What most pleased Frank about the day, though, was the fact that a Morris 1000
pick‑up stopped for him on the way home.
“It was a 500cc racer!” he enthuses 55 years after the event. “I got a lift
all the way back up the A5 and the A614, right to the end of the drive of my
mother’s school.
“I was so f‑‑‑‑‑‑ proud of myself, excuse my language … all the way
home with motor racing people in the back of that little pick-up!”
The way that Frank says ’motor racing people’ leaves you in no doubt that this
particular substrata of society was, and remains, in his mind, the absolute
pinnacle of humanity.
Williams has never lost that childish sense of wonder when it comes to motor
racing.
From the days of running his affairs from a telephone box after being
disconnected to the glory years in the 1980s and 1990s, hoovering up world
titles with drivers such as Keke Rosberg, Nigel Mansell and Alain Prost.
He may now be consigned to a wheelchair; the result of a car accident on the
way to Nice airport following pre-season testing at Paul Ricard in 1986. His
role at the team may have become increasingly symbolic.
But nothing, seemingly, can quench the fire of the racer within.
It is why, despite Williams’s
decline as a force in recent years, their 600th Grand Prix will be so warmly
celebrated in the paddock this weekend.
“It’s an amazing achievement,” remarked Jenson
Button, one of those who was handed his big break in the sport by
Williams, back in 2000.
“Williams is not a manufacturer, it’s a true racing team and that’s what I
love about it; how difficult it was for them to find the money in the first
place, simply to go racing.
“But with belief and determination, he’s achieved, or the team have
achieved, so much. Hopefully they will be here for many, many more years.”
Times, though, are tougher than they were. This has been a year of losses for
Williams, both on and off the track.
In March, Williams saw his wife of nearly 40 years, Lady Virgina – or ’Ginny’
as she was universally known – succumb to cancer.
She had been with Frank every step of the journey, selling her London
maisonette to help fund his initial adventures, hiding the bills in those
early days so that he would not have to worry about them, advising him on
his driver line-ups, raising their three children Jonathan, Claire and
Jaime, and then caring for him following his accident.
With her death another chapter in the Williams story ended; another link to
their past gone.
Though he claims he was “never much of a romantic”, Williams admits the loss
hit him hard.
“I do miss her very much,” he says. “I think about her quite a lot. I’m not
very sentimental but, yes, I grieved.
“She was a great loss. The children adored her. She was brilliant with
them.”
He looks momentarily guilty. Such was his insatiable work ethic, he concedes,
life cannot have been easy for her.
“It was an interesting life,” he says after a while. “Her book was called A
Different Kind of Life. I think she enjoyed it. It was exciting. It was
prosperous.”
A smile soon spreads across his lips and he chuckles.
“She used to come to all the choice races. The British, Monte Carlo, Watkins
Glen. She loved America. She could anchor herself in New York for a while.
Keep her happy, bless her. Yes, I loved her very much. I was very sad when
she died.”
Now 71, it is unclear how much longer Williams will remain as team principal –
or even how long he will continue coming to races.
Continuity is assured, however, in the shape of his daughter Claire who, just
weeks after Ginny’s death, was installed as deputy team principal, having
worked her way up through the company.
Widely liked within the paddock, there is a huge feeling of goodwill towards
both Claire and the team; a hope that she can somehow engineer a recovery of
which Frank would be proud. She certainly has her work cut out.
Williams, still pointless after seven races, have suffered the worst start to
a season in their 36-year history. “There is no hiding from the truth in
motor racing,” Frank says.
He believes, though, that Claire is capable of effecting a turnaround.
“To my surprise it looks like my daughter is going to be more than competent
to sit in my chair,” he says.
“She is like her grandfather, my wife’s father, who was a very shrewd
businessman. She has probably taken a bit from him, a bit from me, a bit
from her mother.
“Ginny wasn’t commercially minded but she was very organised. Claire is a
fighter. She will do all right. She knows everybody, doesn’t take s—from
anyone.”
My time is up but my eyes cannot help but be drawn to the portrait hanging on
the wall behind Frank’s desk. It is of Margaret
Thatcher, another woman who knew how to handle herself.
“Fantastic lady,” he nods, approvingly. “I was a huge fan. She had bottle.
That is what we want from our leaders.”
Thatcher, who must surely have recognised a kindred spirit in Williams – a
workaholic, self-made man who did not suffer fools – arranged a police
escort for him when he was flown home after his accident in 1986, sending
balloons and messages of support to Ginny’s hotel room as he convalesced at
London Hospital.
Now she, too, is gone. Williams attended her funeral in April.
Gradually the ties to his past are unravelling. Williams, though, remains yet;
the symbol of a bygone era for the sport.
On Saturday evening the team will host a drinks party to commemorate 600 races
as Williams F1.
Their victories at this famous old track will no doubt be fondly recalled;
from Clay Regazzoni in 1979, the team’s first, to Nigel Mansell in 1992,
which inspired a track invasion.
Dom Perignon, one of three new partners announced this weekend as
Claire sets to work, will supply the champagne and the sport will toast a
special team – and, 55 years after he first snuck in for free through
Silverstone’s gates, a special man.