by Les Dawson
They saw him perform a silly pretend trip as he entered the glare of the lights, and they watched as he craned forwards over the footlights and said:
‘Hello, kids! I’m Nurse Ada and I have three children.… One of each.’
‘I love children, I used to go to school with them.’
‘If you see two flies on the wallpaper, which one is the bandit? It’s the one making for the border.’
‘I have a dog with no nose.… How does it smell? Awful.’
The audience saw the little fat man make the kids laugh. What they didn’t see was the little fat man in his dressing-room, alone with his tortured thoughts as he repeatedly telephoned home to ask how much pain his wife was in.
Old Nettles and I got on now like a house on fire and he was picking up the tricks of pantomime very quickly, as he realised just how difficult a pantomime is to stage successfully. After all, what other form of production has to weld together dancers, singers, actors, comedians and children in one show?
We opened just before Christmas.… As on every first night, nerves were jangling and tension was all around – quite a bit of it in my dressing-room, because here I was, headlining in my home town.… How would I be received? Would I lay an enormous egg? I reached for the bottle of Scotch.
The overture begins; the audience clears its throat; latecomers sheepishly make for their seats.… Backstage the children take their positions for the village scene.… The principals wait and listen in anticipation of the initial reaction.
All seems to go well. The music is bright and the songs tuneful. The little kids are enchanting and already some female members of the audience are giving vent to ‘Oooohs’ and ‘Aaahhs’. They love the children. The little beasts are stealing the show already!
John Nettles enters on a horse. It is a magnificent entrance and gets a huge ovation.… Play-on music for me, Nurse Ada. Nurse’s outfit with comic appliances crossed over massive bosom. Wig swept back into a large bun, red nose on which are perched bifocals.… Original script forgotten, it’s ad lib time, folks.…
‘What a thrill to be in Manchester.… Birmingham with O levels.’
‘You’ll find that this show is, oh, what’s the word I’m looking for? Oh yes, crap.’
‘A duck went into a chemist’s shop, he said, “A tube of Lipsyl, please.” The chemist said, “Certainly, that will be 50p.” The duck said, “Well, put it on my bill.”’
‘Where would we all be without a laugh? Here.’
‘I do get the odd smile from an audience, but it’s usually wind.’
‘Where are you from, Missus? Cardiff? You won’t be used to all this – carpets and electricity – will you?’
‘Put a bloody smile on your face, sir, you look like a bulldog chewing a wasp.’
That’s a short version of my opening that night. I pulled the theatre to pieces, the management, the guys backstage (‘They’re all shiftworkers – if you mention work, they shift’). The dancers, I said, were from a foot clinic, and that John Nettles was about as much good as an actor as Kojak was selling home perms. The first night audience roared, even though what I was saying bore no relation to the panto.
Then came the scene between Nettles and Dawson, which in the original text had been a very dreary piece indeed. Now we did our version.…
ME: Why, it’s John Nettles, loosely disguised as the Sheriff of Nottingham. Last time I saw a face like that, there was a hook in it.
JOHN: She can talk, last time I saw a face and figure like hers, the owner was being milked.… If she lived in India, she’d be sacred.
ME: You remind me of the sea.
JOHN: You mean I’m wild, restless and untamed?
ME: No.… You make me sick.
JOHN: You remind me of a Viking.
ME: Really? Do you mean blonde and beautiful?
JOHN: No.… You’ve got a face like a Norse.
ME: Tell you what, I could live in your eyes.
JOHN: Well, you’d be at home … there’s a sty in one of them.
The show overran by half an hour and the audience bayed for more. I had drunk rather more than I should have done and my curtain speech was a trifle botched, one might say. However, we were all cock-a-hoop with the way the panto had gone and I waited for Paul Elliot, the Producer, to come into the dressing-room and pat me on the head. He never came in, and I was worried that the extent of my ad-libbing had upset him.
