Читать книгу Spike: An Intimate Memoir - Norma Farnes - Страница 11

Many managers rightly have nightmares about their clients’ fondness for booze. Certainly, a day without wine was like a day without sunshine as far as Spike was concerned, but his normal consumption at dinner would be less than a bottle. Occasionally he had a few too many with friends and could be happily tight, but for all his numerous tantrums, traumas and depressions there were only two occasions when I saw him really the worse for drink. He was doing a one-man show at the Wimbledon theatre, but it seemed safe enough to accept an invitation to a morning tasting of Australian wines. He was fond of them and one of the first to extol their qualities. He had left for the tasting in what he considered to be quite a smart turn-out – that is, a striped shirt and wide red braces, no jacket – and said he would return to the office after the tasting, do some writing and leave in time for the show that evening.

It said 11 a.m. to 12.30 p.m. on the invitation. When he had not returned by three o’clock I rang New Zealand House – an unlikely venue for an Australian wine tasting but there we are – to see if he had left. No, but he was leaving very soon. At four o’clock I rang again. Yes, he was on his way. It was ten to six before he staggered into the office, gave me an inane and happy smile and stumbled upstairs.

Josie Mills was still in the office. I asked her to bring me some black coffee and steeled myself while she fetched it. With a steaming cup in my hand I marched into Spike’s office and lifted his head off the desk so that he could drink. He did not want it, ‘horrible stuff,’ and giggled. God, what was I to do with him? He staggered from the chair, laughing, and stretched out on the floor. I tried to pour coffee down his throat, but he refused. More stupid laughter. I could have kicked him. But he had a show to do at 7.30 p.m., so I tried to pull him up. He flopped down again, too heavy for me.

I shouted for Josie and while I took him by the shoulders she grabbed the only thing available at the front: his braces. They stretched and he stayed exactly where he was, like something in a Laurel and Hardy sketch. Spike had hysterics. What a hoot.

Between us we managed to get some coffee down him and by 6.30 p.m. it had started to have its effect and we got him as far as the steps outside Number Nine. I hid the keys of his Mini in case he decided to drive to Wimbledon. While Josie stayed with him I ran to the Bayswater Road and hailed a taxi. I got in the cab and directed him to Number Nine.

We pulled up outside and he said, ‘It’s Spike Milligan then.’

I nodded. Most taxi drivers seemed to know where he worked.

‘Wait here and I’ll get him. Then you can take him to Wimbledon.’

‘No, I can’t. Too far and I’m going home for my tea.’

It was just our luck to get an awkward one.

‘I’ll give you an extra ten pounds.’

His beady eyes never blinked.

‘I said I was going home for my tea.’

‘All right. I’ll double what’s on the clock and give you an extra tenner.’

Spike appeared at the top of the steps outside the front door, propped up by Josie, and beamed at the taxi driver.

The taxi driver took one look at him. ‘I’m going home for my tea.’

I could have screamed. Spike had heard everything but I tried to calm the situation by explaining that the driver had not had anything to eat all day and needed his tea, hoping to appeal to Spike’s sympathies for the working class. Fat chance. In ringing tones he addressed the whole of Orme Court. ‘The fucking English taxi driver won’t take me, so the fucking English audience won’t see me.’ With a whirl and the suggestion of a stagger, he turned and marched back into the building.

Johnny Speight was upstairs nattering with Eric. Neither man was averse to a drink so when I barged in on them they understood the situation immediately.

‘Take my driver,’ said Johnny, gazing hopefully at Eric’s collection of malt whiskies. ‘I’ll wait here.’

Johnny’s driver had spent hours on end waiting for his boss all over London so he was not fazed by the situation. He would be delighted to take Spike to Wimbledon. There was one condition. I had to go too. Spike started to play me up as soon as we were in the car. ‘By the way,’ he said, ‘there’s another condition. You must stay in the theatre with me.’

I got Spike into the car and we made it to Wimbledon at 8 p.m.

The theatre manager was outside the theatre, jumping from one foot to the other, a nervous wreck. He turned to me and said, ‘It’s not as though I could put an understudy on.’

