by Rupert Smith
In fact, to my amazement, Phyllis seemed to be getting better and better. Soon he was up and about again, even taking Sugar for a walk along the river. This was not what I had expected at all. Instead of a dying man, suddenly – to my inexpressible joy – I had a hale and hearty, active, amorous pensioner on my hands.
Clearly, my unorthodox treatment was working. And if the mild ‘giggles’ that we’d allowed ourselves made him so much saner and stronger, think (I reasoned) what a more energetic approach to our relationship might achieve. I took to wearing my old leather jacket again, and even bought a nifty biker’s cap and boots to go with it. I strode around the house in this outfit while Phyllis chased me; this was the man who a few short weeks before had been unable to manage the stairs to the bathroom. Our friendly, man-to-man romps on the bed were lasting longer and becoming frankly taxing of my energies. He had the vitality of a lovestruck young man. I simply couldn’t believe what my innovative treatment was achieving.
As time wore on, he became more demanding. Soon our innocent dalliances weren’t enough, he craved stronger stimuli. Exhausted, I was forced to trawl through Soho’s specialist clothing shops seeking out costumes and props that would satisfy his ravenous appetite for novelty. Our home life, never orthodox, now became downright bizarre as I dressed myself in hoods, masks and chains, ‘disciplined’ Phyllis with a studded leather belt and a vicious ‘paddle’, allowed myself to be restrained with velvet ropes for which Phyllis had a thousand and one uses. Friends and colleagues remarked on my sunken eyes, my drawn expression; Willy Frizz complained that my hair was greasy and lifeless (‘comme un cochon’, as he put it). But I was willing to make almost any sacrifice to save Phyllis.
As in so many things, I was ahead of my time in this radical ‘homoeopathic’ approach to Phyllis’s illness. But alas! I lacked the support of a conservative medical establishment, and was forced to proceed without professional supervision (the doctor, a stickin-the-mud GP, still insisted that Phyllis needed nothing but rest, and that any stress was dangerous). Should I have listened to his advice? Would Phyllis still be alive today? Maybe. But he would have lived a long, unhappy life, unfulfilled and bitter. At least he died a happy, happy man.
The end, when it came, was as quick as it was unexpected. After nearly a month of our new regime, by which time I was frankly running out of ideas, we were indulging in a gruelling game of horsey up and down the living-room floor. First of all, Phyllis would ‘ride’ me as I panted, reared and whinnied, naked except for the leather ‘bit and bridle’ that I wore. Then we’d change places, and Phyllis would trot around as I sat astride his back and occasionally spurred him on with a smart cut of the whip. Just as he was about to take the first jump (he’d insisted on setting up a small steeplechase of chairs and coffee tables) he reared, snuffled and collapsed. ‘Bad horsey,’ I shouted, assuming that he was ‘refusing’ the fence in order to provoke my anger. ‘Giddy up, boy! Giddy up!’ I whacked him across the haunches with my cane. There was no response. I dismounted and stooped to examine him.
All I remember of that terrible moment was his twisted, crimson face, the tongue bursting out of his mouth, the staring eyes. It was too much; I blacked out, and came round with an awful start an hour later.
As soon as I was able, I dashed to the phone and called an ambulance, but by the time it arrived (many minutes later) it was too late. Who knows, those few, fatal minutes may have cost Phyllis his life. The paramedics took the pitiful body away on a stretcher; I’d dressed him in a decent pair of pyjamas, eager that he should have some dignity in death.
This was my first date with death. Over the years, I’d lose many loved ones, but Phyllis was my earliest, bitterest loss. ‘You don’t know what you’ve got till it’s gone’ goes the song. How true. Only when the house was empty did I realize the terrible void that Phyllis had left in my life, my heart. If it hadn’t been for little Sugar, constantly begging for attention, demanding walkies, I don’t think I would have made it. Certainly, life with Phyllis had never been easy; we’d fought almost constantly, and his demands had grown ever more pettish and bizarre. But now I realized that, deep down below the surface of our daily lives, there ran a current of pure, self-sacrificing love. I’m not ashamed to say that I loved the old man, not just as a son loves his (surrogate) father, but as a young, passionate boy loves an older, stronger, more experienced man. It was the Greek ideal, of which Phyllis had spoken so much in the early days. Without it, I was vulnerable, alone.
