by Rupert Smith
In truth, I felt well enough to go home after a couple of weeks in hospital, but by then Intensive Care had a momentum of its own. The producers were adamant that I should stay with the series for the full six weeks, and booked me into a private bed. The catering certainly improved: soon I was having my meals brought in from a Hampstead trattoria by a selection of delightful Italian waiters, whose lively renditions of tenor arias and duets became a popular nightly feature.
I thrived on the exposure. I’m never happier than when I’m working, and now I could work all day, every day, without even getting out of bed. But of course it couldn’t last forever. The day came when the film crew departed and Intensive Care came to an end, closing a remarkable chapter in television history. I returned home, feeling better than I’d felt in years, expecting to resume my quiet, low-key life where I’d left off, happy in the knowledge that millions of people still loved and remembered me. But of course this was not to be. I hadn’t been out of hospital for a month when I was back in again, but this time the ‘ward’ was in the BBC Television Centre, and I wasn’t just one of the patients – I was one of the Patients.
It was the first show of its kind: a drama series set entirely in a big-city hospital, with each episode revolving around a series of exciting adventures and romances as they developed against the thrill-a-minute medical background. There would be new characters in each instalment, some of them lasting a few weeks, some of them dying dramatically on the operating table. And then there were the real stars of the show: the regulars who watched and commented on the action, like a Greek chorus to the triumphs and tragedies that were ‘business as usual’ for the staff. I had been pencilled in for the part of Geoffrey, a terminal patient receiving hospice care. And that wasn’t all: Geoffrey was dying of Aids. Did I dare accept the role? There was never a moment’s doubt in my mind.
Ever since I’d last seen John in New York City – or before that, when I’d seen young kids wasting away in the early eighties – I’d felt that I needed to do my bit to fight the prejudice and ignorance surrounding this devastating modern plague. When the press reported that I had Aids I was naturally furious; but there’s a big difference between having Aids and playing a person with Aids, and I felt that if I as an actor could do something to help it was my duty to do so. Ginger put it so well when she outlined the offer to me. ‘They want you to play a guy who’s dying of Aids. It’s the only role for you in the show. What do you say ?’
How right she was: it was the only role for me, and I was the only actor for the role. Who else could bring such compassion, such courage to the part ? And I’d done my research in New York City: nobody could know better than me the conflicting emotions that come with this sentence of death.
Patients wasn’t due to start filming until after Christmas, but I was keen to get cracking – and so was Ginger. She hustled the producers like a woman possessed, phoning every half an hour to insist that deadlines were brought forward, that pre-production time should be ruthlessly cut in order to start shooting right away, ‘to capture the immediacy’, she explained. And Ginger, once she’s got hold of an idea, is impossible to shake off. Even the might of the BBC couldn’t withstand her: we went into rehearsals at the end of August and were shooting the first episode in September.
The schedule was more gruelling than I had anticipated. Some Patients fans have jokingly said that I must have the easiest job in television: I spend my whole time in bed and occasionally potter off down the corridor or disappear for ‘tests’. And I take that as a compliment: the hardest thing in the world, as anyone in the business knows, is to make it look easy But the challenge of playing Geoffrey – a man different from me in so many ways – was great indeed. Here was a character so light and frothy on the surface, always ready with a bright remark, a joke with the nurses, a compassionate ear for the other patients, who, underneath, is facing a lonely death. Geoffrey never has any visitors. At one script conference it was suggested that he should have a male friend who came to see him, but this was vetoed. That was right: Geoffrey is essentially a lonely character. He hides his pain. He pretends all is well when really he’s scared. His reaction to illness is one of complete denial. As we galloped through rehearsals, I realized that I’d taken on more than I expected.
But the answer to a challenge is always yes. Even when I discovered that Patients was to be twice weekly, thus doubling at a stroke the number of lines I had to learn and the hours in the studio, I took it in my stride. After all, I’m still young and capable of hard work – and, as an actor, I’m in my prime. I threw myself into Patients body and soul. Once shooting was underway, I was working tenor even twelve-hour days, with weekends totally given over to learning lines.
But it was bliss ! Patients was an instant success, and my performance was singled out for special praise. I won’t repeat the reviews – they’ve been reprinted enough times in any case – but I was thrilled to see that people had taken tragic Geoffrey to their hearts. When, after a few weeks, he became sick and hovered at death’s door, the BBC was swamped with letters from fans demanding his recovery. I became a permanent invalid superstar. My fan mail from real-life hospitals and hospices was enough to convince me that I was doing important work. ‘You’ve given me a reason to live,’ wrote one fan. ‘I survive from Tuesday to Thursday to Tuesday again. Thank you.’
