Читать книгу Behind the Laughter - Sherrie Hewson - Страница 11

Chapter Six

In my last year at RADA, perhaps on the rebound from my relationship with Bob Lindsay, I became involved with a director whom I met through one of our productions. He was quite a lot older than me and I thought he was glamorous and experienced. We went on several dates and then he invited me to move in with him. He lived in a beautiful flat in a large Victorian converted house. It was far more comfortable and spacious than my student digs so I didn’t hesitate for long.

Everything seemed to be going fine until one morning when he came upstairs and waved a sheet of paper at me.

‘Hey, look what I’ve just found downstairs in the letter-box!’ he said.

It was a handwritten note addressed to me. In capital letters, someone had scrawled, ‘I know where you live and I don’t like the man you are living with.’ There was no signature and no postmark, so it had obviously been hand-delivered. It was weird and a bit creepy but, hoping this was some kind of a joke, I shrugged, screwed it up and swiftly binned it. However, the next day there was another, similar note written in the same hand on exactly the same kind of paper. We were both puzzled and slightly alarmed but we didn’t know what to do and so once again we decided to ignore the message.

After that the notes began to arrive almost every day: they were all in black ink and capital letters. Gradually they became more aggressive and ominous. The sixth note said: ‘I’m warning you. I will kill you if you don’t leave this man.’

By this time we were becoming increasingly rattled. Who on earth would want me to leave him? Was there some secret admirer? None I knew about, certainly. Worried the situation was turning really nasty, my boyfriend suggested that I should leave the flat for a time and go and stay with a friend of mine who lived in Islington. I agreed, and the moment I left the flat the poison-pen notes stopped. Clearly whoever it was knew I’d moved out. After a few days I decided to move back, hoping they had given up.

When I was back in the flat, however, my boyfriend looked out of the window and said that he thought he had seen a man coming up the path to our front door. He rushed downstairs only to return with another note. This time it said: ‘I know you’re back and you are now in danger because I meant what I said.’

Similar messages continued for another week. Seriously concerned now, my boyfriend suggested we should call the police. We did so, and a policeman came to the flat and questioned us both. He took it very seriously and told us, ‘You’re right to report these incidents. People who behave in this way – write threatening letters – are often very disturbed, unpredictable individuals.’ Of course, this only made us feel worse. What on earth was going on and what should we do?

The next day, we were out in the car with a friend who lived in another flat in the house.

‘Isn’t this poison-pen business awful? It’s really getting us down,’ said my boyfriend.

‘So, what are you going to do about it?’ asked the friend.

‘I don’t know,’ he replied, ‘but I don’t think it’s a good idea for Sherrie to continue staying with me.’

‘Right, but how are you going to protect her if she moves out?’ said the friend.

‘I don’t know,’ he repeated. ‘I’ll start by going to the police again and see what they suggest.’

That night at my boyfriend’s suggestion I went back to Islington.

A few days later my friend said: ‘Oh, Sherrie, the police think they’ve got the man.’

‘Oh, thank God!’ I said, genuinely relieved after ringing my boyfriend back. ‘Who is it?’

‘Just some nutter,’ he told me, before adding, ‘As the police know you’re not living with me now, it’s not necessary for you to do anything.’

Perhaps partly due to the pressure of the letters and the accompanying drama of it all, he seemed rather distant afterwards and I was utterly confused as to why it had happened – it felt as if we’d been in an episode of a police drama. And so we both kept our distance and let our romance slowly fizzle out, never knowing the identity of the letter writer.

That particular relationship might not have been a great love story but he did take me to one of the famous May Balls at Cambridge. He bought me the most beautiful gown to wear and took me punting. Perhaps more importantly, he did me a huge favour in introducing me to Peter Eade, the renowned theatrical agent. One of the best in the business, Peter represented – among others – Kenneth Williams, Ronnie Barker and Joan Sims. Actors everywhere held him in awe because, if he took you on, this was guaranteed success.

In those days any agent of Peter’s calibre had what was known as ‘stables’, and his was reputed to be one of the finest. The agents took on few clients, only the ones they believed in, whose careers they could then nurture and steer in the right direction. When Peter invited me to come and see him at his London office in Cork Street, I really should have been a bag of nerves but, completely unaware of just what an honour this was, I was quite relaxed. Instead it was Mum who came with me, who was the one on edge.

The building where Peter had his office was elegant and luxurious: the staircase was of polished wood, heavy doors with large brass handles swung silently open and there were thick carpets throughout. Lawrena, his assistant, met us at the door and brought us tea in china cups while we waited in an anteroom. When we were shown into his stunning office, Peter stood up and shook hands, then invited us to sit down. He was a true gentleman in every sense of the word: his lineage, upbringing and demeanour. What’s more, he lived on a country estate with his elderly father and had the kind of cut-glass accent that we were all trying to cultivate at RADA, as was expected in those days. His manners were impeccable and he expected the same from his clients: he was an amazing man and a truly exceptional agent.

The first thing Peter told us was, ‘I do not take on new clients any more. I only ever have fifteen on my books at any one time and at the moment I have my full quota. Having said that, I am interested in you, Sherrie: you have a raw talent and that is very rare. If I take you on, you will be guided by me and understand that I have your best interests at heart – you will never let me or the reputation of this agency down – I will mould your career and teach you all about the business.’

The next thing he said was: ‘We must do something about your name. Sherrie Hutchinson is too long – we need something shorter, snappier and easier to recall.’

Before I knew what was happening, I had been re-christened Sherrie Hewson. At the time a change of name seemed a small price to pay for getting onto Peter’s list, but in truth I always wished I had kept my own name (Sherrie Hutchinson has a far better ring to it than Sherrie Hewson, I think).

But it didn’t take long for me to realise just how lucky I had been to be taken under Peter’s wing. Not only was he extremely prestigious and highly respected but he also seemed to know absolutely everybody in the business. And everyone I knew was equally impressed that he had become my agent.

‘Peter Eade!’ they kept on exclaiming. ‘You lucky little devil – you don’t know how fortunate you are.’

But I did: right from the start I realised that Peter was a very special man with a true vocation. His family was wealthy and so he was certainly not in the job for the money – he found it creative, completely absorbing and thoroughly exciting. He loved the world of theatre and genuinely cared about the actors he looked after.

As far as any of his clients knew, Peter had never married. It seemed the only thing he really cared about was his work. While I was with him – and I can’t emphasise enough just how unusual this was – I only rarely had to audition for jobs. Everybody in the business of films, stage and TV seemed to know and respect Peter, and if he suggested one of his actors for a part the producers and directors trusted his judgement. And when I did audition I was treated with respect because Peter had sent me.

As part of my ‘grooming’, Peter used to pick me up in his limousine and take me to the first nights of West End shows. He instilled in me that the way you learn your trade is by watching other actors, and you can never know enough. I still do that today: whether the actors are young or older, you can always learn from watching them. Peter also took me to showbiz parties, where he would present me to famous actors, and to the best restaurants and clubs; also garden parties and Glynde-bourne, where he would introduce me to influential entrepreneurs. For all these magical occasions he would buy me beautiful ball gowns and evening dresses to wear.

I know it all sounds too good to be true but that’s just the way it was: we lived in a different time with different values. Peter always used to say, ‘This is a vocation, Sherrie – it’s for the rest of your life, not five minutes of fame.’ Sadly, a lot has changed now and many youngsters are indeed seeking instant fame, often through making a splash with a bit of topless modelling or reality TV rather than developing their talent. I’m thankful that I arrived in a different time and had such a good teacher.

I have so many warm memories of those special occasions with Peter. In particular, some of our most wonderful evenings were spent at Rules, the oldest eating-house in London, which is in Covent Garden. Often there would be superb private functions and parties upstairs, with everyone who was anyone in attendance. I remember one particular party there, when Peter and I walked into one of the upstairs dining rooms as a young Wayne Sleep proceeded to jump on the long dining table, kick everything off and do a dance routine, much to the delight of everyone present. The party became very giddy as lots of people clambered onto the table, trying to join in. As it groaned with the weight of them, we feared the worst, but the maître d’ burst into the room and somehow managed to throw everyone out. Frequently, the parties would become quite wild, but Peter was always very protective of me.

