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  To have the gift of being alive and knowing it, seems

  such an astonishment, that it would be churlish to spend

  one's time being miserable because one knows it's got to

  end sometime.

  From Eternity's Sunrise by Marion Milner

  EPILOGUE

  Saignon

  I AM SITTING OUTSIDE Chez Christine in the morning sun. My bowl of chocolat is cooling whilst I eat my warm almond croissant straight from the oven. With my writing, acting, grandmother and university duties, I am busier than I have ever been, so it is good for a while to have nothing to do. To just be. The past is past, the future is limited. But, I am here now. Feeling good. I used to be fearful. There was a lot to lose. Now I've already lost a lot of it, I am less afraid. I survived, and I will again.

  Some people dread old age but I am having a ball. At my age, I can get away with anything. At worst, I will be labelled eccentric or senile. I can leave when I'm bored, boo when I hate something, love whom I choose, be outrageous, self-centred and downright silly. I do sometimes feel lonely, but increasingly, loneliness has become a valued solitude. On my own, I will laugh, cry a lot, be thrilled, be desolate, have fun and take risks. My last lap is going to be hair-raisingly exciting.

  The doors of the church are open. The choir is rehearsing 'Ave Maria'. It is not going well. It is too high for the soprano and her voice keeps cracking. They don't seem concerned, judging by the laughter. People pass and shout a greeting to me. Or just smile and nod.

  In the notebook I found by the bed after John's death, he had written, when he was in France taking a respite from treatment for cancer: 'We went to Saignon for morning coffee and it was lovely up there. Sitting there with Sheila outside the church was very healing I know. I am full of love for my wonderful, wonderful wife. What would I do without her? Don't ask! I am a very very lucky man.'

  How blessed am I to have experienced such love. How could I want to put it out of my mind? Not go to the place where John had felt so happy? To bask in its glow? I am a very, very lucky woman.

  Sometimes things don't go, after all,

  from bad to worse. Some years, muscadel

  faces down frost; green thrives; the crops don't fail,

  Sometimes a man aims high, and all goes well.

  A people sometimes will step back from war,

  elect an honest man; decide they care

  enough, that they can't leave some stranger poor.

  Some men become what they were born for.

  Sometimes our best intentions do not go

  amiss; sometimes we do as we meant to.

  The sun will sometimes melt a field of sorrow

  that seemed hard frozen: may it happen for you.

  COPYRIGHT ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  I am indebted to the following books for background information on World War Two: The Third Reich by Michael Burleigh (Pan Books, 2001), In the Ruins of the Reich by Douglas Botting (Methuen, 2005) and The Children's War by Juliet Gardiner (Imperial War Museum/Portrait, 2005). I am also grateful for help received from the staff at the archives of the Imperial War Museum in London, the Hungarian National Museum in Budapest and the German Resistance Memorial Centre, Berlin.

  For permission to reprint copyright material the author and publishers gratefully acknowledge the following:

  Songs

  Cabaret lyric reprinted by permission of International Creative Management, Inc. Copyright © 1967 by Fred Ebb and John Kander.

  Poems

  'If I Should Go before the Rest of You' by Joyce Grenfell. Copyright © Joyce Grenfell Memorial Trust 1980. Reproduced by permission of Sheil Land Associates Ltd.

  'Mother, Summer, I' by Philip Larkin reprinted by permission of Faber and Faber Ltd / The Philip Larkin Estate.

  'As to some lovely temple, tenantless' by Edna St Vincent Millay. Copyright © 1921, 1948 by Edna St Vincent Millay. Reprinted by permission of Elizabeth Barnett, Literary Executor, the Millay Society.

  Extract from 'Fare Well' by Walter de la Mare from The Complete Poems of Walter de la Mare (1975 reprint). Reproduced by permission of The Literary Trustees of Walter de la Mare and the Society of Authors as their representative.

  Extracts from 'Dead Woman' are taken from Pablo Neruda: The Captain's Verses, translated by Brian Cole. Published by Anvil Press Poetry in 1994.

  Extract from 'So Many Lengths of Time' by Brian Patten. Copyright © Brian Patten. Taken from Collected Love Poems (HarperCollins 2007). Reproduced by permission of the author c/o Rogers, Coleridge & White Ltd, 20 Powis Mews, London W11 1JN.

  Extract from 'Whispering to Myself' by Joan Woodward. Copyright © Joan Woodward. Reproduced with permission.

  'When You Are Old' by W. B. Yeats reproduced with the permission of A. P. Watt Ltd on behalf of Gráinne Yeats.