Spike went on stage, by now on a high, and gave one of his best performances while I stood watching on. At the end there was a standing ovation and he turned to me in the wings, arm outstretched, and announced, ‘My manager, Norma Farnes.’

The old sod! I had had a fraught day, felt like death and probably looked like it. I knew from experience that he would have to win the round so, despite my appearance, I went on to take a bow. As we walked to the dressing room he said, ‘You’re a winner. We’re off to the Trattoo for dinner and you can have the best champagne they’ve got.’

As I took the first sip, or more likely a gulp, I said, ‘I’ve put up with an awful lot of shit today for this.’

He grinned. ‘You’d better enjoy it then.’

And so the day ended with laughter.

After the first few months I was used to the long days that shifted into evenings with the inmates of Number Nine. But although I had been shocked at the curses in Jack Clarke’s office nothing had prepared me for the language that was common parlance with Spike and Johnny. It was as if they were still in the barrack room. Spike was at his worst when something annoyed him; then he could rant and rave about anything and everything. Johnny walked in one day after one of his explosions and sensed I was about to walk out. He drew me aside.

‘Remember, he’s not shouting at you. He’s shouting at the world.’ I would often have cause to remember this rationale when the going got tough with Spike.

It was Spike versus the universe when he was in a fighting mood. That was how he liked it, indeed he revelled in it. And with single-minded purpose he was prepared to devote all his frenetic energy to defeating the enemy. If there had been a meeting of ALS and he had put forward an idea the others rejected, he would go to his room, retired hurt, hang a notice on the door saying ‘Go away’ or something similar, and perhaps not surface for three or four days. Over time I became used to these periodic withdrawals and would tell those who queried this behaviour that for Spike it was ‘normally abnormal’.

Things were not all bad. Having tried out his poems on me on my first day, Spike had devoted most of my time to fighting his various campaigns and organizing his diary. But now we had settled into a routine together he started testing new work on me. He would phone down and say, ‘I’m finished. Do you want to come up?’ If I did not react as he thought I should he would say, ‘What do you know about being funny?’ End of try-out. Or the smile on his face would fade as he read it aloud and realized it was not what it should be. ‘I didn’t know I could be so unfunny,’ he would say and into the wastepaper basket it went.

Just as he could be incredibly mean, as he was over Paddy’s Christmas money, so Spike could also be extraordinarily generous. One day in April 1967 he asked me, quite out of the blue, how I got to the office. I explained that one of the deciding factors in taking the job was that it was only a fourpenny tube fare from home and I was saving for a car.

‘How much have you got?’ he asked.

It was none of his business and I told him so. He laughed.

‘I’m making it my business because I’m selling the Mini. If you want to buy it I need to know how much you have, don’t I? I love that car and I want to find a good home for her.’

As much as he loved it, it was one of the earliest basic Minis with a bundle of faults. When it rained the interior of the car was awash because the door vents had been put in the wrong way, so the rain ran inside and onto the floor. Controls were minimal. It also had a sneck to slide half the front window open, a temperamental windscreen wiper and heater, and hard seats; with virtually no insulation, it was a loud and bumpy ride. All this I discovered later. Spike adored her.

‘So tell me. How much have you saved?’

The man had a cheek. ‘£125,’ I said. ‘By next summer I’ll have enough to buy a car.’

‘Okay. You’ve got enough now for my Mini.’

I could not do it. ‘It’s worth much more.’

‘I said £125.’

I shook my head. ‘It would be like taking charity.’ All my working-class instincts came to the surface: accepting an over-generous offer might put me under an obligation. But Spike was insistent.

‘I want you to have it.’

‘All right. I’ll take it to your garage to get it valued.’

I drove it round the corner to Queen’s Mews and asked Mike, the owner, for a valuation. With Spike’s name on the log book, he told me, it was worth nearly three times what I had to offer.

Downcast, I returned to the office and explained.

Spike smiled, such a warm smile. ‘You are looking after me, aren’t you? Let me look after you.’ He would not take no for an answer.

