“Can we just bottle this up and keep this vibe?” she asked.
We went down to the dock and all the staff and I threw ourselves into the ocean as we waved them good-bye. They are just the most genuine, decent, wonderful people, and I can’t wait to see what brilliant things they go on to do next and, if I can, support them along the way.
CHAPTER 42
Grand-Dude
“Richard, would you like to learn about your ancestors?”
Of all the questions I found in my inbox this was one of the more unusual. I know just about everything there is to know about my living relatives, but couldn’t say the same about those who came before my great-grandparents. So I responded to Christine Choi right away: “Of course, what do I need to do?” She set me up to appear on the US TV show Finding Your Roots, and I gave a saliva sample for their research team to look into my forefathers.
A few months later I sat down with historian and journalist Henry Louis Gates Jr. to trace my roots. It was a real eye-opener. My father’s family left a paper trail that could be traced back to Madras (now Chennai), India, in the 1700s. In 1793, my third great-grandfather, John Edward Branson, set sail from Britain to India. After a grueling six-month journey, in which his ship rounded the Cape of Good Hope and crossed the Indian Ocean, he reached southeast India, a trading hub of the fast-growing British Empire. He was eventually joined by his father, my fourth great-grandfather, Harry Wilkins Branson; and by 1808 three generations of my ancestors were living in Madras.
“Why do you think they made the journey?” asked Henry.
“Well, I would hope it was for the love of adventure, and maybe in search of a better life.”
It turned out that could well be right. The paper trail showed that they moved in search of fortune, and within ten years became successful businessmen—my third great-grandfather, John, a shopkeeper and my fourth great-grandfather, Harry, an auctioneer.
“So I’m not the first entrepreneur in the family?” I asked.
I was fascinated to find out where I inherited my love of adventure, discovery and entrepreneurship, characteristics that define me. What was even more exciting was that the Madras archives uncovered a very surprising family secret. Strangely, the baptismal record of my second great-grandmother Eliza Reddy didn’t list her mother. Analysis of my DNA revealed that the reason for this was because my third great-grandmother was Indian.
“So I’m part Indian?” I asked, beaming. Indeed I was.
“I wish my father had got to see these records,” I told Henry. “He would have been captivated.”
A keen student of history, my mother loved the most surprising piece of information discovered on her side of the family: I’m related to Charlemagne, the “Father of Europe.” It turns out that he is my fortieth great-grandfather! Like my paternal ancestors, it appears that my maternal side also embraced the spirit of adventure. While probing Mum’s family lineage something odd happened: my mother’s great-grandparents, Henry and Fanny Flindt, disappeared from English census records. They appeared to completely vanish after 1861, but luckily showed up in Melbourne, Australia, sometime later.
“No wonder I have always loved Australia—it’s in the blood!”
“It didn’t go so well for them there though, Richard,” said Henry. “Soon after arriving they were forced to file for bankruptcy. And in 1867 both Henry and Fanny died from dysentery, leaving their four children—including your great-grandfather, Sydney Flindt—orphaned . . .”
Ah. Not so good.
“. . . Fortunately, your third great-grandfather, Julius Emanuel Flindt, brought the children back to England, and made them his heirs.”
The story of my third great-grandfather’s altruism affected me deeply. Thanks to the generosity and kindness of one man, my ancestors managed to get back on their feet and find success and happiness. I hope that when my great-great-grandchildren look at our family tree they look at my name and think: Richard Branson was a cool grand-dude who made a difference. I’m going to work even harder now to make sure.
—
I’m the sort of person who looks forward rather than back, but being involved in the TV program and thinking about my ancestry seemed well timed. When I was involved in the negotiations with Alaska Air over the sale of Virgin America, Joan had given me some helpful perspective: “Well, it’s not life and death, Richard.” She was right. While it was very important, and many people were being affected, life would go on.
I was reminded of how far my life had gone on when I flew to New York in April 2016. I was in town to attend the premiere of Don’t Look Down, Sundog Pictures’ documentary about my attempts to cross the Atlantic and Pacific in the world’s biggest hot-air balloon. Now those were a matter of life and death. The idea for the film had begun to take shape when I mentioned my ballooning adventures in passing to Greg Rose, and added: “I’m sure you know all the details about that.”
“Not really,” he replied. “It was a long time ago now, Richard.”
It had indeed been many years since my ballooning expeditions with Per Lindstrand, and the younger generation are no longer so familiar with them.
“Perhaps it’s time we bring those stories back to life,” I suggested.
I knew Sam had found a lot of unseen footage in storage, and I began sketching out an outline of what a documentary could include. I sent those notes to Sam and his partner at Sundog, Johnny Webb, on 19 April 2013. Three years later, to the day, I was standing on the red carpet at the Tribeca Film Festival, preparing to watch the film they had created with director Daniel Gordon.
Ahead of the premiere, I enjoyed a quiet dinner at Soho House with my co-pilot Per: it was the first time we had seen each other in eighteen years. Per and I have always been chalk and cheese, but he has a wicked sense of humor, a kind heart and is the greatest balloonist of all time. We eased back into our old rapport easily enough, and it was terrific to catch up.
