James Stewart (1)

In the 1970s I got the idea that I would like to learn to fly a glider, a not-so-silly notion because at the time a gliding club based at the old Tibenham airfield in Norfolk was organising courses. I was taken up several times, went on a weather-affected course, and in consequence didn't complete the schedule or make the grade. But I did enjoy it, and subsequently three of my children were taken up to experience the thrill of engineless flight.
In early June, 1975, I took a phone call from a gliding club member who told me that film star James Stewart was planning a private visit to the base. A members'-only job, apparently. Very hush-hush. No fans, no Press. But  if I didn't let on how I knew, kept in the background, and didn't wave a notebook about, then I might be able to pass muster as a club member.
Stewart's visit was not a total surprise because during the Second World War he had been based at Tibenham (and elsewhere), from where he flew 20 bomber missions. He was a genuine war hero, and now, thirty years and many films later, he was appearing in the stage play Harvey in London, and was simply taking advantage of a day off. Though I didn't know it at the time, he was also planning to do a photoshoot with Terry Fincher for the Daily Express.
On the day in question I did my best to melt into the background and became a quiet bystander as James toured the base and the ruined control tower, and gazed at the runway. He clearly found it all very affecting. When they offered him a towed glider flight to RAF Coltishall and back, he jumped at the chance, and happily squeezed his lanky frame into the tiny cockpit. While he was away, Terry Fincher and I withdrew for a pub lunch. 
Back at Tibenham again, Mr Stewart was ushered into the clubroom for sandwiches and coffee, where he looked at more memorabilia and chatted freely with everyone. Every so often his gentle drawl, 'ahhh, well,' and 'kinda' and 'sorta' could be heard across the crowded room. Relaxed and affable, he was in his element.
I was sitting in a corner munching sandwiches when Stewart's agent came across. 'He knows who you are,' he said. 'He knows you're a local journalist.' I envisaged a firing squad. 'Would you like to meet him?' Yes, please.
Then James Stewart came across and sat down beside me, balancing a cup and saucer on his knee, and we talked for ten minutes. Deliberately, I ignored my notebook and later on had to struggle to remember some of the quotes. But in a way I was glad. It was not an interview, it was a neighbourly chat, freely offered and entered into.
James Stewart was like that. Aimable, interested, and at ease. He talked about Tibenham and how tough he had found it to remember his way around the base. 'The only thing I can really orientate on is the control tower,' he said. He talked about his glider flight, and I asked if he had taken the controls. 'Sure I flew it. Sure I did.' And then he talked about Norfolk and Norwich and how he hoped one day to visit the city's American Memorial Library.
Then his agent came back, and Stewart rose, shook hands, and wandered back towards the sandwiches.