Biggins (5 page)

I
got that call from David Jones after I had been in London for less than three months. ‘Come to see us at the RSC,’ he said. I nearly fell over.

‘The Royal Shakespeare Company wants me! The RS bloody C!’ This was what Tim, Simon, Ian and all the serious players from Bristol had craved. But it was me that the RSC asked along for an audition. Life would never stop surprising me.

‘I saw you as Tom Paine and I think you have a quality that will be perfect for our next play,’ David explained when I met him. The play was Dion Boucicault’s
London Assurance
, which the RSC was putting on at the Aldwych Theatre. Right alongside the Waldorf Hotel on the edge of Covent Garden, it’s a beautiful, turn-of-the-century theatre with a handful over 1,000 seats. And the RSC’s residency was the theatrical event of the season. Judi
Dench, Donald Sinden and Elizabeth Spriggs were just some of the names in the company. We could hardly have promised a starrier night.

My role was small but perfectly formed, though I say so myself.

The maid, played by Janet Whiteside, had a lover called Jenks who was talked about throughout the play. That was me. It was a non-speaking role, but I had three entrances and three exits towards the end of the second act. I made the most of them.

‘We want someone with personality. Someone who can bring the house down,’ David said when he explained the role. I wasn’t going to let him down. ‘Christopher, we’re also going to need you to be an understudy on some other plays as well,’ he added.

‘Absolutely. Of course,’ I said, a fixed grin on my face. What the hell’s an understudy? I was thinking. Hard to believe, but I had absolutely no idea. At theatre school they hadn’t really taught us much about that sort of thing. They hadn’t wanted to put us off, I suppose. Almost as soon as I found out what the role involved I hated it. You have to be word-perfect and know the part backwards, but you can’t put any of your own personality into it. You need to play the role just like the principal, so that if you do go on stage you don’t throw the other actors. But so often, of course, you don’t go on. So often you just sit there. You are so near, yet so far. You are in the theatre, but not on the stage.

Fortunately, I made the most of this professional limbo – I would ultimately be given small parts and understudy duties in everything from
Twelfth Night
and
Henry VIII
to
Pericles
. But my big moment looked set to come a whole lot sooner.

‘Christopher, we need you on stage.’ I got the call while we were still rehearsing
London Assurance
. I was in the wings waiting for my second-act entrances and exits as Jenks. But we had a gap in our cast. Barrie Ingham, the comic genius who was playing Dazzle, had called in sick. So I went on stage for all the rest of our rehearsals. At 21 years old, I, Christopher Biggins, acted for the RSC, alongside Judi, Donald, Elizabeth Spriggs, Roger Reece and all the others. OK, so our first night was still a week away. But it was all still truly terrifying and truly fantastic.

So would I make it into the production proper? Dazzle is a big part and, while I knew that Barrie would almost certainly be back for the opening night, I was desperately hoping he might stay away. So many understudies are always the bridesmaid. I might get the chance to be the bride. I stayed up all night learning the part. But I never had my moment. By the time the previews began and we had an actual audience in the theatre Barrie had made a miraculous recovery from whatever had ailed him. I was left in the wings. But I coped. I still had my three entrances and exits as Jenks to look forward to. And I just kept thinking how happy I was. ‘It will all come good next time,’ I told myself. ‘This is where I belong. This is what I want to do for the rest of my life.’ When I wasn’t in the wings or on stage at the Aldwych, I never strayed far. London’s theatreland was a treasure trove of an area for me. I had a lot of London to explore and a lot of new friends to make. Night after night you would find me in the much-missed Luigi’s on Tavistock Street alongside the
back of the Strand. Back then you got a big bowl of pasta, a coffee and a glass of wine for a pound and ten shillings. Not bad as I was making £30 a week and paying just £4 in rent. If life was like that today I would be dining out even more often than I do.

