My mum was more worried about my travelling companion than with the destination; she had moved to Belfast during the second world war, as an English Quaker, banished from Britain as a conscientious objector, required to report to the RUC each day in case she took war secrets to de Valera in Dublin. Three decades later she had to report again to the RUC. Our family was apparently under IRA surveillance in east Belfast; the police parked a jeep outside our house for three years. Martin was an amiable conflict resolution colleague, alert and generous, amusing, and only once steely, when I gauchely overstepped the mark with an inappropriate observation.
He charmed our security operatives, thanking them personally and posing for photographs; he wowed our overnight hosts, encouraging their teenager to apply for the PSNI. Now they were sharing a cabinet table. That authenticity made a powerful impact. Over dinner in Helsinki, I teased him for pouring salt on his food, before tasting it. Ironically now, he retorted that he had to face worse enemies than a scattering of sodium.
He scolded me for tweeting about his illness last month β he wanted, and I want him, to be remembered for his leadership. Our Credentials. Sign up to our newsletter. Visit Site.
