Authors: Sheila Hancock
The Two of Us (22 page)
It also began to dawn on me that I was as unbalanced as him. All the men most dear to me were drinkers. It was not difficult,
then, to conclude that something in my personality fitted in with that. I liked the drama, the volatility, the excitement
of being with a man who was unpredictable. Maybe my wartime childhood had affected me, but I thrived on danger. I was frightened
of security. I feared knowing what would happen for the rest of my life. I felt comfortable with unease. Despite all the trappings
of family and home, I was averse to settling down, and these mad men suited me. Not a recipe for maturity. Or contentment.
18 March
Some of the letters make me realise how lucky I am. Women
left with fearful money problems who really have no social
life except as a couple, who belong to a section of society
that shun widows out of embarrassment or fear that they’ll
be next. People who have lost children – can’t bear to even
think of that. I can only read and reply to so many letters
at a time. The weight of people’s painful lives weighs heavily
on me.
As a result of my help from Al Anon, John was tempted to attend an AA meeting. He came back very drunk indeed. It was not
for him. Although there were many of his friends at the meeting who greeted him with warmth and support he felt the whole
thing of exposing your weakness was wanky. Anyway he wasn’t like them, was he? He wasn’t an alcoholic.
I needed a break away from all this intensity so I was delighted when a project I initiated came about. I bought the rights
for
Jumping the Queue
from Mary Wesley, and, with my mate Sally Head as producer, we all decamped to Devon to shoot it. It was Jo’s holidays so
she came too, and we were both relieved to be away from John. One of the chief joys of my profession is the comradeship. The
work lays you bare emotionally and you become very close, then move on. Good old propinquity. I have always said I only joined
the profession for the sex and the tea breaks. I often think the abuse poured on luvvies by the press is envy because, whatever
they say about us, in the rehearsal room and on the set we are like a secret society whose members cling together, and nothing
can touch us. Thus it was very healing for Jo and me to be in a lovely part of the country with a kindly cast and crew fussing
over us. The other two girls were keeping an eye on John. One day Abigail phoned to say she had called round to find him desperately
depressed, he was monosyllabic and sunken-eyed. She had taken him to the local pub in an attempt to cheer him up and he had
vomited violently in public. She got Sally to come and help and she insisted on calling the doctor. He told John that his
life would be threatened if he did not give up drinking.
20 March
Lovely letter from Sally:
I am so sorry, so sad about John’s death. His fierce reserve
never extended to his love for you, which he revealed almost
every time he opened his mouth and from the moment he
met you. I will always love John for giving me my beautiful
daughter and for the friendship of you and Ellie Jane
and Jo.
Very touched. A triumph for all of us that we achieved
that, I think.
Maybe he would have heeded the warning and stopped drinking but I had to tell him news which pushed him further into the mire.
While in Devon I was having a shower when I came across a small lump in my breast. I knew instantly, before the test proved
it, that it was malignant. A few days before I had seen some stills of myself in a bathing costume and had been shocked by
the sight of my backbone sticking out from my thin body. I was terrified when the doctor told me the verdict. I rushed home,
expecting comfort from John, but my Bridge over Troubled Water collapsed at the news. Now I was going to leave him. Like the
others. He couldn’t stop me dying. So he turned his back. He walked away from trouble. He would not discuss it or see a doctor
with me. I was just as likely to get run over by a bus. What was all the fuss about? Forget it. He hid in the spare room and
barely spoke to me.
I knew he was in despair. I knew he was torn apart, but I needed support. I went for a week to the Bristol Cancer Centre with
my eldest daughter. When I returned, the house felt dank with misery. It was October 1987 and terrible storms whipped across
the country. I stood alone at my bedroom window and watched the branches bending and breaking and the Thames lashing. I really
didn’t care if I died. John was in another room, doing his best to kill himself with drink. By this time I was incapable of
action. My daughter took control and found a little rented house for me to move into. John was indifferent, relieved in fact.
Now he could drink in peace. I too enjoyed the respite of being on my own, with my children and my friends free to come and
go.
