There's Something I've Been Dying to Tell You (2 page)

There was a wonderful moment when I was at drama school in 1968. I met Nickolas Grace on the first day at the Central School of Speech and Drama in 1966, and have stayed friends ever since. He got us invitations to a very special charity ball. He knew lots of famous actors because he was the president of the Redgrave Society at his school and he was always arranging things so that he could meet his idols! Anyway, the very famous Kenneth More was the guest of honour. For those of you under the age of sixty who may be reading this, Kenneth More became famous for playing a very brave pilot called Douglas Bader in the Second World War who lost his legs while fighting the Germans. The film was called
Reach for the Sky
.

It was a black tie event which does not pose a great problem for boys but for me it was a huge dilemma. Who at the age of twenty, and living on a grant at drama school, has an evening dress – unless of course you were born with a silver spoon in your gob! Well God moves in mysterious ways and one morning I was strolling down my favourite yellow brick road towards John Lewis, and for the first time ever I was looking right and left, scanning the shop windows for sparkly dresses. Suddenly the sunlight caught a sequin in a shop window and there waiting for me, waving at me, was the most incredible long silver sequined dress I have ever seen. It was a Shirley Bassey dress. I stood outside the shop and just devoured it from head to toe. A very jolly sales assistant was obviously watching me and she came to the door and said, ‘Why don’t you come in and try it on? No harm in that.’

I could not even find words to express my desire to pour myself into this confection of silver. I followed her into the shop to the changing room at the back. I took off my clothes and sat still as a statue waiting for the arrival of my fantasy. She slipped it over my head and it slithered down my body like a caress. It fitted perfectly, but I knew it would.

‘Oh my dear, you look beautiful,’ said the temptress. ‘Is it a special occasion?’

Well that was it, a combination of nerves and excitement sent me into overdrive and I was telling her all about the ‘do’ and Kenneth More (‘Oh I love him,’ said the lady, adjusting the fishtail on my dress) and suddenly it was a done deal. Except I did not know the price of the dress and there was no way – even if I paid in instalments for the rest of my life – that I was going to be able to buy it. I started to pull it back over my head with the sales assistant still attached!

‘I am so sorry,’ I stammered, ‘but I am wasting your time. There is no way I could pay for something like this.’

‘You don’t know that,’ encouraged the Fairy Queen. ‘Let’s see . . . well for a start it is on “special offer” because there is a tiny nick in the fishtail here, look. But it is so small we can invisibly mend that easily. It is £50. Madam, that is cheap!’

‘Not cheap enough I am afraid,’ I said but a little voice was pushing its way to the surface:
You have to speculate to accumulate, don’t you?

I was lucky (or unlucky depending on which way you looked at it) to have a brilliant bank manager who I could talk to like a father. In fact he was my dad’s bank manager also, and he had always been incredibly supportive, knowing how tough it was for farmers, like my family, starting up after the war. Maybe, just maybe, he would understand my predicament and give me a loan?

‘Would it be possible to use your phone and ring my bank?’ I ventured. Don’t forget there were no mobile phones back then! ‘Yes, be my guest,’ said the she-devil, handing me the phone.

I tried to sneak into the corner of the changing room and whispered into the mouthpiece.

‘Hi, is that you, Mr Wyatt? . . . Yes, I am fine, no I am whispering because I am in a dress shop and I want to ask . . . Dress shop. Yes it does sound ominous, doesn’t it?! The thing is you always tell me to speculate to accumulate and I have the chance to make lots of contacts and possibly further my career.’

I explained about the evening and as soon as I mentioned Kenneth More he was impressed.

‘How much is the dress?’ he said, getting down to the nitty-gritty.

‘Fifty pounds,’ I said, as quickly as I could.

There was a very long silence and then I heard him smile . . . yes you can hear a smile, I promise you!

‘Very well, Miss Bellingham, you may have the money but I want you to put a little money back each month for the repayment.’

I stifled a scream of joy and did a little dance in the changing cubicle.

‘Thank you thank you thank you. I will send you a photo of the evening.’

I put the phone down and carried it back to the counter. ‘Thank you, I will take the dress and please can we fix the small nick in the hem by next Saturday?’

