by Rupert Smith
Alongside this terrible realization came another awareness. For the first time, I saw the crucial role that women had played in my life. While men (from my father onwards) had abused, exploited and sought to kill me, women had been my saviours, nurturing and protecting me. First there was my mother, who tried to stand between me and my tyrannical father. Did she know of our ‘secret’? Or did she simply sense the pain in her child? Then there was Sue, the feminine counterpart to Nutter – and what a difference was there! Nutter was cold, incapable of loving; Sue was open, warm and spontaneous, an angel of light who had tried to lead me out of my adolescent darkness. Why did I spurn her?
The pattern continued. Janice, who had literally sacrificed her life for me. My new friends in the house, who had taken me in as a motherless child. And above them all, like a guardian angel in human form, my wife Anna. She who had given me so much, asked for so little, and had finally brought me to this intense personal reawakening. My life had been a battle between the male (destructive) energy and the female (creative) energy, and finally, the women had claimed me as a child of the light. I felt literally born again.
I realized through Anna that my New York years – when, incidentally, I’d been entirely bereft of female company – had almost destroyed me. As part of the healing process, she encouraged me to foreswear male friends. At first it was difficult, but after a few weeks of chastity, I felt a growing sense of relief. Rid of the constant itch, I discovered a new set of rhythms, a gentler energy that I shared with the women in the house. They too had decided to live without sex, to choose celibacy as a positive option and to channel their energies into growth and self-development. Hence the vast amount of knitting.
Life without sex soon became a positive joy. I felt – we all felt – so superior to those people outside the house who ran themselves ragged in the search for transient, humiliating pleasures. When we sat together after a meal and watched television, we’d turn over if a sexual situation arose; it just seemed to disrupt the flow of energy in the house. ‘I can’t believe that people get themselves tangled up in those ridiculous positions!’ commented one of the girls when we’d accidentally stumbled across a love scene on BBC2. ‘I mean, men just look so silly without their clothes on!’
Eventually, television was banned from the house altogether. This was the result of one of the many democratic ‘house meetings’ around which our home life revolved. We held meetings to discuss every issue that affected our lives, from the non-smoking policy (I had to sneak out for a walk if I wanted a cigarette) to the cooking and cleaning rota. There were meetings to arrange meetings. We’d sit around the kitchen table in a sweet haze of fruit tea hammering out the issues of the day, discussions that could become surprisingly heated, considering that everyone in the house agreed with everyone else. What excited them was the democratic process, strictly observed and minuted to the last detail. Motions had to be properly proposed and seconded; in fact, a motion had to be passed to introduce a new motion, thus doubling the amount of meeting time. Emergency motions could be introduced to veto certain discussions (for instance the suggestion by one mentally ill house member, soon to leave, that we might have a party). My role was minimal; to balance my natural masculine tendency to dominate the meeting, I was only given half a vote.
It wasn’t just in the domestic sphere that I’d embraced a strong female influence. Looking around me in the months after my return from New York, I saw a city falling apart at the seams, torn by political strife and civil unrest, a city eaten alive by greed and envy. This, then, was the achievement of our great parliamentary system, that conclave of old men: to set class against class, race against race, man against woman. What the country needed, I saw clearly, was a new style of leadership, a woman’s touch. Men had led the country through depression, war and long, bitter strikes; now it was time for a woman to take us into a new age of growth and enlightenment. And suddenly, behold the woman! At the general election in May 1979 I voted (for the first time in my life!) for Margaret Thatcher.
I’ve been heavily criticized in recent years for my support of Mrs Thatcher, mostly by trendy middle-class academics who can’t understand her grass roots appeal. But for a patriotic, working-class boy like me, she was the obvious choice. I loved my country (I’d been away too long!) and it pained me to see it falling apart. The young were desperate, disillusioned (‘No future!’ they cried); the old, so many of them war heroes, were being left to rot. I didn’t want to live in a land run by small-minded northern shop stewards! My England was a country of individual opportunity, where people with talent could rise to the top, a country I was proud to call my home. Strangely, when I mentioned my enthusiasm for Mrs Thatcher to the rest of the household, I was met with shocked silence and hostile stares. I decided to spend election night watching the results in a wine bar in Hampstead.
