My father has just died, at home, on the west coast of Scotland.
I’m in a state of shock but also not surprised as he lived his life in a state of wild defiance of the conventions and norms of ordinary life, and hated the idea of being looked after or helped by others. He loved people but hated officialdom.
On the one hand I want to sum up his extraordinary and eccentric life — I want to explain his charm, his writings, his ability to listen to children, his interests, games, passions and collections — but I’m at a loss. I’m stuck. I have so much to say but at the same time I don’t want to write anything as I need time to process my confusion and grief.
This is where you come in. Perhaps you have a poignant memory of Angus Wolfe Murray, the author, publisher, film critic and specialist in the transportation of fine arts. Did you know him? Were you impressed by his conversation, style and unique outlook on life? Can you comment on his transition from the upper class values of his parents into the bohemian lifestyle he brought us up in?
Last time I made an appeal like this was just after my mother died in the summer of 2017. I wrote a short blog post asking for comments, anecdotes and memories about her and suddenly there were over 25 brilliant pieces of writing — many of which made their way into a little book we rushed into print for her memorial service. You can see the PDF version of it here.
So please add a comment below. And please realise that a sentence will do fine, pithy little statements can be great. Short is sweet and long is lovely. It’s all good. This is the place to share your memories, however fleeting or fragmented, of Angus Wolfe Murray.
And I hope to see you at the funeral, which will take place at 1030am for 11am on the 9th of February in the Eastgate Theatre, Peebles, in the Scottish Borders. We want to get as many folk as possible there, to celebrate his love for people.
Postscript (several weeks later): I am bowled over by the incredible comments that have come in about our Dear Departed Dad. Thanks so much to you all; it’s not easy writing about such a complex character. These comments are giving us a new insight into a man who we took for granted, as one does with one’s parents, and also drove us crazy in his final years. I’m so proud he had such a positive impact on so many people’s lives. I think the most memorable quote about him is this: he was ‘a woodland faun in human frame’ (a cricketer friend added the quip “Did fauns wear frayed denim jeans…with “multi-coloured patches?”).
There’s a lot of cricketing stories here and one of the contributors, Tim Wilcock, wrote that “Angus told me once that he was at Eton with one Henry Blofeld.” As every cricketer will know, Blofeld went on to become the legendary cricket commentator for the BBC. Some years later Wilcock met “Blowers” and asked him if he remembered Angus Wolfe Murray. Of course he did, and said they played a match together at Lords. Wilcox then found an old record of the match, sent it to me, and I put it into this slideshow of my Dad-as-schoolboy-cricket-star with his brother Jimmy.
If you want to contact me, about any of this, just email me at wolfemurray@gmail.com. Lotsaluv, Rupert Wolfe Murray
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Such a collection of warm, funny and touching memories of Angus; I feel somewhat of an interloper at a private feast ! But I recognise the garb and energy of the subject very well ! Many years have passed since my own , very slight, acquaintance with Angus . I was living in Moffat in the mid-1980s , painting in my attic studio with its view of Skiddaw to the south. Needing to get my work to various exhibitions in London I was delighted to learn of an Edinburgh firm able to accomplish the task . Pre-mobile phones, how we managed to complete the arrangements on some very tight schedules is a mystery. Many a time I fretted, awaiting a collection, but always delighted when the Moving Pictures van bombed up the road at the last minute ! Angus took control of the artwork, securing it with care inside the van , then was gone . I assume he phoned to confirm safe delivery but perhaps not ! Returns were no problem either ; nothing was lost or damaged- a fine service- I marvelled at his dedication and energy as well as the modest price for the service !
My recollections of Angus were stirred when I saw the recent TV programme featuring Nicky Campbell and other survivors of abuse at Edinburgh schools in the late 60s and 70s, Kim Wolfe Murray being one of the testifiers. I have since discovered that he is Angus’s son . That night I dreamt of meeting Angus at a social gathering. I approached him, extending my hand…his slow but complete recognition of myself was touching and we talked as freely as before …then he said that he was living in the Southern Hemisphere now ; I hadn’t yet known that he had died !
Gus was my first early love. He came to Toronto, Canada as a young man and was embraced by my family. Everyone loved him – as did I. But I was only 13.
When I later met him in London, at 17, and he was 22, we fell in love. Impossible to define his character – I never tried to do that. I just loved everything about him.
Off I went to Paris and we wrote to each other every single day. In the end I had a stack of the most beautifully written love letters. I ceremoniously burned them after I was married, years later, back in Canada.
I saw Gus a few times during the course of a very happy marriage to a philosophy professor. It was wonderful to see him – but I felt nostalgic for those romantic days.
I will never forget Gus for as long as I live.
Stephanie and he rescued me at a time when my life had been turned upside down, by welcoming me into their home in Scotland. I had got a job at the Edinburgh Rep Theatre and my brother had suggested I contact them. I don’t remember how I got in touch, probably by popping in to the bookshop, where I met Stephanie for the first time.
In any case I duly arrived at ‘Glenternie”, in my old Morris Traveller, on the appointed day. I pulled into the massive driveway of this enormous castle-like home, and rather overwhelmed, stepped out of the car…. but no-one appeared to meet me…
A little puzzled and finding the front door to be open, I walked into the house. No-one! As far as I could tell, the place was totally deserted… Either they had forgotten I was coming, or much more likely, given my state of mind at the time, I had got the wrong day, or the wrong time, or probably, both! Either way I was in a quandary; should I go or should I stay?… I decided to stay… So, not knowing quite what to do, I wandered around the empty house rather sheepishly, hoping to find someone…
I entered the large sitting room: empty. I strolled into what seemed to be an old gunroom: boots, coats, hats, walking sticks, deer antlers on the walls… empty too. Eventually I found my way into the kitchen with its massive Aga: still no-one…. So I warmed myself against the stove and waited….
Suddenly, out of the blue, an extremely tall, rather bedraggled man, with crazy curly hair, wearing a dark blue jumper full of holes, patched up jeans and cowboy boots, appeared carrying logs and accompanied by a border collie. “Oh, Hello” he said, and vanished before I could open my mouth.
He soon returned, logless, and without a moment’s pause said: “Did you know that the best way to cook haggis is to inject it with whisky and then to stick it in the oven for an hour?…. By the way, I hope you like haggis!” He then grabbed a syringe from somewhere and proceeded to demonstrate his technique.
I had met Gus, and I have loved haggis with whisky – and Gus – ever since !
I soon came to realise that this was absolutely typical of his generosity and that, rather than being confused I should have been grateful for the best possible welcome one could wish for. I was compelled to feel at home within seconds of meeting him: no fuss, no questions, no awkward introductions, no reproaches, no stiff formalities, just : “Oh, hello”; as easy as breathing!
And when I got to know him a little, I understood that his apparent nonchalance was anything but… His thirst for people, his curiosity about them; who they were, what they did, what motivated them, how they navigated life…. etc… was absolutely insatiable and yet at the same time, miraculously unobtrusive. I had – have – never met someone with such dexterity and charm !… He was irresistible!… We had endless conversations in that kitchen, round the Aga, getting to know each other, talking about Theatre and Literature, but mainly about Cinema. Cinema was his great passion, and as I had just returned from working with François Truffaut, his curiosity and enthusiasm knew no bounds…. And it was this passion, this curiosity, this generosity and enthusiasm, all expressed with such compelling force and delicacy – alongside Stephanie’s extraordinary gift of caring – which enabled me to feel valued once more and resurface into the world.
But that was only one aspect of the enigma that was Gus! Later, I got to experience another side of this mercurial man. It was a trivial little incident but to an excessively naive young man it was another big surprise.
One day, a friend – or relative – came to visit. In the evening, after supper, Gus suggested a game of poker. We all sat on the floor of the sitting room in front of the log fire, Stephanie got out the cards and Gus got out the Cuban cigarillos, the whisky tumblers and the ‘Glenmorangie’. We were all set, the cards were dealt…. and then the transformation took place: within the time it took to shuffle a pack of cards, this kind, courteous, wickedly humorous man, full of laughter and warmth suddenly, turned into a furiously ruthless devil of cunning, trickery, obfuscation and deceit. I couldn’t believe my eyes, I simply could not reconcile this person to the one I thought I was getting to know….. Two entirely different and contradictory people in one single body!…..
It was only a game of poker but it gave me a brief glimpse into Gus’s inner world: the heroic energy he devoted to his daily life, to be a ‘mencsh’ … What a wonderfully, extraordinarily complex man!
That was my only encounter with the ‘Poker playing Gus’ – the one I grew to know and love was the ‘Haggis Gus’… but I will remain eternally grateful to ‘both of them’ for opening my heart to the irrepressible nature of restorative love and my eyes to the infinitely complex nature of the human spirit…..
