Michael R Bonavia, 1909-99: An appreciation

Journal of Transport History, The, Mar 2000 by Hardy, Richard, Gourvish, Terry

Michael Bonavia was born in May 1909 and was educated at St Paul's School and Corpus Christi, Cambridge, where he took a degree in economics. In the summer of 1931 he joined N. M. Rothschild & Sons, merchant bankers, at New Court, St Swithin's Lane, a historic street running parallel to Walbrook. He was a 'supernumerary', expected to learn the business. He was soon to find out that a Cambridge degree in economics cut very little ice but, being a young man of charm and discernment, he learned much of the Rothschild legend and of the fascinating, old-fashioned characters on their high stools, practically all of whom had settled there for life. Not so Michael, who, at the end of 1935, joined the Court Department of the University of London at the Imperial Institute in South Kensington.

One of his first jobs was to handle, successfully, the detailed arrangements for the celebration of the university's centenary, followed by the court's removal to Bloomsbury. Within a year, from being a very junior clerk in Rothschild's, he had become, albeit temporarily, the chief financial officer of the largest university in the British Empire. With the war the chairman of the court became Minister of Information and Michael remained as the university's representative in the Senate House, a species of service manager until he once more became Acting Clerk of the Court, having rejoined the university administration, which had moved to Richmond. He had had two years at the Ministry, living within its walls, a remarkable and sometimes hilarious experience to one with such an advanced yet cultured sense of humour. When Catriona, his first wife, died suddenly in 1943 he felt utterly unsettled and accepted a surprise offer to enter the steel industry. He was already a distinguished transport economist when, in 1945, he joined the London & North Eastern Railway in the office of the Chief General Manager, thus achieving his ambition of serving as a railwayman. His remarkable intellect and clarity of mind enabled him quickly to come to terms with the complexity of railway existence at headquarters, but he also had a certain determined charm which he could gently apply to work a far more experienced brother officer round to his point of view.

When he joined the railway - indeed, right to the end of his career - his splendid intellect was at the service of others. We needed such people. He did not aspire to become a practical front-line railway officer, although he admired many of those dedicated men and wished he had their talent in a field that would not have come naturally to him. But then we admired him for many things, not least when the Channel tunnel project, of which he was Director, and to which he had given so much, was terminated abruptly in 1975 by a sudden government decision to pull out. Michael was deeply upset, although it was to his wife that he truly confided his disappointment, rather than his colleagues. So when we met in his last year of service one found no bitterness but the same interesting and considerate man whom I was to know better and to admire so much in our respective retirements. But his work bore fruit and was surely used in later years. It was a great joy to be invited to travel with Kethi on the inaugural train on 6 May 1994, to dive down to the depths of the Channel tunnel and to emerge, at long last, in France.

We had first met socially in 1954 when I was in charge of a large steam locomotive depot in south London and several hundred employees. He was the first man I had met from very high places outside my own department to whom I could talk on level terms. He asked me many questions about my railway life which I answered with suitable modesty, and this, I believe, he appreciated. Michael spent his working life with very senior officers. It never spoiled him. He never used important names to get his way or hectored people on their behalf. In retirement I would ask him about his former chiefs, and his assessments, even when critical, were very much to the point in the nicest possible way.

When the British Transport Staff College was set up in 1959, near Woking, Michael Bonavia was chosen as Director of Studies and the Principal was General W. D. A. Williams. Both were ideal appointments. The general, hospitable, convivial, a shrewd judge of character, was extremely acute and delegated extensively. Michael was the perfect foil, an excellent Director, academically punctilious, who would encourage anything of an intellectual nature and who was, in his charming way, a hard taskmaster. He chose four young Assistant Directors and 'Woking' quickly became an outstanding educational establishment which broadened the mind of many a budding young engineer and manager. Michael's departure coincided with my arrival as a student, so I could see at first hand what had been achieved in those first three years.

My wife and I spent happy days with Kethi and Michael at their home in Haslemere. Of course, being railwaymen, he and I would talk 'shop' for a time but Kethi's home, cultured but completely natural, was a reflection of them both, while the garden was Michael's pride and joy. He had many unusual specimens of trees and plants, whilst, indoors, his shelves were graced by unusual and interesting books on the art of gardening. Home from a hard day's work, he loved to walk round the garden with Kethi, a complete relaxation for them both. He maintained his interest in railways until his death. He was a distinguished author of academic studies and railway histories, as well as of The Channel Tunnel Story and London before I forget (Upton on Severn: Self-publishing Association, 1990), which he described to me as `rather lightweight'. However, the book is a joy to read, for Michael, with Kethi as his inspiration, not only looks back at his family but also at the London of his youth, bringing the great city and its people to life once more. It is dedicated `To Kethi, who has taught me to look again at the London I might have forgotten'.