In Memoriam: Neill Davies (1936 – 2023)
When Neill Davies downscaled to a smaller home, he gave me his magnificent Victorian Gothic library table, which is now in the entrance area of my bookshop. It was a touching gift from someone who wasn’t only a customer but a person I looked up to – an elder.
I first met Mr Davies in 1987, when I was a scholar at Michaelhouse, on a journey from school in Balgowan back home to the Parks area of Johannesburg for the long weekend. As a friend of his son, Nick, I was offered a space in what was considered the mandatory corporate workhorse of the day, a Mercedes Benz sedan. This offer of a lift back to Joburg was a blessing as it enabled me to circumvent the ten-hour-odd bus journey home. The roads were somewhat ragged and under construction back then. And something I learned on that trip is that Neill might have been a Formula One driver if he hadn’t succeeded at accounting. I never knew that a car could even go 180 km an hour! And those were the days before anti-lock braking systems (ABS), traction control and so on.
Neill was tall and broad-shouldered and might have been an Olympic rower had politics been different when he was in his twenties. He grew up in East London in a modest household and excelled academically. His dedication and self-discipline contributed to him becoming a very successful businessman. When in conversation, you couldn’t help being captivated by his narrow eyes, which were reminiscent of Richard Gere’s distinctive gaze. As for his charm, many hung onto his every word with magnetic intent. Neill could carry out conversations on all matter of topics, often veiling his opinions as questions so as not to offend. Despite his success, he was a humble man who maintained a solid grounding throughout his life. Despite his accomplishments, he wore humility like a well-tailored suit.
When I began selling books in my twenties, the well-groomed entrepreneur became one of my first customers. He was interested in the field of Africana, which was exactly my line. Like a mentor, Neill tutored me with reference to some of the grand travellers, like François le Vaillant (1753 –1824), William Burchell (1781 – 1863) and William Cornwallis Harris (1807 – 1848). He had been collecting for a while before I came onto the scene and he knew all the dealers and auction-house staff by name. I remember my first big sale to him in 1999. I sold him a signed copy of James Backhouse’s A Narrative of a Visit to Mauritius and South Africa, published in 1844. I remember the book because I so wanted to keep it for my own collection. But there was rent to pay and this book was pretty much the equivalent in value. It took me some years to learn that we book dealers are collectors, the difference being that our collections are revolving ones. Sometimes we keep treasures for a few months, sometimes many years, but, stoically, we become content with the concept that we don’t ever really own anything; we are mere custodians for the next collector.
As a collector, Neill’s books were a reflection of who he was. He distinctly identified with them and they became an extension of his personality. His study walls were adorned with the fine bindings of rare Africana volumes. That private space was unashamedly grand, carefully curated in relation to both colour and subject matter. There was a whole section devoted to religion.
Mealtimes were ritually preceded by grace. Out of respect, I bowed my atheist head and closed my eyes. I, too, said ‘amen’. A devoted Christian, his mind had a pure inquisitiveness about it. In his ‘study’, as he liked to call it, you could find tomes of heavy reading, from several beautifully bound Bibles, dating back to Victorian times, to a copy of the Qur’an. By scanning the titles on the spines, I could tell that he was always searching for meaning, whether it was in current affairs or in ancient Greece.
Our companionship didn’t just span the world of books. Our lives became entwined when, about seven years ago, he married my mother-in-law, Dee. Neill’s modus vivendi had always been devotion to his family and, by proxy, I became close to him in that sense too. Many bush trips and Christmas holidays were spent in his company. I particularly loved his stories about corporate life in the 1970s and ’80s. We’d all gather around the winter bush fire and Neill would become animated with dynamic accounts about Minister Pik Botha, Bill Venter of Altron or the complexities of pre-Internet global corporate communication when crucial documents were sent via snail mail. In epic tales of what is now history, he regaled us about business ethics in America and the survivalist tactics of corporate entities during that turbulent time. Neill lunched with politicians and dined with millionaire investors.
‘Did you ever meet Brett Kebble?’ I once asked him.
‘Meet him? I was on a board with him.’
Neill seemed to know every scoundrel and top businessman of his generation. In his study, I noticed the book Killing Kebble by Mandy Wiener on the bottom shelf behind the couch.
I enjoy having access to any curated library and seek out these places to decompress. Neill’s worldview was, in part, shaped in his library, so sitting there after his passing was like opening a window to his mind. A glimpse of his personality remained. I could see his train of thought in how he placed books on the shelf, ordered by topic, by height or even, as mentioned, by colour. There is always a hierarchy. Why was his limited-edition, The Mint by Lawrence of Arabia consigned to the general section in the passage? I couldn’t help it: I carefully extracted the gem from the shelf and off we sauntered to the tree-lined veranda where I indulged, for a couple of hours, in the pleasure of reading. The handmade rag paper was so tactile. What a man, what a campaign. As I returned the deluxe edition to its place on the shelf, I looked up at the floor-to-ceiling shelves and mused, now that was a life well lived.
Writing part of this story in Neill’s thematically ordered library, I’m reminded of a Buddhist parable. After one has been travelling for a long time, you finally arrive. The teachings in these books are a means to an end, not an end in themselves. Neill led a full and wonderfully adventurous life that touched the souls of many people, and he will continue to be with all of us at the dinner table, by the fireside and, of course, at the entrance to the bookshop.