I will miss him…
Much, much love to all you Wolfe Murrays.
I first met Gus and Stephanie when my dad moved into the old Laundry at Glen. I would go up to Glenlude and help Stephanie in the garden and just hang around. I was a bit of a lost teenager at that point but that never mattered when I was there. Gus was a sort of grandfather figure to me — mine had all passed away. He was mysterious and friendly and I always felt seen.
Dear Rupert,
I remember first seeing him when I started at the Scotsman in 1994, when he was writing the film pages and I was doing theatre reviews. He would sit on a swing chair with his cowboy boots on the desk and still manage to type on the vast Amstrad in front of him. He was a romantic, hippy figure wearing patched jeans who wrote the most inspired and unusual film crits.
Then later after we published your book and you invited me out with Fergus to visit in the Borders when your mum was still alive and he had his pet duck called Truffle and all his beloved hens who lived in ’the hareem’. He was an expansive giant in character and long leggedy beasty in form. Then the last time when he had a broken wrist and still drove his truck over the bumpy road to the house. No one who met him will forget him.
Gus was an amazing character, he was much loved by all of us in the cricket club. When I first joined in 1999, Gus ran the whole show – cut and rolled the square, prepared and marked the wicket, rounded up the players and picked the team, captained the side, batted at 3, organised the teas and was usually the last to leave after the match. Apart from that, he organised Sunday friendlies and continually searched for new players – his contacts book was a “who’s who” of potential players in Edinburgh and the Borders. So, as you can see, he was hardly involved in the club at all!
Over the years, as more players came in and the club grew, particularly higher quality players through other contacts, I think he found it slightly less pleasurable; the first team was very successful for a short period of time and, while Gus was very happy to captain and run the 2nd XI, I always felt he thought the club had lost something. Even though I played in the 1st XI, I understood where he was coming from and sympathised greatly.
When he had IO film, his online film review website, he would receive, through the post, DVDs of bands, usually live gigs, and he would ask me to do the reviews of them. It was such an enjoyable experience – I’m a huge music fan and I think Gus was much more interested in movies than he was in music DVDs. I mention this because, at yesterday’s service at the Eastgate, we all thought Tessa’s letter from him was quite wonderful, not just for the sentiments expressed but for the astonishing ideas and imagery that he conjured up, and it made me think back to those IO reviews I wrote. In particular, when I sent them to Gus, he was always very complimentary but, having heard his words yesterday, I feel he may have been very indulgent with my own prose.
Yesterday’s service was truly one of celebration; there were about 18 of us from the cricket club and we spent the 45 minutes prior to the service swapping Gus stories and, in all honesty, we could have talked for longer had 11.00 not intervened.
Gus was a remarkable character; without being in the least sentimental, it was an absolute privilege to have known him, to have spent time with him and to have had the opportunity to listen.
For those of us who were close to him, our lives are certainly the poorer now.
His life read like a William Boyd novel.
He was truly one of a kind, confounding expectations and no doubt scandalising his way through life.
I will always picture him at The Scotsman offices on North Bridge, striding through the building in his biker leathers, locks flowing as he made his long strides down the corridor.
I will also be forever grateful for the part he played in launching my literary career, but even before that, I was struck by the interest he took in me as the most junior person in that department, and a freelance to boot, recognising something in me and asking me to fill in for him as film critic when he went on holiday.
I haven’t found recollections of Stephanie on your blog until just now. For what they are worth here are mine:
Her stunning natural beauty of which she seemed totally unaware.
Her unbounded love of each of her children no matter what they had just done.
Her disdain of all small talk.
Her total commitment to Canongate and discovery that she could be a serious businesswoman.
Widely respected.
It was ironic and tragic that so soon after she sold Canongate her successors made a fortune from groundwork laid by her
I was with Angus for almost 3 years; I told my daughter recently that the two best men in my life were Angus and her father; she met Angus when she was quite small and I visited Edinburgh for we kept in touch over the years even after we had separated and I eventually married someone else.
I always thought of Angus after our romantic relationship ended as a faun and was delighted to see another write the same thing here.
He was a gentle funny soul who I loved dearly and when we spoke on the phone for a catch up each year it was as though no time had passed.
When we were together we would see Stephanie, usually at the house in St Leonards Bank, and she was always lovely to me too; I had known her before Angus and I got together and she was just as nice then as later.
I never got to know their sons very well; he made the decision to keep our relationship secret for as long as possible because he said that when others got to know of such things they always spoiled them.
Of course others found out soon enough but it didn’t matter and I always recall the early secret days as indeed being the best, and I think now it was because Angus liked this secret world of his own making that we could inhabit any way we chose.
He used to call me Angel which made me laugh because I never thought of myself as such at all; we bonded over his cats at Hopehead Cottage (I understand his kids called it No Hope Cottage :-D) though we were together in Stockbridge first.
We wrote each other letters when he was away or I was travelling and they were lovely old fashioned things.
We went skiing twice, him being very accomplished and me not at all but it was lovely anyway and I recall Patrick being so very kind to me.
The last time I saw Angus was just before the pandemic when I visited Edinburgh to see a mutual friend who was dying; we arranged to meet at the foot of the steps from St Leonards Bank and walked to a nearby vegetarian restaurant where he, my son and daughter and myself had a lovely lunch.
I knew it would be the last time I would see him and I was so glad that we had made it possible.
He was one of the loves of my life and I shall be forever grateful for his lovely lop sided smile and the time we spent together.
Yes he had wonderful charm but more importantly he had a good heart.
I always felt he was born without a skin so to speak; such a sensitive soul who didn’t fit any mould; he communicated with animals so well because they recognised his sensitivity and he felt they were safer to have relationships with than humans.
So Angus, go well dear soul into your next adventure for I feel sure we will meet again.
And to those who are left behind who knew him very likely better than I ever did I hope you will take solace in the knowledge that your father, brother, uncle, grandfather, cousin was so loved by so many, including me.
Firstly I have to apologise for not making the funeral – I arrived in time and could find absolutely nowhere to park, and then got stuck in a gridlock in the car park, by which time 11 am had passed – whilst Gus was always late for everything I guessed that would not be the case this time!
I worked with Gus in his truck prior to him beginning Moving Pictures, around 1980 to 1981. Those who have travelled with him will be aware of his interesting driving style – always running late and always flat out, and generally with ambition outweighing driving skill.
I could fill a book with the exploits of those days, but will stick to the more memorable incidents.
In London we went to collect some items in W1, which Gus warned me as we approached was a very tight courtyard off the street – “you have to be really careful going in here as there is a big sign hanging off the wall. I knocked it off a couple of months ago and it cost a fortune to fix, and they really don’t like me.”
As we went in, full speed ahead as ever, there was a bang as the front top corner of the truck hit and dislodged the aforementioned sign – much swearing and quickly into reverse gear – “we need to get out of here quickly” he said. Unfortunately the haste of reversing caused him to then go over a sandwich board on the pavement and destroy it. We beat a hasty retreat and heard no more about it !
The same week, in Kings Road, we had to unload a bicycle and several boxes and suitcases of personal effects to be able to load a few beds. Beds loaded and off we went at the usual pace. About half an hour later and several miles across London, he suddenly said in a panic “we didn’t reload the bicycle and boxes at Kings Road – they were left against the railings – they will be gone by now, but we better get back there as fast as possible” As ever with Gus, everything was still sitting against the railings untouched and hour later – nobody else would have got away with that one in the middle of London.
Rushing up the M6 one evening, flat out with his stick wedging the accelerator pedal fully down, collie in the cab with us, book on the steering wheel, and a bottle of beer on the dashboard, we rounded a bend on the motorway and I saw all the red brake lights of the queues of stationary traffic up ahead. Gus had not noticed, so I shouted out. Immediately the stick was fired off of the window frame, brakes hard on and we passed about ten cars as we sailed up the hard shoulder trying to stop a very overloaded truck. His first comment as we ground to a standstill was “did you see where my beer went ?”
Naturally we did not always agree on things – working all day every day with Gus certainly had its challenging moments – an 18 hour day was not unusual, and it was probably equally challenging for him, being used to working alone in his truck.
However, I always enjoyed his ability to see the humour in even the worst situation, and his ability to charm his way out of any encounter with authority.
Truly a one-off and the world will be a poorer place without him.
Gus was my godfather and I remember him taking me to the Edinburgh premier of 101 Dalmatian’s- with REAL Dalmatian puppies in the cinema. It was amazing.
The last time I saw Gus was at my wedding- he had something else on that day but came after dinner in his woolly jumper and jeans- it was lovely!
I met Angus a few years ago when I was nine years old. He was much older than me, but he treated me like a friend and listened to what I said. He loved animals, and it was cool to meet someone who cared about them as much as I do.
Today was Angus’s funeral.