Like most students, I was hoping to go into repertory theatre as soon as I left RADA. ‘Rep’, as it was (and still is) known, meant joining the company of a local theatre for at least a season and performing in lots of different plays, from classics to new productions. The idea was to play a whole range of roles. One week you might be a 20-year-old ingénue in a Bernard Shaw play, then the following week you’d play a 50-year-old mother in a heavy-duty Chekhov production. Drama graduates would hope to work in a number of rep theatres in towns and cities around the country, thereby honing their art and gaining invaluable experience.

But for me, as for every other drama student, the only problem was securing an Equity card. Equity was the actors’ union. To work as an actor you had to have a card – producers and directors simply wouldn’t consider you without one because it was a closed union. But to get one you must have worked as an actor, hence the conundrum facing every young would-be performer. It was a dotty system, but in those days Equity called the shots.

The solution that Peter came up with was to secure me a part in a commercial. At that time nobody who aspired to being a serious actor or actress would be seen dead in a TV commercial – they were regarded as ‘the pits’, downmarket jobs signalling the end of your career. How times have changed. Nowadays everybody, from the fresh-faced graduates to headline stars, competes to get into advertisements, which can be extremely lucrative. Back then it was all so different, so when Peter announced that I was to be in a commercial I was slightly concerned.

‘The joy of the commercial I have got for you,’ he explained, ‘is that while it will result in you getting an Equity card, your face will not be seen in it.’

‘It’s a chocolate-bar commercial,’ Peter went on. ‘The action is set in the Jacobean period during a jousting tournament and as you have been cast as a young lady in period dress and a wimple who is watching the joust from a box and delicately waving your ’kerchief up and down, with some careful angling your face will not be shown. Then, when the knight comes over, all you have to do is lean over and give him the ’kerchief.’

‘It sounds quite a prominent part to me, Peter,’ I said. ‘How am I going to avoid being on camera?’

‘Don’t worry, we’ll make sure of that at the time,’ he insisted.

But he hadn’t convinced me. When we arrived at the location in the middle of nowhere, it was a proper jousting scene set in the middle of a very muddy field. Two large horses were dressed in their colours and two knights in corresponding shades. Masses of peasant types were milling about and smoke billowed out of enormous machines all over the field. I was taken into a large caravan stacked with period costumes of various sizes and dutifully dressed as a lady-in-waiting, wimple and all. The dress was fine but the wimple, which consisted of a long, cone-shaped hat with lots of fabric flowing over my head and fastening under my chin, was far too big and had to be fixed on with pins and sticking tape. Even then it didn’t stay put and I had to hold it on as I was taken through the mud to the stand that was supposed to be the viewing box for the young ladies while the knights fought.

The director – a thin, weedy-looking man – was having a bit of a hissy fit because the horses couldn’t hit their marks. Highly flustered, he came into the box. ‘You,’ he said, pointing at me. ‘You can be number one and you,’ pointing to the girl standing next to me, ‘you’re number two.’ Altogether, there were ten of us girls and we were all given our numbers.

‘Number one, come here,’ he called, and he instructed me to sit on the middle of the front bench. I could see Peter looking on at the side of the box and gestured that this was disastrous, but there was nothing I could do. We all sat there as the director, now looking extremely silly, ran up and down the field pretending to be the horses, trying to show everyone what he wanted. He galloped towards me and reached up. ‘Number one,’ he kept shouting, but with the wind and the wimple I wasn’t sure what he wanted me to do.

He jumped up and grabbed my hand, at which point I lost my footing and catapulted over the top of the box, only to be saved by a burly security guard who happened to be standing by. It was not a pretty sight – me with my dress over my head, the guard holding my legs, and meanwhile the prissy director was down below the box with a face full of bosoms, trying to get out from below me. Somehow the guard managed to yank me back up onto the box, but by that time I was definitely not the director’s favourite. Shooting me a filthy look, he gave each of us a chocolate bar.

‘This is why we are all here,’ he said, gazing at the bar as if it was the Crown Jewels.

By that time we’d been there for ages and I was starving. Without thinking, I unwrapped the chocolate bar and devoured the whole thing. As I popped the last piece into my mouth, the director – now almost frothing at the mouth – screamed, ‘Number one, STOP!’

