The Two of Us (24 page)

In 1993 John seized the opportunity to live in his beloved French house while filming
A Year in Provence
, but I did not go with him. I had originally been asked to play his wife but a new director decided I was too old for the
role. It is the rule on TV, if not in life, that even old men have pretty young wives. Peter Mayle has always been unpopular
with fellow journalists, probably because he hit on an idea, which made him a fortune, that any one of them could have written
if they had only thought of it. The series was a flop, though not as big as the one I was involved in – a misconceived, badly
directed English version of
The Golden Girls
called
Brighton Belles
, which was dropped after a few episodes. That deserved to bomb but the vitriol heaped on
A Year in Provence
was out of all proportion to the gravity of a rather trite little comedy not quite pulling it off. The Americans loved it,
but the British did not. John’s confidence, still fragile despite his success in
Morse
, was shattered, plunging him further into depression. He decided to try the theatre.

3 May

One of the crew of
Bedtime
said, ‘Your tyres are worn out
and dangerous, Sheila.’ I didn’t know what to do. John
would have dealt with these things. But I got it sorted. I’ve
bloody well got to learn to cope. Felt quite pleased with
myself. Then had to do a shot looking in a mirror. Christ,
I look old. Why does anyone employ such an ugly old hag?

In 1993 an offer came from the National Theatre to play the lead in a new play by David Hare.
Absence of War
was the last of a trilogy about the state of the nation, covering the law, religion and, in John’s play, politics. It was
about a passionate Labour man confronting the adaptation needed to make his party electable to the masses. Although not meant
to be Neil Kinnock, many of the characteristics of the role were his. It certainly was the dilemma that he faced with a party
that seemed doomed to stay in opposition unless it changed its image. In 1992 John and I had watched the TV in horror as any
possibility of election victory was destroyed by a ludicrous American-style jamboree rally in Sheffield. The worst moment
was when Kinnock, high on the orchestrated jubilation on his arrival, kept saying dementedly, ‘A’right, a’right, we’re a’right.’
He resigned soon afterwards and the more sedate, highly respected John Smith became leader until he tragically died. Blair
steamed in and on to victory, and brought about the changes Kinnock had attempted.

Hare’s play was ambitious and large-scale. It was to be performed in the Olivier Theatre, which has a stage as big as a football
pitch, with a 1,200-seater auditorium. It is a notoriously difficult space for actors to perform in. A new David Hare play
is always an event, but this one even more so because it was known that he had been given access to the inner workings of
the Party, and everyone was agog about what it would reveal. John could not have taken on a bigger theatrical challenge. It
took real courage at a time when he was emotionally unstable.

He was also aware that many people would be curious to see if this telly actor would fall flat on his face. Richard Eyre,
the director, got some sense of the effect of his fame when he walked down the Strand with John, and everyone, including the
traffic, stopped to greet him. On another occasion, when they were doing the film version of the play, he asked John to walk
amongst the crowd in a market in Stockport. He was mobbed of course, and filming couldn’t continue. Richard was not used to
this kind of recognition with theatre stars. People are more restrained with actors they watch from a distance on a stage
than those who appear in their living rooms. John was real and moving in the play and had no trouble projecting his performance
into the chasm of the Olivier Theatre, to the surprise of some of the stuffier critics. His fellow actors supported him wholeheartedly.
One member of the cast, Clare Higgins, watched John closely. Oliver Ford-Davies and Saskia Wickham demonstrated their support
with nightly cuddles when at one point in the play the three of them had to squeeze past one another behind the set. Cuddles
were in short supply at home. Partly because I wasn’t there, having fled to Leeds to play in the musical
Gypsy
.

