The Varnished Untruth

by Stephenson, Pamela

  The ride back was cold but mercifully brief. On board the yacht, the partying continued, but I remained withdrawn, remote. Ile Saint-Honorat had reconnected me with myself. My meta-analysis continued in London, where I reread Eric Berne’s Games People Play (having first read it in my early twenties) and, three weeks afterwards on 20 June 1978, I scribbled an important passage in my notepad:

  Each person . . . has a preconscious life plan, or script, by which he structures longer periods of time – months, years, or his whole life –filling them with ritual activities, pastimes, and games, which further the script while giving immediate satisfaction, usually interrupted by periods of withdrawal and sometimes by periods of intimacy.

  Scripts are usually based on childlike illusions which may persist throughout a whole lifetime; but in more sensitive, perceptive and intelligent people these illusions dissolve one by one, leading to various life crises described by Erikson. Among these crises are the adolescent reappraisal of parents; the protests, often bizarre, of middle age; and the emergence of philosophy after that.

  Sometimes, however, overly desperate attempts to maintain the illusions in later life lead to depression or spiritualism, while the abandonment of all illusions may lead to despair.

  I’m wondering . . . which part of that passage was most important to you?

  I’m not even sure, although actually, I find it acutely to the point at this time in my life too – ‘desperate attempts to maintain the illusions’ certainly speaks to me. I had already been profoundly affected by reading Arthur Janov’s book The Primal Scream several years previously. That was the first time I was made aware of the notion that the unconscious mind harbours all kinds of traumatic memories from childhood that subtly influence our behaviour. I tried Janov’s method of abreacting trauma – having a good old scream when no one was around – but I’m not sure how helpful that was. Not recommended while driving either (in Australia I used to let loose in my car).

  But at Ile Saint-Honorat I was reminded where I had been, and where I hoped to go. I was not a party girl, I was a dedicated performer. All right, you might think this is a bit on the hokey side, but, in a way, I sort of knew something was about to happen. I could just feel it in my sea-chilled bones.

  But, explain to me, why exactly did you feel you needed to protect your talent? Was it under threat?

  Most people I met in London just after I arrived did not understand that, due to my training, my work in Australian theatre, TV and film – and all my informal theatre studies in various countries – I was pretty experienced. I felt I was rather . . . accomplished . . . but I wasn’t good at proving it. Well, after all, a young British woman of my age probably would not have had the same opportunities for professional experience as I’d had in the less crowded arena of the Australian theatre scene. However, I didn’t present myself the right way; in my high heels, heavy make-up, brightly coloured clothing and long, bleached hair, I looked more like a contender for the Eurovision song contest than the kind of person you’d see wandering around the RSC. Then there was my Australian accent, which tended to make people guffaw. I was upset at how snobbish people were about ‘Antipodeans’.

  It had certainly been tough for me when I first arrived. I hadn’t planned to stay in London but I was flat broke, having already spent all my money travelling thus far. I remember standing at a public phone at Heathrow airport, trying to find a very cheap hostel. I had roughly twenty pounds in my pocket. A man who overheard me took pity on me and arranged accommodation for me at a female friend’s house. Now, of course, that could have been a rather dodgy scenario, but I had been travelling for a long time by myself and had learned to size people up pretty fast. This guy, John, was all right. In fact, he was a very kind person who really was as good as his word. His friend turned out to be a beautiful blonde model and I stayed first with her in the centre of London, and then with her sister in Fulham. And John introduced me to a young man called David who became a loving, protective and enormously supportive boyfriend for some time (we’re still friends). Boy, was I lucky to fall on my feet like that!