He flew at me, grabbed the empty chocolate paper and shouted, ‘What did I say? I said not to eat the chocolate bar! What did I say?’

‘Not to eat the bar,’ I replied, bursting into tears. As I did so, the tape at the back of my head pinged. The wimple and the rest of the headdress fell forward across my face and then slid to the floor. At this, he could hardly contain himself. He leaned towards me and hissed: ‘You are no longer number one, you have been nothing but trouble: you are now number ten!’

I was led to a seat at the back as those around me glanced sympathetically in my direction. Poor girl, they probably thought, she’s lost her chance to star in this commercial. Little did they know I was thrilled and equally relieved; Peter smiled.

My final humiliation that day was when I was given a block of wood, which had been coated with brown paint as a replacement for the chocolate bar. Unbelievably, they didn’t have any spares. Throughout the shoot I had to pretend to nibble on it joyously. At least my face didn’t show in the final commercial and I got my Equity card – but I’ve never liked chocolate since.

After that, I headed off into rep, which meant staying in lodgings in whatever town I happened to be working in. One of the first places I went was Cheltenham, and Peter, who was looking after me like a mother hen, told me that he had found me some very nice digs there.

Off I went to the address he gave me, where I met the owner, his wife and two children. I was shown to an extremely pleasant if somewhat spartan bedroom with only two blankets on the bed (which was a bit of a worry for me because I always feel the cold).

I was told to come down to breakfast the next morning at eight o’clock, sharp.

‘We are quite informal so there’s no need to dress, added the man of the house.’

That was kind of him I thought, but I didn’t think it polite to go down in my dressing-gown. Before leaving me in my room, he showed me the bathroom.

‘Now, let me explain the system,’ he said. ‘You can have six inches of hot water, no more …’

‘Right!’ I gulped, trying hard to disguise my astonishment. ‘… and your days for a bath will be Tuesday and Friday,’ he continued.

As it was a Monday, I was thinking, oh God! I’ll have to wash today and look forward to a bath in six inches of water tomorrow. All this seemed very strange to me, though not so odd as what was to come.

The next morning I went down to breakfast just before eight o’clock to a cheery ‘good morning’ from my host. As I walked into the breakfast room I had the odd feeling that something wasn’t quite right. It was then I noticed that the host, his wife and two children were all sitting at the table completely naked. Except when I walked in, the host stood up and moved towards me, to direct me to the chair. Now the naked body isn’t a particularly pretty sight at the best of times, but with Coco Pops and Sugar Puffs it just isn’t right.

‘What would you like for breakfast?’ he asked. ‘Egg, bacon … and a sausage, perhaps?’

This was too much for me. I struggled to control a burst of nervous giggles as he brought over the serving dish and with his tongs picked up the most enormous sausage. I was about to say, ‘That’s too big for me,’ when I glanced down and thought better of it. It was a chilly day and my host’s manhood had shrunk to the size of a mini-chipolata. The sausage was deposited on my plate along with two fried eggs. His wife was sitting right opposite me and I couldn’t help but think her breasts and my eggs made a perfect matching foursome.

Staring at my plate, I kept my head down and tried to tuck in. I have to say I did not eat the sausage. Soon I had to give up the struggle to eat anything and, claiming I was late for work, I bowed my way out of the room, my eyes fixed on the floor as if I was a royal lackey. In a complete daze I went off to rehearsals thinking bloody hell, but when I came back they were all in the sitting room, still without any clothes.

‘Do come and join us,’ the host convivially told me. ‘We’re toasting crumpets.’

With a muffled, ‘I don’t think so,’ I disappeared into my room, leaving a very strange image in my head.

The next day I made up some tale about a long-lost relative who I’d suddenly discovered lived in Cheltenham. It wasn’t a highly plausible excuse but I had to leave – one can only take so much naked flesh with every meal, especially when it’s freezing cold!

As I made my way down the path, the parents stood at the window, waving a cheery goodbye. I often wonder if their children carried on with the same tradition after they left home. Goodness knows, but one thing’s for sure: I’ve never been able to look at a sausage in quite the same way.