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  The caves are stunning, full of stalagmites and stalactites, and curious rock formations. There are pink, yellow, purple and rainbow crystal formations, rock worn so thin as to imitate a veil, alabaster towers and a sparkling white cave that Aladdin would have been amazed by. As each wonder unfolded, I demonstrated my awe to my new little friend, with open-mouthed gapes and thumbs up and silent clapping. Other people must have thought me insane, but I was determined he would have fun, despite his tight-arsed teacher. I hid behind stalagmites, and suddenly jumped out as he approached; I even descended to poking my tongue out at his teacher behind her back. He probably thought I was some gnome that inhabited the magic kingdom, but he knew, I hope, that this strange creature liked him, even if his friends didn't. I was relieved to see that, eventually, one small girl with plaits, seeing him smile and probably look less dangerous than he sometimes did, sidled up to him and whispered something. Hopefully, 'Don't worry, I'm your friend.'

  As the tour ended, I prayed to the gods of the cave to give him a break, blew him a kiss and disappeared from his life. As I was leaving it occurred to me that the encounter wouldn't have happened if I hadn't been alone. I probably wouldn't have noticed him if I had been chatting to a companion, and certainly wouldn't have behaved in such a weird way. It made my visit to the caves a richer experience, sharing it with him and – who knows – maybe, in the future, he will imagine some friendly sprite is on his side.

  That evening I went to Ostuni to taste the nightlife. It is a white town, on a hill, overlooking the sea. The odd trendy bar is making an appearance, but most of the locals prefer to do the evening promenade, thronging the streets, eating ice-cream and gossiping. The youngsters were obviously sizing one another up in their latest finery. I sat in a café, watching, and felt no threat and saw no drunks – a bit different from noisy youngsters reeling round Liverpool on a Saturday night. Even the beach discos are well behaved. There just seems to be no tradition of associating a good time with getting paralytic. There were people of all ages, milling around, inclusive of small children and the aged. Perhaps it's the still-potent religious ethic, the climate, slower pace, or strong family tradition. It is probably claustrophobic if you live there, and most of the girls are fairly restricted, but it's extremely attractive to observe.

  As I wandered up the hill, I turned a corner into a small square, and saw the sweetest little pink curvy cathedral tucked away in a corner. This is a girly building, small, decorated with filigree lacy stone and pretty as opposed to beautiful. I went into a nearby shop to ask if I could get the keys to look inside, but the priest had just left, I was told, on his bicycle, which evoked some giggling, suggesting a bit of a character. I vowed to go back, and get inside this entrancing building. Into the museum too, where the 25,000-year-old remains of a pregnant woman are to be found, one arm under her head, the other protecting the baby in her womb. Flints and horse and ox teeth found with her suggest a huntress. Now, there's a source for speculation.

  Now I had started, the whole area stimulated my imagination. Because it is relatively unbesieged by tourists as yet, I could breathe in the atmosphere of ancient sites and buildings and reconstruct the past without crowds and gift shops intruding. I wandered around delving into alleys and courtyards and, in the absence of a decent guidebook, trying to find out answers to my questions by myself.

  Boredom, loneliness and depression are all banished, once I get interested in my surroundings. The desire to find out, learn things, discover fresh fields and pastures new, leaves no space in my head for anything else. As long as I don't allow 'if only' to enter my mind, I am utterly consumed with an almost obsessive drive to learn – my brain spirals into negativity if I don't give it work to do. Maybe I need busyness. A bit frantic perhaps, and not a desirable way to live or holiday for most people, but it works for me.

  My mother, who hates thunder storms,

  Holds up each summer day and shakes

  It out suspiciously, lest swarms

  Of grape-dark clouds are lurking there;

  But when the August weather breaks

  And rains begin, and brittle frost

  Sharpens the bird-abandoned air,

  Her worried summer look is lost,

  And I her son, though summer-born

  And summer-loving, none the less

  Am easier when the leaves are gone

  Too often summer days appear

  Emblems of perfect happiness

  I can't confront: I must await

  A time less bold, less rich, less clear:

  An autumn more appropriate.

  'Mother, Summer, I' by Philip Larkin

  4

  Hammersmith · Chiswick

  CURIOSITY MAY BE THE antidote to many ills but it requires application and a constant fund of new activities to occupy the mind. The trouble is, I have little self-discipline. I need someone wielding a whip to lash me into action otherwise I just flop. Once started there is no stopping me but it is the getting going that is the problem. John was always appalled that I left learning lines until the last minute whilst he pored over a script for days. This book would not be written were it not for a bullying editor and a Rottweiler agent reminding me I have a deadline to observe, for which I have been paid money in advance, that I have already spent.

  Returning from my holiday in Puglia to an empty house was a bit of an anti-climax. My cat was as pleased to see me as a cat will deign to be. Wanting a job, I offered to do some babysitting but my daughters have tightly organised lives that cannot schedule in a part-time grandmother. Especially one as inept as I. On top of their jobs they ferry kids to music, nursery school, football, ju-jitsu, sleepovers and what have you. Their days are, of necessity, carefully planned, so when I swan back in after a stint working or a jaunt abroad I cannot expect to disrupt the whole routine. On my return from Puglia I felt pretty redundant. After the newspaper article was delivered, I sank into the usual occupation of out-of-work actors – waiting for the phone to ring. And watching the telly.