I’ll never forget the atmosphere that evening. There was an excitement I hadn’t felt since I was in the thick of the Grosvenor Square riots. And once again I knew instinctively that we were on the cusp of great change.
The bar was bustling with the typical Hampstead crowd – educated, well-heeled people with whom I felt immediately at home. They were young, smart, out for a good time – judging by the amount of champagne consumed. They were hungry – for success, for pleasure, for the chance to spread their wings and make something of their lives. How I understood that! I who had seized every opportunity, good or bad, right or wrong – it was the challenge that counted! As the results came in, it became clear that we were witnessing a landslide. Mrs Thatcher was swept to power on a wave of optimism, generously toasted by the real workingpeople, the people who had the guts to make their own decisions in life. Goodbye, Grey Britain! Hello again, Great Britain! I felt an intense pride in the knowledge that I’d played my part in this historic event.
Throughout the evening, I’d been vaguely conscious of someone watching me. I was used to it: plenty of people recognized me, staring and whispering to their friends. It didn’t bother me; unlike a lot of stars, I’ve always been flattered by public attention. It’s part of the job. But this particular fan was taking an unusual interest, watching (it seemed) my every move. Finally I caught her eye and held her gaze for a few seconds. She smiled. She was an attractive woman of forty or so, with curly, shoulder-length auburn hair, pale white skin and dark eyes framed by the biggest pair of spectacles, in bright red plastic, that I had ever seen. She was with friends (I’d heard her chatting and laughing raucously) and obviously liked a good time: any woman of her age who wears a mini-coat in fake zebra must have a sense of humour. The waitress came over to my table and announced that ‘the lady over there’ would like to buy me a drink. Normally I wouldn’t have gone to a fan’s table (they come to me, sit or stand for a few minutes then leave happily clutching an autograph) but I’d noticed that she was drinking some rather good champagne.
As soon as I approached, she stood up and offered me her hand; she had a firm, hearty handshake. ‘It’s Marc LeJeune, isn’t it?’ she asked (she had a New York accent). The question didn’t seem to require an answer. ‘And you are?’
‘Rosalyn Vincent. Everyone calls me Ginger. Join me! Let’s see if we can talk a little business.’
All my life I’ve worked with the best: they just seem to be naturally attracted into my orbit. ‘Ginger’ Vincent was – is – a byword in entertainment circles. I soon learned that she was an agent and manager with top-class contacts in television and an impressive client roster; she mentioned a breathtaking list of names in the first five minutes of our conversation. I admit now (and we’ve laughed about this since) that at first I thought Ginger was a charlatan, a mouthy New York name-dropper, a practice which I’ve always found tedious and unprofessional. But it was nice to be recognized, and to be treated to such good wine (it had been a long, long time since I’d tasted vintage champagne). I even allowed myself the luxury of believing Ginger’s suggestion that she could get me some television work. But when I found her busi
ness card in my trouser pocket the next morning, I was more realistic: just another bunch of empty promises.
I was wrong. Two days after we first met and exchanged numbers, the phone rang. I wasn’t on phone duty in the house that night (like all domestic duties, the telephone was ruled by a rota), so Ginger was interrogated by one of my housemates before being put through to me. ‘Jesus, Marc, who was that crazy dyke?’ were her first words, before asking me to lunch the next day. ‘I’ve got something for you. Nothing big, but it’s a start. Come round to my place at about one.’ She gave an impressive address in Hampstead and rang off.