I gave one of the three eulogies.
At the wake several people asked me to post it on Rupert’s blog, so here it is:
Angus and I wrote letters.
We started when I was 14, I was at boarding school.
He was married to Stephanie, Kim and Rupert were babies.
Our regular correspondence continued until I was in my twenties. I want to share some extracts from one of the later letters.
But first some background for those who don’t know me.
I am Angus’s half sister. He was 13 when I was born.
My first home with my parents and 3 brothers, James, Angus and Andrew was with our grandmother in Traquair village.
When I was 3 we moved to Glenternie, in Manor Valley.
Growing up Angus always had time to play with me, mostly teasing.
I have memories of shrieking with laughter being rolled down the steep grassy banks outside Glenternie.
Of scary visits to the cellar which became a dungeon, and he the ghoulish monster-
good practice for his Walkerburn pantomime roles in later life.
I became an awkward teenager, questioning my parents’ way of life and politics.
In this he was my ally, he had been on the same journey.
Often he would vocally support me in my conflicts with them.
More and more I chose to spend my boarding school holidays with Angus, Stephanie and the boys.
I owe my teenage mental health to them.
When my mother died unexpectedly in 1968, they were very kind to me.
The letters Angus and I wrote to each other covered life, emotions, difficulties, books, films and music.
The extracts I want to read come from a 1976 letter. He was living between Glenternie and Edinburgh.
I was 26, living in the South Pacific with my anthropologist husband Nick and 2 year old Joseph.
The letter is both History and Poetry.
Dear Teaseyer, (I was Teaseyer,Teapot, he was Angst, Anguish or Anglepoise. As a family we went in for nicknames.
I’m typing because it’s nicer than sprawling half naked over a ballpoint Bic trying to squeeze ink from same and hold hand steady enough to make words possible on the eye.
I wrote you a long deadly black stained ( with gloom) letter soon after the New Year and found it a few weeks ago in the back of a book.
It was never sent or finished ( lucky for you- it was a whiner, and boring to boot).
NEWS:
when faced with the prospect of relating life’s progress over the last 6 months I cringe and wobble, jellies invade my brain, marshmallows flap and flop in the inevitable mind splosh of stewed fruit afternoons.
I’m 39. Birthday last month. Frightening innit? Christmas soon. And then another year.
The children grow taller, their lives leading towards the deathly teenage stewpot, the confidence crunch.
Kim is vague and wandering, beginning to enjoy ( or at least understand a little more ) the complexities of school and its social hierarchies.
Rupert at Peebles High is floating on the surface still.
Work not going too well but I think it’ll improve once he sees the point of it.
He’s a boon to Stephanie at home, helping and heaving.
There’s no passionate interest yet, ( I blame all their uncertainties upon myself.
I’m so detached and locked into work, scared white about lack of money, fighting to finish things that might bring success/cash, isolated like a crab in a bucket)
Gavin is at the Academy Prep. He’s zapped out with energy, keen and glistening with ideas.
Mooner continues to be Mooner, magic smiles and innocence like buttercup yellow in fields of green, the closest to earth, feelings for natural things, animals and birds.
In his head he’s flying. He’s happy.
Sometimes I feel the house ( Glenternie) like a stone dragging us into the pit and yet I know this is in MY head and if I look from another direction I would see hope and fulfillment and opportunity and delight.
For so long I have lived on a cloud of sheer invention.
I think that cloud has dissolved into air and I’m falling.
Below is the earth and its very hard and dark.
Everyone I know is living there.
They’ve learnt to adapt to the solid sounds of this stony wilderness.
They understand the limitations and accept them.
I’ve yet to hit the floor.
Pathetic. A grown man dressed as a child gliding on wax wings in rain circling the mountain.
I’m very bad at writing.I shall improve, stimulated by letters from you.
The new leaf? The old leaf burning in the fire, yes.
The new leaf is fresh and green. I invented it two minutes ago.
Here it is. Smells of gooseberries.
Full of resolutions ( shame went into the fire with guilt and disgust) and words aching to be written …next time.
One of the stories I love most about Gus occurred just after Stephanie and the boys had become involved with Scottish European Aid, raising money to help people in wartime Bosnia. A charity dinner had been organised in one of Edinburgh’s smarter hotels at which the paying guests were required to wear Black Tie. The principal guest was HRH The Duchess of York, as she was then.
On the designated night, all the guests were assembled for drinks before dinner prior to consuming the repast that had been painstakingly prepared by the hotel chefs. All were excitedly waiting for HRH to arrive. One problem arose! Gus, who had been designated the seat on the same table and right next to “Fergie”, was nowhere to be found. Consternation pervaded the room. As to be expected, the principal guest’s car arrived bang on time, and she was ushered in to the room where the event was to take place and where the assembled crowd were gathered in animated conversation. Having been handed a drink and introduced to the organisers, the decision was taken to wait a few minutes before dinner was announced.
Still no Gus!
After a while, it was decided that further procrastination was no longer on the cards. Protocol should prevail, and so the guests took their places at their prescribed tables. As soon as they were seated, albeit with the neighbouring chair on the right of HRH remaining empty, the doors of the room burst open and in walked Gus, unflappable and cool. Notable was his version of Black Tie; a pristine white tee-shirt, a black leather biker’s jacket, black jeans and a pair of bright red patent cowboy boots. Apparently, he so engaged the Duchess with his conversation that she hardly spoke to the person on her left. Such was his ability to put all pomp and ceremony to one side in favour of just being himself – to which so many have attested below – and illustrates his character which enthralled and attracted so many, whether dukes or dustmen.
So many memories of Gus, mostly cricketing, as I played alongside him at Peebles for years. I joined the club in 1999 and he was the first person I met at training; I thought I’d wandered onto the set of Back to the Future when I saw him.
Gus was so welcoming and we had a brilliant time playing together; the stories of him are legion and so many have already been recounted but my stand out memory was an end of season tour to Northumberland. We had arranged to play Eglingham on the Saturday afternoon starting at 2pm. It is a beautiful setting, in the grounds of a stunning large house. Gus hadn’t travelled with us but arranged to meet us at the ground before start of play. We arrived at 1pm but no sign of Gus, until we looked across the estate to see a tall chap, white haired and framed in the doorway of the grand house. He gives us a wave and strolls over, followed by a couple of wolfhounds. Of course, it’s Gus who had arrived the night before and stayed on the estate. He seemed to know most of Northumberland’s landowners, while we were slumming it in a B&B in Alnwick. When confirming the start time of 2pm, Gus mentioned he might be slightly late for the toss as they’d just opened another excellent bottle of Chablis. Nevertheless, Gus never missed a game of cricket and he duly arrived. I can’t remember how we got on but it doesn’t matter, it was just another special occasion with Gus.
Gus is a legend within Peebles CCC, there will be a strong turnout at next Thursday’s service. For all of us who had the pleasure of knowing him and playing with him, I can honestly say he will not be forgotten.
I first met Angus in the late 90’s when a bunch of “old farts” in West Linton decided to resurrect the village cricket team. Peebles CC in the form of Angus, and Graham Cresswell, were very supportive of our efforts and helped provide equipment on loan and arrange matches, and both Angus and Graham were honoured guests at our inaugural Annual Dinner.
I hadn’t realised at the time that Angus had his beady eye on using West Linton as a feeder club for Peebles…many of us succumbing to his silky persuasive skills as he sought to garner a full complement of players on a Saturday or Sunday morning for that afternoon’s match.
The previous tributes have been heartfelt and eloquent, and I shall forever remember Angus as “a woodland faun in human frame”. Did fauns wear frayed denim jeans which held multi-coloured patches together?
Angus enriched our sporting lives and on behalf of all West Linton Gordons Cricketers who played with and against him, I offer our sincere condolences to the Wolfe-Murray family.
If I am walking up Cockburn Street in Edinburgh I see Gus in my minds eye, striding ahead, on his way to The Scotsman – long legged in skin tight denim jeans and cowboy boots with that shock of white hair – and my heart lifts, as it always did at the sight of him.
I first knew Gus’s father Malcolm (a friend of my father in law) then James his brother. Oddly I can’t recall first meeting Gus, perhaps because there was never any ‘getting to know you’ time with him, just an immediate connection. It was a gift he had.
Perhaps it was because Gus learned early in life what truly matters. I found nothing petty in him. He was serious about his work, strong in his values, emotionally available and fun.
It must have taken courage to live so close to the financial edge but he did it with style and grace.
I last saw him in the Borders General after his horrible accident. He was frail, learning to walk again but in a ward of the shuffling beige, he sat straight backed wearing a beautiful blue chambray shirt and proper moccasins. His concern that day was not for himself. ‘I’m worried about my animals,’ he said ‘It’s those guys who need looking after.’
Angus is coming to stay: five words that always changed everything.