The press got hold of the news. I told them a cock and bull story about needing space to come to terms with my illness; John
said nothing. We were used to being secretive about John’s drinking, so I accepted, without contradiction, that I should take
the blame for having deserted this sweet man. One of the newspapers found out I had gone to Bristol and visited a healer at
St James’s Church in Piccadilly. An article appeared asking how could I turn to silly New Age remedies and leave poor lovely
John, when he yearned to look after me? A picture was published of him wearing a superimposed apron, maintaining he was henpecked
and demeaned by my intransigence.
I had a lumpectomy followed by six weeks of radiotherapy. After the treatment and my visit to Bristol I began to feel better,
but I could not get John out of my mind. Every now and then he would phone sounding wretched. Bristol had taught me to be
aware of negative thoughts and language. When I thought about John, I was worried sick. Worried to death? Not a good idea.
So when Derek Nimmo offered to take me off on one of his theatrical tours of the Middle East, it was an opportunity to put
sea and deserts between us. Maybe then I could forget him.
21 March
A very odd thing. John had one of his DIY disasters with
the light in the oven hood. He couldn’t get it to work. He
sweated and swore for a whole morning trying to fix it and
then gave up. I came down this morning and it was on.
Derek’s main motivation for setting up these tours was a passion for travelling and he was the best of companions on a trip.
His relish for life made him the ideal person to be with. We hadn’t decided on the show for the tour when I bumped into Kenneth
Williams. We stood on an island beside Broadcasting House, with traffic hurtling past us on either side. He looked ashen and
wretched, his mouth pursed in pain and his eyes flicking around abstractedly. He told me of worries about his health. The
usual obsession about his bum’ole, I thought. There was no work; he only got offered crap. I suggested he get away from it
all with Derek and me. We could do some of our revue stuff. Have a laugh. He snapped at me angrily, asking how I thought he
could leave Louie, his mother. He had always loved his mother and she him. They were inseparable, but now he rambled obscenely
about her incontinence and dependence on him. I knew he was in a bad way but so was I. I had had enough of unreasonable rage.
I told him not to be cruel. He turned on his heel and sped off through the crowd, pinched face held high to avoid the stares.
I shouted that I’d ring him. I didn’t. Ten days later a newspaper placard told me: ‘Kenneth Williams dead’.
The sun in the Gulf took the chill off my soul, as did the company. Derek led us off on strange and wonderful adventures.
There was a world elsewhere. Every now and then my heart wrenched at the thought of John like a ghost alone in that huge,
sad house in Chiswick. As Al Anon’s twelve steps said, I was powerless, but I felt riven with guilt.
In Oman I went with a young teacher to visit a group of dwellings in the desert. We were invited into a mud hovel. The teacher
sat with the man but I was ordered on to the other side of a sheet of sacking with his two women. We sat cross-legged on the
sand floor. The women curiously stroked my hair and clothes and dabbed heady perfumed oil on my brow and wrists. They offered
me strong sweet coffee, and dates covered with flies – they had nothing else. The place was bare apart from a blackened cooking
pot. I had on my little finger one of the rings that had belonged to John’s mother. It was gold with a tiny diamond. It was
not very valuable but a fortune to these women. I put my finger to my mouth, signalling secrecy, took it off and gave it to
them. I no longer wanted the ring of the woman whose cruelty had blighted John’s life and, indirectly, mine. They glanced
at the curtain and one of them slipped the ring down the front of her gown. I hoped it might buy them freedom, a future. Who
knows, maybe the women now run a nice little business in Muscat.
24 March
A perfect day. We gathered at Lucky, all his close friends
and family. Sally, housekeepers, gardeners, his driver, his
stand-in, his dresser – his Scallywags, other close
colleagues. A Quaker service – silence with people talking
if they felt moved to do so. They had brought poems and
songs, Auntie Beattie a beautiful scrapbook that Uncle
Charlie kept of John’s life. I told them they could cry if
they wanted and we all did. Everyone found it a comfort
as his death had been a shock to them and they had had
no chance to mourn. He would have been proud to hear
how they admired his ‘estate’, which most had never
visited. He had ordinary friends who loved him profoundly.