Later, at the first night party, Paul went round slapping people on the back but I was seemingly ignored. ‘Stuff him,’ I decided, and commenced to drink the bar dry. Only at the end of the evening did Paul finally confront me.… ‘I’ve left you until last because I couldn’t find a word greater than magnificent … absolutely magnificent,’ he said, and walked off.
The reviews for the show came out on Christmas Eve. All of them, both local and national reviews, raved over the show saying that it was the funniest panto in years and a ‘must’ for the family. One critic wrote: ‘Thoroughly enjoyable pantomime, Les Dawson is the best Dame I have ever seen, he’s certainly the finest one this century!’ He went on: ‘The script was what we had come to expect so it’s a good job that Dawson ad-libbed most of it.’
John Nettles received wonderful notices, as did Ruth Madoc, and I was overjoyed. Later that day the telephone rang. It was Paul Elliot. He wished us all a Merry Christmas and said, ‘Thanks for showing me that my original misgivings about your ad-libbing were wrong.… Congratulations.’ It takes a big man to say that and I’m proud to count him as a friend.
I was able to be with Meg every night but her health was no better despite the increased medication. Now she was totally bedridden and thank God I was working otherwise my heart would have broken. I was drinking too much again and punishing myself.… Thoughts tormented me constantly. Had I done enough for her? Was I doing enough for her? Over and over again I would curse God and deny Him.… Then I would pray to Him.
The children still didn’t know that one day we would lose her and I hadn’t the heart to tell them. Then I came home one night and found her sitting up and laughing with the kids and she looked a picture of health! ‘Thank you, God,’ I whispered. She seemed to rally with every passing day and the pain appeared to have gone altogether.
The production of Babes in the Wood came to a successful close, having broken all previous records and gone very smoothly indeed – well, apart from one odd incident.
I had read earlier on in the run that Princess Michael of Kent was coming to see the pantomime with some children. Obviously I was thrilled and delighted by the news, but I thought it strange that the theatre management hadn’t informed me first instead of my having to read about it in the Manchester Evening News. I rang the theatre administration office and they shrugged the whole thing off as a bit of a nuisance. Of course, the penny dropped. The Manchester City Council were extremely left wing in their politics, to the extent that the Lord Mayor was now known as the ‘First Chair Person’. What an ugly, grey phrase!
The Princess arrived at the theatre for the matinée and there wasn’t a flower for her or a proper delegation to meet her. She roared with laughter at the show and at the interval the administrator came backstage to ask me what the procedure would be after the matinée, as the Princess wished to meet the cast. By the way he said it I knew he didn’t give a damn, so I replied coldly, ‘I will arrange for the whole cast to remain on stage after the performance, I shall then wait at the pass door for the Princess and I shall introduce her to the cast.’ I couldn’t believe my ears when the administrator said testily, ‘Oh, you don’t need the whole lot there, Les. Just you and Nettles and Ruth Madoc.’ With disgust in my voice I pointed out that that would be a breach of courtesy, and that all the children would be overjoyed to meet a real live Princess.
The curtain closed, the cast lined up, and I told them that the protocol was they said their name when introduced to the Princess, thus avoiding any embarrasing moment.
I greeted Princess Michael
, whom I’d had the great pleasure of meeting on several previous occasions, and the whole affair went well. The Princess gripped my arm tightly as we left the stage: there in the wings, in a tight knot, were the tabloid press who had recently accused her of having a father who had been a member of the German SS. How a baby girl of two could be held responsible for her father’s actions is quite beyond me.…
One of the more sordid hacks asked me if it was true that I had once kissed the Princess. I said it was; it had happened during the ovation I received from my fellow Water Rats upon being made King Rat. The Princess and her husband Prince Michael were guests of honour that night, and the Princess had clapped delightedly and sort of leaned forward with the side of her face to the fore. Without thinking I had bent over and held her hands, and kissed her lightly on the cheek. This faux pas had brought cheers; I couldn’t apologise enough, but Prince Michael had taken it all with high good humour.
