I met Jacqueline du Pre and spent time alone with her. Ditto, Daniel Barenboim. Ditto, Hilary and Piers du Pre. Ditto, Bill Pleeth, her mentor and the man she called her “cello daddy”. Following her death I talked about her to people ranging from Dr Adam Limentani (her psychoanalyst) to Lord Harewood (her god-father), as well as to countless musicians. None of this makes me an expert on Jacqueline du Pre. But it does, I think, help me understand the depth of animus unleashed – again – by last week’s release of Hilary and Jackie.
I’ll never forget sitting with her that Saturday afternoon in the mews house near Harrods where she lived. The girl with the flying, wheaten hair had transformed into a bloated, twitching mass in a wheelchair. Though she was still five years or so from death, she had virtually lost the power of speech. But her wide eyes kept looking around the room and she repeatedly tried to tell me something. “Church?” I finally, hesitantly, guessed. Her face lit up and she nodded furiously; the house, she was trying to tell me, was built from a church. Then Barenboim joined us and she started trying to communicate something again. I looked towards Barenboim for guidance:
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