I hope he knew. When the grandchildren joined us we
scattered his ashes in the stream where the kingfisher
swoops, by the bank with the primroses and our favourite
cowslips. While the Elgar Quintet played in the background
the girls recited:
Do not stand at my grave and weep
I am not there.
I do not sleep.
I am a thousand winds that blow
I am the diamond glints on snow
I am the sunlight on ripened grain
I am the gentle autumn rain
When you awaken in the morning hush
I am the swift uplifting rush
Of quiet birds in circled flight
I am the soft stars that shine at night
Do not stand at my grave and cry
I am not there; I did not die.
A bit death-is-nothing-at-allish but it fitted the occasion We
unveiled the sculpture bench which says: ‘The two John
Thaws loved it here’. It was a loving occasion. Everyone
said nice things. Nigel especially. ‘I have such respect for
you. I feel privileged to know you.’ Pretty fabulous compliment
to a mother-in-law, I thought. We did him proud.
That’s the personal goodbye. Now we must steel ourselves
for the public one.
MY FLIGHT FROM MY problems had been marred by another frightening encounter with the medical profession. Derek Nimmo’s touring
production of
Bed Before Yesterday
played in Madrid before setting off for the Gulf. No sooner had we opened than I was rushed to hospital with agonising chest
pains. I was diagnosed as having possible gallstones leading to pancreatitis, with further exploration needed on my return
to England in the light of my cancer history. John’s reaction was a letter implying that although we were separated he thought
we would, as usual, soon patch up our differences – he had not grasped, or chose to ignore, the depth of the rift between
us and the gravity of the possible spread of my cancer. His letter was full of loving intimacies, then, ‘Not a day goes by,
not an hour but I think of you; a look, a phrase, an incident, a touch, a kiss or even a map! I pray that we can overcome
our/my problems in the not too distant future. Hope you are keeping the gallstones and the sheikhs at bay. But if you do meet
a homeopathic sheikh, remember that this Mancunian git will always love you more.’
I probably would have been relieved and rushed back to fall into his arms again had I not had Joanna with me on the tour.
Freed for a while from my obsession with John, I had time for my daughter. I saw her horror at my new illness and understood
how terrified she had been by my cancer. I had made the classic mistake of thinking it better that she should not be told.
At thirteen of course she knew something deeply troubling was happening, but had no one to talk to about it. It was another
family secret to be kept. I saw how profoundly affected she was by our erratic behaviour. I could see that I had neglected
her. It hardened my resolve. I returned to my little rented house and set about getting life in order independently of John.
I started with my health. I had the offending gall bladder removed and was scanned for and declared free of cancer metastasis.
I wanted to keep it that way. I had pushed my body to excess and now it had given up on me; in quick succession, I had breast
cancer, gallstones, shingles, and a dodgy cervical smear result. My approach was a mixture of orthodox and complementary medicine
with a dash of any bit of superstitious hokum that came my way. On one occasion secondary cancer was suspected in my bones.
I was given an injection of some sinister stuff to make my skeleton illuminate in an x-ray. I went to Regent’s Park while
it was taking effect. Wandering around anxiously, I saw a magpie. One magpie.
One for sorrow, two for joy,
Three for a letter, four for a boy.
In my manic state, I
had
to find another magpie to get me out of sorrow and into joy. My whole future health depended on it. I couldn’t see a mate
for Mr Magpie anywhere. Not surprising since my lone bad luck symbol was a singularly unprepossessing creature with one broken
tail feather dragging on the ground. A very ill-looking omen. I reckoned that a park that housed a zoo must have at least
two magpies. I was frantic. A woman asked me if I was all right and got the confusing reply that no, I was radioactive. I
never found a second magpie and my bone scan was clear, so that put paid to that superstition. On the other hand I did salute
the one I saw and recited, ‘Hello, Mr Magpie, how are your children?’ so that is probably what did the trick.
30 March
A dreadful day. I’ve no one to really talk to. Or not to talk
to if we chose. We were utterly on the same wavelength.
And I have that with no one else. I am drifting in a vacuum.
