his working.

Nothing has changed, only the years have taken their toll.

 

The Asian cultures, India especially, cultures and languages Powell understands and respects, honour their old people.

 

Our problem with age is the beginning and end of our problem with politics. It is a matter of respect.

 

Mr Powell, John Enoch, has spoken.

 

I go and see Tony Banks who I guess is on the other side. It’s an easy Manchurian manoeuvre.

 

I am about to learn another lesson.

 

‘Same voice but weaker. It’s an unmistakable accent’, Tony Banks is providing a commentary.

 

‘Would you care to comment on what Mr Powell says’, I ask.

 

‘No.’

 

No?

 

It’s all a matter of respect.

‘Mr Powell is one of our greatest living parliamentarians’, the pup reporter is having a few more home truths explained to him.

 

‘I don’t agree with him,’ says the politician in his prime about the one who’s not.

 

‘But I’m not taking any easy shots.’

 

Mr Powell and Mr Banks are to die.

And their deaths tell very different and very similar stories.

 

Brigadier General Powell asks to be buried in the uniform of a British Army officer.

 

Tony Banks, enlisted man, is carried in a wicker basket. One with his politics on the outside and the other on the inside.

 

Both the same. Both borne with respect.

 

Picture copyright unknown