That is what I told that ‘journalist’, and two days later I received a telephone call in the dressing-room from Princess Michael’s press official, saying that the Princess was very hurt by what she had read in this tabloid, namely, that she had kissed me full on the lips. From all accounts – and quite rightly so – she was very irate about it and was considering a lawsuit against the newspaper in question. Luckily I managed to make the official realise that she would be better off ignoring it all. As I put it to him, ‘Today’s news is tomorrow’s garbage.’
It had been a long and exhausting run and it was a relief to be at home for a while. There was no chance of a holiday but I’m a home bird and it didn’t bother me. I felt satisfied with life; a successful pantomime behind me, television bookings ahead and a bank balance doing very nicely, thank you. Meg seemed much improved, and then fate decided that that was enough happiness.…
Meg and I were watching snooker on the television – it was by far her favourite programme – when she suddenly asked me to adjust the set.
‘What’s the matter with it?’ I asked casually.
‘It’s blurred,’ she said.
It wasn’t blurred, the picture was perfect.
She got annoyed with me trying to test her sight, then she got angry with herself, as she was vainly rubbing her eyes to clear away the fuzz. Over the next two weeks, her eyesight worsened. I changed her spectacles but they made not a jot of difference. It was now the end of February and her health was on the decline again as before.
I took her down to Christie’s for her check-up, and I mentioned that her eyes were bad and the specialist looked long and hard at me. They wheeled Meg away for the check-up and I read a magazine, then another one.… This was the longest time they’d been with her. I went outside and lit a cigarette. The receptionist said something like, ‘Not to worry, they’ll be giving her an eye test.’ Of course, that was it, wasn’t it? I sat, then I stood.… Hang on, they’re coming back.… I can hear Meg laughing with the specialist.… Thank you, God, she’s going to be all right, isn’t she? Meg looked radiantly at me, and the specialist indicated that they wanted to speak to me whilst Meg had a well-earned cup of tea.
I followed them into another room. They were going to tell me what treatment would be prescribed for her eyes.… Yes, that’s what they wanted to say, wasn’t it?
The specialist and his colleague sat down and so did I.… Hey, why weren’t they smiling and laughing now?
‘I’m afraid we have bad news for you.… The cancer has spread behind the eyes. Your wife has only a few weeks.…’
A few weeks for what? Is she going blind?
‘The cancer has spread all over, Mr Dawson. It’s only a matter of time.’
Holy Christ, what are you telling me? My wife is going to die and there’s nothing you can do?
I felt as if someone had hit me from behind with a hammer. I couldn’t catch my breath, and my heart faltered in an uneven tempo.…
I saw genuine compassion on their faces.
‘What do I do?’ I asked them through dry lips.
‘You must carry on as normal,’ one of them said.
Carry on as normal? Just how the hell do I do that?
I couldn’t stop the tears. There and then in front of those learned men, I cried bitter, frustrated tears.
Eventually I pulled myself together and rejoined Meg, who was chatting happily with the receptionist.
Somehow I got her into the Nissan and to all her questions I lied and lied. My head ached and my whole body was numb with fear and grief.
It was time to break the news to the children that their mother was going to die.
I told Pamela and she listened in silence, then ran up to her room. I told our son Stuart, and he left the house to be alone with his grief.
I telephoned Julie at the hospital in Nottingham. She broke down on the phone and immediately made arrangements to come home.
The family were weaving a protective net around the little woman we all loved so very much.
I still couldn’t take it in, and I decided to get a second opinion. I heard from a friend who had survived cancer that a doctor in Harley Street could work miracles and so I bundled Meg off to London.…
It was, of course, a waste of time and effort. He took one look at her and silently shook his head.… No dialogue was needed.
I told my agents the bad news and they immediately cancelled all my bookings. Julie came home and helped the visiting nurses to bathe her mother and tend to her needs.
The immediate family was informed but they wisely didn’t all flock to the house otherwise Meg would have suspected the worst. I couldn’t tell too many people about her condition, in case the press got to know, and the last thing I wanted was them around.
