Читать книгу Just Biggins - Christopher Biggins - Страница 13
ОглавлениеRoger Clissold had been one of my early heroes at Salisbury Rep – not least because he hadn’t shouted at me too much when I ruined one of his performances.
Disaster had struck in the middle of Thornton Wilder’s Our Town.
‘Yup, it was a real smart farm,’ was the line Roger should have delivered in the cemetery scene. I was one of the 12 extras on stage holding umbrellas painted with headstones and instructed to be as still as the grave. ‘Yup, it was a real fart smarm,’ was what I swear Roger said one fateful performance.
My umbrella was the first to start shaking. Then the one next to me began to shake, and the next. Soon all 12 of us were laughing out loud and rolling around the stage. I suppose if you’re going to corpse on stage you might as well do it in a cemetery scene. But at the end of the night I was ready for a bollocking for my bad example. Roger, to his credit, had seen the funny side. And our friendship grew from there. Today I’m godfather to his son and I’ve been with him through a lot of the ups and downs of his life.
By 1969, Roger had moved on from Salisbury and become artistic director of a new company he had formed in Derby. He asked me to join the cast in Lysistrata and then join his Rep full-time. He said he could afford to pay me something like £30 a week – so much less than I could have got if I’d stuck with my dad’s antique shop. But I could just about survive, so I said yes without a second thought. At least in the theatre I had people to talk to pretty much 24 hours a day.
In Derby I moved into a classic theatrical digs. I had a tiny single bed in a boxroom, shared the family bathroom and had to be up and out just after breakfast each morning. As soon as I shut the front door I would head off to meet a fellow company member who lodged nearby. We would gossip away as we headed to the theatre together. But our journey didn’t always go smoothly. Does anything?
One morning an old female tramp leaped out at us as we turned a corner. I nearly had a heart attack with fright. ‘Can you spare something for some food, sir?’ she asked me as I tried to breathe normally. I found a few coins.
‘Ow, Gawd bless you, sir. You’re a true gentleman. I won’t forget you,’ she squawked. ‘Your lady friend is blessed to have you.’
One week later the same grubby little lady popped up again. ‘Sorry, love, I don’t have any change today,’ I said, with a relaxed smile.
‘You shit. You horrible fat man. You’re a disgrace, you should rot in hell,’ she spat out in fury as we scuttled away.
It was a good lesson for the rest of my professional career. You can be hot one week, ice-cold the next. No one remembers your last review. You truly are only as good as your last performance.
In Derby I met another set of marvellous people, and worked on ever more powerful plays. I also learned another life lesson, this time without the aid of abuse in the street. I learned the old chestnut that it’s not what you know but who you know – and most importantly of all it’s who knows you.
Another old pal from Salisbury knew me. He was the actor and writer David Wood and he asked me to come to London to do a musical play he had written. The Owl and the Pussycat Went to See… was based on Edward Lear’s poem and was moving to London after a tryout in Worcester. It was a wonderful opportunity and Roger Clissold agreed that I should take it. So two weeks later I moved out of my digs, left Derby Rep and headed south. It was 1969 and The Owl and the Pussycat was opening at the Jeanetta Cochrane Theatre in the strange no man’s land of Holborn. Our audiences were vast, noisy crowds of school kids. I played Head Jumbly and a bluebird. No, it wasn’t King Lear. But it was London. It was bliss.
I celebrated my 21st birthday in that company. Patsy Rowlands, the wife of our musical director, made me laugh, and nearly made me cry, when she presented me with a cake. ‘You’re lucky to get it. This was my seventh attempt and if it hadn’t worked I would have gone to the shop,’ she said as she lit the candles. All the others had burned, failed to rise or fallen prey to some other kind of culinary disaster. I was in tears that someone had taken so much trouble over my birthday. And I was thrilled that my parents could see how well I was being looked after. My parents had come up to town for the big day. They had seen our latest show, and then a big group of us went for dinner in a restaurant in Earl’s Court.
As I had given up Dad’s shop for this, it was important to me that he saw me as a success. And it was pretty clear I was falling on my feet. I was surrounded by friends and laughter. There’s no nicer place to be. When Mum and Dad came to see where I was living, they got another indication of how well I was doing. The boy who had lived in a caravan for two years and had been brought up in a house with an outside toilet and no bath had already adapted brilliantly to living in a house with a ballroom in the Bristol days. Now in London I acquired even more expensive tastes. I was offered a room – well, two rooms – with two other old pals from Salisbury Rep, the marvellous aristocratic Jonathan Cecil and his wife Vivien Heilbron. They lived in a beautiful house in Fulham, on Ifield Road, and frankly I blame them for reinforcing in me the standard of living I had already started to grow accustomed to. I had two rooms of my own, a bedroom and a sitting room. But I also had the run of the whole amazing house. And I paid only £4 a week. I was 21, and I could live the life of Riley. I developed a keen taste for luxury living. Some things never change.
