Читать книгу Behind the Laughter - Sherrie Hewson - Страница 6

Chapter One

I was the spitting image of Winston Churchill when I was born; all I needed was a cigar and the appropriate ‘V’ sign. So pretty, I was probably not. I also had webbed feet à la Donald Duck. I’m not painting an attractive picture here, am I? In fact, I was the chubbiest, grumpiest baby in the world.

My birth, in what was perhaps a sign of things to come, was far from straightforward. Within hours I had to have a complete blood transfusion: the doctors feared I might be afflicted with the same condition which my brother Brett had suffered from when he popped out, 18 months earlier. He’d caused havoc by nearly dying: Mum lacked vitamin K, meaning Brett’s blood wouldn’t clot and instead poured out of every orifice in his tiny body. She was also desperately ill and too weak to choose a name for my brother – who, the doctors agreed, wouldn’t make it through the night. Remarkably, both survived; maybe that’s what made them into the strong, resilient people they are today.

I arrived in 1950, five years after the war had ended, but I never felt a thing. Indeed, my life was cushioned from day one. Shortly after I was born, the family moved from my grandparents’ house in the village of Beeston in Nottinghamshire to their very first home – a semi-detached down the road. It had a lovely garden and my mother would place Brett and me in our prams there to get some fresh air. Brett was good as gold, but I wriggled, squirmed and tried to escape until I ended up on at least one occasion hanging out of the pram by my neck.

My mother, Joy, was an extraordinary woman. Her own mother, like most women at that time, had been a housewife and had never gone out to work, but Mum had other ideas. Beautiful, determined and clever, she had energy and vision. And she knew what she wanted: to own a lovely home, send her children to private school and watch us make our mark in the world.

My parents met immediately after the war when Mum was a young woman and Dad was ten years older. Her day job was working for a friend in the clothing industry, but her real passion was ballroom dancing and modelling. She worked for various fashion labels, including Slix swimsuits and Chanel, and she won all kinds of prizes, both locally and nationally, for her dancing. My mother was, and still is, ultra-glamorous, stylish and elegant. Her wardrobe was bursting with beautiful dresses and the most glorious ballroom gowns. She seemed so magical, I used to love to dress up and try my hardest to look like her.

My father, Ron Hutchinson, was born near Sunderland in the North East. His mother died just after his birth and his father skedaddled from the family home, leaving Dad to be brought up by his aunties and uncles. I never knew much about his life up in the North, although I do remember visiting a terraced house where the door led straight into the kitchen and there was a rather large, jolly lady, who cuddled me all the time. It makes sense that she would be related to Dad as he was the most tactile man you could ever wish to meet.

I remember as you looked out of the back-room window of the house there was a large field and a pit, and so I always thought Dad’s family must be miners. They were Macams, which means ‘Sunderland-born’, never to be confused with Geordies from Newcastle. They did, however, have one thing in common: at New Year they had what was called the ‘First Footing’. It was one of my most joyous memories: I would sit on Dad’s knee and wait as midnight neared. Everything would go deadly quiet and as the clock struck twelve, in came a tall, dark and handsome man – probably a family friend, but to me a glamorous stranger – holding a piece of coal, a coin, salt, bread and whisky. Everyone would cheer and the party would begin. It may have been a superstition, but to me this was truly exciting; to Dad and his family it meant health, happiness and prosperity for the coming year.

Although he was happy at home and loved his family, Dad left at a very early age to discover the world. He had a natural wanderlust and curiosity about life till the day he died. At the age of 15 he joined the Army; that was before the war, which he managed to survive, unscathed. He led a charmed life: he attracted people, especially women, and a certain general’s wife took a fancy to him and insisted he become their personal chauffeur. As a result, the closest Dad came to battle was when the General and his wife had a row.

After the war, Dad drove for a General Palmer and had access to all the Army and Air Force bases, including the ones where the Americans were stationed, which meant he could get his hands on the so-called ‘black market’ goodies. He would turn up at my grandma’s house when Mum was at work with nylon stockings, chocolate, bananas and all manner of treats. Dad was so charming and handsome, he looked just like the heart-throb Errol Flynn and no one could resist him.