Hot cross buns on my own. They nearly choked me. It
would have been a ‘highlight’ to relish with him. I ache
with misery – literally. I keep looking for him, calling his
name. All our rituals have gone, I have nothing to anchor
myself to. How the hell do I live without him? Queen
Mother died today at 101. She managed. She obviously
loved her husband but spent years in the public eye without
him. Had a lovely letter from one of her ladies-in-waiting
telling how when she asked the Queen Mother if the loss
gets better she replied, ‘It never gets better, but you get
better at it.’
I believed anything. I went on a series of wild goose chases after perfect health. The nadir was reached in a Kensington mews
house where a hefty gentleman hit me hard to remove the djinns that were polluting my body. Good complementary medicine did
help me, but without the orthodox treatment as well I would have died. Just as after Alec’s death I found myself involved
with issues that related to dying and bereavement, I was now in danger of being regarded as a font of knowledge about cancer
and particularly complementary medicine. People are so desperate for help and information that they will accredit someone
in the public eye with far more expertise than they have. I tried to resist pushing myself as obsessively as in the past but
I have never been able to resist a good campaign.
One of the most impressive campaigns of the eighties and nineties was that waged by the gay community for research into the
illness that was killing so many of my friends. When Tony died the cause of his death had been mysterious, but when Aids was
given an identity, we knew that several colleagues in
Annie
and, later,
Sweeney Todd
were afflicted. My profession lost many members to the scourge of the disease. Because at first it was thought to affect only
gay men it was shamefully ignored until public pressure forced it to be taken seriously. The numerous young deaths taught
us a lot about the process of dying. Lighthouse, a hospice for people with Aids, of which I was a patron, changed the process
of death from a hole-in-the-corner affair to a fond farewell with rituals and leave-taking, that made it a good experience
for the dying and the bereaved. In my childhood, death was at least marked, albeit rather glumly, with drawn curtains and
black armbands. Nowadays the tendency is to pretend it isn’t happening. With Aids, the gay community taught us to celebrate
life as well as mourning death.
When the entertainment industry gets the bit between their teeth, they can be very efficient – Bob Geldof with Live Aid in
1985, and Kevin Cahill, Richard Curtis and Emma Freud with Comic Relief, started in 1988 and continued every year since. Both
tackled injustice and deprivation, which are often the cause of war, more effectively than President Reagan. His diplomacy
produced this statement: ‘Five nations, Iran, Libya, North Korea, Cuba, Nicaragua are a confederation of terrorist states.
The strongest collection of looney tunes and squalid criminals.’ This from the country that produced the book
How to Win Friends
and Influence People
. Reagan did, however, make his peace with the ‘Evil Empire’ now that a reforming president was in power in the shape of Gorbachev.
In 1991 trouble broke out in Iraq during which many Iraqis and Kurds were killed. Bush Senior intervened in Saddam Hussein’s
invasion of Kuwait. In Operation Desert Storm, Baghdad was bombed.
Everyone rejoiced when the Berlin Wall came down in 1989. In the same year one of the most poignant images of people protest
was the lone student standing in front of a line of grotesque tanks during a demonstration in Tiananmen Square. His brave
defiance was followed by tragedy when the misnamed People’s Liberation Army slaughtered and injured thousands of their fellow
countrymen and women. There was much to protest against.
2 April
Lyn said, ‘I have never known great passion or great grief
because I wouldn’t take the risk and I tell you that’s no
way to live.’ Beautiful letter from a nun, of all people.
‘There is a dark side to the golden coin of love; a paradox
of joy and sadness. You are bearing the sadness for him
now. He won’t have to weep at your funeral, and feel bereft.’
Talking of his work she said, ‘There was no side, no conceit
in his performance.’ Absolutely true. Still the ‘Death is
nothing at all’s keep coming. Not true.
I managed to fit in some theatre and TV engagements between campaigning and my fasts and diets and fitness regimes. However
low he felt at my absence, John never let it affect his work. In the midst of all the panic about my illness he did a stunning
performance in Arthur Miller’s
All My Sons
, up in his home town at the Manchester Exchange Theatre. At the final curtain there was a long silence before the applause
started. It is the greatest compliment an audience can pay an actor: to be so moved and involved that it is hard to come back
into the real world.