The house was palatial (‘Just a present from an ex-husband, honey’) and Ginger ushered me into her conservatory-office, a glass-roofed sun trap that overlooked an extensive back garden with tall trees and well-tended borders. Charlatan or not, this woman was doing well for herself. She’d answered the door wearing a huge pair of sunglasses (‘The party only finished yesterday morning’) and opened a chilled bottle of Frascati as soon as we sat down. Lunch – a delicious selection of Mediterranean snacks – was served by a maid (‘My PA, Caroline’). Ginger didn’t beat about the bush; as soon as I was enjoying my first stuffed vine leaf she got straight down to business.
‘It’s a game show. It’s not much, but it’s a start. What do you say?’
I knew (and she knew) that I was going to say yes. But I didn’t want to appear too eager. I asked for details of the pay, the format, the contract, all the while bursting with delight that British TV had ‘rediscovered’ me! I haggled. I questioned Ginger about her interest in the deal – what would she get out of it? She named her terms; I accepted. I questioned details of repeat fees, hospitality, transport to and from the studio. She was refreshingly direct.
‘Listen, Marc, it’s a telly job. Frankly, in your position, I don’t think we have too much bargaining power. Shall we just say yes?’ I said yes.
I’d never given much consideration to game shows as a medium. At home, of course, they were the subject of derision – ‘mindless soma’ and ‘sickeningly sexist’. But game shows gave pleasure to millions, and I’ve always been a performer who’s happier with a grass roots audience. It’s easy for academics to sneer at quizzes, soaps and sitcoms, but if that’s what the people want then that’s good enough for me.
And this wasn’t just any old game show. Secrets was a radical new concept. The format’s familiar to everyone now that the show’s a hit (and I still enjoy my occasional guest appearances when I can afford the time – so rarely these days!), but back in 1979 it was such a radical departure that the ITV schedulers buried it in the afternoon. A panel of ordinary people are told a secret about a mystery celebrity – anything from a childhood prank to a major medical problem – and then have to guess who the celebrity is. In the last round the celebrities guess which one of the panellists is concealing the final secret. I was a natural choice for the show because, as Ginger wittily remarked, I had enough secrets to keep the show going for ten years!
I signed the contract for an initial appearance fee of £200 and was in the studio by the end of the week. And I had terrible, terrible pre-show nerves! I of all people, who had been in work non-stop since childhood, found myself practically throwing up when the car arrived. I hadn’t been able to discuss my feelings about the job with any of my housemates, even Anna – I just knew that they wouldn’t, couldn’t understand the pressures that an actor is under when faced with a new job. So I’d kept it all bottled up inside, unwilling to admit my fears to Ginger (‘It’ll be a breeze, Marc, you’ll be in and out in a couple of hours’). What was I so afraid of? I still don’t know. Failure, perhaps? But that had never frightened me before. True, it was a long time since I’d played to a home crowd; had my English fans forgotten me?
Whatever the reason, I arrived pallid and sweating at the Teddington studios where Secrets was recorded in front of a live audience. I felt confused, disorientated. I didn’t know where to go, who to report to; it was as if I’d never been inside a television studio before in my life! I got hopelessly lost somewhere between security and reception, and ended up stumbling across the Secrets audience, who were waiting in a queue to the rear of the building. Like audiences all over the world, they were helpful and supportive, and put me in the care of a friendly young assistant producer who finally got me to make-up.
I thought the smell of the panstick would bring my confidence back, but I was mistaken. If anything, it made me worse. I sat there staring at myself in the mirror, watching the familiar tan base go on, and all I could see were my own watery eyes staring back at me. I wanted to run out of the building, go home, hide. But I couldn’t.
Finally I found myself in the green room waiting to go on. I sat in a corner gulping down a coffee, wishing that there was something a little stronger to steady my nerves, although it was only eleven o‘clock in the morning. I was sweating through my make-up; I must have looked terrible. Then I felt a reassuring hand on my shoulder. I looked round and saw a tall, handsome, dark-haired man smiling down at me. ‘It’s all right, Marc. You’re going to be fabulous, I just know it. I’m Noel.’