‘Certainly, of course, Madam, and may I say nothing gives me greater pleasure than being able to sell you this. You look stunning.’

I walked back up Marylebone High Street in a daze.

I had silver shoes – my practice dance shoes for movement class – which I could wear with the dress. They were not quite high enough but I could stand on tippy-toe all night if need be. Nothing was going to spoil this evening.

Nik and I were probably the youngest couple there that night and everyone commented on my dress. Mind you I was a little like a Christmas tree! I should have had an inkling of trouble ahead after the third person had stood on my flicked out fishtail but I just made myself stand taller. This was not quite the thing to do as Kenneth More was making his way towards me and he was not what you might call tall.

‘How do you do? My name is Kenneth and I would like to ask for the next dance if I may,’ said Mr More. He was very charming and had a definite twinkle in his eye.

‘Thank you that would be lovely,’ I demurred in my most ladylike manner.

He took my hand and sort of twirled me onto the dance floor to the opening bars of a waltz and another sound, a rather ragged note as if something was tearing . . . Oh my God, my dress! He was standing on my dress! It ripped from the rather flirty slit at the back straight up to my bra.

‘I am so sorry, my dear, here take my jacket and cover yourself.’ He handed me his dinner jacket.

If he had offered it for any other reason than to cover a rip, it would have been such a romantic gesture, but instead I ran from the ballroom to the cloakroom. I was in floods of tears and the poor cloakroom attendant had a job to calm me down. She was so sweet and produced a needle and thread and literally sewed me back into my frock. Now that is what I call service. I spent the rest of the night seated at the table, pretending to all and sundry that it was no big deal. Only a little repair and after all it was only a dress. Ha, only! It was a rent to my heart, and what would Mr Wyatt make of my disaster?

But would you believe it God took care of me, and the following week I was asked to do a voice-over for the TV for a carpet shop or something. My first ever voice-over and the fee would be £50! Cross my heart and hope to die. (Well, actually that is rather inappropriate now, isn’t it?) I was able to send My Wyatt the money and my silver dress went into the dressing-up box at college.

Now though, standing there on Harley Street, suddenly I saw it all with new eyes. What is really important in life? Behind these beautiful facades, sickness lay. Every basement window with subtle blinds and opaque glass hid the real business of the day – people fighting for their lives. And although it is a cliché that money can’t buy everything, a silver dress is nothing compared to your health.

Well, so be it. I made up my mind that if 95 Harley Street was to become my home for the next few months, it would be a place of pain and comfort, but most important of all . . . it would be a place of hope.

1

AND SO IT BEGAN

July 2013

I was admitted to the London Clinic LOC on 3 July for a colonoscopy. I certainly wasn’t looking forward to it. During a colonoscopy, they basically put a small camera up your bum. You are not under general anaesthetic for the procedure, but they give you Valium and you can watch the proceedings on the screen to the side if you so desire. Personally I would rather keep my eyes closed and thoughts elsewhere on much more pleasant things, but a friend of mine, who is a very cheeky chappie, told me it was the best sex he had ever had!

I really don’t remember much about it to be honest but Richard Cohen was able to see the damage. There were three tumours apparently. When it was over, Michael came to take me home and we went to the cinema. The next day I was back at the clinic for a heart cardiogram and then admitted to await my operation to put in a port. Any port in a storm! A port is an amazing invention and I would recommend it to anyone who is going to have to have chemo. It is a small disc implanted in the chest through which all the intravenous injections can be given. It sounds a bit toe-curling but, believe me, when one is having literally hundreds of injections it makes life so much easier and there is no pain at all. I sat on my bed in the London Clinic all afternoon watching TV until Mr Imberts arrived to tell me all about the procedure. I was back in bed within the hour ordering my supper.

Of course, I know, you may read this and think, ‘Jammy woman on the private healthcare, what does she know?’ Well, as a matter of fact, I do know both sides. When I was growing up I always spent my school holidays working at Stoke Mandeville Hospital. It was very new then and specialised, as it does still, in spinal cases. The nurses worked so hard and I loved the camaraderie of the nursing staff and their dedication to their jobs.