I was knocked out. The Mini, 3490 PK, became my own treasured first car. It was my first experience of his largesse, which continued throughout our relationship, though it did not prevent him from accusing me, from time to time, of giving his money away.

Back in my own office I looked at Anthony Hopkins. ‘How about that, then?’ Later I discovered that Anthony liked comedians, which was just as well.

Soon after this Beryl arranged a tour of The Bed Sitting Room, in which Spike had wowed packed audiences in the West End and received ecstatic reviews. The play was based on an original idea by John Antrobus. It was about the survivors of World War III struggling to create order while radiation caused havoc, turning them into animals and items of furniture. Spike regarded Antrobus, an ALS writer, as a wayward son, but claimed that John did not have the discipline to anchor himself behind a desk to write the play. Spike did, though, and the result was brilliant.

He was in good spirits when he returned, high on success. This meant more work for me of course. One day I had been at it non-stop until well after seven o’clock. Spike breezed into the office, relaxed and happy from an afternoon at Alan Clare’s house in Holland Park. Theirs was a musical friendship: Alan had played with Oscar Peterson and at private parties for Frank Sinatra, and Spike liked to accompany him on his trumpet and chat about jazz. When he saw me Spike said, ‘You look knackered.’ Just what a girl needed to hear. ‘You need a glass of panacea. Why don’t you meet me at the Trattoo about eight-thirty?’

He was on. Off to the flat, then a bath, a quick change and a twenty-minute drive back to the restaurant for that first glass of champagne. I went up to the bar to say hello to Alan and there, sitting next to Spike, was Peter Sellers. I was completely taken aback. I would have dressed up had I known. Spike rose and gestured to me to sit between them, and being Spike he made no introduction.

‘Hello,’ I said to Pete. ‘I’m Norma.’

‘No need for that,’ said Spike. ‘He knows you’re Norma.’

Then he pondered. ‘I didn’t realize you hadn’t met before.’

So there was I sitting next to this Hollywood legend, a man who was perhaps the greatest mimic in the world, and the star of countless films. Charm oozed from him. No wonder his conquests ranged from Princess Margaret to Liza Minnelli, not to mention his soon to be wife, the Swedish beauty, Britt Ekland. He put me entirely at ease, as if I were an old family friend. I tried not to show how star struck I felt. I had thought I was immune to being impressed by celebrities, but the evening that followed was truly memorable. There were laughs about old times and anecdotes about his movies. I told him that his portrayal of General Fitzjohn in Waltz of the Toreadors was his best, and he warmly agreed with me. I learned later that, just like Spike, whatever Pete said had to be taken with a pinch of salt. If they were in a mood to please they would listen to your opinions as if suddenly you were an oracle. Everything you said, darling, was absolutely right. In a different mood your views would be met with a curl of the lip, or ‘What the fuck do you know about it?’

There was no swearing that night. Pete mentioned Eric, how he missed him since he was spending so much time in the States, and how much he would like to have dinner, just the three of them. Spike recalled how, one summer’s day in Orme Court, he had been driven mad by the clickety-click of Eric’s typewriter pumping out yet another episode of Sykes and A …, probably because he was having trouble with his own work. He undressed and, stark naked, walked across the landing to Eric’s office. ‘I’m stuck on these last two lines of the sketch,’ he said, handing him his script. ‘Tell me what you think, will you?’

Eric had a read and looked at Spike.

They’re very good,’ he said and resumed tapping.

‘You bastard,’ said Spike.

Without raising his eyes, Eric said, ‘Well, it is rather warm in the office today.’

‘Typical of Eric’s deadpan delivery,’ he remembered. I assumed Spike was embroidering, as was his wont, but many years later Eric recounted the same story, detail for detail.

Then it was Pete’s turn. He, Eric and Spike had decided to hold a Christmas party for their children at Holden Road. It had a large garden which they decided was ideal for a firework display. A magician was hired and, excess being the order of the day, they went out and bought hundreds of fireworks. That was what children liked, yes, and they would get a magnificent view from the large window in the living room where they would hold the party.

