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ST EDWARD’S
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Visit. He gave HM the Queen a
personal tour of the exhibition
which narrated a history of the
cricket links between England
and India through photographs.
On leaving the Diplomatic
Service in 1999 he was selected
from 400 applicants to become
Chief Executive of the Lord’s
Taverners, a post he held with
great distinction and dedication
until 2007. His investment in
cricket – a sport he continued
to play well into his sixties - had
paid off. He loved the job, and
countless members, activists
and beneficiaries had every
reason to be grateful for his
selection. Up to the time of his
death he served as Director
and Strategic Communications
Adviser of Sport for Life
International – continuing his
work to help disadvantaged
young people through cricket
and sport more widely,
something he passionately
believed in. The insight he gave
them was considerable, in the
technical aspects of cricket and
running a charity, and in dealing
with authorities in Pakistan, the
West Indies and in England.
Following the terrorist attacks
in Mumbai in 2007, Mark
briefly returned to India as a
strategic risk consultant for
the Royal Bank of Scotland.
His network of contacts
from his time in Delhi and his
understanding of the security
and cultural environment of the
subcontinent were invaluable in
planning RBS’s future operations
in the country. From 2011-
2014 Mark was a member
of the General Committee
of the MCC. It was a period
of considerable controversy,
particularly in relation to the
development of the Lord’s site
on which Mark challenged the
club to be truly visionary. His
courage in standing up for what
he believed in and fighting the
‘establishment’ was admirable
as were his efforts to improve
the club’s engagement with its
ordinary members.
Mark loved golf almost
as much as cricket. In later
years he settled in Sandwich,
and loved playing at Royal
St George’s. The house in
Sandwich was a living testament
to Mark’s lifelong habit of
collecting memorabilia –
especially relating to cricket
history. But they weren’t the
only things he collected. Mark
had an extraordinary circle of
friends – from half the countries
of the world. He was a great
communicator, and a far better
writer and speaker than he
realised. He will be much
missed. For this friend, Test
Matches at Lord’s will never
be the same again. Mark was
separated from his wife Jo, with
whom he had two children –
Charley, also a diplomat and
terrific all-round sportswoman,
and Simon, a talented
photographer and father of
Mark’s first grandson Bodhi, of
whom he was deeply proud.
WINKLEY
– On 3rd April
2013, Stephen C Winkley (F,
1957-1962), brother of Roger
Winkley (F, 1959-1964).
The following piece was
written by Fergus Livingstone
(C, 1981-1986) after Stephen’s
Memorial at Uppingham School
in September 2014. Fergus
was Head of School 1986,
Headmaster of LWC, and now
lives in Reykjavik;
It is Sunday. This afternoon
Gudrun and I attended a
memorial service at Uppingham
School for one of the great
schoolmasters of recent
times whom we took pride
in acknowledging as a friend
- Dr Stephen Winkley. I
haven’t until now felt able to
reflect upon and write about
Stephen’s influence on us
as a family and have looked
forward to this moment of
quiet contemplation. He is a
good subject for me to have
as I inaugurate a new academic
year’s resolution: I am going
to write my blog at the tail
end of every Sunday, as I am
doing now. Quiet, thoughtful,
peaceful. And I must be finished
before my longer-standing
Sunday evening ritual of “Match
of the Day 2”, especially as I
hear on the wires that Leicester
City came back from a two
goal deficit to beat Manchester
United this afternoon!
I was the Senior Deputy
Head at Rossall when Stephen
arrived as the new headmaster
in 2008. I had been in post
for three years. He had been
retired for a couple of years
but, living in the south of France
in the prophylactically named
town of Condom, he had
grown bored. Ah! There is a
time in every man’s life when
he grows bored of Condom,
I remember musing when he
told me about this. No-one
had been more surprised
than I when he expressed
interest in the headship of
Rossall, knowing as I did his
reputation; but he came to visit
and something about the place
seemed to attract him (besides
Gudrun that is, whom he
adored from their first meeting).
I think quite simply that, while
at Uppingham, he had enjoyed
being king of the castle and he
wanted to storm another one
while there was life enough
left in him. Rossall didn’t know
what to make of him at all. He
didn’t care much. I knew exactly
where I was with him. I was
brought up in North Oxford
and many of my Mum’s best
friends were academics every
bit as intellectually waspish as
Stephen, although few were
quite as charming or humane.
Early in his first term he
dropped in on us at home. He
had left his wife Jenny back in
Kettering with Bella, the last
of his children who remained
at home, and Jenny was not
to join him for some months
yet. Stephen needed company.
He warmed to Gudrun
immediately as I have said
and he also liked our children,
whom he called “the fiends”.
We sat in the kitchen where
we discussed seriously the
merits of WG Sebald’s peculiar
books. Stephen’s favourite was
The Rings of Saturn
which he
had found on my bookshelves
while I tried to find a drinkable
bottle of wine in the larder;
mine is
Austerlitz
which I think
is extraordinary. I couldn’t find
a drinkable bottle but I could
find a bottle, and Stephen drank
most of it as I watched, before
asking if I had bought it at Lidl.
I had, as it happened. The next
day he dropped round again,
clutching a case of very good
Burgundy. He didn’t say a word
but I knew perfectly well that
he wanted to be given this next
time he visited and that we
were not to touch it otherwise.
He came often. My children
always bounced into his lap.
He talked to Gudrun of singing
and singers. He talked to me
of books and writers, either of
those he knew I would know or
of ones that he knew I would
want to know; and I pressed as
many on him as he pressed on
me. And what’s more, we read
them.
Stephen wrote his PhD thesis
on the subject of Byzantine
hymnals. I hadn’t known there
were any, I confessed. One of
the governors, more wittily,
told Stephen that, although he
might struggle to find members
of the Common Room much
interested in the subject, if he
went down to any of the pubs
by the docks at Fleetwood of
a Friday night, he would find
there that they talked of little
else. Stephen once asked me
what I had written my thesis
about, knowing I hadn’t done
a doctorate at all, just to
put me in my place. He did
that regularly. “I wrote my
undergraduate dissertation on
the Australian novel”, I told him.
“Oh”, he said, “I didn’t know
there was one.”
Stephen was a vain man.
Not sartorially. He was the
V A L E T E
O B I T U A R I E S