Many Lives (8 page)

In 1996, when we were on Broadway in Sir Peter Hall's production of Oscar Wilde's
An Ideal Husband
, Nicky Henson, who was playing Lord Goring, and I shared an apartment. One
morning I went out to get a latte. When I got back Nicky was doing the washing up, whistling happily. He looked at me. ‘Did you go out like that?' he asked. ‘Yes,' I replied, looking down at my Ugg boots and fur coat over my nightdress. ‘You're a slut,' he said, and merrily carried on washing up. ‘And you're squeaky,' I muttered. We looked at each other and burst out laughing. That's what we've called each other ever since. The following year Peter took Slut and Squeaky to Australia when he was asked to do the play in Sydney, Melbourne and Brisbane. While there we became good friends with John McCallum and Googie Withers. Married since 1948, they lived in Australia. Both were part of the cast for the play's tour there.

In 2000 John and Googie came to Bristol to do a play called
A Busy Day
written by the 18th-century novelist, playwright and diarist, Fanny Burney. I went to see them on the opening night. My daughter Phoebe was living in Bristol and her son Jude had just been born, so it was all perfect. But Googie was ill and her understudy was on. John told me he thought the play was going to transfer to the West End. People often say that about plays in the provinces, and it usually doesn't happen. Then he asked me if I'd play Googie's part if it went to the West End. I told him I'd be delighted, not for a minute thinking it would transfer. I saw the play, didn't think any more about it, and got on with being Granny.

The run took its course, then the day before the play was being taken off they suddenly got a West End contract. We were opening in ten days and I had to learn the most difficult script you could imagine. It wasn't easy like Shakespeare, where you've got your metrical feet and your iambic pentameter and you
know what you're meant to be doing. This was impossible, it was Regency English: it was a skating rink. And I was taking over from an 84 year old. I was taking over from Googie – a wonderful, big, elderly woman. I suddenly had to fabricate a character out of nowhere. Working alongside the designer Rory Murchison, we came up with all these concepts and fun ideas about how I'd do it and what should happen. That's when I met Jonathan Church, the play's director.

Immediately after doing
A Busy Day,
Jonathan took over as artistic director of the Birmingham Repertory Theatre. One of the first plays he did there was Timothy Findley's
Elizabeth Rex
. He asked me to play Elizabeth I. He'd seen the way I'd jumped into A Busy Day with more than two solid feet, playing an outrageous, elderly dowager duchess. In Elizabeth Rex I had to play the 62-year-old Queen Elizabeth I – older than I was at the time, but that wasn't a problem. It was a joy.

One day in 2009, my friend Ronnie Roberts, who I'd met doing
Tenko
, told me she'd had a dream the night before in which I was channelling Maria Callas. Years earlier the film director Franco Zeffirelli had told me I was the spitting image of her. He was so shocked he actually fell back in the chair he was sitting on: ‘You
are
Maria Callas,' he told me – as if I were her ghost. At the time Ronnie was working with Jonathan Church. She told him about her dream, too.

In 2010 my dear friend Christopher Cazenove died suddenly. It took Christopher dying to make me think, ‘If not now, when?' I got on the phone and called Jonathan, asking him if he remembered Ronnie telling him about her dream. I told him Ronnie had told me, too. He said we should meet and talk about it.

Later that year I was playing Maria Callas, on stage in
Master Class
.

A Busy Day
,
Elizabeth Rex
and
Master Class
are three of the strongest pieces of theatre I've done; none of them because I was lucky enough to know the head of casting at 20th Century Fox, or anything like that. All of them came out of loving friendships and the way separate paths crossed at specific points: opening the curtains for the miracle of synchronicity.

You'd be absolutely spot-on if you said, ‘What's so unusual? That's the way life is.' You'd be right. It's not unusual. Life is a miracle. Our existence
is
magic.

Ronnie was right, too. I
did
channel Maria. When I was doing the show in Edinburgh – on the same stage where she had performed – in the middle of a monologue, she came and had a word in my ear. Crazy woman!

Soon after I left RADA in 1967 I worked at the Oxford Playhouse with the great director Frank Hauser.

One day I was late for rehearsals. I rushed into the theatre making my apologies.