Now here’s a surprise. Shortly after moving into Ifield Road I took a girl back to my rooms. She was a fellow actress from The Owl and the Pussycat and something about her had caught my attention from the very start. Beatrice Aston was a bright-red-haired Australian with a bright Australian sense of humour, and she was playing a Jumbly Girl to my Head Jumbly. We hit it off after our very first rehearsal. That very first time we found ourselves in some local dive until late, and after that we seemed to be back there night after night. We had lunches, dinners, whole days together whenever we could. We laughed and we plotted and we planned. I remember how wonderful it felt to have someone entirely on my side. And how wonderful it was to have someone who was always there, someone you could accept joint invitations to parties with, someone you could always have beside you.
Have I always been in love with the idea of being in love? I think I may have been. And as the months passed I felt, so strongly, that I was in love with Beatrice.
‘We should get married.’
It wasn’t a proposal as such. It was more of a conversation. And it ended with Beatrice saying yes. So our plotting and our planning moved up a gear and led to a wedding ceremony at Chelsea Register Office, with her good friends Willie and Dorgan Rushton as our witnesses. We were all dressed in colourful, fun clothes and we had a colourful, fun day. The four of us went out for lunch afterwards and we just carried on laughing.
Beatrice moved in with me in Ifield Road. I was 21 years old and a married man – a happily married man. Wonders never cease.
Today Beatrice carries a heavy load for having married me. She was terrorised by the press when I was in the jungle in 2007. All of them were desperate to dig up a story which simply isn’t there. For the truth about our marriage is very simple. We were happy together for all the time that we were together. We were still very naive about life back then. But we were happy. And it was only much later that we both started to accept that something wasn’t quite right.
When those cracks began to show, we never rowed and we never said anything we now regret. We just followed slightly different paths and wanted different things as the months went by. And after a couple of years we faced up to things and agreed to split. We had got married in a low-key way. We moved on from our marriage in exactly the same fashion. Nobody ever got hurt and I have promised that I will never say more than this – because there’s absolutely nothing else to say. What happened was entirely right for us both at the time. Our marriage didn’t last but our friendship has. And Beatrice deserves to have it left at that.
Back on the work front, like every other jobbing actor back then, I tended to work on short-term contracts – six weeks tended to be the most security you ever got. But who cares about security at 21? Who cares if there are times when you’re out of work and need to borrow a little from pals to scrape by? You do the same for them in their fallow patches. That was the way of the theatrical world. And I was lucky. Bits and pieces of work always came in. I always felt I was moving in the right direction. And I loved having the chance to branch out.
My first piece of television was for a detective series called Paul Temple with Francis Matthews in the lead role. I played a gentleman thief and my job was to break into a safe while eating a chicken leg. Classy stuff.
I got my first agents, Gillian Coffey and Harry Harbour, who had lovely crowded old offices just off Brook Street near Grosvenor Square. They had all the good old variety people on their books and were incredibly well respected in the theatrical world. Gillian had seen me perform in Bristol and left me a note saying I should get in touch if I ever needed representation. I jumped at the chance and never regretted it. Over the years Gillian became a close friend – one year she even joined my dad and I on a week’s holiday. Mum doesn’t like to fly, so Dad and I were off to a Greek island and Gillian had the time to come too. We had tiny, clean rooms in one of those classic whitewashed houses on – wait for it – Mykonos. It is probably the gayest island in the world and I swear I had no idea when we booked. Nor, needless to say, did my dad. But we had a lovely week. As I looked around at our fellow sun-worshippers out there, I was starting to realise just why I felt ‘different’. I was starting to think it wouldn’t turn out so bad after all.
Despite my theatrical roots, Gillian got me plenty of TV work over the years. And I loved that new challenge. Television was a whole new world for me. On set everything seemed small, intense and serious. I took a while to work out how to act for the cameras. It was so different. These huge machines totally hid the cameramen (and back then they were all men) behind them. I felt lost without the wide open spaces of a theatre and I hated not having the noise and atmosphere of a live audience. But I buckled down. I know some of my theatre pals from Bristol looked down on television. They thought it was beneath them.
But I just wanted to work. I think it is only the very young and the very beautiful who can pick and choose their jobs. They are the only ones who can declare that they’re going to Hollywood or that they’ll only play the classics. People like me had to say yes to every offer we were made. So I said yes to Doctor at Sea, part of a set of comedy series filmed in studios near Wembley. It was tacky, low-brow stuff. But I had a strange feeling that other, far grander projects were still in store for me. It turned out that I was right.