The men devoted much thought and a lengthy lunch to planning the display. When they arrived back it was after three and they started setting them out: rockets, Catherine wheels, sparklers, thunder flashes, jumping crackers, waterfalls, rockets, plenty of rockets, and even bigger thunder flashes. It all took rather longer than expected and, being winter, it was dark before they finished, so much so that they could not see where they had put the fireworks.

‘We’ll have to get a torch to find them,’ Pete suggested.

‘Can’t do that,’ said Eric, ‘it’ll spoil the effect.’

So they crept round the garden, each with a box of matches, and because, being stars, each wanted to outdo the other, they set them off immediately. The thunder flashes were deafening, rockets whizzed dangerously close, jumping crackers pursued them. They nearly had an accident but it was a laugh and they went back to the house proudly to see how their audience had enjoyed it. As they trudged up the garden they were dismayed to see that the window had steamed up, which must have spoilt the view. When they got into the house they found the children, backs to the window, mesmerized by the magician.

Fireworks? They had not noticed.

Pete played the roles of all three of them, brilliantly, and the wine flowed with the anecdotes into the night. It was one of the happiest evenings I had spent with Spike.

But trouble was on the horizon. Beryl Vertue is as ambitious as she is gifted and she had been in negotiation with the Robert Stigwood Organization, which was interested in acquiring ALS. At a meeting in early 1968 she announced that if they made the move there would be large cash payments for all members. David and everyone else seemed in favour of the move, but of course Spike could not see any advantage in joining a large organization. Stigwood, he said, wanted to buy the talent to gain respectability. Getting into his stride, Spike reminded everyone that ALS had been started to nurture all concerned. Now the rats were deserting a very happy and successful ship. Let them go; they could sell their souls for gold if they wanted, the traitors. He was staying put. ‘On my own, if need be.’

Nobody took kindly to this outburst. When I heard what had happened I looked at Anthony. Would we be on the move again or should I stay with Spike, whose demands could alter not every day but every minute? Could I leave him alone in the building? For all his tantrums Spike was the most vulnerable person I knew, and he had been so kind to me. No, I decided to stay.

The negotiations took quite some time, as they always do, but eventually the time came for them to move. Ray and Alan sold back their share of the building to Spike and Eric and, as Ray was packing up to leave, he decided his antique desk was too big and heavy for his new office and I bought it from him. When I handed over the cash he had a receipt ready.

‘Don’t be silly. I don’t need a receipt from you,’ I said.

‘You need it for Spike.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘If he fancies the desk he’ll convince himself, and try to convince you, that because it’s in the office it belongs to him. That’s the way it is with him. So keep the receipt,’ he said. His advice proved useful in the future.

Eric was on tour with Jimmy Edwards in Big Bad Mouse, which they took all over the world, so come 30 April 1968 it was just me and Spike and Anthony alone in that big house. And so we remained for months on end. The others moved to grand offices in Brook Street and it was a while before we sublet the many spare rooms in Number Nine. It was nice to have my own office but when Spike was out, and then abroad in Australia, it was a strange experience to work in a building that had once rung with laughter and was now eerily quiet. I took on a receptionist, a lovely if slightly wacky Welsh girl, Tanis Davies. She was hopeless with money and always had at least two jobs. Over the years she left about five times because she was tempted by a bigger job elsewhere, only to telephone a few months later saying she missed us too much. She was incredibly loyal and, if anything, she became more protective of Spike than I was.

It was around this time that Spike Milligan Productions was set up, at the suggestion of Spike’s accountant. Spike was not a director of the company, rather the company had exclusive rights to his services, and I became a director along with his accountant and his solicitor.

Beryl Vertue had asked me to join ALS when they first left Orme Court and about two months after they decamped she invited me out to lunch. We talked about the future and she told me I would waste my career if I stayed with Spike; she had been there before me and knew that he was very difficult and needed a lot of looking after. I knew she was right in everything she said, but I could not leave Spike on his own. I realized I would have to stay put, for the time being.

My flat mates thought I was mad to stick it out. But because I did an agent was born.

It happened as a result of a telephone call I took from an advertising agency. They were interested in Spike heading a big television campaign for BP. When I passed on the message Spike was blasé.

‘You’d better go along and talk to them.’

‘I don’t know anything about negotiating a fee,’ I said.

He shrugged. ‘You’ll have to, Norm. There’s nobody else.’

I shook my head.

‘If you don’t go it will be your fault if I lose out on making a lot of money.’

Blackmail as well. He won, as usual.

Off I went to Service Advertising in Knightsbridge. They wanted Spike to dress as Batman for the commercial and needed a year’s exclusivity.

‘How much?’ I asked.

‘£10,000.’

If they had said £500 I would have been impressed. £10,000. I was shattered but determined not to show it.

‘Oh dear,’ I managed. ‘I was expecting much more than that.’

‘How much did you have in mind?’

That was the trouble. I did not have anything in mind. So I doubled their number.

‘£20,000.’

They looked aghast, but there was no going back. I could not lower the figure.

‘That’s out of the question.’

I remained as composed as I could, wished them good day and went back to the office to tell Spike. He went into orbit and I was at the receiving end of another tirade.

‘What do you mean? You’ve lost me £10,000. Have you any idea how much £10,000 is?’

‘Don’t take it out on me. I didn’t want to go in the first place. I told you I didn’t have any experience of that sort of thing.’

He glared and paced up and down, then cocked his head.

‘Wait a minute. What did they say? How did they look? Did they drop down dead –’

‘Let’s wait and see. If we’ve lost it, we’ve lost it.’

He was furious. ‘What kind of a fucking attitude is that? It’s a lot of money,’ he said and slammed out.

I did not see him for the rest of the day. Mentally he had consigned me to a hellish Siberia populated by failed agents.

Two days later the agency rang to see if I was prepared to have another meeting. I would have dropped anything to go, except perhaps a date with Anthony.

‘Just let me look at my diary.’ It was blank but they could not see it. ‘I can’t make it tomorrow but I’ve got a slot at eleven the next morning.’

That would be fine, they said, and I went back and settled for £18,000 with perks.

Back to Spike. I had kept him in ignorance about the second meeting. The expression on his face made the trauma of the last few days worthwhile.

‘£18,000. Are you sure?’

I nodded and told him I did not want to be put through that sort of experience again.

‘What do you mean? I reckon you’re a born agent. The bloody nerve of it!’

He smiled. Suddenly I was his wonder girl.

‘Do you want to be my agent as well as manager?’

For some reason I said ‘Yes’.

Spike donned his Batman outfit, did the job and soon after the cheque arrived. Later he ran downstairs with a cheque made out to me for £1,800.

‘That’s your ten per cent,’ he said.

I normally needed to work nearly a year for that. I could swear Anthony winked at me. Perhaps we had done the right thing after all. We would stay a little longer to get some money together before moving on. Besides, ‘manager and agent to Spike Milligan’ would not look too bad on my c.v. when the television job came up.

Obviously my new rôle meant I had to watch the money side of things, and that was not always easy. When he ran out of wicks for his numerous oil lamps (he dreaded power cuts) they had to be replaced immediately; no delay was brooked. So off he sent Tanis in a taxi to make the expensive round trip to Christopher Wray at World’s End. I learnt to laugh off this sort of indulgence.

Most actors have an agent as well as a manager and there is a distinct difference between the two roles. Tony Boyd, co-agent with Jimmy Grafton to Harry Secombe, who worked in the next office to me, was fond of telling me, ‘You’ll regret showing him you can do both jobs.’

Our professional relationship merged into friendship fairly early on, but I have never been able to answer those who ask when the change took place. It was soon after I had started to negotiate for him, however, that he made an announcement at one of our meetings (which were so informal as to make the word meaningless).

‘I’ve made a decision. As from today I’m not making any decisions.’

I was happy to agree. ‘But there’s one condition. When I make a decision you’ll have to stand by it.’

‘Right on, baby.’

We shook hands. And that was that.