When a boy, it meant a lot of running around, to a hiding place, away from a can; quite a serious business, for you could tell by the way Angus went about it, this was not to be taken lightly.
But also unbelievably exciting. That glint in his eyes spoke of something beyond your ken but which looked, well, thrilling.
Later, cards, with running commentary. No quarter given for age. You blundered and you paid for it. But the appreciation if you somehow came out on top made the day. He always left you feeling elevated – quite a gift.
The other joy was seeing Angus and my dad together, and seeing what easy, lifelong friendship looked like.
Kim, Rupert, Gavin and Moona, so sorry for your loss.
I have been living near Edinburgh’s Filmhouse (now sadly closed) for the past half century and was a frequent attender. It was always a delight when I managed to get to the same showing as Angus and soak in his insightful take on the film; he always provided an unforgettably rich interpretation of it. Then the trip to Tuzla, Bosnia, in 1994 where I piped for Magnus’ wedding was an experience which left a wealth of distinct memories. I am so fortunate to have known him and his extraordinary family.
I was so sorry to hear from you that Angus has died. I last spoke to him when you were inviting contributions to your very moving little book about Stephanie (which I have been re-reading with pleasure and sorrow) shortly after her death in 2017.
I first met Angus in late 1973 when he invited me to work for Canongate, the publishing venture which he and Stephanie were setting up, with an office at 17 Jeffrey Street. I knew of him having read his highly regarded first novel The End of Something Nice, and also as a talented schoolboy and club cricketer (“an intimidating presence behind the stumps…the tallest wicket-keeper I’ve ever seen,” as one opponent describes him).
The “job interview” took place in a bar, I think the Abbotsford. The challenge of the opportunity to join Canongate excited me, having become aware of how ill-served writers in Scotland then were by its once-proud and distinguished publishing industry. Canongate was one of a number of new publishing ventures which emerged in Scotland during the 1970s.
My chief memory of Angus is of our working in the freezing, dark Canongate office, the result of the Three Day Working Week imposed by the Heath Government in response to the Coalminers’ Strike, from January to March 1974. It was during that time that the basis of a publishing list started to take shape, a process which continued when Angus withdrew after a few months and Stephanie took his place.
Famously, Angus contacted Alasdair Gray expressing an interest in his epic novel Lanark, after reading an extract published in Bob Tait’s Scottish International Review. Some years later Canongate published the completed Lanark to wide acclaim.
I shall always be grateful to Angus and Stephanie for involving me in the start of Canongate (from 1974 till 1979), one of the most rewarding periods of my life.
My condolences to you all.
I have not seen Angus for many years but am sad to hear of his death. We were contemporaries at Ludgrove and Eton and my life was the richer and more fun for his being there. He paid little or no attention to school rules and was almost always in trouble.
His good luck was that he was very good at games for which our headmaster forgave almost anything. Twenty runs scored with style against Sunningdale went a long way to making up for a poor maths paper and added to Angus’s standing amongst us other boys.
He was a really talented games player but never traded on that in any way. It was that easy charm for which I will
always remember him, kind and unpredictable and a bit anarchic.
Years later he came to stay with us in Warwickshire and went missing after breakfast. In front of the house was a copper beech tree 80ft high. Twenty minutes later Angus emerged from the very top and then climbed down without comment. Perhaps we had bored him at breakfast?
Mish and I are so sorry.
I heard about Angus’ death last week via a somewhat circuitous route and that you were looking for memories of him. I knew him for over a decade from about the turn of the millennium, principally through our joint love of cricket. He even persuaded me to turn out for the Peebles team a few times when they were short of players!
Angus was a wonderfully engaging and eccentric individual. He claimed to have worn just one set of pads across a career that stretched for over 50 years. Having seen him strap them on once, there’s probably a lot of truth in that story.
Angus told me once that he was at Eton with one Henry Blofeld. Years ago I was up at the Fringe where I was tasked by my editor at the time to review a show by Henry Blofeld, the former BBC cricket commentator on Test Match Special and had the opportunity to have a chat with Blowers afterwards. I asked, very much on the off chance, if he remembered Angus and Blowers, midst a stream of “how is the dear old thing” and “do pass on my very best when you next see him” and so on, told me that the two of them had been part of a hat trick in an Eton/Harrow game once.
As a cricket nerd/badger, I hoiked my Wisdens out when I got back home and traced it back to the game at Lords in 1955, where Angus/Henry were indeed the 2nd and 3rd victims of a hat trick by Neame (see link above). I thought that was a lovely story that captured the Angus I knew to a tee! Judging from his time at Eton, Angus was obviously a very capable cricketer and very much a “Gentleman” rather than a “Player” – one of a kind in fact.
Angus Wolfe Murray
He had the most asymemtrical face I’ve ever seen; one side said one thing and the other told a different story. He’d been on tour with Jethro Tull and the stress (money, being away from home) had given him Bell’s Palsy. Half his face still functioned as normal, but the other side froze and fell so when that he wanted to eat, he’d have to use a finger to lift the corner of his mouth. After six months, the feeling came back but the imprint of that paralysis remained. I thought it made him more compelling.
I was with Angus for three years. When our relationship started, he was 52 and I was 19 and he won me over by recounting the plot of Good Will Hunting. Or maybe it was Stand By Me. It took him half an hour to explain it and I didn’t take in a word. My dad said they’d been at school together but he was a lot more interesting than any Etonian I’d ever met. It was a long time after he and Stephanie had split up but their lives were still entwined: apart from anything else he needed to sort out Saturday’s cricket fixtures, and she had a phone. She was as welcoming, generous and open with me as she was with everyone.
For the first couple of years, I was at uni or in London. Half my time with Gus was spent travelling, hurtling to a stop every time he saw a phone box so he could plea-bargain with the Scotsman sub editors over the loss of a single comma. Those hours in the Hilux gave me a love of driving which continues to this day: the magic of driving in the dark, talking, facing for hours into the half-lit road, on and on until you’re tranced with tarmac. And what I loved about him most of all was that he answered my questions. I came to him starving for information: how did he write, how did he live, how did he love, how did he learn to put one word in front of another, what was it like to be a father, husband, father-in-law, grandfather, uncle, why was he allergic to money, what was Glenternie like, what did he remember of his mother, why did animals mean so much to him, why weren’t we allowed to discuss the film we’d just seen until after he’d written the review, why did he drive a truck up and down the country with a cab containing a cellar of wine, a cat and a full-grown ewe? And then, after I’d moved to Stobo with him, why did he live three miles up a track in a bitter glen with all those gates between him and the world, why was there a pile of uncashed Moving Pictures cheques on the kitchen table, was it really safe to drive a vehicle when dandelions grew from the gearbox and you could see the road through the floor? He always took me seriously, always gave the answer his best shot, never flinched. He said the dandelions cheered him up.
From him I learned how to read, how to hang and rehang pictures so you never stopped seeing them, how not to approach vehicle maintenance. He taught me never ever to take electricity, light or heating for granted, to love Class A coffee, to fall into the magic of film. He approached everything, whether it was a book or a 40-word bullet-point film review for a tiny website with the same excruciated craftsmanship. He didn’t so much describe things as channel them.
He was an expert in the art of pointless self-imposed deprivation, a man who would deliberately set out into a snowstorm without a torch or a tow rope just to test himself. I called him Cal, short for Calvinist. We were about evenly matched for stubbornness.
Later at Glenlude he and Stephanie cast that same spell. Up the hill, he had spent a long time designing a small but upmarket housing development for chickens. There were several hen coops of varying sizes (Standard, Executive, Prestige) all beautifully made and all with outstanding views of the Scottish Borders. He and Stephanie had gone to a local market and returned with four over-feathered hens who could neither see nor lay, but who looked like Andy Warhol. In the house there would be food and chat and catching up and that same omnivorous interest in the outside world from both of them, and then there would be A Movie: neighbours, children, grandchildren, friends, strays, all gathered in a conspiracy of warmth in that house in the hills while outside the stars and the hills made the whole night seem legendary. Which, with both Stephanie and Gus, it usually was. May the road rise to meet them, and the wind be always at their back.
How sad and yet somehow I expected AWM to live forever – although I had heard he hadn’t been well for a number of years.
Angus and I played, captained, organised cricket together for about 15 years from around 2000 to 2015, for Peebles mainly & also West Linton.
When I first met Angus in 1998 he was Club Captain, Groundsman, Team Fixture Secretary, Transport Manager and Practice/Net Organiser. He did everything.
His final match for West Linton CC was against Peebles. He needed two of the last ball for a win. He hit an easy single but didn’t bother to run so we ended up losing! His eccentric brain hadn’t realised a run was a tie! Typical Angus, he sent me a long email apology the next day. He didn’t mention the fact we needed 4 runs with 4 wickets remaining and had dropped a series of dolly catches.
