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Published: 15 September 2011
by ILLTYD HARRINGTON

THERE have been various interpretations of that obscure character George Smiley.

He was John le Carré’s unlikely counter-spy who catches our own spies.

George is an anonymous man and his creator says of Gary Oldman, the present Smiley: “He evokes the same solitude, inward­ness and intelligence that his predecessor Sir `Alec Guinness brought to the part in Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy.”

Guinness was an absorbing, taciturn and suburban man in a seven-part version for TV in 1979 which pulled in 11 million viewers.

My close friendship with Guinness began in 1971.

The Tory govern­ment, in spite of Prime Minister Heath’s interest in the arts, began drag­ging its feet about building the National Theatre on the South Bank, in partnership with the GLC.

As we discus­sed the problem one eve­ning at a London Labour Campaign group meeting I suggested we should canvas Alec Guinness for support and get him to write a letter to The Times.

So it came to pass I was deputed to approach the famous actor. At that time I held the ancient office of alderman, where the qualities required were pomposity, heavy sagacity and of course sobriety.

Alec’s quick response surprised me. He agreed to meet me backstage at the Wyndham Theatre, where he was appearing in Wise Child.

I had come from the swimming pool in my jeans, seaman’s sweater and black leather jacket. I was ushered into his dressing room. He looked at me, startled, and asked: “Are you really an alderman?”

“Yes I am,” I said.

He laughed and sat me down. I told him my request and, watching me closely, he instantly agreed. In two days I had composed his letter.

I concluded with lines from a 16th-century poet, William Dunbar: “A sight so touching in its majesty.”

Guinness loved London, so the phrase fascinated him. Before the week was out, we were the lead letter in The Times – the political equivalent of being Top of the Pops.

He rang and after I thanked him he said: “Can you have a late supper with me in the Garrick Club after the show tonight, Alderman Harrington?”

He became Alec and I became the humble Illtyd. We went back to his mews house behind the Brompton Oratory for a very large nightcap.

It was one of those spontaneous friendships.

I first came across him in 1947, when director David Lean produced his masterpiece, Oliver Twist. Guinness’s Fagin was as complex as the Hungarian cube puzzle. It opened in Berlin to a riot, and was charged with being anti-Semitic.

Later, he was Pip’s breezy companion Herbert Pocket in Lean’s Great Expectations, and Bridge Over The River Kwai got him his Oscar and further fame.

David Lean was a martinet and a precisionist, like Guinness.

There was no love lost. He told me that one day that during the filming of Bridge Over the River Kwai, Lean went for a swim and came face to face with a large cobra. It was the snake who turned away.

Alec was a very generous man. I discov­ered he was paying generous financial allow­ances to those whose one-time fame had abandoned them; he was particularly fond of Kay Walsh, an outstanding Nancy in Oliver Twist.

And one summer day I was off to take 40 East End kids to Margate for the day: “Give them a good time,” he yelled after me. In my jacket I found an envelope with £100 for our day out – a large sum in 1972.

Sometimes we talked about sexual behaviour. Gays were shuffling out of the closet but he maintained a parochial piety in public.

His favourite hotel was the Berkeley, in Mayfair – so good you’re only allowed to stay there for six months.

This was Alec’s secular home, across the street from his spiritual one, the Jesuit Church in Farm Street, a recruitment centre for distinguished converts.

He spent hours in there praying. Here was where he lodged his guilt. I only wrote to him about this in moderate and affectionate terms but he was steadfast in the faith.

We argued very gently over politics. But in one heated argument I yelled: “You’re as buttoned up as a Savoy Hotel page-boy. He said: “That’s fine coming from you, a Savoy socialist!”

In his unique cavalcade of roles he never lost the genius of English character – eccentric, determined and vulnerable. But to me he was a man looking for a mystic shelter. A Janus, or chameleon.

Years later, we had a very convivial evening and afterwards I hailed the cab.

It pulled up driven by a rotund man who almost oozed out onto the pavement. He wheezed: “Sir Alec, don’t you remember me?” As quick as a flash Alec replied: “Of course Fred, you were one of the Artful Dodger’s gang.” The enormous fellow flushed: “Wait till I tell my wife.”

Alec was a troubled man, driven not by demons but doubts about himself. I don’t think he ever came to terms with that.

• Illtyd Harrington is a former deputy leader of the Greater London Council
• Read Dan Carrier’s review of Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy here