There's Something I've Been Dying to Tell You (23 page)

All the villas were a mere bike ride away from one another. Don’t you love the bike riding? For anyone who has not had the pleasure of time spent in a Center Parcs, let me tell you, it is all about riding a bike. The moment you have unpacked your car you have to return it to the car park for the remainder of your stay, and either walk everywhere or hire a bike. If you have not ridden one for a while it is a little daunting as the nice boy wheels out your trusty steed. You pray no one is watching as you mount up and – assuming you are lucky to stay on the first time – wobble your way out of the hire shop round the corner into a bush! It takes a while to get used to but as they say ‘you never forget’ and soon you are speeding up and down the hills, ringing your bell like a mad fireman.

The first night was the actual birthday/anniversary. We had married on the day of my 60th birthday. I had booked a table in one of the many restaurants at Center Parcs and I had delivered the cake in its box, to be opened at the appropriate moment. We had a lovely meal and then I beckoned for the cake. Nothing happened until a few minutes later and a very upset-looking waitress asked to speak to me privately. I left the table and followed her into the kitchen where she opened the box and showed me, not a beautiful cake, with candles flickering, but a round chocolate melted pile of . . . !

‘I’m so sorry, Madam, but we have only just opened the box and found it like this,’ she whispered. ‘We can put candles on another cake for you but it won’t have the message written on it, obviously,’ she added, as if I couldn’t see for myself the disaster of the situation.

For a brief moment I wanted to scream or cry, but decided life was too short and said, ‘OK, just bring another cake with some candles.’ Which they did, and the little ones loved it and the big ones understood. Silly Granny should have known it might melt in the back of the car and certainly should have refrigerated it when we arrived. However, there was no use crying over spilt milk or even melted mousse and it did not spoil a wonderful evening.

As we all strolled out of the restaurant, feeling pleasantly lubricated, it dawned on me there was no getting into a taxi nor a slow stroll up the road, it was a bike ride home. Oh my goodness. Now comes the bit where one has to pedal hard to keep the headlights on, never mind get up those hills you flew down on, and negotiate the lovely wooden flyovers with a drop on one side. We had to fly through the forest, so beautiful and cool in the daytime with so much foliage spreading over the bikeways, but at night it is like a scene out of Harry Potter and I am desperately watching this way and that for giant spiders! I am trying hard to keep up with the children, who are loving every minute, and practically home and in a bath by the time Michael and I are approaching our road. Of course, he has been playing macho Granddad, and pedalling like a lunatic, but I notice not always in a straight line!

‘Here we are,’ I call out to his backside disappearing further into the forest. ‘Michael, you have missed it, our villa is here.’

I start to dismount and hear a crack and then a whispered ‘shit’ and then silence.

‘Are you OK, dear?’ I shout into the darkness. There was a pause before a small voice says weakly, ‘Yes I’m fine.’ I wait a few moments and there he is, the Bradley Wiggins of Somerset, wiggling towards me, stubborn to the end.

‘You missed the turning,’ I announce with glee. ‘Bit the worse for wear, my lover?’

‘Not at all,’ says he, and tries desperately to get the bike into its railings and lock it. ‘I just missed the number in the dark.’

I left him to his manoeuvres and his wounded pride.

By the following day we were all in the groove. What is so great is there are no cars to worry about, so the little ones are relatively safe, except maybe from the bigger kids on bikes showing off, and indeed some of the adults too! We all did our own thing. I was straight into the spa, which was heaven, and left them all to it. Come teatime the fire building began, and there we had three young studs, Michael, Robbie and Bradley, and Sam, a man who had done three tours in Afghanistan, and my husband. Oh my word what a man-fest of testosterone! It was less of a barbeque and more of a bonfire but it kept them happy all night. We laughed and played with the children and we all seemed to be tired at the same time.

Suddenly everyone was gone, and Michael and I were alone in the forest, sat in front of the burning embers, watching a duck waddle across our veranda and a lone blackbird, I think, serenading us. It was magic. This was a routine we pretty much repeated for the next two nights until it was time to pack up and say goodbye.

Now would be a good time to tell you about my grandson, Sacha, who I had time to get to know a little better in those few days. My son Michael and Kate, Sacha’s mum, were together a good while. They always had a stormy relationship but I do think they loved each other. Although one always hopes this will be enough, it is not always the case, and so they sadly split up and not too amicably. They then tried a brief reunion and Sacha was the result.

Over the last four years I think both Michael and Kate have had to do a good deal of growing up. Once a child is born it is no longer about yourselves, everything must be about the child. I was still on tour for almost all of Sacha’s first three years and some of you reading this may criticise me for maybe not being more hands on. I know a lot of my friends who just could not wait to be grandmothers and now spend many hours of their days being childminders. That may be fine for them, but I was still a working actress providing for my two sons and my stepson. Michael and I had got married when I was sixty, our intention was to pool our resources and try and spend the next few years – while we were still able – building up security for us in our old age. Neither of us had any kind of pension, apart from a state one, and that was not going to go far, so that is what we were doing.

In my head I knew my son did not have the wherewithal to support a child, as he was a struggling actor, so I would try and help him, and in turn Sacha, in other ways. We did not see Sacha much at all in that first couple of years and I do regret that time lost, especially as now I am running out of time. However for the last year-and-a-half Michael sees him every other Sunday, and brings Sacha round for Sunday lunch, and gradually we have made friends. Center Parcs sealed that friendship, I like to think.

It is ironic that suddenly I had so many plans for outings in the summer holidays, only to be told, a month later, that I had cancer. It has been a hard thing to deal with and I know my son sometimes feels he cannot always cope with the future and fatherhood. But I know he will, he has to, that is what a parent does. Forget one’s own fears and troubles and get on with making a life for your children.

It was the thought of the effect it would have on my children that stopped me contemplating suicide in the months after I left their father. I had a pretty rough four years after my divorce. I was a single mother for those eight years, before I met Michael, and they were difficult years for the boys. Boys need a father, and not a parent who is angry about their ex-wife, or the way their life has panned out through no fault of anybody but themselves. I threw myself into work, which I was forced to do as the only breadwinner, and I had a great friend and a wonderful companion/assistant in Alena. Alena was a girl who had come back into my life after several years, she had struggled against the odds with a boy a year older than my youngest Rob. We all helped each other through those very dark hours.

The one thing I tried to hold on to at all times was a line of communication between me and my boys. It is the weirdest thing sometimes, and it must have happened to some of you reading this, that when your children are behaving so badly in front of you and you are struggling to teach them right and wrong, manners, the importance of education and to keep away from drugs and not drink too much, the tasks just grow into huge unassailable peaks. The desire to give up and hide under the duvet with a bottle of vodka, or take up smoking again, do look preferable.

But I was too old for all that and I knew I had to stick with them and practise what I was preaching. They might not have appreciated it then, the little sods, but surely one day I would hear the words ‘Thank you, Mum’. I managed a fair amount, and what I found out since, over the years, I am so glad I did not know at the time! Yet I must say that if they ever went anywhere to stay with other families, or a visit to a relative, the report always came back to me that they were lovely, well-mannered boys. Better that than the other way round I guess, and never being invited again.

When I was in my fifties I would still pour everything out to my parents. I talked to them about everything. They died within a month of each other, just after Christmas 2004; I was devastated and felt like an orphan. They had always been there for me. I realise now how much anguish I must have caused them all through my twenties. I used to ring late at night from some party, too much the worse for wear, and beg my dad to come and find me. He always did, God bless him. They watched me go through two disastrous marriages and never judged me. I am just so sad they never met Michael because at least finally I have got it right. It took me sixty years but some of us are late developers in common sense. At least my dear parents were spared seeing me go through cancer.

I like to think my boys and I are still open and honest with each other, but obviously there are things I don’t always get to know straight away. Michael split from his most recent girlfriend, Senel, over Christmas 2013, while he was doing pantomime in Wolverhampton. Separation is the most challenging thing to deal with in a relationship, and my son did not handle this one very well. So suddenly he was back on a sofa bed at our house, not something my husband encourages! Still we all managed to get through three months without a row, which was something, and then Michael got a room in a flat with a mate from school.

Both of my boys are trying very hard to stay positive in front of me I know, rather than pour out their latest troubles, and my husband encourages them to do that. I appreciate his thought and care for me, but it is hard for me to make my husband understand that he must not entirely take away that relationship I have with my boys. That is how we survived when we were a family on our own. That is what I had with my parents.

So my boys and I, and my lovely stepson Bradley, and hubbie, all sat down initially after the diagnosis and had a good cry. The prognosis then, back in July 2013, was much more positive. Since the operation in December it had lessened considerably. But once we had managed to absorb the blow we all carried on much the same. It is the power of the human spirit not to dwell all the time on the problem. We all forget as much as we can, and then suddenly something might come up about an event in the future and we are plunged, briefly, into despair once again.

I did feel very strongly about what I wanted them to take from my death, other than feelings of loss and abandonment, and that was to be inspired by my energy. I have struggled this last year to accept that I am going to die before I have finished everything I set out to achieve. There is so much I wanted to explore, not least to have some life with my beloved husband. We had such plans to go to China and Japan and Australia this year. We love travelling together and we laugh so much. None of that is possible now. I wanted to do the play
A Passionate Woman
, and give David Pugh and Dafydd Rogers and Kay Mellor a huge stonking great hit and myself the satisfaction of showing the world just what I could do, given half a chance. I wanted to achieve an Oscar for playing the perfect old lady in a big motion picture – albeit a cameo role, I know my place – and pay Hollywood back for treating me so shoddily as a young actress. After doing all that I would then have been able to sit back by choice and only do the stuff I really wanted to do, and spend the rest of my time writing blockbusters, sitting on the terrace of a beautiful Georgian house, in Somerset, sipping my own homemade elderflower cordial. It’s not much to ask for, is it? Ha! Well as the song says in
South Pacific
, ‘You’ve got to have a dream, if you don’t have a dream, how you gonna have a dream come true?’

So all this energy to go to waste? I don’t think so. I have told Michael and Robert that much as it will hurt to lose me they must pick up the banner and do it for me. Get the most out of their lives and go for it. No procrastinating, they must take my courage and use it. I do actually think, in one way, losing me will help them move forward in the next phase of their lives.

Bradley is very fond of me, I know, and I rely on him to keep an eye on his dad. I know my husband is going to be in a bad way for some time afterwards, and I want all the boys and Stacey to rally round. Not that Michael will ever admit weakness and will probably want to hide away, but at least they will be there if he needs them.

So that is my legacy to them all really, if you feel like giving up or lying down under the duvet, don’t you dare, because I will be round every corner haunting you, with the inimitable words, that crop up all the time in our household these days: ‘Stop yer whingeing, at least you haven’t got cancer!’

19

WHEN I AM GONE

April–May 2014

Although I was now on an even stronger chemo I was determined to get out and about. My first engagement was lunch with my youngest son Robbie at his place of work. He had recently joined the Mandarin Oriental, a super five star hotel in Knightsbridge. The restaurant there is Heston Blumenthal’s flagship after his very famous restaurant The Fat Duck at Bray. I was very excited at the thought of a Heston adventure, but just as chuffed to think my son thought me cool enough to have lunch with in public! The hotel was absolutely magnificent, and I was old enough to remember when it was called something else entirely, like the Hyde Park Hotel, and royalty stayed there. The dining room has long windows all across the restaurant so that diners can look out onto Hyde Park and people watch. It seemed to me that every time I had just put something juicy and full of fat in my mouth, a stick-thin jogger would pass by clutching his or her bottle of water. Life is too short as I very well knew by now, and nothing was going to stop me indulging myself, except maybe the prices on the menu in front of me.