  But it was hard to get used to being around urbane, well-off and sophisticated people like David and his brother, not to mention his brother’s terrifyingly chic girlfriend who worked for a Parisian fashion house. David tried to groom me as best he could, but I think it was amusing to them that I was so ignorant about fine food, cars, art or fashion, and frequently put my foot in it. The jetsettish side of life was a complete mystery to me. What the hell was a truffle? Who were Georgio and Karl? I pretended I knew. It was a bit like being back at SCEGGS, trying not to appear too crass beside all my fellow students from ritzier suburbs. I remember David trying to explain the concept of a Fabergé egg to me, but it was quite baffling. ‘I don’t get it,’ I said. ‘Why would anyone bother?’ I was mortified when, on our first date, he jumped out of his Porsche to buy me two dozen red roses from a street stall. Two dozen? That would pay my rent for a week. I was a kind of female Crocodile Dundee.

  David kindly took me on holiday to Ibiza with several friends and we all stayed in a wonderful villa overlooking the sea. The girls all took off their tops to sunbathe and I felt obliged to do the same. Burnt nipples from the Mediterranean sun? Backgammon by the pool played on a leather Asprey’s travel case? Did I want my sea bass on or off the bone in that trendy beach restaurant on Formantera? It was all so heady, confusing, and way out of my league. One day David told me a story about an American couple who had been somewhere outside London – Manchester, I think – and stopped a local person in the street. ‘Excuse me,’ they said, ‘is there a Harrods around here?’ He thought it was hilarious, but the humour completely escaped me. I was a FOB (that’s short for ‘Fresh Off the Boat’) but I wouldn’t even have known that at the time!

  And getting work in the UK was a whole other challenge. I was offered a few modelling jobs, but that was not what I was trained to do – and certainly not what I desired. A theatrical agent called Peter Dunlop, of Fraser & Dunlop, had seen me perform in The Threepenny Opera at the Sydney Opera House, so he took me on as a client of the agency. I appeared in a few commercials and took guest roles in some popular TV series, but for someone who had proved herself in serious roles it was a bit embarrassing to play the girl with a grenade down her bra in The Professionals. I seemed only able to get ‘glamour’ roles in popular TV series such as Space 1999, The New Avengers and Target.

  I really shouldn’t complain, because I was lucky to be earning money, but it was also excruciatingly uncomfortable to appear in truly dreadful C movies, like The Comeback with American singer Jack Jones. Eventually there were better things: The Man from the South in the Roald Dahl series (shot in Jamaica – director David Mallet was the first person in the UK to give me a decent job), a play at the Crucible Theatre in Sheffield – Celestina by Rojas – and eventually the role of Iris in the period drama Funny Man for Thames TV. I tried to get BBC drama work, but producers usually smirked when I went in to White City and read for them with my Australian accent. And, apparently, being straight off the banana boat was not just amusing, it was also slightly threatening. I had the feeling women in the UK were supposed to be sweet and unchallenging – and I was neither.

  For example, at a dinner party David took me to I was appalled to witness the host making fun of his girlfriend’s breasts. I hated to see her meekly putting up with this, so I loudly inquired, ‘Well, why don’t you tell us a bit about James’ cock? How big is it, and does it work?’ There was a terrible clanging as forks dropped, then silence. Everyone looked at James for a rebuttal. ‘The awkward thing about Awwstralians,’ he murmured, ‘is you can’t quite place them, socially.’

  Class was something I just could not understand. As an Australian, I had no point of reference for the notion. Oh, I had long recognized the hierarchy that can be created by levels of wealth, but that didn’t seem to apply in the UK. Why did people from different areas of such a small island group act and sound so diff
erent? There was a massive smugness about certain people, a kind of security of birth that truly irked me because it seemed unearned. But people at the other end of the scale seemed equally annoying in their willingness to kowtow to people they deemed ‘above their station’. I did, however, like the fact that, being from a classless society, I was given a little licence to ignore those boundaries myself.

  I was particularly mystified by what seemed to be a secret set of rules I could never learn, and hurt by the sniggers I received when I got it wrong. Bit by bit, I learned things like how one was supposed to eat artichokes and asparagus, how to compose a ‘thank you’ letter; that ‘serviette’ was bad, ‘napkin’ good; ‘lounge’ bad, ‘drawing room’ good. There was no end to the stupid protocol. ‘Who said it has to be “supper”?’ I would demand. ‘Who made up that rule, and why does it matter?’ It was as though a secret army of etiquette police might turn up any moment and snatch your fish knife from your middle-class fingers. ‘Seriously?’ I thought. ‘Does anyone really care?’ But it turned out they did. And I’m still confused about lavatory/loo/toilet/crapper/ bathroom/restroom. Might as well revert to the Australian ‘dunny’. The only thing I REALLY needed to know, I decided, was that a ‘stiffie’ wasn’t necessarily a sign some man was inordinately pleased to see me.