So as madcap as the last ball was – it was match in which all of us snatched defeat from the jaws of victory.
It is easy to see the worst in people, yet healing to honour their best. May the light that shone through the darkest troubles of his life stand as an inspiration to all and ignite our inner flame.
Angus, Grandpa, thank you for your example. It was most always a joy to be with you and share in your playful spirit. Games, funny words, gentle guiding into laughter and ease. It was difficult to be sullen with his old face forming a smile and prompting one more rubber so he could triumph once more. A child’s heart danced the quicksteps of adult life with principle and grace. His sense of style splashed any gathering with freedom in an artful invitation to be yourself, however patched and torn that might be.
A child running free at Stobo, to find frightening shadows from old sculptures in a darkened shed; a lifesized doll with striking features like some denizen of a punk afterworld waiting above the stairway to prevent a cautious youth from solitary ventures without fear of its coming to life and falling on me; A life of art and music and books, sexual liberation and the honouring of the naked form; the beauty in those framed windows to other worlds, the grandeur and boldness of their placement; the joy of being received.
I feel honoured to be a Wolfe Murray. In memory there exists a sentiment, a strength of will, an ability to transcend perceptions of limitation, colour and rich depth of knowledge, the freedom to delve into the arts, the foreign lands, the great halls of ancestors, the leaping pride in the Lion Heart of a young Noble who feels the empowerment of existence, the refinement, the quality, the great houses, trees and grounds, the power in a name, the strangers who ask after a relative they could never forget. There is much to be grateful for.
Eccentric grandfather who spoke like a lord and lived with the hens, who honoured Nature, who valued solitude, who always showed keen interest, listened, asked with genuine curiosity, who loved film, who lived in creating the magic circle of a game where certain rules apply – worlds of fancy, an explorer, a romantic, a collector, a connoisseur, a humble hermit, a generous spirit, a closed door, a paradox, a beautiful contradiction, a sensitive soul who received more than his fair share of pain, a twisted tree with strong limbs, still supporting life in many branches – each touched in his unique ways, a deep thinker with a wealth of knowledge – yet always willing to learn as a student.
Thank you, Grandfather, for who you are.
I have a very vivid picture of him in my mind’s eye. I recall him visiting me at my office in the old Scotsman building in Edinburgh. He was tall, thread thin, more or less toothless and dressed as if from a catalogue curated by Neil Young.
No one like that had ever been in the Scotsman.
I knew him from your blessed mother. He was the last of the true Bohemians.
Another memory: I was at St Leonards Bank having dinner with Stephanie and Alastair Reid. The kitchen window opened and in snuck Gus. He gave us all a cheery hello, helped himself to a dram, sat with us for a chat and then disappeared from whence he came. It all seemed perfectly normal
I was sorry to hear about the death of Angus. I know what it’s like. I lost my dad about four years ago. A difficult path to walk.
I played cricket with Angus for a few seasons for Peebles County. A talented cricketer even in later years. My dad played with him and his brother James for Innerleithen. It must have been during school holidays, when they lived at Traquair. The back garden was used for practice. At a game at Selkirk he was clean bowled second ball with James watching in disbelief from the boundary!
Another game that comes to mind was us batting together, completing the run at the same end.
Angus was giving out to his fury. The only time I saw him angry. This followed with a few heated words at tea time. However after the game he drove me home and bought me an ice cream. That summed up his generous spirit and not holding a grudge.
He had a dog called Holly he took to games. His driving was never the best. Not knowing if I would survive the journey. I will have a beer in his memory and visit his grave.
Alert in the heavenly deep
Beyond the boundary of sleep
Such powerful testimonies. Of course, as our Dad, we took him for granted. Hated him and loved him at the same time. He was the best of us and the worst of us. Mum never stopped loving him. He was himself. His own animal. How can you follow that? By being yourself. The hardest thing is when you’re trying to be liked by others. Accepted. Be normal. It’s only now, as I enter my sixtieth year, that I begin to feel what it’s like. To be myself. That I can appreciate what having an amazing father is like. May he rest in peace.
I was, like everyone, so very sorry to hear Angus has left us – definitely too soon, which is funny considering he was almost always late. I’m thinking of you all and remembering very happy memories of an unexpected and incredibly impactful friendship.
I’m out in Utah at Sundance Film Festival, where I’ve been filing for Screen International – none of which would be happening if I hadn’t met Angus. He was the one who encouraged me to write about film in the first place when I’d never dreamt of such a thing, to become involved with a website and to give it some welly in general.
His enthusiasm was infectious; whenever you’d seen something or just had a bit of news he would always say, “Tell me, tell me!” – and he really wanted to hear it. Although we haven’t spoken so frequently in recent years because he’d moved, he’s in my thoughts every time I try to write something original about a film – although he was the master of that.
We met when he was in his sixties and he was a constant source of amazement, I seemed to learn about some incredible detail of his life every time we met. I’ll always think of the times I took a ride in his car with the dog practically on his lap, him full of enthusiasm for whatever he’d just seen, even if he hated it. To be a force of nature like that is something special. He’ll be much missed.
The first time I met Angus he was standing at mid wicket for Peebles County Cricket Club and weaving a pigeon feather he’d just picked up into his mane. And immediately, from age 13-25 (when my frontal lobe fully formed), he became my chief mentor.
We spent every Saturday and Sunday in summer together, suffering a series of excruciating and humiliating defeats and on sponge pudding cricket fields. Angus would score 75 and the rest of the team combined, 5. People think Ben Stokes does a lot, but he never had to spend every Friday night rounding up 10 other people on their landlines, begging anyone who could walk or spare a pair of chinos to give up their weekends for a golden duck, three dropped catches and one over for 30 in Grangemouth. He would race through the Scottish borders, sometimes with horse trailers in tow, a dog on his lap, picking up farmers in need of double knee replacements and a clutch of enthusiastic 13-year-olds, the club kit bag, plus tea-for-two. His vegetarian sandwiches were always the most popular.
Angus understood the brutality of boarding school and rescued me from the gates on a whim. The school went bananas when they discovered I spent my week of ‘work experience’ with him as a ‘film critic’, spinning around Edinburgh art houses and lunching with friends, or delivering logs, between advance screenings of Das Boot and limitless free Cokes.
Angus volunteered his time to edit my books and get me published. He gave so much to so many people and never asked anything in return. Everyone wanted him in their lives. The guy in torn denim and cowboy boots with the cool name who could light up a room.
One time, my uncle from Devon, then aged 65, was visiting us in Scotland. Angus phoned.
‘Was that Angus Wolfe-Murray?’ my uncle said after the call.
‘Yes. You know him?’
‘I remember an Angus Wolfe-Murray caught me on the boundary, aged 13, in the Eton vs Brechin game. I’ll never forget the name.’
Rest in peace, Angus. A gentleman and a player. A standing ovation to the pavilion, brother.
I played cricket with Angus for many years down at Peebles and he was the most amazing and fascinating person I have ever met. From his style of playing cricket to the way he dressed or even drove the car. It was never ordinary.
I remember fondly of the time I was walking along Peebles High Street and Gus was double parked with the bonnet of the car open and smoke/steam billowing out, he was sat in the car with his feet up on the dashboard, wearing his trademark patchwork jeans. The window was down and you could hear the cricket test match was playing on the car radio. I asked if everything was ok and the reply was “I’m having a spot of lunch”.
He was a legend at the cricket club, both on and off the pitch, and everyone that ever met him will remember some story about him. He helped me advance in the world of cricket from my young teens till I left the club in 2013. I was so delighted to see myself and all our juniors develop in to quality players. Even to this day it is the Gus late cut shot that score me most of my runs.
I worked with Gus getting logs from the steep slope above Glenternie in weather fair and foul. The green hill was slippery but he punched his old Land Rover up the slopes intrepidly. He pointed it downhill for loading with logs and knew all the tricks. It never rolled — in my time. He chainsawed and split old pines from the scattered trees. We chugged down the slope and into the back-yard at Glenternie. He then stacked the logs like a jig-saw, every one snug into its neighbour. ‘Why the fuss?’ I asked. ‘This job is so boring I do it this way to make it bearable’, he answered, with his lop-sided grin. Making jokes the left eye would almost close and the right get wider, like a search-beam. He was permanently clad in clingfilm-tight blue denim, whatever the weather. Usually tennis shoes on his feet. That was his tree-cutting attire too.
He could talk about films all night long. He believed films were moving pictures ( the name he gave to his art delivery business later on) and he sieved the scenes searching for wrong notes or passages which ran sublimely on oiled wheels. He was super-sensitive to dialogue. This translated into his own work as a novelist. The End Of Something Nice, which made a splash in its time, had pages of dialogue without reference to who was speaking. If you followed the meanings there was no need to identify the speaker. Gus believed in clipped and re-clipped sentences, no frills, paring everything down.