Ah, Noel, the Secrets host and chairman-Ginger had mentioned the name. I forced a smile and tried to buck myself up. ‘I’m just preparing, you know,’ I ventured, my quavering voice betraying my nerves. In reply he grinned, pulled a hip flask out of his pocket and handed it to me. It was neat vodka, strong and odourless. ‘I get nervous as a kitten every time,’ he said. ‘Go on, have a drop of mother’s ruin.’
A look of pain flitted across his face, so transient that only a seasoned observer could have spotted it. I took a deep swig and handed the flask back to Noel. Noel. Noel. The name was bugging me. And there was something familiar about the face: the big blue eyes, the dark lashes, the dazzling smile. But he was so young, in his early twenties at the very most. He would have been a child when I left for New York. How could I possibly have met this dapper young man in his sharp, double-breasted, three-piece suit before?
He read my mind. ‘You haven’t figured it out yet have you?’ I shook my head. His eyes twinkled. ‘It’s Noel, Uncle Marc. Noel Jones.’
Noel Jones! Of course: the eyes, the smile, the bearing of a star in one so young. This was Janice Jones’s boy, that poor little ghost of a child who had needed a father so badly. An orphan now, like myself. And a child no longer! I grabbed the flask out of his hand and took another long swig. Mother’s ruin indeed! Yes, booze had been the death of Janice, that was for sure. The sweet sadness of that memory came rushing back to me. I stood and grasped him by the shoulders, gazing in wonder. Janice Jones’s son! The years slipped away and it was the sixties all over again. I felt a warm rush of confidence. Everything was going to be all right. We embraced.
Buoyed up by this emotional discovery, I performed brilliantly. I was witty, flirtatious, slightly naughty. My ‘secret’ (‘This king of the charts once played Shakespeare’s queen of Egypt’ – they’d certainly done their research!) was guessed after much hilarity by one of the female panellists (who, it later transpired, was the mother of a notorious child-killer – the public’s lives are so much more interesting than ours!). Noel and I had a few words on camera, and I joined my fellow guests on the celebrity desk. The switchboard was jammed with calls from well-wishers, and I was rebooked.
Noel sent a huge bouquet of red roses to my dressing room (‘To my favourite ever Uncle, love Noel XXX’) and collared me as I was getting into my car to ask me out to dinner. I had the feeling that somehow I ought to make up to him for all the hardship he’d known as a child. Yes, he had confidence and poise on the surface, but I knew it couldn’t have been easy for him. Janice had neglected him shamefully, palming him off on a series of totally unsuitable nannies and boyfriends. Like me, he was a survivor of child abuse.
From the moment I met Noel in the restaurant I knew that there was more on his mind than old times. He was dressed to kill: a tight white T shirt showed off the fruits of hours in the gym; thi
ckly muscled, hairy forearms were well tanned and accessorized with gold bracelets. When I arrived (he’d got there early, he was half-way through a bottle of wine already) he leapt up to greet me with a bear hug and a discreet peck on either cheek. This was no ordinary, friendly dinner; this was a full-blown date. Of course, I was flattered; Noel was many years my junior, a rising star in his own right and, I had to admit, a very attractive man. His physique was offset by a light, frivolous sense of humour and, of course, a reminder of his mother in every feature.
I tried to keep things on an even keel; I asked Noel about his working life, his professional ambitions. But he wasn’t interested in talking shop.
‘I’ve never forgotten you in all these years, Marc.’
I didn’t know how to reply. ‘I’ve often thought of you too, Noel.’
‘Have you? I wonder if you’ve thought of me in quite the same way as I think of you?’
I began to see where this was leading. ‘How can we ever really know what someone else is thinking?’ I was playing for time, uncertain of how to proceed. On the one hand I knew this was wrong; I was trying so hard to avoid dangerous relationships, and had even taken vows of celibacy in a ceremony back at the house. But it was sweet – oh, so sweet! – to be on the receiving end of a little romantic attention after such a long, long time.
