A consummate diplomat, he represented his country in Iran (twice), Brussels, Japan, Egypt, and finally as British High Commissioner in Pakistan. A diligent linguist, he learned Farsi, a sushi-size helping of Japanese, and enough French to hold his own in Europe. A talented artist, he relieved the monotony of formal meetings by making rapid likenesses of the participants. An occasional actor, Sir Nicholas never lost his romance with greasepaint, beginning as a schoolboy squeaking the part of Viola In Twelfth Night and saying adieu to his diplomatic career by playing the wordy Prospero in The Tempest.
An inquisitive archaeologist, he always found time during his postings or holidays to explore his surroundings – whichever continent he happened to be in. An energetic sportsman, he played tennis with sufficient skill (and diplomatic dexterity) not to lose to his opponent, who happened to be the son of the Russian Foreign Minister Andrei Gromyko.
An irrepressible retiree, he has applied his time in such noteworthy causes as helping to found Asia House in London, and in Cambridge where he now lives helping his alma mater Clare College.
No wonder Sir Nicholas felt compelled to chronicle his fervid life. He had two options – to write one book ‘of excessive girth’ or to publish two volumes, not in sequence but in parallel, each mirroring the other. The bulkier of them – Envoy: A Diplomatic Journey – is spread over 450 pages; its companion Nicholas meets Barrington: The Personal Journey of a Former Diplomat is half its size. Each can be read on its own but that would be like viewing Barrington’s multi-dimensional life through a monocle.
Sir Nicholas joined the Foreign Office in 1957 and served it for thirty-seven years, until his retirement in 1994. Unmarried, he remained wedded to a career that brought him on two postings to the only country he loved more than his own – Pakistan.
He came first in the autumn of 1965. As Head of Chancery (the equivalent of First Secretary Political), he witnessed the military debacle engineered by Zulfikar Ali Bhutto, then Foreign Minister. He returned in 1987 (after using ‘every influence…within the system’) as Ambassador/later High Commissioner after Pakistan reentered the Commonwealth. He met President Ziaul Haq frequently enough to be impressed by him, and shared the incredulity of the Pakistani public at the air crash in Bahawalpur. He watched wryly the tussle between president Ghulam Ishaq Khan and the revolving door prime ministers - Benazir Bhutto and Nawaz Sharif.
As a pushy young officer, Barrington (not surprisingly) came up against his chief Sir Morrice James. It was not his first collision with a superior. (On the ski slopes once, he almost jeopardised his career by colliding with his ambassador.) Morrice James’ posthumous memoirs mention him returning from a meeting with Ayub Khan and finding Barrington - ‘his energetic Head of Chancery’ – chairing a staff meeting. Barrington as the survivor has the last retort. He remembers James as ‘a human dynamo, volatile and a bully’.
Temperamentally, Sir Nicholas belonged less to the modern Foreign Office than to the colonial-minded Commonwealth Relations Office. Had he not studied at Repton, he could have been a product of Haileybury School – the crucible for East India company officers. He valued the tradition (John and Henry Lawrence exemplified it) that relied upon a compassionate understanding of the people they interacted with. He suspected ‘that the [Foreign] Office was losing its depth of knowledge’, relying too much ‘on modern techniques.’ He deplored that his successors at the High Commission ‘were not sufficiently well informed about, or it seemed interested, in Pakistan personalities and culture.’
The Royal dubbing. An original pen and ink drawing by Gino d’Achille, using his imagination. A gift from cousin Susan Bird
That explains Sir Nicholas’s passion for compiling genealogies of the leading families in Kabul and over 100 families in Pakistan. He believed that ‘in a reasonably limited, educated society’, family links and intermarriages would often give ‘a clue to people’s motivation and political allegiances.’ His private Almanac de Gotha became a mine of genealogical data, but because of its sensitivity, it has remained unpublished.
Barrington’s dining table was an extension of his office. Never short of visitors or guests, he used the High Commission with a deft discretion. He perfected his role as a courtier during royal visits – Queen Elizabeth in Japan, Princess Alexandra and later Diana Princess of Wales in Pakistan. Nothing gave him greater gratification than to stage-manage their public appearances and to attend to their private comfort. (He reveals Diana liked to swim in his pool every morning.)
Despite dazzling him (as she did the Press) with her winsome style, in the end Diana disappointed him: ‘I concluded that she was much more comfortable talking to her dresser and her butler and to the crew with whom she had been playing cards. She appeared to show little interest in anything related to history or culture, possibly as result of her education.’
His experience with Benazir Bhutto ended as sourly. It began brightly enough with a private lunch: ‘Benazir was on prime form, looking elegant and beautiful, stylishly dressed as always, in simple colours.’ After her peremptory dismissal for corruption by President Ghulam Ishaq Khan, Barrington called on her. She received him sitting with her husband Asif Zardari. ‘She said that the accusations against her were false.’ Barrington responded with more truth than tact, suggesting that ‘unfortunately not all her ministers had an honest reputation.’ At this she became emotional, and walked out of the room, leaving Barrington and her suspect husband ‘embarrassed’.
No wonder the only females Sir Nicholas felt he could rely upon were his motor cars: Josephine in Kabul, Phoebe in London, and Hilda in Islamabad.
Sir Nicholas Barrington is over eighty now. His voice may not be heard in the British Foreign Office but he still hurls thunderbolts in letters to The Times on Iraq, Kashmir, Pakistan, landmines and the royal family. And he remains abreast with Pakistan by reading The Friday Times.
Sir Nicholas’s stream of consciousness memoirs are more than a life re-told. They are a sublime lesson in tact – the art (as Isaac Newton once observed) of making a point without making an enemy.