In this connection, he told me of his rookie journalist days on the Yorkshire Post. He was sent to cover a burning building story. He fashioned a perfect literary piece, with images and metaphors for the conflagration. His editor took one look and said it needed cutting. The version which finally appeared named the time, the street and the building. It had been shaved down to a bald factual report. Gus said that changed his understanding of swift communication.
No-one could copy or imitate Gus. He was a flat-out complete original. He did everything his own way, preferring to swim against the current. His friends included individuals from wildly contrasting walks of life. Natural sportsman as batsman and fly-rod angler, bohemian in ways that would have stunned Bohemia, thinker and writer, known in his business Moving Pictures as the one haulier who would get the goods there safe and on time, driving ridiculous hours accompanied by his dog of the day, he was a character in a special mould. No-one he met ever forgot him.
Partly because he engaged with anyone in front of him with energy and concentration, he wanted to see what made them tick and liked zippy dialogue. Conversationally he was frank and honest and didn’t play tricks. So those he encountered responded in kind, more candidly than they normally might have. Gus is remembered so well not only for his devil-may-care dynamism and questing intelligence but because of what he brought out from under the tortoiseshell in ourselves.
Stephanie once described meeting Gus for the first time. She was dumbstruck at his charms and etceteras, his exoticism. She said ‘I thought — what has everyone been doing?’ Meaning, why was she the only one noticing. Which — assuredly — she wasn’t.
Angus.
Nostell Priory, 1960. My first memory of Angus, at a New Year’s ball – him teasing me because my doll’s eyes were open when I was insisting she was asleep. I was 6.
That night I fell in love with my cousin Andrew, Angus’s step-brother. But not very long after that, it was Angus – I had fallen under his spell, entirely through listening to his sister Tessa (four years older than me) to whom he and Stephanie and their babies meant the world. And so, before ever properly meeting him he became to me an utter legend – I read The End of Something Nice so many times that I easily picked out the bits that he re-edited for the second impression.
Soon after that, aged 14, I went with Tessa to stay at Braulen – and there he was in the flesh. It was magic. He was everything I dreamed he would be – fascinating, mysterious, funny. He looked so amazing – handsome, his eyes so penetrating, his face so mobile, and its halo of curls. Tall, wiry, athletic. Private and aloof yet always asking questions, never condescending. Playing with his adorable little ones. Huddled over a pair of jeans with a needle, patching. Cutting pictures from magazines for collages – more patching. Logs and fires. It was all incredible. Tessa idolised him, and so did I.
When he and Stephanie were living at Glenternie and I was a student, I – like so many others – was often there at week-ends. Their lives grew ever more complicated but their appeal was instant, irresistible, magnetic. Everyone felt drawn to them. Everyone wanted a bit of them. As for me, I loved being there so much – nowhere else, no other company, could compare, and nothing ever matched those times.
They were so generous, but I’m ashamed to say that with the insouciance of youth I never gave a second thought to how much it must have cost them in all sorts of ways; never thinking that I might be intruding, or that mine was an extra mouth to feed, or how often they included me – at The Traverse in Edinburgh; or wherever Lindsay Kemp was performing; or at rare meals in restaurants. But they never seemed to count the cost, and I remember Angus giving me lifts and helping me move all my stuff great distances at the end of academic years.
Angus – and Stephanie – gave me so much, taught me so much. Sometimes it feels as if everything I know can be traced back to them, and to that time. I adored them both, and their boys.
Years and years later, when they were growing old and living, together again, at Glenlude, after five minutes in their company it was as if those years were nothing at all (although I never got over Angus losing his curls). Their charm, their voices unchanged, both still utterly themselves, embracing their inner young selves – and Glenlude always felt like a young person’s house; just rather centred around chickens and dogs… Angus, in jeans, as tall and funny as ever; asking questions, discussing books, films, TV… It wasn’t celebrated, their fifty years – but I know what their golden wedding meant to Stephanie.
Angus, you brought extraordinary enchantment to the lives of so many… It has been unimaginable, these last years, to be living in a world without Stephanie – and now without you. I feel so bereft and sad for everyone. I am glad you are at peace – but it’s very hard to say goodbye – The End of Something Nice.
Images keep emerging…The bookcase wall of LPs and the specific order in which they had to be played in. No cheating. Repairing patches every morning or applying new ones. Sometimes both. The bath at Stobo: an art form in itself.
Always running a bit late so always driving just a bit too fast.
Porridge.
Long denim legs above black cowboy boots. Competitive game playing (even Ludo). Candle wax everywhere. That huge painting of the faceless man with his arms wrapped around himself. A Dorothy Stirling up the staircase.
So many feelings interwoven amidst these images. Like a tapestry. Laughter. Tears. Rage. Love. Hurt. Hence why I can’t write anything. Certainly not boring though. He opened my cage and helped me spread my wings, but then sometimes stalked like a cat.
“Wounded people bleed on others,” he once told me.
Some of my treasured memories date back to early days. We both arrived at Eton on the same day. He was just 13. I was 12, nine months younger. We all had our own room but Angus shared his room with James, his older brother. The idea was that it would make it easier for the younger one but they were totally different and didn’t really get on.
Angus struggled with work and came to me for help. His mind was like a butterfly moving from flower to flower, with endless flights of fancy, but it didn’t always gather honey.
My window gave on to a passage where boys from other houses had to pass. We formed deeply set views of other boys whom we had never met, based entirely on how they Looked. We discovered how deceptive looks can be.
We had special books for biology with blank pages on one side for drawings of animals and the human body, and lined pages on the opposite side for notes. Angus converted his for cut-outs from film magazines on the left, and his own critiques of the same film on the lined side. Cinemas were out of bounds, but not to Angus. He went to all the cinemas in Slough and Windsor, on his own, and I don’t think ever got caught.
He was a natural games player with a good eye but his asthma restricted him. Football, rugby, the field game and any form of athletics were denied him. Squash was a bit of a problem but he carried a puffer from which he gasped air at the end of each game. At cricket he excelled, as did James. I guess it was in the blood. He didn’t bowl but he was a very good fielder and an electric wicketkeeper, even into his fifties. There is an excellent cutting from the Peebles newspaper when he won a match for the Borders almost single handed. He was also a brilliant Fives player, having learnt at his prep school. He made himself ambidextrous.
We shared a ground floor flat in Eccleston Square with Mark Armitage for about 18 months until Stephanie came into his life. I did the shopping and cooking. Gus was supposed to clean the bathroom, which was always very steamy because it had no access to air and Mark was supposed to hoover and dust the sitting room. We all liked playing games of every sort. We had access to a tennis court in the middle of the square and we were all about the same standard, always in search of a fourth. It varied but it was often Jerry Dennis.
We called ourselves different names based on the cartoon in The Daily Mirror. I was Andy Capp, Angus was Flo, Mark was called Chalky and Jerry was Hardcastle, the rent collector. We played every card game you can think of but our favourite was Oh Hell, and we were each pretty good at it, so visitors would be lucky to get away as winners. But James WM managed it, so we never invited him again!
If I was cooking this did not prevent me from participating in poker games. Someone would bring my hand in, show it to me and ask what I wanted to do, until one day someone found the ace of spades in their soup.
Girls were invited, but if the others felt someone was getting too close they would be endlessly ribbed. I remember one day Angus asked Dip Cadogan, who was very grand, to help with the housework before we settled down to a card game.
Angus and I got fed up with Mark always wanting to go to bed early (about 11pm) so one night when he was fast asleep we gently lifted his bed, took him outside, left him on the street and locked the door. Soon after, the bell rang and we looked out to see a policeman at the front door seeking Mark’s readmittance with a warning about future behaviour. We never saw Stephanie until his sudden declaration that he was going to get married.
When I left for South Africa, Gus came to Southampton to see me off. I offered to pay for his train ticket but he said that wouldn’t be necessary. I discovered why. When the ticket collector came round Gus went to the gents and did not lock the door. He stood behind the door, making himself as thin as possible, and hoped the collector would not see that no one was in there.
He wrote reams of letters, generally addressed to Capp. They were endless conversations as though he were talking to you. Quick changes of scene as in a film script.
I thought the dialogues were the best part of ‘The End of something nice’. As a result of the success of his first novel he was given a colossal advance for his second book. After about 18 months the publishers started to exert pressure and then the fateful day…Stephanie returned home to discover that he had torn into tiny pieces the book he had been working on for 2 years. This is a direct quote from one of the letters written soon after: ‘I shower words onto blank pages and then tear them up in fits of nervous fear.’