  Which can be painful. I eye beadily the dozens of suitable roles that I haven't been called upon to play. If the chosen actor is bad, I feel resentful; if she is good, I feel worse. Best to avoid drama. Yet reality shows upset me more. The incitement to hatred of Big Brother is shocking. Poor little Jade Goody has been falsely built into that modern phenomenon 'a celebrity', only to be vilified later, because, as a product of our society and education, she is ignorant and inarticulate – qualities that usually, nowadays, are considered preferable to anything that smacks of that dirty word 'élitism'. God forbid that we should value intelligence and knowledge. This feisty kid coming out of an appalling childhood of neglect had nothing to offer but her personality, which suddenly people decided they didn't like. So she is as thoughtlessly destroyed as she was created.

  And yet I crouched on my sofa, watching the programme, transfixed. The inmates of the House have become increasingly more disturbed series by series, until we, the audience, are no better than the people amusing themselves by watching the insane in Bedlam. I watch it, and yes I often do, with my hand over my mouth from embarrassment. One insomniac night, I lighted upon a studio chat show, with a cross-section of the audience, discussing the previous day's happenings. The character judgements were illuminating: 'She's a fat cow', 'Peter fancies Liz', 'She's evil'. A singularly unattractive obese cretin said grandly of a nubile young blonde on the show 'I'd certainly shag 'er', as though bestowing the ultimate accolade: the great British public at their most erudite.

  Almost more sickening was a programme in which Donald Trump set about testing young people for the honour of being employed by him. This nasty tacky man, with his silly blow-dried hair and slack mouth, was treated like a god. I suppose he is an idol of the modern religion of materialism, with its tenets of greed and determination, never mind who or what needs to be trampled on to get to the top rung of a rather dubious ladder. If they were lucky, they too could live in a palace of bad taste, and have Barbie look
-alikes for partners. I wanted to punch his vacuous pampered face. Instead, I took it out on a chap who made the mistake of climbing up on to my balcony, and – whilst I was sitting looking at him – had the nerve to try to force his way into my house. I leapt up and screamed, 'Fuck off, fuck off, fuck off.' I think even the all-powerful Trump would have backed off and slunk away from this raging old dervish, leaping about shaking her fists.

  After he had scuttled away, as I struggled to open the door to pursue him, I was a bit surprised at myself. I like to think of myself as a pacifist, but deep down is the same gutter-snipe aggression I discovered as an evacuee, that will lash out if roused. John had it too. Usually a gentle soul, he could be a snarling animal if challenged. Would I have pushed that fellow over into the river if I had got out on to the balcony in time? I like to think not. But I was incandescent with fury not just with him – silly, scared creature that he turned out to be – but the whole Trumpery of our values, at least as shown on reality television. Maybe that is why the public loved John so much: because, on the whole, he played decent men who aspired to be that old-fashioned thing, good.

  I still, three years after his death, could not watch him on the box. It was even worse now I knew he wasn't coming back and I would never see him walking and talking in real life again. I had to speak about him a lot on the book tour for The Two of Us and there was an increasing danger of me becoming a professional widow. A role I was not eager to play. I had done daughter, wife, and mother. Now I wanted to be Sheila. Whoever she is. Before I know what I want, I must know who I am. Sounds like a cliché at best – at worst, a ludicrous lack of insight on my part – that I have reached my seventies without knowing the answer. The truth is, this is the first time I have been absolutely on my own, able to behave as I choose. To be what I like. Not in relation to someone else. Not trying to be what they want me to be. As an actor too, so much of my efforts are focused on honing my effect on others. It's a hard habit to break.

  As an ageing woman, unless I am recognised from the telly, I am invisible. There is a strange dichotomy in my life. The actor that slaps on the make-up and borrows a designer outfit and jewellery to appear on the Jonathan Ross show is a very different creature from the drab old thing trudging up Chiswick High Road, doing her shopping. If people do recognise me I sense their disappointment, verging on indignation – 'Aren't you Sheila Hancock?' When I am not recognised I am, like all older women, overlooked – as by the pool in Puglia. I find that quite difficult. How can I value myself if people I encounter don't think me worth noticing? Except as my trumped-up alter ego on their telly. One day, when the phone showed no sign of ringing, I forced myself up to Chiswick High Road for lunch in the new, trendy Fishworks. My self-esteem was not high when I entered, but it was on the floor when, after curtly taking and delivering my order, for a solid hour I was resolutely ignored by all four of the young waiters. There were no other customers so they were having a ball, flirting with one another, loudly commenting indiscreetly on previous clients, and wondering why they were so 'empty'. One pair of eyes momentarily flicked in my direction as he was giving me the bill, whilst continuing his badinage over my head. I blurted out, 'Oh hello. I'm here. I thought I was invisible.' Thus confirming their assumption that I was a daft old bat.

  It comes to us all I suppose, even the most powerful. I was invited to the Woman of the Year lunch – an uplifting occasion, to be surrounded by women who have achieved much from all walks of life – I am always flattered that they should include me. The guest of honour was Margaret Thatcher. Having toured Britain with the RSC in 1982 and seen the devastation wrought by her policies, I felt I could not stay to give her the required ovation, so I made an excuse and quietly left. When I saw the event on the TV that night, I was ashamed of myself. Here was a woman who, whatever you thought of her, gave her whole life to fighting for what she believed was right and now she was a lost, bewildered old lady muttering, 'They told me not to speak.' How tragic has been her ousting by her party and her subsequent distress. And with what glee her former party faithful kicked her out – all those wimpish men fed up with Mummy knowing better.

  The sight of this once-sharp mind reduced to confusion made me anxious about the future. From my window I can see a block of flats where my mother lived after my father's death. Or I could see it. The construction of a monstrous new block is gradually obscuring the gracious 1930s building that housed my grieving mother. Aesthetically offensive though this is, I am glad. Because when it has disappeared, so will reminders of the guilt about my treatment of this lonely widow.

  My mother and father retired to a caravan in a park near Eastbourne. A suitable retirement for a couple who had led a gypsy existence, moving around the country working in hotels, pubs, factories and shops. They loved it. Dad worked in the club bar, and Mum joined the Women's Institute, becoming their local chairperson. I took her to Eastbourne to get an outfit for her proud trip to the annual rally at the Albert Hall. Life was good for them. They were busy doing things they enjoyed, instead of just slaving to provide a living and a good upbringing for their kids. It lasted only four years. After a jolly night in the club, where Dad demonstrated his high-kicking routine to the customers, he died in twenty minutes in my mother's arms, of a coronary.

  She never shed a tear in front of anyone. The funeral and wake were organised and she agreed to come to London to help me with my baby. I got her settled in the tiny flat. Her whole life continued to be dedicated to the care of others. Once it had been my father, my sister and I. Now it would be my then husband Alec and me and baby Ellie Jane. At a time of erratic earnings, I could not afford childcare, so she was constantly on call – a bit different from my sporadic grannying. No child ever had such spotless shoes and white socks. I was grateful, but less tolerant, of an ever-present granny, than she had been of the two that were inflicted on her during her married life. Our lives and lifestyles were worlds apart. My child's behaviour appalled her. Dr Spock was the very devil. Never mind permissiveness and cuddles, what about discipline and nice manners? She had a point. Good manners might make life in our crowded world more tolerable. But, back then, her pursed lips irritated me. When Ellie Jane had eventually gone to bed, at the time she chose, à la Spock, I wanted to have a quiet chat, or maybe a flaming row with my husband, without her condemning eyes on me. Many is the night she must have sat alone, maybe weeping, behind that mercifully disappearing window. Maybe it is justice that I am sitting alone, imagining her sitting alone. Or a gift in the shape of a warning.

  Once I belonged to a group that REALLY HAD

  THE WORD. I fought like hell for them.

  But ANOTHER group came along and exposed the

  word of MY group as shallow and degenerate. They

  had a BETTER word.

  So I quit the first group and lost all the

  friends I had made.

  And I joined up with this NEW group. I

  fought like hell for them.

  But ANOTHER group came round. They exposed

  the word of MY group as false and materialistic,

  THEIR word was VERY much better.

  So I quit the second group and lost all

  the friends I had made.

  And I joined up with this NEW group. I fought

  like hell for them.

  Then this one guy came along and proved that there

  wasn't ANY word at all . . . that I should go off

  as an INDIVIDUAL and GROW!

  So I quit the last group and lost all the friends I

  had made.

  And now I sit home alone all day and all I do is

  GROW.

  It would be nice to join up with some others

  who feel the way I do.

  'Groups' by Jules Feiffer

  5

  Budapest

  NO ONE WAS GOING to tell me what to do next. So in the absence of any work, if I didn't want to stagnate, I had to do something myself. Anything. So I booked another holiday, th
is time in Budapest with a travel firm called Solo. I chose them because they provide trips for people on their own, which do not penalise them for their single state. Solo has no truck with 'single supplements' and, in addition, plans your trip for you. A relief. I could not possibly have got it together sufficiently to do all that myself. I wasn't very excited about going anyway. I had no great burning desire to see Budapest, it was just the only destination still available for that week. Also it occurred to me that the sort of people that needed to go on a singles holiday would possibly not be a barrel of laughs. Would they all pathetic loners, desperate divorcées and wretched widows and widowers?

  I was told to look out in the airport for the tour manager, wearing a red tie, standing by Boots the Chemist – the red tie sounded a bit Butlins. I watched for a while, peering from a café on a balcony, ready to scarper if my fellow travellers looked dodgy. The dozen or so people gathering below appeared harmless enough so I ventured to join them for a closer scrutiny. They were all fairly normal – in fact, they seemed more suspicious of the arrival of an actor than I was of them. Mike the tour manager greeted me with a firm handshake and introduced me to the others. They had mostly been on many of these holidays before, some already knew each other from other trips, but they soon started chatting to me, instructing me on the tricks of the trade.