“You don’t look that much older,” he said, kindly.
“Well, you certainly do!” I joked.
To be honest, I never thought I’d get old. I know it happens to all of us, but I never thought it would happen to me. Watching my younger self in Don’t Look Down, I had to confront the fact that I had aged. I went to the mirror afterward, put my hand to the crevices in my face and realized I am starting to look like my dad. What happened to the young man in the film? Where did these lines come from? Up to now it hasn’t bothered me. I still feel as fit as when I was in my early thirties and believe I can keep it up for a few years yet. I’m making the most of playing full-on singles tennis, kitesurfing, skiing, cycling, you name it. But, as I enter my seventies, it is inevitable I will slow up. I’ll have to play doubles tennis and only kitesurf with two ladies on my back rather than three!
—
The other reason the Finding Your Roots program felt so timely was because of the arrival in recent years of the next generation of Bransons.
One of the most wonderful, binding parts of any successful relationship is children. Back in 1979, Joan and I sadly lost our daughter Clare Sarah, who was born prematurely and died when she was only four days old. We were heartbroken, and I will never forget that feeling, but it brought us even closer together, and we were lucky to be able to raise two fine children in Holly and Sam. For a long time, I had been pestering them both about the future possibility of grandchildren.
After Holly and Freddie got married she went through a really difficult time trying to conceive. She confided they were beginning to wonder if they would ever become parents. So we were all overjoyed when Holly told us the amazing news in 2014 that she and Freddie were expecting twins.
After lots of hugs and tears, Joan turned to me and said: “Twins? Great. That’s one each, so we won’t fight over them.”
“I’m having the girl,” I replied.
Not long after, Bellie and Sam deci
ded the time was right to tell us their own happy news: Bellie was expecting a child, too. It was a joy being around Holly and Bellie as their pregnancies progressed, with the two girls able to support each other along the way.
All seemed to be going to plan until that December, about two months before Holly was due to give birth. I visited her in the UK on my way to the airport and, I don’t know, call it fatherly instinct, but I felt something was wrong. Yes, she was having twins, but she just didn’t look well. Back home on Necker at one o’clock the following morning I sat bolt upright in bed, with beads of sweat forming on my forehead. I still had the horrible feeling that something wasn’t quite right. I picked up my iPad and wrote her a note. “Dear Holly. All that matters is your health. You can always have other children if anything goes wrong on this occasion. If there is any doubt whatsoever about your health, you must put yourself first. Please don’t take any risks.” The next day she went to see the doctor. Her blood pressure had gone soaring through the roof. They did a test and found she had pre-eclampsia, one of the biggest causes of death for mothers in pregnancy.
Holly was rushed to the hospital, while Joan and I jumped on a plane to the UK. By the time we landed on 20 December, the doctors had decided to go ahead with a cesarean section, and we made it to the hospital just after two beautiful, perfectly healthy babies were born. We became proud grandparents to a handsome boy named Artie and a gorgeous girl called Etta—I only say it in that order because that is how they came out.
I was amazed to realize their birth coincided with both Holly and Freddie’s anniversary, and Joan and my wedding day. What a magical coincidence. Holly was absolutely fine, and back on her feet in no time. It seems miracles sometimes come in pairs. All the family got together with the babies back at Holly’s house and quickly adjusted to a delightful schedule of nappy changing and naps. Joan said to me, “I can’t describe how happy I feel, it’s almost like falling in love all over again.”
As the days passed following the birth of the twins, we all got ready for the arrival of Sam and Bellie’s baby. The birth wasn’t due for a few weeks, but, with the instinct I seemed to have developed for these things, Joan and I decided to go over to England for the weekend just in case. We arrived the next day to find Bellie had been taken to the hospital. While Holly, Freddie, Joan, Sam and Bellie’s family waited with her there, I looked after the twins. We went shopping in Notting Hill and Joan and I popped into a children’s shop to buy a gift for the new baby. The press spotted us and ran stories about me spoiling the twins—little did they know we were actually spoiling our other new grandchild!
Eva-Deia arrived at 4:39 p.m. on 19 February. She had a squashed button nose and the cutest little face. It was funny how little she looked like her parents to begin with, but we were all instantly in love.
“You’re a grand-dad three times over,” Joan said, turning to me.
“No, no,” I corrected her, “I’m a grand-dude three times over!”
Eva-Deia was named after my mum and a beautiful village up in the mountains of Majorca, where Sam and Holly had spent happy holidays at the stunning La Residencia hotel. For our grandchildren’s first family holiday together we decided to go back to Deia, and enjoyed a magical few days up in the hills. Before the twins were born, Holly also had the name Deia in mind. After Eva-Deia arrived I said to her and Sam: “Well, I think the right babies got the right names and they all couldn’t be more perfect.”