Eskadale house, Beauly, Inverness. A very smart address. Was that really the shooting lodge at the end of a very long glen? Where lunch was always on the grass. Food was a concern but there were lobster pots and plenty of salmon in the river. To Christabel’s gentle enquiry, Stephanie rejoined disinterestedly ‘I think something may turn up’ and sure enough it did. A Bentley cruised up to the door and Hugh and Antonia Fraser got out. The boot was lifted and inside was a roast turkey to be carved by Hugh and we brought plates to feed hungry mouths. It is the summer of 1969.
Later Glenternie with continuous kick-a-peg. Is kick-a-peg played indoors and how does it differ from kick-the-can or is it the same as prisoners’ base? Whichever, the furniture took a pasting.
Favourite authors of Gus, probably in this order, were J. D. Salinger, J.P. Donleavy, Edna O’Brien and Arthur Miller. Favourite film East of Eden. I think those cowboy boots were in honour of James Dean.
Staying at Stobo on my journey north to John Of Groats. Feeding all his animals. The bed is surprisingly comfortable, but I had walked a long way. Wish I’d seen him one last time.
Very sad.
Angus – such a physical yet somehow elusive presence – a woodland faun in human frame.
Fascinated by humans and recognised by animals as a kindred wild spirit.
Goodbye dear Angus of wonderful memories.
If it wasn’t for Gus … I wouldn’t be who I am today (not that I am somebody!), because I wouldn’t have met Rupert in 1986 in Bucharest, in the grim times of late Communism, because he wouldn’t have been given my phone number by a Romanian friend of mine in Berlin, whom he wouldn’t have met if he hadn’t shared the front bench seat in Gus’ Moving Pictures truck with Gwen Hardie, a Scottish artist who was going out with my friend in Berlin at the time, and whose sister Amy was studying at the National Film and Television School (NFTS) in Beaconsfield, from whom my friend in Berlin found out about the NFTS and ended up studying there, from whom I found out about the NFTS and then I ended up studying there too, being unexpectedly invited for a couple of interviews based on an application film made, in great haste, with Rupert in Romania in 1990, soon after the 1989 revolution, which included footage of a derelict orphanage in Moldavia, discovered by another Wolfe Murray, Moona, on an aid trip in a red Post Office truck.
And, if this wasn’t enough, Angus also supported me with a generous £200 in my first year at the NFTS, when I had no grant and lived in a cheap shared flat in New Cross, London, in the room left empty just in time by yet another Wolfe Murray: Gavin.
Now, to mention the fourth brother, Kim, also dear to me, with whom I shared some time in a Buddhist monastery, I hope he will pray with me for Gus to come to eternal rest from samsara and reach nirvana!
I am sad for your loss. On reflection I wonder if your father sometimes lived in the shadow, and perhaps that’s where he felt the most comfortable.
I know you will miss him. I am sad to say goodbye to him – he was quite unique – someone who seemed content on the edge, always charming to me, yet there was also an unrest. Having briefly seen him way back, always from a distance, as your father, in his Moving Pictures van days, until more recent years at Glenlude, where we gathered to eat porridge, played cards, and later fish curry, until he would disappear into his den to watch ‘Strictly’.
What to make of such an eccentric soul? The absence and the sudden, profound and tragic loss of his mother, when he was at such a young age had clearly left a deep mark. I wonder how he had coped, how he survived without the adoration and love of a mother. He seemed to have found a way by walking alongside life’s norms and rules – clasping on to that boyhood charm and finding true connections with the uncomplicated world of animals and the love of watching other people’s stories in film. He had coped perhaps as an observer, perhaps never really wanting to fully again participate.
Having experienced such a loss how does one trust in connections again? How does one learn how to contain their emotions? How to trust? How to deal with love and fear?
Who am I to comment? But with such early adversity he must have been deeply wounded and incredibly brave as he did find a way to lead a remarkable life, to again feel love and to raise four amazing men and to leave a mark on us all and for that I deeply respect him.
Losing a parent is one of life’s horrible milestones.
Angus was – in Spanish – muy impresionante.
I agree with your thoughts on the tragic loss of his mother that Angus suffered. Then Eton. I met Angus when he moved a painting of mine to the National Portrait Gallery in London, from Edinburgh. His aquiline features and grey hair put me in mind of a French aristocrat in a powdered wig. His interest in contemporary film-making was vivid and astute as were his reviews. He was a most romantic character with extraordinary charm. It was better glimpsed perhaps. Angus had a reclusive anti-social side which was painful to discover at first-hand.
I would also add that he loved his time as a Roadie, touring with Jethro Tull. He was a true bohemian which was not the same as being a hippie.
Unassuming
As I was growing up, he was a legendary figure, like a character out of Easy Rider, or a Scottish version of a Grateful Dead song.
I played rag-tag village cricket with him in Peebles, stayed in that cottage in the foothills of the Pentlands, with his sleek, black, moon-eyed cats, so neurotic they would flinch if you just glanced at them, all of which eventually got shot by the local game-keeper; and with his huge collection of vinyl lining the walls, he was literate in 60s & 70s rock’n’roll like the teenager he still was inside; I saw in him what he wanted to see in himself: a free spirit.
He let me drive his truck and I filled it with petrol instead of diesel and nearly bust the engine but he was totally cool with that.
The young painters I knew at the Glasgow School of Arts knew him like a legend, too, on the road, “Truckin” with Moving Pictures; a block of wood for the accelerator before the days of cruise control; a unique service for the arts, even though it was also his flight from too much reality.
Life doesn’t turn out how we dream it, but both he and Stephanie were, in their very distinct ways, big presences in the lives of all Linklaters, and the world is a different place without your parents in it.
Rupert. I am so sorry to hear the sad news about your dad. There’s no words really to convey personal loss of a parent or sibling. We are catapulted into the unknown territory of no longer having them nearby as a point of reference, someone to call just to say hi or have a banter with… to laugh with.. or even be annoyed with. Such is unconditional love. It sounds as if your dad encouraged, showed you a way to be on many levels and embellished your tools of communication with the big wide world that was awaiting for you. The world that you now navigate with the help of his compass. x
It’s difficult to think of Gus not being still in this world and pulling exaggerated faces at convention. Not only was his physiognomy uniquely mobile. He was the most physical person I ever met, whether playing Kakipeg at Braulen, up Glen Strathfarrar, or tennis at our island home nearby, or simply rounding the kitchen table at Glenternie to catch up a bowl of porridge and disappear back into his den.
When I first knew Gus and Stephanie, his novel, The End of Something Nice, an account of childhood as compelling as Les Enfants du Paradis, had just been published. It dripped with promise as well as with rhododendrons and azaleas. Gus turned to other writing, to the quality of which others can attest, and to long hours on the road with Moving Pictures. But, whenever we met up, he was undimmed by changing circumstances and as kind and sardonic as ever. My sincere condolences to Kim, Rupert, Gavin and Moona, and to their families too.
So sorry to hear about Angus. He lived a great life, was such a unique brilliant hilarious character, the smooth debonair father of my favourite family.
There are so many precious stories to look back on.
He leaves a bloody huge hole in the universe, which is now mourning a bloody good bloke. No more Wolfe-Murray funerals please God.
RIP and poker and fine humour. Fare forward old bean.
I’m so happy to have known Angus having met him in the mid 90’s when I was a cinema manager and he would attend press screenings. Over the years I worked in various cinemas and then for a film company and our paths regularly crossed. He was such a wonderful, unique character – I remember him always arriving late for screenings rushing in at the last second in his trademark patched denims (never ever saw him wearing anything else – was there any of the original denim left?) but I knew if Angus was not there then I couldn’t start the film. We would chat after screenings and I enjoyed hearing his frank, and often unique, take on films. I think the last time we spoke was in 2019 at a screening in Glasgow, it had been a while since I had last seen him. He seemed so happy to be there and it was so good to see him. It was only last Saturday I was asking after him via another mutual friend and I was really sad to hear this news today.
I am sure you will be inundated with others’ amazing memories of your dad. He was really one of a kind.
Condolences to you and your family.
Angus was one of the most impactful people I’ve ever met. I’m sorry for your loss Rupert and family, he must have been a wonderful father. Angus was kind enough to invite me to write for his film website IOFilm, and kinder still to laugh at my jokes. His were funnier. There was no such thing as a wrong opinion there as long as it wasn’t a toothless one – the only crime was being boring. I will be forever grateful for his friendship, encouragement and the many opportunities for fun and adventure that he put my way, I tried to take advantage of every single one. His enthusiasm and hunger for life made everything seem possible, his support lent confidence when I had none.
It’s been a long time since I saw him, but my own father died last year, and in the months that followed I found myself thinking a lot about Angus, and looking for him online, to no avail. Of course, now I wish that I’d given up less easily. He was great company and as marvellous a listener as a storyteller, albeit always impatient to get to the good bit, the next adventure. It sounds from previous comments that his flock of devil geese were replaced in later years by a single black duck, hopefully a more sociable, less violent, companion.