  'Try to Praise the Mutilated World' from Without End: New and Selected Poems by Adam Zagajewski, translated by several authors. Copyright © 2002 by Adam Zagajewski. Translation copyright © 2002 by Farrar, Straus and Giroux, LLC. Reprinted by permission of Farrar, Straus and Giroux, LLC.

  Other

  Extract from Resident Alien: Quentin Crisp Explains it All by Tim Fountain, published by Nick Hern Books Ltd (www.nickhernbooks.co.uk). Reproduced with permission.

  Extract from The Change by Germaine Greer. Copyright © Germaine Greer. Reproduced by permission of Aitken Alexander Associates.

  Extract from BUSZ PO POLSKU by Ryszard Kapuscinski. © Copyright 1962, 1990 by Ryszard Kapuscinski.

  Extract from Moon Tiger by Penelope Lively (André Deutsch 1987, Penguin Books 1988, 2006). © Copyright Penelope Lively, 1987.

  Extract from Eternity's Sunrise by Marion Milner. Reproduced by permission of Paterson Marsh Ltd on behalf of the Estate of Marion Milner.

  Extract from The Bell Jar by Sylvia Plath reprinted by permission of Faber and Faber Ltd / The Sylvia Plath Estate.

  The author and publishers gratefully acknowledge permission to quote from the private letters of Anne Bartlett and Alan Bennett.

  Photographs

  All photographs, unless otherwise stated, are from the author's private collection and are used with permission.

  For the following photographs within the plate section the publishers would like to credit:

  p.2 Bottom: Cliff Kent

  p.3 Bottom right: Matthew Byam Shaw

  p.4 House of Terror Museum courtesy of the Terror Haza, Budapest

  p.6 Photographs courtesy of Billie Barbour

  p.10 Dancing Ledge © John Allen, 1998–2006; www.imagesofdorset.org.uk

  p.12 Right: Saint Augustine in His Study by Vittore Carpaccio (c. 1460–1526) in the Scuola di San Giorgio degli Schiavoni, Venice. Photo: SCALA, Florence Left: The Miracle of the Holy Cross on the Rialto Bridge / Healing of a Madman (detail, gondoliers) by Vittore Carpaccio (c. 1460–1526) in the Accademia, Venice. Photo: SCALA, Florence, courtesy of the Ministero Beni e Att. Culturali Bottom: Bronze horses from the Basilica de San Marco, Venice. Photo: San Marco, Venice, Italy/The Bridgeman Art Library

  p.13 Top: St Mark Preaching in Alexandria, Egypt, 1504–07 (oil on panel) by Bellini, Gentile (1430/35–1507) & Giovanni (1425/30–1516). Photo: Pinacoteca di Brera, Milan, Italy / Giraudon / The Bridgeman Art Library Middle: Supper in Emmaus by Michelangelo Merisi da Caravaggio (1573–1610), held in the Pinacoteca di Brera, Milan. Photo: SCALA, Florence, courtesy of the Ministero Beni e Att. Culturali

  p.14 Right: © The University of Portsmouth

  Bottom: © Mary McCartney, Camera Press, London

  p.16 © Sven Arnstein / Stay Still / Photoshot

  A NOTE ON THE AUTHOR

  Sheila Hancock was born in 1933 and attended drama

  school before embarking on a successful career in acting,

  both on stage and screen. Her first book, Ramblings of

  an Actress, was published in 1987. Her memoir of her life

  with her late husband John Thaw, The Two of Us, was

  published in 2004 an
d became a number one bestseller.

  Sheila Hancock lives in London.

  A NOTE ON THE TYPE

  The text of this book is set in Linotype Sabon, named after the

  type founder, Jacques Sabon. It was designed by Jan Tschichold

  and jointly developed by Linotype, Monotype and Stempel, in

  response to a need for a typeface to be available in identical

  form for mechanical hot-metal composition and hand

  composition using foundry type.

  Tschichold based his design for Sabon roman

  on a font engraved by Garamond, and Sabon italic on

  a font by Granjon. It was first used in 1966 and

  has proved an enduring modern classic.

  The rough patch in our beloved village in Provence where John and I used to sit together watching our neighbours playing boules.

  Now alone, I took this rather arty photo of the Phwah bed covered in writing materials. Note the blue paint effect created by Joanna and me.

  John cowering inside the sumptuous suite we had in Oman. He was much happier ministering to his wood stove at home in France.

  He didn't have to worry about his coiffeur there either.

  At Joanna's magic wedding in the garden at Lucky. Ellie Jane, the bride, mother of same and Abigail. All well into the champagne.

  My mother was an exemplary grandmother – note Ellie Jane's immaculate white socks.