But how quickly the vultures gathered to pick over the bones! While I should have been left to the quiet dignity of grief, I was assaulted on all sides. First of all, there was the coroner’s inquest, which recorded an open verdict. A strange decision! If ever there was a death by natural causes it was this, an old man, with a history of mental and physical ills, paying the price for a brief game of snowballs in the winter garden of his senility. I was called in for hour upon hour of questioning – I who had done nothing but nurse Phyllis in the last weeks of his life! I nearly broke under the strain, and spent most of the time in tears. Certain ‘marks’ had been found on Phyllis’s body (how could I shame the dead by revealing details of our life together?); and there was the question of the 999 call. The coroner had ‘established’ (how I fail to see) that the time of death was long before the time of the call. Unbelievably, fingers began to point at me as some kind of culprit in Phyllis’s death.
Needless to say, the moment the police arrived at my house, the press were there to report every detail. Now I began to see the darker side of fame, the terrible hunger that feeds on pain, heartbreak and tears. What was this strange delight they took in my grief? For the first (and only) time in my life I wished that I was just plain Mark Young again, living an unremarkable life away from the glare of publicity.
Of course, nobody would come right out and accuse me of anything. The law, perverse as ever, prevented that outrage while persistently treating me as suspect number one in a murder case that didn’t exist. One by one, my so-called friends became distant. One frightful afternoon chez Willy Frizz I suffered the indignity of having my hair washed and hacked by a spotty-faced junior. I knew that I would be in social and professional Siberia until this confusion was cleared up. Each day, I was summoned back to the police station and forced to go over the details of Phyllis’s last days, to reveal the most private habits of a man whose memory I respected more than I valued my own freedom. I know now that I was a fool. By protecting Phyllis I was, in effect, lying to the police and getting myself into very hot water indeed. But it’s a mistake I’m not ashamed to have made.
Eventually there was even some talk of charges being brought, which would mean a trial, a barrage of negative publicity and the end of my career. During this horrible time, when I was most in need of support, I received a hideous shock from beyond the grave. Too ill to attend the funeral, I’d nevertheless managed to drag myself along to the solicitor’s office for the reading of the will, determined to do all in my powers to execute Phyllis’s final wishes. He had, as I knew, left me everything; but how little that ‘everything’ turned out to be! A few books, some valuable furniture (which had to be sold to pay bills) and the tenancy of the flat. The tenancy, that is, not the ownership. How deceived I had been! Phyllis’s maisonette, ‘my one possession, dear boy, my refuge and my dowry’, was his in name only; it belonged to the local council. I didn’t even have the comfort of property ownership to see me through my mourning; all I could cleave to was a complete Shakespeare and a few second-rate pornographic drawings.
Just as I had steeled myself to face ruin – prison, after all, couldn’t be any worse than the hell I was living in – suddenly, without explanation, the investigation was suspended. Phyllis’s death, which had been a matter of serious police concern, was now a closed file. When I reported to the station for my daily grilling by the detective inspector on the case, I was told by the desk sergeant to ‘run along and be a good boy’, I wouldn’t be required again.
/> I’ll never know what evidence had come to light to exonerate me from those terrifying false charges. But I realized straight away that Nick had a hand in my release. I phoned to tell him the good news, but he knew already and requested an immediate interview at his house.
Nick’s cold, calculating business sense under the most distressing circumstances will never cease to amaze me. He explained that the police had been made to ‘see sense’, that he had ‘a friendly chat’ with a friend in Scotland Yard (‘ a great admirer of yours, by the way’) who had been easily convinced that my continued persecution could do no good in the long run. How right he was! The conviction of an innocent man would only bring the force further into disrepute. I was delighted at first, but I soon realized that there was a price to pay for my freedom.