Physical memories are few, as our friendship was mostly online, via email. But I remember Angus and Stephanie at the table of their house by Arthur’s Seat gossiping over breakfast about artists and friends in town for the Fringe, a machine-gun fire of excited chat and fond reminiscence, while I sat, badly hungover, trying to finish and submit a film festival diary for Angus’s website. They seemed the most glamorous couple, hospitable and welcoming, living a life big enough to envelope a world of orphans as well as the children they both spoke of so proudly. I hoped to one day have an ex-marriage as successful and loving as theirs. I’m getting married in August though so there is still time. Your dad will be sadly missed and always remembered.
I’m grateful to have got to know Angus well as my father in law, especially while Kim and I lived with him for a year and a half at Glenlude. We enjoyed a fun and harmonious co-existence while it lasted. He sadly suffered a head injury due to a car crash which turned all our lives there upside down. His love of animals was endearing. A sweet, quirky, witty and wildly charming man. I remember him and Stephanie dancing at our wedding. His scruffy, yet stylish, and dramatic flair.
Farewell dear Angus, may you rest in peace!
Although I didn’t know him well – Angus made a strong impression on me.
I first met him when he transported my paintings to the Contemporary art Society in London from ECA n 1984. He struck me as vastly over educated for the job of art transport and did it with such enthusiasm and agility.
I was thrilled when he bought a few of my paintings and was so encouraging about my need to travel and experience the world.
Once I drove with him the trek from Edinburgh to London or vice versa, I cant recall, and conversing with Angus was a complete delight to my younger mind.
Most unusual was his kindness, curiosity and largeness of mind – in fact I imagined he was some kind of sage in disguise!
Sweet and wonderful Angus. I am so glad to have met him.
I worked with Angus for many years at Eye For Film – and before that, briefly, at IOfilm. I first met him in person at an anti-war demonstration in Glasgow, where he was at a table in George Square. I had news to share with him from an Australian contact and he was, as always, keen to collect information and do his bit. At work he always stood up for small films and tried to make sure that everybody got their due. He was a dedicated supporter of the arts in general and I’m sure that many careers got off the ground thanks in large part to his generosity.
He was a giant-sized Peter Pan, always the boy who never grew up. Women loved his handsome rugged looks and his vulnerability, and often felt maternal. His mother had drowned in 1942 at sea after being torpedoed, when he was five, and I wonder if this trauma made him unable to completely develop as a mature man. He made up for it by his boyish charm and by his unaffected warmth, particularly towards the young. His sister Tessa and I had met at school aged 11, and when I was 18, during my first term at Edinburgh University, Angus – twelve years older – and his wonderful wife Stephanie invited me to their idyllic rented home in a valley in Inverness-shire, where they had four little boys. I was homesick for the south and for my brother Nicky. On Sunday night, going back to my grim lodgings in Edinburgh, I was given a lift to the station by a rather frightening couple and Angus shot me a look of sympathy through the window as I got into the back seat of their car.
By now he had published his first novel ‘The End of Something Nice’, about a pair of lonely children, which was rightly highly praised. He had become fascinated by the hippy movement, which he felt he had missed out on, and which I’d experienced in London after leaving school at 16 and he asked me a lot of questions, listening intently. A few years later, he went round America as a roadie for Jethro Tull, then wrote a novel, Resurrection Shuffle, based on this. By 1969, he and Stephanie had moved south to Kew, and he worked for publisher Christopher Maclehose at Barrie and Jenkins. He found a new author, Bill West, and persuaded Christopher to give him £200 to finish a novel about travelling round India, written in ‘le nouveau romain’ style. Later, West published other books, but in 1970 spent the £200 touring America with me on a Greyhound Bus collecting underground newspapers. In summer 2021, the last time I saw Angus – at Kelburn, his cousin Patrick Glasgow’s place where Angus lived in a cottage – we reminisced about all this, and he recalled details about Bill West I had been unaware of at the time.
Angus and Stephanie moved back to Scotland, to what had been his father’s house near Peebles, with their four boys and, in the mid-seventies, many of us, at a crossroads or seeking refuge, some with young children, visited often. Looking back, I can see that Angus and Stephanie’s hospitality to us, most of us several years younger, was astounding. It is in this period of his life that I remember him best, leaning against the Aga with a saucepan of porridge, enthusiastically discussing the latest film, asking about a new novelist, or a Polish relation I’d seen in London, long legged in jeans, cowboys boots, and a huge sweater, gap-toothed with a slight lisp, the boy who never grew up.
I met Angus on a number of occasions as I was in the same year as Gavin at Edinburgh Academy. I remember the Moving Pictures Van pulling up quite fast outside the school, a little late, as I often was! I also met him a number of times at my Aunt Annabel Younger’s house in East Lothian, as they were great friends. Angus would again turn up in the Moving Pictures van outside the house and emerge always dressed in denim, looking very cool when others were dressed up in velvet. He always came across as kind and approachable, even for punky teens. There was always a mystique about him given he has been a roadie for Jethro Tull, which was very cool in my book. When I listen to the album Aqualung, his image definitely comes up. Angus had a huge element of spirit about him and I am sure he left enduring and positive memories with those that met him. Sending love to you all.
A man who knew about absolutely every book you’ve ever read and every movie you could ever see, who played cricket in his seventies, wore amazing clothes and was followed wherever he went by a strange black duck – he was both unusual and memorable. When he then helped me with the book I was writing with great advice and ideas, without once mentioning the remarkable books he had written himself, I realised how kind and loveable he was too. I always enjoyed seeing him and will miss him now he’s gone. Thank you Angus.
Gus stayed with us many times, in Wimbledon, in the days of Big Blue. The only vehicle that I have ever seen with a garden in it! When he wasn’t destroying customer’s goods he was taking chunks out of our garage every time he reached for reverse gear. On one occasion I sat and watched him fall asleep at the kitchen table while a Liberal Democrat councillor was talking to him – Fair enough!
The man was a legend!
I only met Angus a few times but the most powerful memory I have is of standing outside in unusually bright Scottish sunshine and watching his truck pull up (Moving Pictures?). Out climbed a wild-haired…dude, wearing patched jeans and boots, radiating cool. My teenage mind couldn’t believe that this rock star person was in fact, my father’s step brother.
Angus wore defiance so well.
I remember the annoying duck, I remember the dogs and I remember the piano. I remember the fire outside and I remember him sitting in the living room and watching Rupert and I dance. He was a good cook. Porridge. We played Uno together in the morning before everyone awoke. I will miss your dad for you Rupert.
I was so sorry to hear the news of your Dad’s death. I feel a big part of Veronica and my past life has gone. He and Stephanie were so important to us both — first at Glenternie, with those halcyon days spent in and out of the Tweed, with all of you. Then in Edinburgh in the early days of Canongate, when Gus played such an important part in publishing Lanark. Then skiing together with Patrick and Isabel and various others — Gus weaving his way down the slopes with that characteristic woolly jacket and patched jeans, an incredibly romantic figure, and, of course, a far better skier than any of us. Cricket at Glendelvine, when he would arrive, late, in the Moving Pictures van, and carve a few elegant sixes into the trees.
I know his life was as patchy as his jeans, and of course the last period, after Stephanie’s death, was difficult for all of you. But when we used to catch up with him at Kelburn (the last time was August last year) he was still the characteristic Gus, arms outstretched in welcome, and he sat beside Veronica and held her hand, and suddenly it seemed as if the years had rolled back.
He was a wonderful guy, a true friend, a sort of legend in his time, and we will all miss him dreadfully, as will you.
As a naive teenager playing cricket in the Borders, Angus felt like somebody that had been transported from another, more exotic, planet. He was unlike anyone I had met before.
There was a unique charm to Angus. While many boys of my age would have been waiting by the phone on a Friday night for a call from a girl, I was waiting for that distinctive voice to tell me someone had dropped out and I was needed to play cricket. Despite the last minute nature of the call Angus had a way of making you feel like you were the most important member of the team. It was this charm, allied to his dedication, which endeared him to a generation of cricketers in Peebles with whom he attained legendary status. A compliment from ‘Gus’ was sought by all, like needy children eager to please.
The world seems a less colourful place without Angus, even if the roads feel a bit safer.
I’m terribly sorry for your loss.
Wow, I have so many wonderful memories of Gus. He always used to stay with us, in south London, whenever he was making one of his deliveries in Big Blue. Apart from nearly knocking down our gate post, the memory that stands out the most for me is when I got back earlier than expected from Glastonbury festival and found him doing sit ups on my bedroom floor. The unusual thing was that he was completely naked, except for his trademark cowboy boots!!!