My mother would come home to find him having tea with my grandmother. Mum wasn’t short of suitors and was in no rush to settle down, but Dad was determined to win her over. He even took up ballroom dancing to impress her and became extremely accomplished. Later, he taught me the chacha, which we danced together on many an occasion. Eventually, his persuasive charm won Mum’s heart and the two of them married and set up home together.

Dad left the Army and began work for a company called Constance Murray, which made very upmarket men’s and women’s clothing. As the saying goes, he could sell snow to the Eskimos and so he was in his element in the retail trade. But it was when he sang that he came into his own: he was a Bing Crosby-style crooner and performed with all the big bands across the country.

I adored my dad. He was a warm and loving man and his love for me was unconditional. If I’d murdered ten people that morning he’d have said, ‘Never mind, darling – eat your breakfast and we’ll find a way.’ But he was also a restless dreamer, more often away than he was home, who never really allowed himself to be tied down to family life. We all used to joke that he should never have married and had children. It was only years later when I had my daughter Keeley and he came to live with us that he truly became part of family life and to every-one’s surprise proved to be a dab hand at childcare, cooking and housework.

In those early days it was Mum who organised everything and everyone, made the decisions and ran the show. She was the kind of woman who could do six things at once, and frequently did. Although she adored Brett and me, she wasn’t a stay-at-home mum but a force of nature, always full of ideas, plans and boundless energy.

I only remember one time when she was ill. She’d been up a ladder – she was always wallpapering or decorating – when she fell off. Her womb collapsed, so she had to have an emergency hysterectomy and then, as was the custom in those days, she stayed in a convalescent home for several weeks. I was still only three and not allowed inside, so my grandparents would take me there and I’d stand in the grounds waving up at Mum as she stood at the window.

My brother Brett was a lovely-looking child, blond and blue-eyed and angelic, while I was chubby and, as I have said, a potential body-double for Winston Churchill. As I grew older I became aware of how Brett’s good looks got him attention, or so it seemed to me, and maybe that explains why I became a potential serial killer. At two and a half years old, for some extraordinary reason I climbed out of my cot one night, negotiated the mountainous staircase, navigated my way around the house and picked up a knitting needle from my mother’s chair. At that point I discovered Brett sitting on the floor, watching the telly, and proceeded to shove the needle down his throat.

Of course it may have been that I was just plain curious as to how far I could submerge it: who knows what went on in my infant mind? Strangely, Brett – who was a strapping lad of four and much bigger than me – opened his mouth and allowed me to shove the needle in, at which point he started to choke.

The noise brought my mother running from the kitchen. She extracted said needle from my brother’s mouth while no doubt checking for puncture wounds and I was taken back to bed with a sore bottom. Peace reigned over the household once more, but not for long: minutes later I was off again and got down the staircase for a second time, found another knitting needle and tried the whole thing all over again. It beggars belief why my brother let this happen twice. This time I was well and truly punished, but I must have got the message because I never tried it again. After that the needles disappeared, although you might say I had my own Weapons of Mass Destruction long before the phrase was coined.

Around the same time, my mother enrolled me in a French nursery school. In those days it was unusual for a child to attend any kind of pre-school or nursery, let alone a French one, but Mum loved the idea of me learning French and so off I went in the nursery uniform of a little white dress with matching socks and sandals.

The nursery was in a big house and we spent the day in a room filled with little wooden chairs. It had elegant French windows and a large stove, where we warmed ourselves while drinking our milk. During our break we played on the lawn outside and at lunchtime we sat at a long table covered in white linen and used proper knives and forks. The staff were strict but kind and insisted on good manners. I remember on at least one occasion being removed from the room after banging my spoon on the table and having to wait for lunch until all the others had eaten.

I soon learned to sing nursery rhymes and recite my times tables in French. We danced and sang a lot, which I loved, and I think of the two and a half years spent at the nursery as a wonderful time. I felt secure and happy there. Perhaps that’s why to my mind, ever since then that little white dress, socks and shoes have symbolised all things good, safe and comforting.

At the age of five I had to leave the nursery and move on to a beautiful private school, the Dorothy Grants, which meant swapping my white dress for an extremely smart navy-blue skirt, white shirt and tie, a navy blazer and a posh blue overcoat with silver buttons, topped with a Panama hat. My uniform was very much of that period and I thought it was fabulous. The school was in an elegant old house, the teachers were kind and I was extremely happy in this environment, where I shone and loved every minute of it. On summer days we would take our chairs outside and have classes under the trees in the garden, which was so much nicer than being indoors.

