Lord Monckton
Walter Monckton, of all the men I have met in my public life, was the gentlest and the best loved. So even though the tiny village church at Folkington in Sussex is somewhere near nowhere, it was crowded on Sunday when a simple plaque was unveiled to his memory. That the congregation included Harold Macmillan, Lord Rddcliffe and Peter May is the best proof of the wide sweep of Walter's interests and of his friendships. The service started with a splen- did village incident. It was clear even to my untuneful ears that in the first hymn the organist was thumping out one tune, and we were singing another. For a verse and a half this dogged duel continued. Then the parson stopped us and announced that the organist had em- barked on the first hymn selected for the earlier service in the next village—so would we please start again? And as we left the church in lovely November sunshine, one of the many judges present murmured to me, 'Walter would have loved that opening no-ball, wouldn't he?' Yes, he would.
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