6 May

In France. Must try and pull myself together. I am becoming
alienated from the family. My misery is making me utterly
self-centred. Little things get blown up out of all proportion.
Went to Leclerc and they left me in the café while
they shopped. I sat there with a group of French navvies
who were constantly commenting obscenely about all the
passing girls. I was invisible to them. An old crone in the
corner. The girls were ages coming back and I snapped at
them when they eventually arrived. It was downhill from
then on. I do not have the safety valve of slagging them
off to John so it all builds up inside. The focus of our
family has gone. And though he didn’t seem to be the
strength of the unit, he was. Even when he was at his worst,
that in itself was our focus. Trying to appease him, to avoid
trouble. All our roles are changed. What am I now? Ellie
Jane said, ‘Our family is falling apart and you must be the
matriarch.’ I beg your pardon? How do I do that? And it
doesn’t seem a very good part to me. What’s the costume?
Buttoned boots and corsets?

Frantic to bury himself in work when
Absence of War
finished, although he was still doing episodes of
Morse
, John looked for even more TV. He needed the reassurance that at least his working life was a success. Ted Childs came up
trumps again with a series about a barrister called Kavanagh: ‘Why do they keep miscasting me as intellectuals?’ Ted assigned
Chris Kelly to produce. He was new to the job, having hitherto been widely known for a TV cookery programme. He started off
by daringly sacking one of John’s Scallywags who stepped out of line. Then he redeemed himself by asking Jack Gold to direct.

It was a new departure for Jack to do a TV series. Since they worked together on
The Bofors Gun
John had held him in high esteem. They met for lunch at the River Café. It was an awkward meeting. Both men were delighted
to see each other again for the first time since their youth, but were too inarticulate to say more than ‘Nice to have you
on board.’

‘Good to be on board.’

Jack could not find the words to tell John how much he admired him – that he considered he could express important moral values
without sentiment. The others with a similar quality were, in his opinion, Henry Fonda and Spencer Tracy in film, and Ken
Stott and Helen Mirren on TV.

During the filming of
Kavanagh QC
John was even less able to communicate than usual. He was often mute with misery. His colleague Oliver Ford-Davies received
no welcome when he joined the series. John expressed his admiration obliquely one day when the set was a bit noisy and they
had a difficult scene to play: ‘Let’s have a bit of hush here. Oliver has won an Olivier award and me a BAFTA, so you’re gonna
see some acting. Let’s have a bit of respect.’ In his touchy condition it could be that he felt under-appreciated as well
as trying to help Oliver. He sometimes complained that people took him for granted and didn’t credit how hard he worked. One
day they asked him to learn a new long speech during the lunch hour. It was done at the end of the day and then everyone packed
up and went home. He was distressed when he told me that no one had thought to say ‘Well done’ to him. When I worked with
Bette Davis in the film
The Anniversary
she cowed us all with her Hollywood star behaviour. One day she did a very fine take and I ventured to say, ‘Well done, Miss
Davis.’ She grabbed my hand and said, ‘Oh thank you, honey. The nearest I ever get to a compliment is “OK, print it.”’

It was becoming impossible for me to get through to John. The tempestuous love affair in which I had so revelled had turned
rotten and become an ugly, chaotic battlefield. When our first grandson was born in 1995 we were in one of our periods apart
and in danger of spoiling the event for everyone. I had to face the fact that we were destroying each other, so I suggested
divorce. A bitter failure for both of us. As a last throw I told him that Maggie, my counsellor, knew someone she thought
could help John. ‘I bet he lives in Hampstead.’ He did.

12 May

Camera crew at Lucky to film interviews for TV tribute.
We had to do it but God it was hard. They had to keep
stopping for us to pull ourselves together but we went on.
We want an accurate portrait of the man. Jack Gold was
very sensitive, especially with Jo. ‘I’ve always had to be so
careful what I say that I can’t talk now.’

Got through that. Now for the memorial.