  Charlie, seen here 'introducing' his brother, Alfie, in Hello magazine mode.

  Jack, Lola and Charlie.

  I am a less good influence on my own fabulous grandchildren. Molly Mae, Talia, Louis (hidden by Molly Mae's luxuriant hair) and Lola.

  My son-not-in-law may have been trying to tell me something when he offered me the role of mother-inlaw from hell in his production of The Anniversary.

  Courtesy of Terror Háza, Budapest

  The House of Terror Museum in Budapest certainly terrified me.

  Budapest is full of statues and memorials. This row of shabby shoes by the Danube first puzzled then disturbed me.

  The statue of a man on a bridge turned out to be the noble Imre Nagy, executed in 1958. It is now used as a photo opportunity.

  It has the same clean lines as the one I love in Saignon.

  In Statue Park, outside Budapest, are piled all the ex-heroes, including the massive Russian soldier removed from the Liberty memorial.

  My new love affair with Modernism started with this church in Buda

  The sinister wrapped figure could be the toppled Stalin.

  Courtesy of Billie Barbour

  My sister Billie on her travels in Africa and Egypt with fellow ENSA artistes. Bobby Pett is on the right of Billie, clinging to the tree.

  Courtesy of Billie Barbour

  Billie with her husband, Roy Barbour, performing the act that took them all around the world.

  At her eightieth birthday party in Antibes, teaching Jack a magic trick.

  My luxury villa in Chiang Mai with its outdoor jacuzzi and view of the rice fields, where a wedding party was processing past.

  I fell in love with this elephant. After his blissful bath we set off on an idyllic trek.

  Grandma Hancock's birthplace: the superintendent's house behind the Pimlico sewage pumping station.

  A more elegant later lifestyle. My father, Enrico, with his Italian nanny.

  Grandfather Hancock's branch of Thomas Cook's in Milan.

  My mother, Ivy, Grandfather Hancock, Aunty Cis and Grandma Hancock, wearing an elongated version of her tippet.

  Possibly taken at the Blackgang Hotel on the Isle of Wight, where I was born. Standing are Grandfather Hancock, Aunty Cis and my debonair dad, with a restraining hand on Nanny Woodward's shoulder. My mother is seated in the middle, sandwiched between the warring grandmas.

  The flamboyant, gutsy Madame Zurhorst.

  The entry in a trade dictionary that showed she was one of the very few women traders in the City of London.

  © 1998–2006 John Allen

  Dancing Ledge in Dorset. How did two nine-year-old girls climb down those cliffs in the dark?

  My ancestral home in Germany turned out to be Cold Comfort Farm.

  Karl Marx Allee, East Berlin's main boulevard, is an impressive example of communist social housing.

  Irina loved it all, especially the nostalgic ballroom upstairs at the Sophiensaele and the cheery, rough and ready café downstairs.

  The Brandenburg Gate shook off its recent sad memories to welcome visitors for the World Cup.

  Joachim's talks brought Venice to life for me. The amazing mosaic floor of St Mark's Cathedral pre-dated Bridget Riley.

  Photo Scala, Florence

  Carpaccio's little white dog takes centre stage in two of his religious pictures.

  Photo Scala, Florence

  Bridgeman Art Library

  These bronze horses inside St Mark's devastated me.

  Bridgeman Art Library

  A bizarre picture by the Bellini brothers in the Brera, Milan, that made me chuckle.

  Photo Scala, Florence – courtesy of the Ministero Beni e Att. Culturali

  Whereas this exquisite Caravaggio made me cry at its beauty.

  It reminded me of my Albert Starling with its light and shade and portrayal of careworn people. Blasphemy, I know.

  Some of the lovely cast of Cabaret on my balcony in the glow of a sunset.

  © The University of Portsmouth

  Proud Madam Chancellor of Portsmouth University.

  Mary McCartney, Camera Press, London

  Louise adjusting my wig for Cabaret. My make-up place is not a thing of beauty. My dresser Debs tried to tidy it for the photo but it's still a mess.

  John, a bit fed up with my camera disturbing his peace, in France. Now the family enjoy the same spot. On this occasion Matthew, Jack and Ellie Jane.

  Lola has a quiet read whilst Banan, the village dog, sleeps behind her.

  The family at Climping to celebrate my seventy-fifth birthday. Lola, Charlie, me, Ellie Jane holding Louis, Joanna holding Alfie, Matthew, Jack and Matt. Alfie is giving me his 'who is this diddle-oh?' look. Louis seems to share his suspicion.

  Sven Arnstein / Stay Still / Photoshot

  Alone, but happy, in front of the Duomo in Milan.