Just Me Page 20
The next little playlet was more of a tragedy than a comedy. Into the bar, empty apart from me tucked in a corner, burst three men and a woman. If I had been directing, I would have told them to be more subtle and get the wardrobe department to rethink their costumes. Everything about them shrieked villains. One was the double of Alfred Molina but that actor would never have worn a sharp, slightly tight, but beautifully tailored pinstripe suit, garish silk tie, over-polished, lace-up leather shoes, and lots of gold jewellery, with a huge diamond ring on his little finger and oily slicked-back hair. I had not seen Brilliantine used since the fifties, and would have told Alfred it was over-the-top. His first action was to bring out a plug, disconnect a table lamp, and put his mobile on recharge. Then, he scooped up nuts from the counter titbits and poured them into his mouth, which he continued to do with the olives and cheese biscuits, until the counter was cleared. He seemed to suffer from St Vitus's Dance for he was never still for a moment, his black eyes, too, darting in all directions. Of course he didn't notice me, as I am old. The resultant invisibility can be an advantage sometimes. I could become a private detective or a spy.
Another man, similarly attired, whom I assumed to be his brother as they looked alike, was much more still. In fact, eerily so, panther-like in movement, and eyes steely and steady. They reminded me of the Kray twins, with whom we had an uneasy relationship at Theatre Workshop in Stratford East, because it was on their manor, and Joan Littlewood thought they were 'amusing clowns'.
The third man was much older, almost definitely their father, grey-haired, with a deeply furrowed, peasant face, incongruously dressed by the wardrobe department in an immaculate if more subdued suit, except for the brocade waistcoat.
With them, but ignored, was a willowy blonde in black trousers decorated with studs and a white leather jacket with a lavish fur trim, which seemed a new acquisition from the way she tenderly stroked it with bejewelled hands. She was drugged out of her mind, judging by the pinpoint pupils in her vacant eyes. Alfred pointed at a seat and she sank into it and gulped from the glass he thrust at her.
The three men, having ordered champagne, spread themselves around a table, where they carefully rearranged the chairs, leaving one vacant. They conferred intensely. Father at one point barking at Alfred to sit down and listen. Glances were cast at the door and their huge watches. It was a dramatic build-up for an important new member of the cast to enter. Expecting a Marlon Brando type I hardly noticed the little character actor who came into the bar; surely nothing to do with my plot. He was a frightened weasel of a man, wearing a cheap faux-suede jacket, slacks and loafers. My villains all rose as he came in and engulfed him in bear hugs and kisses on the cheeks. Champagne was poured and proffered, and titbits replenished by a terrified barman, and pushed towards the new arrival, as he cowered in the vacant chair. There was much laughter and backslapping from the family which the blonde was struggling to take in, but when she unsteadily approached to join the party, she was roughly returned to her chair by Alfred.
Eventually the peasant Godfather waved his sons away and focused on the Weasel, sitting uncomfortably close, talking head to head. The two sons eyed the scene from a distance. It went on for about half an hour with the Weasel making occasional squeaks, only to be talked down by Daddy Villain.
Alfred suddenly saw me in the corner, scribbling in my notebook. My cover was blown. He strode over, stood towering above me, and offered me some champagne. It was quite a clever bit of acting to make such a generous gesture seem like a threat. I was quite good too, snapping into the same character who had defied the earthmover in Germany, and graciously but firmly declining with a polite smile, eyes looking into his. The scene might have developed unpleasantly, had not Dad summoned him back to the table in the nick of time. I was judged harmless and left to sit in my corner.
Alfred produced a flashy gold fountain pen, the other son some papers from a briefcase, and all loomed over the Weasel whilst he signed the documents in three places. Any pretence at interest in the Weasel instantly disappeared and, without delay, they packed up the documents, guzzled the dregs of champagne, unplugged the mobile, grabbed the blonde, and left. The Weasel, alone, sank into his seat, with his head in his hands, weeping. God alone knows what he had signed away. His land, his home, his daughter? I was tempted to try to comfort him but my Italian would not have been adequate. I did try a sympathetic smile as he stumbled out of the bar, but he didn't notice. I fear his storyline would not have had a happy ending. I asked the staff about it but they said they had not seen anything. I told them of my suspicions that they were criminals of some sort, and they laughed it off evasively. The next morning one of the desk clerks took me aside and told me that when they paid their bill, which they were reluctant to do, their signature proved them to be members of one of the Mafia families from Naples. No one recognised the Weasel.
The next day I sat with a coffee near Grandfather Hancock's gracious flat in the Galleria Vittorio Emanuele, wondering if Grandma Hancock had once done the same with some of her husband's rich clients. My dad maybe played in the arcade with a top. A civilised fantasy, slightly undermined by a well-dressed man loudly singing the entire Frank Sinatra repertoire into an imaginary hand-held mike. He was not asking for money, but immersed in his own world, seemingly quite mad. In a respectable way. A total nutter whom no one seemed to notice but me. Maybe only invisible people can see others like them.