For eighteen months we lived apart, but were in agony about it. We made some attempts to get back together but they failed.
On one bizarre occasion John phoned to say he was taking Jo and me for a holiday in Ireland in a horse-drawn caravan. It is
a measure of my desperation that I could believe for a moment that this could be anything but a disaster. The day before we
were due to leave, he phoned to tell us curtly that he had cancelled and to forget the whole thing. Yet again Jo was hurt
and bewildered by broken promises. Ian McKellen came to the rescue, whisking us off to a villa in France where he lit log
fires, cooked delicious meals and lovingly cosseted us both. We badly needed it.
5 April
We have all come to Barcelona. The trip the girls gave him
for his 60th birthday present. My dear friend Helen has
come in his place. She is wonderful and positive and loves
life. I need people like that. It’s hard going for us all, but
two ‘highlights’: a couple of lads playing classical guitar
outside a café and some old folk from Catalonia dancing
some wonderful stately dances in front of the cathedral to
the music of a small local band. Charming. There is nothing
more lovely than seeing plain people transformed when they
dance. It’s like the old couples ballroom dancing at the
Waldorf Hotel tea dances or the Tower Ballroom in
Blackpool. Very moving. It’s the same effect as fat people
who are miraculously light on their feet. Roy Kinnear was
like that. Funny little chap who became Fred Astaire when
he danced.
Few people outside the family knew what was going on. On the set of
Morse
they were puzzled by John’s moods. Sometimes he would emerge from his Winnebago and want to chat. At other times he made it
obvious he wanted to be left alone. He was usually kind to small-part actors but once when one was pestering him for advice
he snapped, ‘Listen, sunshine, all you have to do is hit the Duke of York [chalk mark] and get the dickies [birds – words]
right.’
He complained about directors ‘shooting the arse off the scene’ with shots that he knew would be edited out. ‘I’m giving you
a week’s work for nothing.’
‘Well, come on, shoot it before it shoots us,’ would be his grumble at long delays, or, ‘Now listen, I’ve got a nice house
by the river, I’d like to see it before it gets dark.’
He could still laugh on occasion. Filming in Oxford, a sweating electrician with his belly hanging over his trousers heaved
a lamp past an elegant woman who was watching. John was delighted to hear her say to her friend in a pained voice, ‘Who would’ve
thought such a wonderful programme could be made by such a bunch of thugs?’ ‘Morning, thuggies,’ was John’s daily greeting
from that day forth.
John relished a repetitive gag. His ‘Help me, help me’ cries could be adapted to any situation. In the bedroom, ‘Help me,
help me, I’m trapped in this house with a sex maniac’; when learning lines, ‘Help me, help me, my brain hurts’; in France,
‘Au secours me, au secours me, I’m surrounded by foreigners.’ A loud, preferably indistinct ‘Cut!’ always demanded, ‘Is he
talking about me?’ After his CBE in 1993, if he had difficulty with some lines, he would complain haughtily, ‘I can’t say
this rubbish – I’m a Commander of the British Empire, I tell you.’
He had round him in all his shows a team of supporters with whom he felt safe and at home. More at home than in his home.
They made no emotional demands on him and over the years they were his bulwark against interference. Micky his driver, Tony
his dresser, Barry his stand-in and Pauline continuity, as well as regular make-up girls and a designer, Sue Yelland, nicknamed
the Rottweiler. He called them his Scallywags and when away on location it was with them he would go out rather than actors
or directors. They knew how to jolt him out of a mood, usually by having a funny conversation within earshot until he shouted,
‘Fuck off, you’re driving me mad. I’ll swing for you lot.’ He joined in one of their japes. Pauline’s daughter Katie was having
a smart twenty-first birthday party and Pauline told John she wished to leave the set in time to attend it. On wrap of filming
for the day Pauline returned to the unit base to find the dining bus done up with balloons and streamers and the Scallywags
and John wearing paper hats and excitedly blowing squeakers ready to embark on a trip to join the celebration.