  With that attitude, my social education therefore made slow progress. And frankly, I still get it horribly wrong. I was actually oblivious to just how badly until fairly recently Prince Charles hit the nail on the head with ‘Pamela, your social skills are improving!’ It was a hilarious back-handed compliment that gave me a tiny insight into the depth of my Etiquette Deficiency Disorder. What is WRONG with me?

  My attempts to land work also made slow progress. One of the most ridiculous jobs I had in those days was making a commercial for a type of pen. The selling point for this pen was that it could write upside down – a dubious quality (who would need that?) but I was so eager for work I didn’t even question it. At the casting meeting, it was explained to me that if I were given the role I would be taken up in a World War II biplane. The pilot would perform a manoeuvre known as a ‘barrel roll’ and, when I was upside down, I would smile into the camera, demonstrate writing with the pen, and say some dialogue. I can’t even imagine what made me agree to such craziness, although, to be honest, it really didn’t seem that weird after the things I’d experienced in my life. And I seem to remember that I was so amused by their nonchalant effrontery that I sort of felt drawn to accept the challenge . . .

  Oh, come on, Pamela. Surely this was your adrenaline-junkie side, the part that uses the rush of danger and excitement to assuage your anxiety . . . ?

  I suppose you’re right. But I was not afraid of aeroplanes. My sister Claire had recently acquired her pilot’s licence (in fact, she had married an Australian teaching pilot), so I suppose I was thinking something along the lines of ‘How bad could it be?’

  I would soon find out. When the filming day arrived, I was taken to a small airfield somewhere in the countryside and introduced to a rather uninspiring pilot who seemed to have a problem with his middle ear. Now, just that fact alone would make most people run a mile, but I meekly followed him on to the tarmac, past all the rather well-maintained aircraft, until we reached something that looked as though it had been out of operation since Hitler was a threat. ‘We’d prefer you didn’t wear a flying helmet,’ said the director. ‘We want you to look as glamorous as possible. So you won’t be able to communicate verbally with the pilot when you’re in the air. But you can signal him in his dashboard mirror.’ ‘Why would I need to signal him exactly?’ I gingerly inquired. ‘Well, he’ll give you the thumbs up when the sun is at the right angle to light you and he’s ready to do the barrel roll. You signal back if you’re ready to switch on the camera.’ ‘Switch on the camera?’ I asked in amazement. ‘Isn’t there going to be a camera person on board?’ ‘Well, no,’ smiled the director uncomfortably. ‘There’s only room for two people.’ Duh. This was a biplane. The pilot was in the front seat and I’d be in the back. They had mounted a camera on the side, so I’d be responsible for switching it on. Then I’d do my dialogue, write with the pen while the plane was flying upside down and switch the camera off again when we were the right side up to save the battery. Easy peasy.

  Why in the world, I wonder now, didn’t an enormous red light start flashing inside my head at that moment? Amazingly, I just went along with it, trying to be as professional as I could. After I was clicked into my safety harness and given instructions about activating the parachute they’d attached to my back, we taxied to the runway and set off. At first I enjoyed the feeling of being in an open cockpit, unencumbered by a ceiling – or anything else that might prevent me from hurtling many thousands of feet to the ground below. The countryside was a patchwork of farms, fields, cottages and streams. Then, once the sunlight hit my right cheek it was time to try for a take. I returned the pilot’s signal and switched on the camera. Within a few seconds, the plane began to roll. Let me tell you, there is no feeling like that on earth. I had given little thought to what it would be like to hang upside down in a safety harness in a hurtling aircraft – let alone trying to write and say dialogue into a camera at the same time. The g-force pulled my facial skin backwards until I resembled a carp against a current. The blood rushed to my head, my brain barely functioned, and my limbs lost their motor skills. How did I manage to collect myself enough to carry out my ridiculous duties? I have no idea.