I was ready for my quest to see the Bellini. On my way through the Brera I was stopped in my tracks by another picture, Supper at Emmaus by Caravaggio. The three men and one woman, suspiciously regarding a weary Christ, are wrinkled and weather-beaten. The woman in particular has a face drawn by hardship and it will take a lot to convince her of this son-of-God stuff. The lighting of the scene is magical. Many years ago, John and I bought a picture of an old man and woman at a table, listening to the sound of a rocket outside, summoning the lifeboat to a wreck. It is by a Victorian artist who rejoices in the name of Albert Starling. It is probably the only good picture he ever painted. I managed to buy a landscape by him on eBay and that was rubbish. Irreverent as this may be, the Caravaggio brought him to mind. The same light and shade, the same care-worn figures, the same meagre food on the table. I guard my Starling as carefully as I would a Caravaggio, because I believe that Albert, whoever he was, achieved something wonderful with that one creation. Though I would probably insure my Caravaggio for more than my Starling.
The Bellinis were well worth the trip. My favourite was painted by both the brothers, Gentile and Giovanni. The great Giovanni finished it after his brother died. What a hard task that must have been. It is huge. It is called St Mark Preaching in Alexandria, and is an extraordinary hotchpotch. It seems to be set in St Mark's Square, with a version of the Basilica sitting amongst various mosques and obelisks and towers, as well as the odd camel and giraffe. St Mark is standing on a rostrum that looks like a portable canal bridge. And he is, for some reason, wearing a pink frock and a blue stole borrowed from the Virgin Mary. There are some ladies with flowerpots on their heads, completely covered with white sheets, and some men in huge turbans made from the same material. Standing in rows are the mystified members of the scuola that commissioned the picture, one of whom is turning his head to whisper to the man next to him, 'Who are all these weirdos?' Was it Giovanni who put in those touches to cheer himself up after his brother's death? Perish the thought. I was chortling to myself when an American guide glared at me as he solemnly lectured his group of students about the rich iconographical details.
Stuff that. I am a novice and enjoy the pictures on my own terms. I do intend to learn more, because there is no doubt that knowledge can enrich my pleasure. But I am moved deeply to laughter or tears only if I feel a connection with the artist, albeit imagined. I found the same when I started working on Shakespeare. I love the fact that the Bard was also an actor in the company. Writing to a deadline. Every now and then in his plays there is a long speech, or an in
congruous comic scene at a tragic moment. When I worked with the Royal Shakespeare Company these were endlessly analysed by the actors and directors in a scholarly fashion. I always felt they were just the result of some irritable actor moaning, 'D'you realise I haven't said anything for two pages?' or 'All this mayhem is going on and on, couldn't we have a funny bit here? Or a song? Maybe someone could exit pursued by a bear? That'd be good for a laugh.'
How lucky I am. I already have Shakespeare and music. Since John's death I have started to enjoy poetry and modernism and travel, and now Joachim has introduced me to art. A bit late in the day, but what a wonderful gift for my old age.
Now that death
seems not so far away,
I whisper to myself
how much I want to hold
the knowledge in my heart and head
that life itself can be enough –
its beauty and its awesomeness
as well as deepest tragedy
I do not want the need
to seek an offer, or a promise
of something else to come,
to help me face my end.
Such promises don't strengthen
me, they feel so false,
a prop, I want to do without.
From 'Whispering to Myself' by
Joan Woodward
13
London
OUT OF THE BLUE came news of a very special work of art. My publisher, Bloomsbury, received an email from someone in America who had seen a picture in the press of me holding the sepia photo of the portrait of my ancestor Madame Ann Judith Zurhorst to publicise Who Do You Think You Are? Astonishingly, she, Linda Carter, has the original oil painting. The image was attached to the email. There, in glorious Technicolor, was Ann Judith, my great-great-great-grandmother. No starchy old girl posing discreetly, but the vivid, funny, flamboyant character we had conjured up, in satins, silks and diamonds: a feast of red and turquoise and frothy white lace. The signature, after some delving at Sotheby's, turned out to be a J. R. Wildman, operating from 1823 to 1839. It is a wonderful picture. I venture to suggest that, like Albert Starling, this artist considered minor by our present-day dealers, produced much more lively portraits than some of his famous contemporaries. Or maybe, like Albert, he just pulled off one splendid work inspired by a potent subject.
I have seldom wanted to possess anything more than that picture. The owners in Florida, descendants of Ann Judith's son, Charles Zurhorst, who emigrated to the United States from Guernsey, are equally attached to their distant relative. But I will go out there and see them in Key West and get a copy made, as well as researching the artist and the history of the picture. How did it get there? Where was it painted? What a fascinating prospect. How much fun Ann Judith has inadvertently bequeathed to future generations. Such an ebullient creature was bound to leave something behind. Some powerful vibrations.
What do I mean by that? I cannot embrace any of the simplistic versions of an afterlife. They seem so mundane. Pearly gates, old friends and lovers waiting (God forbid all of them should be there), a very overcrowded heaven. But one look at John's 'crowd of stars' in Provence convinces me that there are dimensions we have not yet explored. The cosmology faculty at Portsmouth are investigating whole other universes. There are parts of the brain and its function that are still a mystery, so anything is possible. Only a closed mind would deny that. Beyond our present comprehension. Inexplicable to current science.