17

Change

JOHN WAS FULLY EXPECTING to pay only one visit to Hampstead to keep me happy, but Udi Eichler was a beguiling man. He had
worked in television and was fascinated by John’s complexity. Somehow he won him round and John began to enjoy their meetings.
They had much in common: difficult childhoods, they even both had a crippled foot. Udi tried to make John value himself. He
encouraged him to spend his hard-earned money on silly pleasures and to look for joy in his life. He analysed why John’s repeated
jokes were often to do with leaving. When I said I was going out, even just from the room, he would wail, ‘Doon’t gooo, doon’t
goo.’ His reaction to bangs was always ‘And stay out,’ and his ‘Help me, help me’ jokes were potent as well. When he left
a room he would often repeat the last words of Captain Oates: ‘I am just going outside and may be some time.’ Shades of his
mother perhaps?

Udi made John write down his dreams. One reflects his heavy childhood responsibilities towards his brother: ‘Kids on phone.
Joanna and Sheila. Maybe Abigail. They’re screaming and shouting “Raymond”. “Oh great.” I take it that it’s Ellie’s baby and
say, “Is it the baby, what a good name for the baby,” but they don’t answer.’

Other dreams were grimmer. ‘Came upstairs. Sheila came out of study. Looks me up and down. I look down. See there is vomit
over my jacket and trousers.’

13 May

Plucked up courage to sort out some of John’s things. Piles
of
Stuff
magazine’s ‘Great Gear for Men’ from when Udi
urged him to buy some treats for himself. They look
unopened. Discovered he’d got scores of suits I didn’t know
about. He has never even worn them. The times he said
before going somewhere, ‘I haven’t got a dark suit’ or ‘I
don’t have anything to wear.’ He had dozens of the bloody
things. He must have bought them half-price from various
TVs – he could never resist a bargain. Or was it because
they were so beautiful – mostly Zegna or Armani – that
he had to have them even if he never wore them? He is a
little squirrel storing up things for a possible rainy day.

John seemed to enjoy his trips to Hampstead. When I had a session with Udi I expressed my concern that he was not tackling
the problem of his drinking, which I maintained was central. Udi wrote to me putting me in my place: ‘The kind of work required
to help John out of his life-long depressive misery is long and arduous. I have no illusions about the frustrations and anguish
of living with such a person. Nevertheless, as his therapist, I must be his advocate, certainly in the one-to-one work.’

Not long after this, John returned from Hampstead and said he would never go again. I don’t know what triggered his anger
with Udi – probably something trivial. Or maybe Udi tried to enter the no go area of John’s drinking. Udi got the Back Treatment.
I knew how he felt when he wrote to John: ‘I find it unimaginable that the relationship that we had can have evaporated into
a meaningless nothing.’

Still John did not respond. Udi wrote again: ‘So I live in hope that our paths will cross at some time in the future. Whilst
I can imagine your stubbornness (actually a kind of wounded hibernation at your own expense) might well keep you at bay, I
hope nevertheless that you might surprise us both and finally respond. Why do I keep on at you in this manner, beyond the
call of professional duty? Because I have a personal affection for you which I have allowed to stray beyond the consulting
room.’

John’s efforts to drive people away did not daunt Udi. He continued to try to break John’s behaviour pattern of leaving people
before they left him as they surely would when they discovered how unworthy of their love he thought himself. I was in despair.
So was John. I tried to stay with him and hold his hand but he was emotionally impossible to reach. Ted Childs noticed his
behaviour was ‘a bit iffy’ and others noted he was often in tears. I tried to work. I didn’t choose the ideal job. In 1995
the Almeida Theatre asked me to play in Strindberg’s
Dance
of Death
opposite John Neville. It is a cruel piece about the disintegration of a marriage. I was less able to use my present pain
in my role than John. I could not cope with hatred at home and in my work so I did something I had never done before, I let
them down by leaving in the first week of rehearsal, pleading illness. By this time all John cared about was his access to
alcohol. His little black bag with the vodka bottles never left his side.

