DAY I DROPPED YEHUDI’S PRICELESS STRADIVARIUS

THE filming of my first documentary, in 1970, was memorable for one reason alone: it was the only time I have ever held a Stradivarius violin (pictured). It belonged to the virtuoso Yehudi Menuhin, who arrived carrying it in a case handcuffed to his wrist.

‘The insurance people insist,’ he explained. ‘It is a very rare Stradivarius and it has a beautiful tone. I love it very much.’

As the documentary was being made to mark the 800th anniversary of the murder of Thomas Becket, he had agreed to play Bach unaccompanied on the very spot in Canterbury Cathedral where the archbishop is believed to have died.

‘May I hold it a moment?’ I asked, peering at the violin.

‘By all means,’ said Menuhin. ‘But be careful,’ he added, as he handed me the precious instrument.

I took it with both hands. ‘My, my,’ I murmured appreciatively. ‘To think I’m holding Yehudi Menuhin’s Stradivarius!’

At that moment, the instrument flew swiftly and easily out of my hands. I made to catch it and, as I did so, tilted the edge and sent it spinning gracefully towards the crypt. It bounced its way elegantly — and audibly — down the ancient stone stairway and landed, with a crash, at the foot of the steps, not more than a yard from the very spot where Becket had been murdered. Menuhin’s many years of meditation had been but a preparation for this moment. He did not offer a word of reproach. He closed his eyes briefly and took a deep breath.

Then he walked down the stone steps to retrieve his broken violin. Carefully, he inspected the instrument. ‘I think I’ll have to use the other one,’ he said quietly.

I offered to fetch it for him from his

car. Briefly, his face seemed to twitch. ‘Er, no, I’ll fetch it. Thank you, all the same.’ As he turned to walk back towards his car, he smiled. ‘Don’t worry,’ he said. ‘These things happen.’ Yehudi Menuhin was a good man. He left much of his musical archive to the Royal Academy of Music, and if you visit its museum you will find the Stradivarius I dropped now on display. It has been well repaired: the damage barely shows.

The truth is I’m cack-handed and not to be trusted with anything precious. At the British Museum once, I was allowed to inspect the original manuscript of De Profundis, the letter that Oscar Wilde wrote from the depths of his despair during his imprisonment in Reading Gaol.

In a moment of excessive exuberance, I managed to spill a drop of coffee on to the priceless manuscript.

‘Oh dear,’ said the curator, with forbearance. ‘We’ll have to pretend it’s one of Oscar’s tears.’