Without his assistance, Nick was quick to assure me, I would have been in prison by the end of the year. Thanks to him, I was free to carry on working as if nothing had happened. He, Nick, would get me back on my feet and continue to manage my career, but only on certain conditions. ‘Don’t rock the boat, Marc,’ he threatened in his silky, insinuating way. ‘A little harmless scandal is one thing, but a queer murder is a different matter. You’ve been a silly boy, but we’ll put that behind us now. Play the game my way and we’ll all be fine. But remember: you’re in my hands now.’
I was happy to agree. How could I do otherwise? And the first condition of my liberty was that I should go and say a personal thank you to Nick’s friend (my fan) in Scotland Yard, the high-ranking police commissioner who had struck such an important blow for truth, liberty and human rights.
It was hard to return to work so soon after my bereavement, but I knew I must. And, to my surprise, it saved my sanity. They speak of the power of ‘Doctor Theatre’, the miraculous healing force of our profession that I was feeling for the first time. And Nick was at hand with just the right prescription: job after job after job. The time had come to ‘cash in’ on my success in the Regular Guy adverts which had established me as a star, a force to be reckoned with; added to that was the novelty value accruing from my recent brush with notoriety, all of which made me irresistible to producers. Once again I was ‘making the rounds’, but this time, it was I who was doing the picking and choosing, considering the rival attractions of a dozen powerful, influential industry figures eager to work with me.
The vehicle I chose with which to announce my professional comeback was a stage play – yes, I, Marc LeJeune, who had turned my back on the stage, decided that the theatre was ready for me once again. After the dull-as-ditchwater tedium of the fifties, the theatre in the late sixties was once again the home of artists and innovators, where the moral and sexual issues of the day were debated in bold dramatic gestures. For my debut on the West End stage I selected a script from the many that had arrived at Nick’s office, a tense, brooding thriller entitled Kill Me, Darling. I was teamed with a top-flight supporting cast, all of them names familiar from the television, and a brilliant (if untried) director. We were booked for a short out-of-town run before our London opening in only six weeks time.
Kill Me, Darling was a daring blend of sex and violence, the like of which had never been seen on the British stage. I played Gary, a wealthy young playboy who is drawn into an obsessive sexual relationship with a much older woman, the beautiful French novelist Arlette (played con brio by my dear friend Noele Gordon). The action took place in Arlette’s suite at Claridge’s, her château in France and the Old Bailey, where I was tried for her murder after a fatal accident on a punt. The sensational climax of Kill Me, Darling, in which Arlette’s jealous lesbian sister confessed to the murder, thus freeing me to marry my home-town sweetheart, had audiences literally on the edge of their seats every night.
We got a wonderful reception in the provinces, where theatregoers are more honest in their appreciation of a fine dramatic entertainment. When we opened in London at the Savoy Theatre, excitement had reached fever pitch. Advance publicity ensured a full house for weeks to come, and had spewed up a forest of newspaper coverage, most of it bursting with enthusiasm. But every so often I’d notice with dismay the voice of carping criticism – that cancer that eats at the heart of every democracy A week before we were due to open at the Savoy, I read this in the Evening News:
What does it take to make a star these days? Not much, if the ecstatic reaction currently greeting out-of-town performances of lame whodunnit Kill Me, Darling is anything to go by. Lead Marc Lejeune is better known for his appearance in the scandal sheets (and, of course, for his famously regular bowel movements) than for his acting ability, but has turned his recent misfortunes to good effect with a sell-out tour. Londoners will have a chance to see for themselves when Kill Me, Darling staggers into the Savoy next week . . .
The Friday before we opened I saw another pustule of malice in the same paper.