15 May

Still sorting John’s things very slowly as I can’t take too
much at a time. Found a pile of letters from friends that I
told him to answer personally. I doubt if he did. I hope
they understand. But most poignantly I tackled his black
bag, the dread black bag he took to work for his script,
etc. In the drinking days it used to clink as he left. In it I
found hundreds of fag ends. He must have been secretly
smoking and hiding the evidence. There was no need to. I
wouldn’t have minded in the least, but I suppose it was
part of the pleasure. To be naughty, to have a secret, to do
his own thing and sod you. Once an addict, always an
addict. I was glad. He remained his own man and did what
he liked. He probably thought I would worry too. Whatever.
I’m glad he did it. I drank in the smell of stale tobacco.
And to think I used to hate it.

Clare Higgins was not surprised when I phoned her on the recommendation of a friend who had some experience of alcoholism.
As well as being a fine actor, Clare is a counsellor particularly skilled in dealing with addiction. While working with John
at the National she detected that he had a problem. She suggested a family meeting, without John, to discuss our best way
to help him. She explained to us all how we were, to use the technical term, ‘enabling’ John in his habit by covering for
him and tolerating unacceptable behaviour. In the vernacular, what we needed to exercise was tough love. When he asked for
help himself, and only then, she gave us the name of someone for him to contact.

We were determined to try. Richard Eyre and his wife Sue Birtwhistle came round to Luckington for Christmas drinks. John tried
to pour champagne but his hand was shaking so much it went all over the table. We all sat and watched, making no attempt to
cover for him. After a dreadful Christmas the family and I left him on his own and went back to London. He made it clear he
could not bear us around. Before I left, I told him if he wanted help I had something to suggest.

It was the worst few weeks of my life. I felt like a murderer. I loved him with all my heart but my behaviour seemed so unloving.
Eventually he did phone. Jo and I drove down immediately. We were shocked by his appearance. He was a physical wreck. He had
injured his arm in a fall, his face was swollen and he was in agony from gout. As advised, we just gave him the number and
left him to take action. It had to be his initiative. No more hand-holding, no more cover-ups. Tough love. He had to want
to help himself because he had hit rock bottom. Beauchamp Colcough was waiting for his call. A miracle was about to happen.

There is no nameplate on Beechy’s door in Harley Street and the waiting room is like any other. He himself comes to take you
into his room, a short Irish leprechaun with wild black hair. Although now dressed in trendy clothes, there is still an air
about him that makes it possible to believe that he once slept in the gutter. He is not your usual doctor or psychiatrist.
Nor is his room typical. He has comfy old armchairs, pictures and a table full of objects which his patients have left behind
for luck. It is a cosy, womb-like room.

He knew that he had to get John’s confidence in the first one and a half hours, so Beechy used every ounce of his skill and
energy to grab John’s attention. John was like him. He understood how he felt. He had been there himself. Similar backgrounds.
Suffering from depression which, combined with alcohol, was like petrol on a fire. He was at dis-ease with himself. ‘You’re
a miserable bugger but you’re making yourself fifty times more miserable with drink. What’s it like, fame?’

‘A nightmare.’

‘Doesn’t the money help?’

‘It buys me privacy, that’s all.’

Beechy could see that John didn’t believe any of the media hype about himself. He was too real for his own good. But wrong
about himself. He didn’t believe he was the real thing, he wanted to be someone else. Drink helped that.

‘Can I drink a bit? Control it?’

‘You’re not here because you’re good at it.’

Beechy hammered home his memory losses, his never feeling well, the family disintegration, the misery.

‘I’m the last house in the block. Your last chance saloon. You’re here because you’re in the shit. It’s killing you. Give
me a week. By the end of the week you will have made a decision. If I haven’t killed you with the coffee first.’ Beechy made
foul coffee.

As he left that first session John asked Beechy, ‘Can I do this?’

‘’Course you can, John.’

‘I’ll give it my best shot.’

‘You don’t do that. That’s not enough. You deliver – that’s what you always do.’

Beechy says he spent an agonising night hoping with all his heart that John would return the next day. He did. After one week
– just ten hours – Beechy had changed his life for ever. John never touched another drink. Beechy’s method is unique to him.
It is propelled by a profound hatred of the harm done by alcohol. Someone dies of alcohol-related disease every ten minutes.
The waste of lives it causes fires him to inspire people to change. He only met John for one week but he cared passionately
about him during that time as he does all his patients.

