Memories of My Father, Richard ‘Dick’ Francis
I came into this world on the early evening of March 10th, 1961. Into a smoke-filled bedroom on the third floor flat at number seven Redcliffe Square in Kensington. My dad, Richard “Dick” Francis, a young BBC producer, had handed out cigars to his drinking companions – all BBC men – who had all been summoned from the pub to pollute my first breaths and ignore my mother’s pleas for rest.
Dad became an absentee father, completely absorbed in his work, as many great, achieving parents are. Yet I always felt he was close to me—I felt he was always there when I needed him. That is until he died suddenly of a heart attack in June 1992 when he was only 58. I was 31. We had had lunch at his London club, the Garrick, only three weeks beforehand. For the first time he spoke to me as an adult. It was the only time. I never had the chance to know him, to understand his fears, hopes, and challenges.
Thirty-three years later, I have now discovered who he was. The BBC versus Thatcher is a biography of my father, a BBC man to his core and whose 28-year BBC career, from 1958 to 1986, spanning wars, the assassination of JFK, the first man on the Moon, the Troubles in Northern Ireland and the Falklands war. He was an adventurer, warrior, risk-taker and public servant. He took on Margaret Thatcher and was later knighted by her. On opposite teams, she fought him and yet grew to respect him.
Dad was a larger-than-life character, often absent but always active and enthusiastic. He taught my brother Mark and me how to sail—but not in a safe manner! Even though we were barely 10 years old at the time, Dad was only ever happy when taking on huge risk, calmly, and beating the odds, or not. He was like that in both his personal and business life, taking risks and, often, getting away with it, if not fully succeeding. If you must break eggs to make an omelette, as the saying goes, then he was a voracious omelette lover.
For his entire life, he not only sought the adulation of his mother, Joy, but also her love (I am not sure he ever really perceived the difference between the two). For Joy’s part, she simply did not have the ability to convey warmth. He was to seek that from others, sometimes hungrily, to his dying day.
He was a typical Yorkshireman, defined less by words than actions. The Oxford admissions secretary wrote of him, “…a solidly built man whose build reflects his character, for he has a sort of Ruberoid toughness and a degree of ‘push” unusual amongst undergraduates. I expect him to go far, not least because he will be difficult to stop once in motion.”
In 1967, after nine years, he left the BBC, tempted by the allure of rapid money and fame in the new commercial television franchises sprouting up across the country. Almost immediately, mysteriously, and not for the first time, he turned up in the midst of far-away wars in Africa, operating under a pseudonym, Geoffrey Goldbolt. His status was unclear: the BBC disowned him publicly but funded him. To his family he was absent for months at a time. In July, after a long period of silence, he summoned his family to Egypt, shortly after the Six-day war between Egypt and Israel. We had a week in Alexandria, Cairo and travelling up the Nile. The trip had been organised by an Egyptian friend. Myra, and her husband, who appeared to be quite influential in the country. That Egypt was at war with Israel at the time, it was an odd but very ‘Dick’ choice for two young boys aged six and four. While Mum had misgivings, her desire to travel and to get out of London had won the day.
I remember there were soldiers everywhere. After a few days in Alexandria, we tried to get back to Cairo but there were no flights. The only way was to hire a taxi to drive us through the Western desert—a three-hour drive (220 km) and only a couple of hours from the Israeli border. As it turned out, the taxi was in poor condition and broke down in the middle of the desert. We didn’t have long to wait before we were challenged by an army patrol. It didn’t look good at all. Dad had a quiet word with the ranking officer. Papers were shown, a few words exchanged, and then all smiles. So exactly who was Dad working for?
Two years later, in the spring of 1969, Dad was back in the BBC and had hooked us out of school and relocated us to Cocoa Beach, Florida. He was leading the BBC’s coverage of the Apollo moonshot programme. Everyone can remember where they were on the day of the launch of Apollo 11. Dad had secured us all press passes for the Apollo 11 launch site at the Kennedy Space Centre around the bay from our apartment. We were standing, together with the press and other dignitaries, around three miles away. It was the closest anyone was allowed to be without protective apparatus.
As Dad and Mum divorced in 1973, we were to have fewer family events after that. But, somehow, in the remaining 19 years of his life, Dad was to build a storied and successful BBC career, as a big beast in the BBC’s Board of Management and, later British Council, whilst popping up regularly in our lives.
This book brings to life the BBC of that era and sheds new light on the pressures that were to shape and diminish the BBC in the decades to follow. Dad visited over 100 countries, and many of those in the last two years of his short life. He was quite used to gruelling schedules in Europe, taking a late flight back to London, brandy in hand at 40,000 feet, and then, after a short night’s sleep at home, would spin on a sixpence and head off to the States. Breakfast in London and lunch in New York. Vintage champagne, cigars, and Concorde.
Dad had high blood pressure from an early age. He did not exercise, was portly, had red eyes and a rouged complexion most of the time. Penny would fret continually, ensuring he saw the BBC doctor regularly. But he just pushed on as if indestructible, he was not.
But in the BBC, his integrity and doughty resolve shone out. It was his greatest strength and weakness.