Lock up your grandfathers! Marc Lejeune, star of laxative commercials and police reports, is bringing his special brand of acting to the Savoy in Kill Me, Darling (opens Tuesday). Expect queues of elderly gentlemen and teenage girls stretching back to Trafalgar Square for a few nights to come!
It didn’t take long for me to figure out that these ‘reports’ were from the poison pen of Paul ‘Pinky’ Stevens, a man who, in our occasional meetings at Willy Frizz’s King’s Road salon, I had thought was my friend. What had I done to upset him so much? Nick was philosophical. ‘At least they spelt your name right and said there’d be queues,’ he said.
Despite Pinky’s best efforts, Kill Me, Darling was a triumph. ‘Marc Lejeune takes the thriller into completely uncharted territory,’ raved one review, while another praised ‘his uncanny ability to deliver any line, however absurd, with the kind of boundless enthusiasm one usually sees only in small children and animals’. ‘Lejeune: the new Novello!’ began a report that Nick submitted to Vogue, Harpers and The Tatler (it finally appeared in a much edited form in The Stage). But it wasn’t just in the artistic sphere that Kill Me, Darling was a success. It played for three months to good houses, ensuring a bountiful return for the investors and proving my pulling power as a West End star. At the closing night party, Nick thrust a new contract into my hand: never again, it seemed, would I be out of work.
We rang down the curtain on Kill Me, Darling on a Thursday evening in February 1967; the following Monday I was back in rehearsal preparing for an even more challenging role, my comic debut in the farce There Were Three in the Bed. So far, my experience had been limited to dramatic roles: the tragic grandeur of Cleopatra, the dark genius of Orpheus, the triumphant innocence of Gary. But here was a new side to me – a talent for light comedy I confess that I was nervous as we went into rehearsals for There Were Three in the Bed, doubting my ability to match the brilliant supporting cast. But I needn’t have worried: at the end of the first readthrough the actors, the director, even the wardrobe mistress were in stitches. I had swapped the mask of tragedy for the mask of comedy with ease.
There Were Three in the Bed is, in retrospect, among my best work. There was nothing experimental or daring about it: this was classic, timeless English farce. The script had the brilliance of Molière, the insouciance of Coward, the pathos of Rattigan. I played Ben, a roguish young fashion designer used to getting his way with the women he works with, until one day he falls under the spell of a mysterious young model, Magda, protege of the elderly Russian couturier Count Mushkin. At a weekend party at Mushkin’s vast country estate, Magda and Ben are surprised in bed by Andrei, Mushkin’s handsome young son and Magda’s official fiance – and Ben’s exact double. A fast-paced comedy of mistaken identities ensues, before Ben, Magda and Andrei run away to Cap d’Antibes in Mushkin’s private yacht.
It was a happy production, and I was glad to discover a kindred spirit in the actor who played Andrei, a molto sympatico colleague and friend who was my constant support through a difficult production that stretched me in every direction. Once again we ‘tried out’ in the provinces before coming to London, a
nd the familiar pattern emerged. We had full houses, the public and press loved us – everywhere but in London. Just as we were toasting the first night reviews at our hotel in Cardiff, Nick came in clutching the Evening News. Once again, Pinky had dipped deep into the vitriol.
Connoisseurs of exquisite theatre will be thrilled to know that Marc LeJeune, idol of the pink poodle brigade, is once again London-bound in a new vehicle, the tantalizingly named There Were Three in the Bed. Mr LeJeune, we are told, is flexing his comic muscles after the dramatic excesses of Kill Me, Darling emptied out the Savoy Theatre some weeks back. The producers of Three in the Bed must have heard the bellows of laughter from the stalls and decided to put them to good use. Opens 6 April.
I was hurt, I won’t deny it, but it hurt a little less this time. Whatever lies he told about me, one great truth remained: I was an artist with a growing reputation and an adoring public, whereas Pinky Stevens was a two-bit hack on a despised tabloid newspaper. I was a legend in the making; he’d be wrapping tomorrow’s fish and chips.