Sadly, though, I was taught a harsh lesson while at this school. One day I waited at the gates for my mother to collect me, not knowing she had sent a message to say she was going to be late. After a bit I decided to walk home. Even in those days this was a daft thing to do, but I was only six years old and I was sure I could find my way. As I walked through the unfamiliar streets, however, I started to panic: all the roads looked the same. I kept on walking and suddenly I became aware of five kids behind me. They began to shout things and made fun of my posh uniform.

Within minutes I was surrounded: three girls and two boys were shoving and pushing me. They pulled at my hair and grabbed my satchel, I lost my hat and then one of them tripped me up and I fell onto the pavement. I knew my hands were scraped and bleeding, but I didn’t cry. Instead I jumped up and started to run as fast as my little legs could carry me. The boys kept up with me, still hitting and calling me names, but I just ran and ran. As I turned a corner there was a main road in front and a bus stop with a large red double-decker standing with the door open. I made for that but the driver had already sussed out the situation and shot round to help me, clouting one of the lads as he ran by. At this, I clung to the driver and cried. He was so kind and cleaned my bruises, then asked me where I lived. I told him the address and he sat me down in his bus, closed the doors and drove me right to my house. My mother was frantic but so grateful to the bus driver, who accepted a cup of tea and left after giving me a big hug.

While I loved school I enjoyed my dance and drama classes even more. As soon as I could walk, Mum enrolled me in the local dance school, which was run by a lovely lady called Mavis Levy. By the time I was three I regularly appeared in all the school’s productions, singing, dancing and acting. I wasn’t shy and I loved it all, especially as it so often involved dressing up in pretty outfits. In fact, such was my passion for the costumes that on one occasion I was willing to turn to crime to get my hands on a particular favourite.

I was standing backstage behind another four-year-old wannabe, who was about to go on for a ballet number. She was wearing the most beautiful pink sequinned tutu, which I had been coveting. In a moment of jealous fury when no one was looking, I gave her a shove. Unfortunately she tumbled down the two stone steps leading to the dressing rooms and sprained her ankle. Her shrieks of pain brought the adults running, and my wish was granted: I was given the tutu and sent onstage to do the dance in her place. I was thrilled, but my triumph was short-lived because as soon as I came offstage I was very aware of fingers pointing from those in the know. My dastardly deed having been discovered, I was immediately suspended from the show for several nights.

Through this experience I learned yet another invaluable lesson in life: envy is bad, get there by your own efforts and not through someone else’s misfortune. And so I did: soon afterwards I was doing a regular star turn, wearing a long Victorian dress and a huge hat as ‘Little Miss Lady Make-Believe’, singing ‘You’ve Gotta Have Heart’. I was very proud of this achievement because I wanted to be a singer like Dad, but sadly, as far as singing was concerned, this turned out to be my finest hour and since then I’ve never quite matched it. Despite my best efforts, and to my great disappointment, I don’t have an amazing singing voice (in fact, people have been known to stuff fingers in their ears when I launch into song) and once I’d outgrown the cuteness factor that was that.

Although singing wasn’t my foremost talent, I loved it, and especially when I got to sing with my dad. He was still crooning à la Bing Crosby and sometimes he would take me along to gigs and we’d duet together: our favourite was ‘Something Stupid’, the song made famous by father-and-daughter duo Frank and Nancy Sinatra. Dad had a wonderful singing voice and so, despite my less-than-perfect pitch, together we were a good act.

I was a good dancer, though, and I loved dancing just as much as singing, if not more. My mother would make me sweet little outfits and I would tap or pirouette my way across the stage in show after show. Mum would drive me to wherever we were performing, my costumes piled in the back of the car. She was very proud and encouraged me to perform not only by making my costumes and ferrying me about but clapping enthusiastically in the audience, too.

My talent for comedy also emerged early, completely by accident. Aged four and a half, I was due to open a show with a tap routine in my little white skirt, red blazer and tap shoes. Unfortunately I was desperate for a wee but there wasn’t time for me to go before I had to be on stage. Unable to hold it in, I did a big wee in front of everybody. The audience fell about, but I was in no mood to enjoy it: I fled in tears, my big moment ruined.