‘How late are you?' Frank asked me.

‘Two minutes…' came my breathless reply.

‘And how many people are in the room?'

‘Thirty?' I answered.

‘Well, in that case, I make it 60 minutes late, then.'

That was embarrassing. I was thoroughly ashamed. It was an invaluable lesson, though. Ever since, whether I'm on stage
or set, I make it my business never to be late. I'd learned from professionals like Frank that having a thoroughly professional attitude is
the
foundation for success.

Another time he commented on how ‘greedy' I was as an actor.

‘I mean that as a compliment,' Frank reassured me, when I'd looked taken aback. ‘You know that lovely young actress Judi Dench?' he asked. ‘She's greedy, too.'

Personally, I prefer to call it ‘enthusiastic'. If I commit to something, I commit totally. What's the point of doing otherwise?

Around the same time I was working with Frank I got a guest role in the television series
The Saint
.

The Saint
was one of the most popular shows on television at the time and its lead actor, Roger Moore, was a household name. Waiting for our first scene together, I whispered to him: ‘It's my birthday today!' Raising that famous eyebrow he responded:

‘You don't say that every time you work, do you?'

‘No, seriously – I'm 21 today,' I replied.

‘It's your 21st birthday? Well, that's quite a thing.'

When we wrapped for the day, Roger presented me with a card. He'd drawn it himself. The set was closed down, a cake was brought in and we drank champagne.

Those times were joyous, alive, mind-opening and, for a short patch of time, the love was there on the streets. I am so grateful I was there to experience it. I wasn't at the Stones' free concert in Hyde Park when they released hundreds of butterflies to honour
Brian Jones. At the time I was co-starring with Ava Gardner and Ian McShane in
Tam Lin
in Scotland.

But I did get to the Isle of Wight to see Bob Dylan, and I found myself standing three feet away from Jimi Hendrix at the fundraising concert
The 14 Hour Technicolour Dream
at Alexandra Palace. It was a wonderful time to be young.

What happened to the hippie ideal? By the early 1970s too many people were dying from bad drugs. In the US too many people from unhappy backgrounds in the Midwest were moving to the West Coast. There were too many false gurus. The purity had gone. It had become dysfunctional.

I moved out of the commune just as the sun was going down.

We'd arrived at the hospital and my contractions were happening every three minutes. I'd brought a nightie, a Mars bar and my sewing kit. I didn't really think this was
it
– I still had three weeks to go. Suddenly there I was, being hideously shaved by the roughest nurse, who could have worked for the Gestapo. I dragged my husband John into a bathroom, locked the door and got into the bath. ‘Give me a cigarette,' I demanded. ‘This is ghastly.' I had to regroup, to stop the hospital taking over. They seemed to think they owned me, and I wasn't going to let
that
happen. This was
our
child and
my
birth experience. John went rushing off and bought tons of freesias. I was deep-breathing to the beautiful smell of flowers. It was completely magical. It was a perfect birth.

The next day was God-filled. A nurse found me weeping and asked if I was all right. ‘Oh, yes,' I said. ‘I'm more all right than I could ever imagine being.' God was golden in my heart and in my
soul. I was weeping with gratitude for my beautiful child. Phoebe was
so
perfect. Everybody else's baby was so ugly. I felt sorry for them. I didn't know that's how all new mothers feel.

Phoebe had been born on 29th December. On New Year's Eve I was sitting with some other mums on our rubber rings. We were at that bad time – third day in – when the glory's over and reality's kicking in and you're very sore and your milk's coming in and it really isn't a good feeling. John, his brother and my young nephew bribed their way with champagne to the fifth floor of the hospital. They'd brought a crate of the stuff. ‘Hold on… you can't… Oh, Happy New Year!' And in they came to this diverse group of mums and babies, and got us all completely merry. We had thought no one was going to be bringing in the New Year with us. Everybody else's husband was off at this party or that. We had a great time, and the next day all our babies slept for ages.

We brought in 1975 very well. Anyone capable of instigating such fun is bound to be trouble.

That was John.