Slowly, before our eyes, Meg began to fade from us. She looked so tiny and childlike as she lay in the bed, now unseeing, waiting to go. Occasionally she would rally but then she would sink again.
Outside, I remember, the wind howled and dashed whips of rain against the window of the room where she lay. We took it in turns now to sleep in the study near her, so as to be on hand for any deterioration.… And then the human spirit rises above its tortured clay, and now she smiles, seems more alert, and her facial colour returns.
In fact, in mid March, the biggest problem she was tormented with was bed sores, which needed hourly attention.
I stopped looking in the bathroom mirror to shave: my eyes were sunken holes and black rimmed with tiredness, and my face had lost its roundness with the strain. It was Meg who urged me to go out with a friend for a drink, and with the kids quite able to tend to any sudden problem I started going out to my club on a Friday, and then on to the St Ives Hotel to finish off with a late drink.
I was drinking too much and feeling very sorry for myself. My appearance was causing comment; I dressed like a tramp and I acted in a very silly, hostile manner. The beautiful young woman behind the bar would listen to me whine and put up with my irresponsible attempts at humour with kindness and patience. I was becoming a self-suffering disgrace. I knew that friends were beginning to avoid my company; I was boring and sarcastic outside the house, indoors I was self-pitying and tearful, so much so that my wife rebuked me in front of the children.… I was totally abject.
March gave way to a mild April that shyly lightened the landscape with the promise of spring, but there was no happy anticipation in Garth House because we were losing Meg. Her family came frequently now to visit her, but most of the time she was not aware of their presence. Her world was a dragged, secret place where time was without pain and feeling.
Sitting by her bed, I would listen to her speak about her childhood; images and scenes recognised and remembered by her sisters. Once, in front of the family, she opened her eyes and stunned us all by describing the construction of a new public house and shopping mall, which she said she’d ‘flown’ over. Now, here is the most amazing part of this incident: Meg, who had never seen the work being carried out in St Annes Square, described in astonishing detail the new layout of the
mall, the shape of the new public house … it was uncanny.
Is it possible that we can detach our spirit energy from our physical body and voyage forth in a limitless, unrestricted dimension? Are we still on the threshold of understanding the electro-magnetic waves that we create?
Another strange incident occurred on the night of 12 April. Meg had been talking about the past, sometimes angrily, sometimes gently. Now and again she would snap her eyes open and look around at her family. ‘Stuart, my son.… There’s our Julie.… Pamela, is that you? Where’s your dad? There’s Les.’ She would then become fierce with me as I knelt by the side of the bed holding her hand. ‘Let me go.… I have to go,’ she would say in say in great agitation. ‘Come back to us, Meg,’ I would reply. That night, as this interchange took place, some lumps of coloured glass imitation coals from the electric fire in the study suddenly leapt in the air and cascaded on to the carpet.… Not one of the family was near the fire at the time. I felt that something was telling me to stop begging Meg to hold on and come back to us. I felt a power drawing her to another realm that was beyond our understanding.
However, I still persisted in urging her to stay with us and she, poor dear lass, continued to beg me to let her go.
In the early hours of Tuesday 15 April 1986, at three minutes to seven, my younger daughter, who had been sleeping in the study with her mum – she had slept in that room more often than the rest of us – called to us that there was something wrong with Meg. We gathered around the bed on which my little wife lay, and saw that she was passing away from us. Her breathing became laboured but she was unconscious and at peace as she drifted into another place.… Meg Dawson was dead.
The kids were marvellous, it was I who ran from the study blinded by tears. I stood in the kitchen whimpering: ‘Give me a sign, Meg.’ Now this you can believe or not: I’m telling it because it happened. The one kitchen item she had never really come to grips with was the microwave oven. Meg mistrusted it completely. Now as I spoke those words: ‘Give me a sign, Meg’, the microwave oven suddenly ‘pinged’ – I was at least five feet away from it, and I was alone in that kitchen!