  We repeated the exercise several more times, then landed so the director could check the camera. ‘How are you doing?’ he asked. ‘Just dandy,’ I replied cheerily. The endorphins were beginning to click in. We took off again and continued to do those stunts – for that’s what they truly were – time and time again until the sun began to disappear. What, oh what, is WRONG with me?

  What did you learn about yourself?

  After we landed for the last time, the pilot confessed that this was the second attempt at making the commercial. The first attempt – with a model – had ended when the plane developed a mechanical problem and he’d been forced to land in a field. The model had decided life was too short and walked off in a huff. Smart girl, but obviously not someone who loves adrenaline as much as I do . . .

  Pamela, what did you learn about yourself?

  OK . . . At the end of that utterly mad day, I understood new truths about life and the human experience: 1. Adrenaline is powerful, fun, and thoroughly cheers you up. 2. Facing your mortality is powerful, fun, and thoroughly cheers you up. 3. Adventure, derring-do and even a little craziness are what make life worth living. I was on a high for weeks after that. I read Aleister Crowley’s Diary of a Drug Fiend twice (the protagonist is a pilot) and thought, like him, that I’d discovered the secret of the universe.

  I was sitting at home when the commercial came on TV some months later, and the friends I was with remarked that, apart from my weird, flapping cheeks, it looked like a studio set-up. So much for reality. When I told Billy that story – many years later – he gave me words of wisdom that have set himself in good stead whenever he’s enduring turbulence at 30,000 feet: ‘Och, it’s all OK – as long as you’re above maiming height.’

  So in London, it seems you not only began to throw yourself into establishing your career there, but it seems you continued your focus on personal growth and learning . . . ?

  No question. And I was lucky to come into contact with many people who influenced and helped me with that. For example, about a year after I first arrived in London a fellow Australian introduced me to Dr Germaine Greer. I was thrilled to meet one of my idols, and even more thrilled when, not long after, she very kindly allowed me to stay at her place. I was absolutely in awe of her. Not only had she been extremely inspirational to me from a distance, but up close and personal she was unbelievably brilliant. And she was formidable; I felt I could never match her in confidence, and was afraid of disappointing her through being a far-from-ideal lodger. In f
act, I began to be a little scared of her. One day she saw a press picture of me posing provocatively (black lacy dress, knickers showing) and expressed her distaste. I couldn’t even formulate the question I wanted to ask her, which was how could I present myself in a way that would get me noticed in order to get jobs, without coming across as a bimbo. I was so grateful for Germaine’s support, but I now understand she unwittingly reminded me of my mother, which stirred up painful feelings of being bad, unworthy and judged. And then . . . oh yes, she happened to say something disparaging about me publically that was actually pretty innocuous but I took it very badly . . .

  Certainly sounds like you projected your mother issues onto her . . .

  Yes. I did. And around about this time I started having fears about my body – especially about becoming seriously ill. At some level I actually knew it was irrational, but I still felt very afraid and imagined all kinds of things were wrong with me. I was constantly reading medical textbooks, which just made it worse, and a couple of times I consulted doctors who told me nothing was wrong . . . but I didn’t believe them . . .

  Your anxiety had begun to take the form of hypochondriasis?

  Yes. It was only for a short time – a few months at most but now, when I have patients who suffer from it, I really feel I can understand them. It’s terrible to be so sure you’re about to linger and die yet no one will take you seriously . . . God almighty – I’m realizing just how many kinds of mental health problems I’ve had – although it all really boils down to anxiety, doesn’t it? And trauma, which was really inflicted on me, wasn’t it?

  Hmm. What would it be like to think that you yourself were somehow at fault . . . ?

  Just terrible, although I suppose, if I could take some responsibility, I’d have a sense that next time it could be controlled . . .