He and I had been a sparkling couple. We'd raced fast. We had a Jaguar XK150. He'd played Mercutio in Franco Zeffirelli's multiple-Oscar-nominated film
Romeo and Juliet
. I'd already starred in films with Marlon Brando and Ava Gardner. We both loved to play. He had his flying machine and I had my doll's house. We played like kids. Regardless of the time of day or night, we went with the game of the moment. We'd been to A-list parties but decided we didn't like that life, and had taken our vows, made a home and started a family.

I first met John McEnery when I was 17. We were both working at the Liverpool Everyman Theatre. He was 21 and one of their leading actors. Once, while I was at The Everyman, John had taken me out for a bowl of soup at the local greasy spoon. I'd found myself rather stuck for things to say. He was this leading man, on the cusp of great things – soon after he'd be invited to join the National Theatre. One weekend we'd all gone to the Lake District for a break. John arrived with a girl from London. She had a Vidal Sassoon haircut and a kitten; very sophisticated – very Chelsea. I was just a wardrobe assistant playing juvenile leads.

It was seven years later when I got a part in Shakespeare's
The Tempest
at The Nottingham Playhouse that I met John properly again. He was playing Ariel. Playing a spirit totally suited his mercurial nature. My friend Marsha Hunt used to call him ‘John McMercury'.

When
The Tempest
finished its run, John and I were cast to play opposite each other in The Playhouse's next production: Harold Pinter's
The Homecoming
.

Rife with sexual tension,
The Homecoming
is more about what's not said between its characters than what's said. The atmosphere on stage was electric between us. John and I took that off stage as well. It was intense. We were on fire. We became inevitable. We were soon living together.

John was vibrant, charismatic; full of life and brimming with energy. He was a very striking man to look at: blond hair, piercing blue eyes, a tall and slender frame. Around John you always had the sense that something quite unexpected might happen. We danced on an electrifying high wire.

And then there was his talent. I defy any woman not to fall for a man who exudes it. In terms of fame and fortune, John was devoid of ambition. In terms of his craft, he shone with a passion. Every performance was packed with everything he had to give, no matter how big or small the role. To watch him on stage was to watch a master at his craft.

And more – he was unpredictable. That was exciting. He was the first person I'd met who could react as fast as I could. The only trouble was, there was no thought between the idea and the action.

There was also a shadow of misery cloaking him, with an underlying difficultness I found both intriguing and challenging. Foolish woman that I was, I thought I could save him.

I loved this man – this totally irresponsible, incorrigible man.

We went to Tunisia. It felt like a honeymoon. John asked me to marry him and I said ‘yes.'

Back in London we arranged our wedding for three days later. My sisters Didi and Jenny and my brother Richard were living abroad and couldn't arrange to be back in England in time. My father said he was playing golf and couldn't get out of it. It didn't matter. Mummy came and wore a big hat. All we wanted was to get married.

The day before the wedding, while we were shopping for strawberries and champagne for the reception, John asked me what I planned to wear. I hadn't given it any thought. He went missing for the rest of afternoon, returning three hours later with a dress and a pair of shoes.

I'd never seen a dress quite so beautiful and extraordinary. It was a very simple tunic of two layers of white cotton. If you pulled the top layer up, it could be worn as a veil. It was unique
and of its time, and very me. I was amazed that my husband-to-be could get it so right at a moment's notice. I couldn't have chosen a more perfect outfit. He wore one of my white silk shirts.

That was John.

Our friend Andrew McAlpine, an incredibly gifted art director, made me a bouquet of magnolia blossoms, and my two King Charles Cavalier Spaniels stood in as bridesmaids. My first dog, Amoreena, had been a gift from Michael Winner and Marlon Brando when we'd finished
The Nightcomers
. When she had puppies I kept one and called her Minnie. On the day of my wedding, with their leads and collars adorned with flowers, Amoreena and Minnie scratched their way through the service.

During the reception the reality of what we had committed to hit me. This was for real, it wasn't a game. It was for life. To me, that was really important.

John's wedding ring accidentally went down the drain the day after we were married. ‘I never
did
like wearing rings,' was all he could say.

That was John.