My gentle youngest daughter Joanna, having found the love of her life, Matt, wanted to hold the wedding ceremony in our garden in the country: a risky decision, with the English weather. A few weeks before the celebration, I was driving across London in torrential rain, thinking what a disaster it could be, when a bus went by with a huge picture of John advertising some Sweeney DVDs. Almost instantly the rain stopped. I phoned, laughing, to tell Joanna I was sure it would be all right.
My faith was shaken when, on the morning of the wedding day, it was filthy weather. Then, an hour before the ceremony started, contrary to weather forecasts, the clouds cleared and it was a glorious English summer's day. I was feeling sad that John was not there to see his beloved daughter and all of us rejoicing in his beautiful garden. Then, as Matt and Jo said their vows to one another, the perfectly still air was ruffled by a sudden breeze that drifted though the trees, rustling the leaves, and wafting Jo's veil. It lasted for only about a minute but everyone was spellbound by its strangeness.
There are many vivid dreams, lost articles recovered, and decisions made that I could put down to being answers to pleas of 'Come on, John, where is it/what shall I do?' But I know that is irrational. To bank on an afterlife seems self-deluding in order to find comfort. No harm in that, mind.
One of the hardest things about growing old is the loss of one's friends. As John Gielgud said whilst attending yet another funeral, 'It's hardly worth going home.' With each death, a chapter of your life is closed. In the space of a few months, George Melly has disappeared and with him my youthful visits to dingy jazz clubs to thrill at his shocking hedonism. Then Dick Vosburgh, gag writer to the stars, who was one of the few people who believed in my talent when we were fellow students at RADA, even writing material for me when I performed in his student revues, where we earned a much-needed crust. Howard Goorney, one of the first idealist Communists I knew of, scourge of Equity, our union, mainstay of Joan Littlewood's company, and later husband to one of my friends Stella Riley; an admirable man. Dame Cicely Saunders died in her own hospice. I could not share her religious beliefs, but she influenced me profoundly, not least in how I dealt with the death of my first husband, Alec Ross. I am still involved with the work of St Christopher's Hospice, which is why I do not have the horror of death that grips some people.
I have now seen many people die, both those close to me and patients in the hospice. The process of dying can, if necessary, be soothed by modern palliative care. Which should be available to all but is not. I was made to ponder long and hard about assisted suicide when I recently played a woman dying of a cruel disease who chooses to go to Switzerland to kill herself. It was a soliloquy for television by Hugo Blick, which brilliantly got inside the mind of someone who calmly prefers to die rather than suffer any more. Playing a woman forced to go through such a gruelling and slighty sleazy process to achieve her choice caused me to question the illegality of her action in this country that made that ordeal necessary. Yet I know from my work at St Christopher's that with skilled nursing those last weeks or even days can be a very productive period of one's life. Tying up loose ends, not least in relationships. Sometimes having the time to discover new skills. I have on my wall a superb painting by a young man who had never held a brush before, done while he was dying in St Christopher's.
This book appears to be a lot about overcoming fear. Which is a bit how, when I look back on the pattern of my life, it has been shaped. A series of obstacles and challenges that frightened me. The glorious discovery is that it is up to me how I deal with them. Life can throw what it likes at me, but it can't govern how I react to it. I can choose to survive or go under. Down to me. So how do I anticipate the biggie – death?
From what I have observed, it doesn't seem too bad. There comes a time when people go in on themselves and concentrate on the process of leaving. It seems possible to decide to die or hang on a bit longer, unless of course it is sudden and unexpected, which, although most people think it preferable, is actually much harder for those left behind. One woman in the hospice kept going for months, against all odds, until her first grandchild was born. She died a week after he arrived.
I can understand why she wanted to see the baby. My family took me away for a wonderful weekend break to celebrate my seventy-fifth birthday. I revelled in the love I felt for them and received in return and my pride that, despite dodgy parenting, they had turned out to be fine young women and had chosen, after a few previous disasters, splendid partners. As I watched my grandchildren leaping around I was wa
rmed by the thought that their vibrant life force will still be reverberating long after I am gone. They must learn to shoulder the responsibilities I will be offloading. They have to take over changing the world. I will let them discover for themselves, after I have gone, that it is an impossible task. They will fervently agree with politicians saying 'This must never happen again', and ignore their Nana when she snarls 'Oh really'. They seem like fighters to me. There are bits of me, my mum and dad and even wonderful Ann Judith swirling around in their gene pool – let's hope it's the good bits. They will be my afterlife, my reincarnation. And that's good enough for me.
I like going to sleep when I am tired, so if death is like that, I shall enjoy it. I would like to postpone it for as long as possible, because I love living, but my curiosity makes me really want to know what happens after I have breathed my last on earth. I wager there's nothing. If there is something I may lose my bet but it will be a nice surprise – I hope. If there's nothing, I will never know, because I will be nothing, nowhere. Which is a shame but can't be helped. For now, I will tidy up my affairs, so I am not a nuisance after my death, and forget about it for the time being.