When I left drama school and became a self-employed person I quickly realised that I could never afford to be ill, I couldn’t afford to take the time off work, and if I needed medical attention swiftly the poor old NHS was never going to deliver. Of course it does in real emergencies, one can have no better care, indeed it uses the same surgeons as one pays for in the private sector. But say I got a bug, or broke a bone while filming, then I needed to get it sorted quickly, and by having private healthcare I was able to deal with most eventualities. My friends thought I was mad paying out each month and, believe me, there were times when I had no money in the bank and I was living off boiled eggs and soldiers, but I never gave up the payments.

Years later I had a huge overdraft but great medical cover, and it has been a godsend this last year. Everything that has happened to me has been made a little easier to bear because of the amazing care, the speed with which I’ve been tended to and the comfort in which I’ve received my treatment. When you are in hospital you realise just how important the whole set-up is, from the surgeons to the nurses, to the healthcare workers, to the cleaners. I have met some amazing people from all these groups in the last year, and believe me they all deserve such praise.

So I was now sporting a small bump on my chest which would be accommodating an intravenous drip to carry the magic chemo up a tube under my skin. All you could see from the outside was what looked like a vein in the side of my neck and a small scar just above my right breast. I have never really been into plunging necklines so there was no danger of anyone noticing my impediment. I was prepped and ready for my first chemotherapy session the next day, on 5 July. As I am writing these words I glance at my watch and I realise it is exactly a year since I started this deadly affair with the disease that wants to destroy me. A year has gone already – how quickly time flies when you are having fun!

The treatment room at the London Clinic is in the basement. I was shown into a room with a large seat like a dentist’s chair, the blinds were pulled right down and the air conditioning was arctic. I could see people’s feet marching past above me and was reminded again of how little the world out there knew about the world down here. I have to admit that the surroundings were not particularly welcoming, unlike the staff who were just brilliant. First in was the lady from the catering department to offer tea, coffee, smoothies and all sorts. Then came two beautiful nurses who would be looking after me, Clare Cobbett and Ani Ransley. They are truly angels, and I value their friendship so highly. Much as the oncologist is brilliant, God-like even, these nurses are on the front line. They fill in the gaps and deal with all one’s day-to-day fears and tears. Of which there would be many over the next few months.

The clinic is always busy and the nurses were kept on their toes all day long, going from one patient to the next, checking IVs and talking people through different aspects of their treatment. Clare took over and got me seated, taking my blood pressure and temperature. Then I was weighed: I had lost a little weight but nothing drastic.

‘I am going to be the only cancer patient who puts on weight, you see!’ I joked, hoping that I could lose a few pounds for the summer. Look for the positive I say. I was then set up in the very comfortable chair while Clare found my newly installed port and inserted the intravenous drip. There was a small prick, but he was only passing by with a tray. Sorry, that was an awful joke but I could not resist. It is being brought up on Carry On films I guess. This was now Carry On Cancer, 2013 style.

I was now effectively attached to the drip for six hours while various concoctions were fed into me. I felt very comfortable, and ordered a cappuccino and a Danish and read my book. To be honest it was all very pleasant and a welcome respite from my usual chaotic life. I dozed off from time to time, only to be awoken by the strident bleep of my machine announcing my bag was empty and it was time for the next onslaught.

The routine for my treatment is pretty much the same each fortnight. I arrive with my sample of wee and sit in this lovely chair which goes up and down and round and round and I am hooked up to my drip. This is where the wonderful port comes into its own, as they flush you out with something ready for the first cocktail. As far as I understand it, for my first twelve sessions I had three main drugs delivered through the drip from a bag. The one that has been consistent throughout this year is the unpronounceable fluorouracil, which comes in the form of a transparent rubber ball about the same size as a tennis ball. This sits very neatly into a blue purse on a belt which goes round the waist. The chemo is automatically fed from this ball into my system over the next forty-eight hours so I am free to go home. Come Sunday morning the ball had shrunk to nothing and a lovely BUPA nurse pays me a visit and takes out the needle and removes the remains of the ball, so that I am free once more. The extraordinary thing is that on chemo weekends I have so much energy because of the steroids, and I zip around like a mad thing. The downside is that it is difficult to sleep.