Soon after we were married I became pregnant. I was delighted. The thought of motherhood and children hadn't crossed my mind before I'd fallen in love with John. When that happened, my values changed. Now all I wanted was a family. My career suddenly meant very little. Even so, I decided to change agents so I could be represented by the same one as John – thinking it best if one person was in charge of both our careers and working lives. So began a long, for-richer-or-poorer, for-better-or-worse, till-death-us-do-part relationship with the brilliant Maureen Vincent at United Agents. It's outlasted my other marriage by 30 years.

I was just under three months pregnant when John and I were cast to play the roles of Hamlet and Ophelia in a production of
Hamlet
at the Edinburgh Festival. But my pregnancy ruled me out of playing the Prince's deranged, sickly and erstwhile love interest. It was decided I should play his other love interest, Gertrude – his mother.

At the beginning of the play Hamlet berates Gertrude for having married his uncle so soon after his father's death. During rehearsal, and in character, John pushed me and I fell. I had a miscarriage and spent three weeks in the Royal Infirmary. We both blamed ourselves for what had happened – vain, uncompromising
actors, putting our art above all else. It was a painful lesson.

Months later we were in Scotland again, staying with friends. On the day of our return to London I asked them to take a picture of us standing in front of John's Jaguar.

‘Why do you want a photo?' they asked.

‘I just do,' I replied. I knew I could feel new life inside me. I was right. Phoebe was already waving.

Despite the Gestapo nurse but aided by John's flowers, the birth went as smoothly as I could have wished. When the baby was crowning, just beginning to come out, John was so excited he said, ‘Look, it's coming!' and pushed my head down to see, and I nearly bumped heads with my baby – only John being John.

When he first held her, he looked at her face and said, ‘Oh, it was you all the time.'

In 1969, with the fee I'd earned for my role in the film
Tam Lin,
I'd bought a flat in Hampstead. John had a Georgian sandstone on top of a hill in Nottingham. We trailed between the two – car packed with carrycot, pram and dogs. I slipped seamlessly into the role of being a mother. I adored my baby. Her tiny fingers, her big bright eyes, the expressions and noises she made. She brought me such joy. I cooked, I cleaned and I stitched and sewed; making her clothes, smocking her little dresses. It was the beginning of a new life for me. My career now felt secondary – somehow rather unfulfilling and dull. I only wanted to work if it didn't take me too far from Phoebe and the hours weren't too long. It was as if my eagerness and ambition had left; now channelled as love for
my baby. I still cared for my craft, but babies and family life had become more important.

And God's golden light continued to glow for me – bringing me work I could do on
my
terms. A couple of months after Phoebe's birth I was in Pete Walker's
The Confessional
with Norman Eshley and Susan Penhaligon – or Susie Pen
hooligan
, as I call her. It was filmed in St John's Wood, just round the corner from the flat.

It was a really bad movie, but very convenient. I took Phoebe to work in her basket.

‘How long are we going to be waiting for the lighting?' Pete would ask while we waited for the sparks. ‘Come on, Stephanie's tits are filling up.' It was great; I was working and still attached to my bubba. Pete: ‘Was that the kid mewling? (sigh) Let's go for another take.' Pete was lovely.

John came with me to the screening. He was totally silent throughout. When it was over, he turned to Pete. ‘How much did that cost to produce?' he asked. What else could he say? It was unspeakably bad, and I wouldn't have missed doing it for the world.

I took to being a mother with ease, but for John, despite the fact that he was besotted with Phoebe, parenthood was a huge challenge. Ten days after she'd been born I left her with him while I popped to the shops. ‘She's bathed, she's changed and she's asleep,' I told John as I reached for my coat. ‘All you have to do is keep an eye on her.'

I got back 20 minutes later. Phoebe wasn't in her cot. ‘John, where's Phoebe?' I asked, slightly bewildered.

‘Ah…' he responded. My heart sank. Whenever John said ‘Ah…' it was always a sign he'd done something… odd.

A trail of baby clothes – a cardigan, a babygro, a tiny hat – led to the bedroom. I followed them. Phoebe was hanging by her hands from the ladder to our platform bed. She was stark naked. Her face had turned puce.

I scooped her into my arms. ‘Phoebe's stark naked and hanging from a ladder!' I yelled.

‘Yes,' he said, following me into the room, quite unperturbed by my obvious shock and horror.