The RSC did warp my sense of financial priorities. I blame it for all my personal extravagances in the years ahead. Back then it had a huge grant and there seemed to be money to burn.
London Assurance
was in rep with several other plays, each with a vast budget. For
Henry VIII
we were all measured up for bespoke thigh-high leather boots, for example. But when they arrived someone decided that they didn’t go with the rest of the costumes, so the top halves of them were simply cut off and thrown away. Then there was the time they wanted the box to be carpeted – and that no cheap or second-hand carpet would do. We had thick new Axminster. As if anyone would have noticed, even from the front of the stalls.

I got swept away in the unreality of it all. I vowed to live my life the RSC way. My poor bank manager.

London Assurance
opened to amazing reviews. It was my first, intoxicating taste of success. And I was part of it. As the weeks went by, that sense of belonging – something so important to me – intensified. I made firm friends in the RSC company. David Dundas, the pop star turned actor, was one of the first. And I also had plenty of very talented people to learn from. Peggy Ashcroft – Dame Peggy to the likes of me – was the best example. They don’t make them like that any more, more’s the pity. I remember that she was hugely grand. Her dresser (who now I come to think of it
was almost as grand as the lady herself) wasn’t allowed in her employer’s dressing room unannounced. So hour after hour she sat motionless on a chair outside, waiting for a call. I was mesmerised. And I was childishly thrilled to find out that this lady did the great lady’s laundry. Imagine washing Dame Peggy’s smalls! It was another age.

It was also fabulous fun that not everyone in the company shared my sense of reverence about Dame Peggy. In
Henry VIII
, where Dame Peggy was playing Katherine of Valois, I was on stage alongside Derek Smith and Michael Gambon, one of the naughtiest men I’d ever met. ‘I wonder if she’s wearing any knickers,’ Michael whispered to me as Peggy began her big speech. How I got through that scene without corpsing completely I don’t know. But how wonderful of Michael to share the joke with me: the new boy and pretty much the youngest player in the company. I was always thrilled to be treated like an equal – and after Michael the next person to give me a lift like that was Judi.

‘Let’s take all our clothes off,’ she whispered one afternoon as we rehearsed a new scene with the wonderful, if idiosyncratic, director John Barton. John directed us with his head in the script – quite literally. He paid so much attention to the text it seemed he didn’t even look up at the stage.

‘Come on, I dare you. Take your clothes off,’ whispered Judi again. So I did. And so did the rest of the cast. And so did Judi. Right down to our underwear. Then, as the read-through continued, we all got dressed again. ‘That’s marvellous. Let’s move on to scene three,’ John called when we got to our final lines. He never saw a thing.

I remember Judi with a naughty-girl twinkle in her eye. She was never what you could call classically beautiful. But she mesmerised people. You could look at her and just know she was a star. She was also incredibly kind. She loved leading her company, just as I would love leading mine when I finally got to the same position. Judi helped people. She was supportive and always there to listen if people had any problems. She mothered us when we needed it and, as the youngster and new boy, I needed it most of all.

Judi also knows how to make the time fly backstage. The boys in the cast had a set of tiny, shared dressing rooms up three flights of stairs from the wings. Night after night Judi would be up there with us, playing games, sharing jokes and gossiping. Then she would dash down the three flights for her cue, act her part and then run back up to her boys as soon as she came off stage. Up and down, up and down. Joking, laughing, never missing a cue. And yes, giving the most thrilling, incandescent performances on stage.

I’m not sure if I can always claim such professionalism. One unusually quiet night backstage, I’m mortified to admit, I actually fell asleep and missed one of my three entrances as Jenks. Judi laughed so much she fell over.

When
London Assurance
was well into its run, my mum brought my brother up to town for a matinée performance. It was a big day. Sean was only about seven and it was the first time he’d been to the theatre, so he was a little bit nervous about the whole thing. We went to Luigi’s for lunch and I was desperate for them both to
have a wonderful time. ‘Where are we sitting?’ Mum asked as we waited for the meal.

This was where I could really show off to my baby brother. ‘I’ve got you great seats in a box,’ I told him.

‘Oh,’ he replied, and went very quiet for the rest of the meal. When we left Luigi’s there was a still a frown on his face. ‘Christopher,’ he asked as we headed over to the Aldwych, ‘will there be holes in the box for us to breathe?’