It wasn’t until years later that I learned to love making people laugh and made my mark as a comic actress. Perhaps this was prophetic because despite my best intentions I was always getting involved in things that went wrong.

When I was six I had a couple more brushes with crime, this time trying my hand at embezzlement. I decided to start a tea club for my friends and managed to persuade five little girls to go home and extract half a crown each (a considerable sum of money in those days) from their mothers. In return for handing the cash over to me, I told them that they would each get a badge made from cardboard, a sugar sandwich and a drink of pop. Delighted with my haul, I stashed the half crowns in my dolls’ pram, dipping into the money every now and again to buy one of my favourite sherbet dips – you know the kind, with a liquorice straw – from the corner shop.

I might have got away with this little piece of fraud had it not been for another scheme of mine a few weeks later. One afternoon I informed my friends that we would put on a bring-and-buy sale for Oxfam, which meant they had to extract more money from their mothers. When I told my mother the same thing, she said, ‘That’s a good idea – I’ll help you put up some trestle tables and we’ll sort out lots of clothes and bric-à-brac,’ and she went on to invite the whole village.

I can’t remember now actually how much profit we made on the day but it would have been a considerable sum and everyone believed they were doing their bit for charity. I, on the other hand, had only sherbet dips on the brain and went on to stash the proceeds in my dolls’ pram together with the remains of the previous haul. Ten sherbet dips, boxes of sweet cigarettes and many packets of wagon wheels later, I was one very happy little girl.

A couple of weeks on, a friend’s mother asked Mum how much money we’d raised. Being so busy, my mother assumed that Dad had taken care of the funds. As they say, the truth will out, and so it did, big time. Everything came to light: my tea-club member scam and of course the great Oxfam scandal. Now in my eyes I wasn’t stealing: this was enterprise. With the tea club the girls got treats, and the bring-and-buy would have been potentially worthy had I remembered to send the profit to wherever it was supposed to go. In fact, I had only borrowed a bit for the sweets, which I thought was fair enough given the hard work I’d put in, but that wasn’t quite the way my mother saw it. All was paid back, my tea club closed down forever and I was never made an Ambassador for Oxfam – another lesson for this wayward child to learn.

I never was very good at practical matters, perhaps because like Dad I was a bit of a dreamer. From the earliest age I lived much of my life in a fantasy world surrounded by imaginary friends. This wasn’t because I was a lonely child or didn’t have any other children to play with; it was simply a world of my own that I loved to be in. I used to carry on conversations with people who lived under the floorboards, or in the walls or underneath my bed – I would feel them tugging at my hand or leg, or hear them knocking on the floor. I’d talk to them for hours: there would be tears and laughter and arguments. It sounds strange but it was only the same as the little plays I would write and perform in my grandma’s house. I’d be every character, changing hats and voices as I swapped sides in a conversation.

I don’t think the adults around me were aware of this private world. While many children have highly creative imaginations, sadly as we reach adulthood we leave that innocence behind. And so I kept my secret friends to myself and chatted to them when no one else was around.

We were lucky to have a television at a time when many families were unable to afford one and I loved watching the children’s programmes because they fuelled me with yet more ideas, but books were my real passion: I am a bookaholic. My dream was to one day have my own library – I’m still working on that one. Back then, I would imagine the characters jumping out of the book and me being part of their world before they disappeared back into the pages. I loved all the animated shows and cartoons: I would have liked to work in the world of animation, given the chance. I adored going to the cinema and could well believe I was up there on that screen in whatever film it was: I might be Dorothy in The Wizard of Oz or Alice living in Wonder-land. At one time I even wanted to be John-Boy in The Waltons although that was more to do with the big-family thing than being a boy. Later still, in my teens, I fancied being Doris Day in all those films with Rock Hudson or Ginger Rogers with Fred Astaire, and then of course there was Audrey Hepburn with the wonderful Cary Grant.

Pretending to be someone else was as natural to me as breathing. I couldn’t imagine a place where I just had to be myself, and so for me it was a natural progression from a make-believe world into the exciting world of acting.