After wanting grandchildren for years, within a matter of weeks we had three. Then, in early 2017, I became a grand-dude for a fourth time. When Sam and Bellie’s second child was being born, I was out on the water kitesurfing around Necker. I knew Bellie was in labor, but thought I had enough time for a quick kite. Rather than pace the floor fretting, I knew the waves would calm me down. However, halfway around the island a boat rushed up to me with the news that I should head for home immediately. I scrambled onto the beach and called Sam. We all love surprises in my family, and have quickly established a tradition of keeping the sex of our grandchildren unknown until they are born. I held my breath as Sam made me wait momentarily before sharing the wonderful news that he had a son. I was crying with joy as he told me the baby was named Bluey Rafe Richard Branson.
I wondered if the grandkids would change my view on the world, or make me want to protect it more. But, really, I already had that perspective, which came from being a lad of the sixties, a decade when change was happening. From protesting against the Vietnam War to introducing the pill, from the civil rights movement to the environmental movement, freedom felt possible. It was a hippy time, but the hippies talked a lot of sense without necessarily having the wherewithal to back it up. Now, we need to follow through. When I had my own children, it strengthened that view, and having grandchildren did the same again. Having said that, I don’t want to be stuck in the same ways of thinking, and I know my grandchildren will be able to teach me so much, like my children before them and my parents before them.
While I always got on well with my parents when I was growing up, it wasn’t until I was a little older that we were able to spend long stretches of time together. Dad worked all hours as a struggling barrister so we would usually only see him on weekends, while Mum was always starting and struggling with a new entrepreneurial scheme, and looking after my sisters Lindi and Vanessa, too. When I went away to boarding school, we saw each other even less, but we made up for it later on.
When Joan and I had children, I was determined to be there with them as much as possible, which is why I always worked from home, first on our houseboat and then in Holland Park. But I was still away a fair amount with work. Now, with our grandchildren, Joan and I are eager to spend every second we can with them. During their frequent visits to Moskito or Necker Island, I will clear my schedule, and I always factor in time solely for playing (sorry, babysitting).
Once when Holly, Freddie and the kids arrived at Red Dock on Necker, I grabbed Etta from the boat, and Joan picked up Artie.
“What about me? Where’s my hug?” asked Holly.
I was changing nappies later the same day and noticed Joan staring at me in a strange way.
“What?” I asked.
“Do you know what? I think you’ve finally grown up—if that’s possible!”
After sixty-six years, I was finally behaving like a responsible adult—well, sort of. I was also blowing raspberries at Etta. Joan sees a lot of Holly in Etta, both in her looks and her calm, bright nature. I’m sure that Eva-Deia and Bluey, Etta and Artie will be close to their parents and I can already see what wonderful mums and dads Sam, Bellie, Holly and Freddie are becoming. I’m confident their children will grow up happy to tell them anything, which is the philosophy we always had with Holly and Sam. We have always wanted what’s best for them, which means being honest both ways, telling them everything and letting them make their own decisions and mistakes. The strength of our family is unreserved love and openness. We are lucky that Joan and I have been together for so long, which has given tremendous stability to the kids, nephews, nieces and friends they have had for many years. I hope it continues for generations to come.
On the evening after Bluey was born, I felt in a reflective mood and wrote to Holly and Sam: “The beauty of having children is that the relationship gets better, stronger and more magical with every day that goes by. Love you both so, so much.” I thought back to a farewell letter I wrote to them twenty years earlier, as I prepared to embark on a ballooning challenge I wasn’t sure I would return from. More than ever, I felt so lucky to have survived to share so many more memories and adventures with the people I care about. To build more organizations, hear more laughter, take on more challenges, share more love and go on Finding My Virginity in business, in life and in love.
Epilogue
As I was going through the final edits of this book, Joan took me, Holly and Sam to one side on Moskito Island. “Richard, I’ve got an en
velope here that you gave me before your last balloon trip.” I looked at the aged envelope in her hand and my mind flew back to the Sheraton Marrakech hotel in 1998, where I had written it. “To be opened only if . . .” it said on the front—it was in case I didn’t make it home again. Now, two decades on, Joan let me rip open the letter. There was one for her, and one for Holly and Sam:
Darling Joan—
Well, that was a stupid thing to do—and at Christmas too!! What can I say . . .
I have written you a more personal letter that is in my will. I’d like to cover here one or two other thoughts.
I have left in place an excellent team at Virgin. I hope I’ve also left them with enough to continue to stay and grow Virgin into the best Group of companies in Britain. As long as you can keep them motivated they will be wonderfully loyal. I’d suggest you meet up with them all once every three months for an update.
Rather than having so much of our investments tied up in the airline it might be worth selling a stake in it when the timing is right. Rail is a more difficult decision—I think we owe it to the rail users and the Virgin name to get it right. But I would suggest that you try to keep control of all of them in case Holly or Sam one day take a real interest in the business.
I should be grateful if you could involve my mum and dad in the hotels. Send them out scouting—South Africa, etc. And please humor my mum as I’ve been so bad at doing.
Finally I am glad I got back to see Necker Island for a few hours.
If it doesn’t in any way spoil the Island for you all I wouldn’t mind resting among the gulls at the far end of it. Invite the rest of the family and our friends and have a true Scottish wake. Tell Sam this is the one night he’s allowed to get drunk. And one day in the very distant future—I’d like to feel you’ll join me there.
Finding My Virginity: The New Autobiography Page 44