Call me a soppy old romantic, but I love the fact that theatre people can’t stop falling in love. That’s why I was so keen to push Jeremy and Julie together at Bristol, I suppose. And romance was certainly in the air at the RSC. Judi and dear Michael Williams were inseparable – and clearly made for each other. They were both such open, attractive people. They fitted like a glove.

I think that season was one of the highest points in Judi’s life – and this includes all her Oscars and film acclaim that has come these past few years. She was madly in love and producing electrifying performances on stage. It’s a combination you can’t beat. We were doing
Twelfth Night
when Judi and Michael got married. I loved it. When she took her curtain calls we threw confetti over her and the crowd went even more wild than normal. Judi loves animals and we had created a frieze of animals on all the walls from her dressing room to the stage door for her to see when she left for the night.

Still the good times rolled. So much, so young and it all seemed so easy. Was there anything better than being in such stellar company at the Aldwych Theatre? Yes there was –
London Assurance
was transferring to the West End.
We decamped to the Albery Theatre in St Martin’s Lane, near Leicester Square. John Gielgud, Sybil Thorndike, Laurence Olivier and so many other great names had acted there. Now I was moving into one of its tiny dressing rooms. I was so thrilled I could barely breathe.

After six more glittering months, Judi was getting to leave the show. I was still the youngest there, so I was picked to organise her collection and get her leaving card signed. But was I really the right person to present it to Judi herself? Sure, we had been half-naked together in our rehearsal with John Barton. Sure, we had shared a thousand jokes in the dressing rooms by now. But I still didn’t feel I could presume to hand over her gift. I turned to Donald Sinden for advice.

‘Donald, do you mind me asking if you would do the speech for Judi tonight? I’ve got the card and the gift all here.’

‘I don’t mind you asking at all, young man. But I won’t do the presentation. I’ve got someone in tonight who will do it far better.’

‘Who is it?’

‘I’ll have to swear you to secrecy.’

‘I swear.’

‘Then come here.’ And he whispered the name in my ear – which wasn’t easy for someone with such a resonant, booming voice. It was my turn to nearly fall over.

‘You mustn’t tell a soul,’ Donald repeated.

So I spent the rest of the day, and all of that night’s performance, tied up in knots of excitement and anticipation.

‘Come on in!’ We all crowded into Donald’s dressing room after the curtain calls. Everyone was giggling, joking, drinking and high on the occasion, the way actors
always are. ‘Be quiet! Now, we all know why we’re here. Judi, it has of course been absolutely marvellous working with you and it is terribly, terribly sad you are leaving us. We all want to wish you the absolute best on this new adventure you are embarking upon.’ Everyone cheered. ‘And we look forward to having you back on stage as soon as possible.’ More cheers. Then we got to the secret.

‘Now, Biggins came to me today and asked me to arrange a presentation for you,’ Donald said. ‘But I don’t feel that I am the right person to hand over our little gift. I’d like a dear friend of mine to do it instead.’

And at that moment none other than Princess Grace of Monaco stepped out of Donald’s tiny lavatory to hand over Judi’s card and flowers. Everyone went wild.

The Princess was like a porcelain doll, so radiant, so beautiful and so much fun. We all knew the rumours of what a marvellously naughty girl she had been in Hollywood. But she had got her prince and she looked every inch the princess. She flattered us all, saying how much she loved the show. And I think she truly did. I got a sharp and sudden sense that she missed showbusiness a lot more than she was letting on. Perhaps life in a palace couldn’t quite compete with life in a theatre dressing room. Or even a dressing-room toilet.

I can’t leave this part of my story without telling one anecdote about the other woman in Donald’s life: his equally wonderful wife, Diana. I loved the fact that she had her husband’s voice. The same rich, booming, unmistakable tone. And if it amazed me, it had even more of an effect overseas. Diana loved telling the story of a trip to Disneyland when her husband was filming in LA. She
saw some alarm clocks with Mickey Mouse on the front in the gift shop and decided that if she could buy enough of them they would make great presents for their children and other relatives. ‘I love those clocks. Do you have many?’ she boomed at the assistant.

‘I’m sorry, Ma’am, we only have Mickey,’ came the reply.