‘I got lucky with John. We got lucky with each other. He touched me. A beautiful man. A gentle man. The devil was in him.’

He gave John a packet of the coffee which they had christened Thaw’s Delight as a parting gift. As he left Beechy’s room for
the last time, John tripped over his feet. Beechy’s parting words were, ‘Watch your step.’

John described his sobriety as like a cloud lifting; it was for his family as well. Even when he was drinking heavily he managed
to keep it secret from the world outside the home. Chris Kelly, his producer, had not known he had a problem until he stopped
drinking and a different man emerged. ‘Happier, calmer and more at peace with himself. More generous in terms of relationships.’
As Beechy said, nobody had seen him really sober for years. John’s relief at shedding his burden was profound. He turned his
back on the booze completely. Everyone was amazed at his ability to refuse a drink, not even enjoying a good wine. He was
unperturbed by people drinking around him. He had no desire to go back to where he had been, at rock bottom.

His mind clear, he now tried to put all the work he had done with Udi into practice. It was like learning to live all over
again. He risked reaching out to people even though there was a chance of rejection. It was hard for him. He was tentative.
The producer Thelma Holt had suffered a great sadness in her life, so everyone was surprised when she turned up to a RADA
Council meeting. Fellow members greeted her with warmth and kisses. Not John, however. He did nothing. She was walking down
the stairs after the meeting when she felt a hand fall on her shoulder. She looked up into a pair of blazing blue eyes and
he just said, ‘Watch yourself, girl,’ and kissed her on the cheek. She felt she was drowning in affection.

18 May

Had a breakthrough today. Clare V. came to Lucky – and
I cooked a very good roast lunch on my own. And had a
lovely time with her. We talked and actually laughed. My
girlfriends are an immense solace. I have neglected friendship
in my life. John never felt the need for it at home. At
work, yes.

Two years into John’s sobriety, in 1997, his father died after struggling against lung cancer. If anything was going to drive
him back to the bottle this was it. When we arranged the funeral service with no priest or religious context, just a family
expressing their love, I did not think John would want or be able to participate. On the day, he stood up, the man who loathed
making speeches, and talked uninhibitedly about his love for Jack, whom he touchingly called his ‘brother, friend and wisest
of counsellors’. He told how, when he was awarded his CBE, he phoned and said, ‘D’you want to come to the Palace, Dad?’

‘Do what? What’s on then?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘The Palace, you lummock! What’s on in Manchester then?’

The most amazing breakthrough was that he was not afraid to show his grief. He wept unashamedly in front of the congregation.
Jack’s friends from the pub in their best suits and flat caps must have been a bit embarrassed, especially as I had given
them all posies of sweet peas to hold, which they did with good grace to placate the weird southerners. I was relieved that
John was not turning his back on his loss. He was even moved by the public demonstration of grief over the death of Princess
Diana in the same year. He did not, as one would expect, join the cynics who found it absurd. He wept with me as we watched
the crowd throw flowers at her passing hearse. Suddenly the British turned continental and publicly howled with grief and
rage at the death of this damaged young woman. And their own private griefs perhaps. It was odd behaviour and we were all
surprised at ourselves. We knew she was a mess, that is why we liked her. No one could organise when and to whom we paid respect
any more. Suddenly the people dictated when flags were lowered and how queens should behave. It was a strange little revolution.

John did not feel able to return to Udi. He could not remember the reason why he left so abruptly. There was so much in his
life that he could not recall and some of it he preferred to leave unexplored. In 1997 he received a letter from Udi. ‘The
lengths I have to go to, to bring some kind of satisfactory – for me and for you – closure to our old but, for me, quite unfaded
relationship. What do I mean? Thought you’d like to know and perhaps wish to respond to a shitty development in my life. A
few weeks ago I had a relatively advanced stomach cancer diagnosed. Size of a huge brick, so my surgeon told me.’