Yes, there was some criticism of Patients – I expected it. ‘Morbid’ and ‘voyeuristic’ were the terms most commonly used, and Geoffrey was singled out as ‘a sickening stereotype of the gay man as victim’. Yes, there would always be those who resented my success. But they couldn’t argue with the ratings: two million by Easter, five million by the end of the first year, ten million by the end of the second. Patients became the show that everyone talks about, a microcosm for the health of the nation – and Geoffrey’s right there at the heart of it. We received the highest form of flattery: a host of new medical dramas seeking to imitate our success. That was nice, but not as nice as the secret visit of Her Royal Highness the Princess of Wales to the studio, where she quietly sat and watched the taping of an episode and afterwards found time to chat for a few minutes.
It’s things like that that kept me going through my gruelling schedule. After six months, I was desperate for a holiday, but no sooner had we finished shooting the first series of twenty-three programmes than we were in rehearsal again. I would have carried on working, sacrificing myself to satisfy the public, but, to my intense dismay, my health broke down as winter drew on. Simple exhaustion brought on a recurrence of my bronchial problems.
The second series went ahead without me; Geoffrey was ‘in California’ trying out some alternative therapies for six weeks. When I finally returned to the show, the ratings soared. The papers commented on my ‘drawn, emaciated’ appearance – actually a combination of careful diet and a brilliant job by the make-up department, who could make me look quite cadaverous with deft use of panstick.
Ginger was by my side every step of the way, making sure I received the best medical attention available during my illness, ferrying me to the studio every day She fought for me at every turn, persuading the producers to give me more lines and bigger scenes, negotiating an increased salary for me when the ratings reached certain crucial levels. And as if that wasn’t enough, she engineered a career for me outside the series: I became a non-executive director of a number of charities, medical and research companies, drawing a salary simply for the use of my name on the letterhead and a certain amount of free publicity. I made personal appearances at fund-raising galas, attended conferences and even gave an interview to Hello ! magazine, for which Ginger negotiated a handsome fee. I blessed the day I met her, way back in 1979. Ever since then, she’s devoted herself to ‘making the most out of you, kid’, as she puts it.
And it’s Ginger that you have to thank for the book that you’re now holding in your hands. No, I would never have thought of writing a book if it hadn’t been for her insistence, her vision. My life�
�s been exciting, of interest to a few historians and die-hard fans, perhaps, but I’d never have imagined that my little struggles to earn a living in show business could be of major literary importance. Ginger persuaded me otherwise. ‘You’re unique, Marc. You’ve blazed a trail through the twentieth century that others have followed. You’re a survivor, an original. You can’t let that amazing life of yours be forgotten. You owe it to us to tell your story for posterity It’s a best-seller, I just know it!’
Gradually, I came round to Ginger’s point of view – as I’ve said, she’s a very forceful woman. I started carrying a notebook, jotting down memories on the set of Patients. The more I wrote, the more I remembered. Soon, a notebook wasn’t enough: Ginger bought me a tape recorder into which I’d whisper my reminiscences about my childhood, the madness of the sixties, my years at the top and the tough times when life seemed to be against me. Yes, I began to realize, I have lived a unique and important life. Soon the process of remembering and recording began to absorb me, to obsess me. Those voices from the past! How loudly they called to me. When Ginger presented me with a contract from a leading publishing company, I was eager to sign. By that time, I would have written the book money or no money. It had become the last challenge in a life full of challenges. To the long list of my achievements – actor, model, singer, dancer – add Marc Lejeune, author!
Three months have elapsed since I wrote the above, three months in which I’ve had plenty of time for reflection. Overwork brought on another bout of that tiresome chesty cough (I put it down to the filthy London air – what are we doing to the planet ?) and I was out of action, too poorly even to dictate my memoirs to the secretary that Ginger has provided for me, a charming young chap called Simon, an aspiring actor, reminiscent of the young Nutter. What stories Simon has heard! He knows more about me than anyone else now (yes, there are stories that even I won’t publish!) and has become a dear, dear friend. Could Simon’s life turn out to be as exciting as mine ? Can life be that exciting as we hurtle towards the end of the millennium ? Whatever the young do today, there’s always someone who’s ‘been there, done that’ as the T shirts say I feel sorry for them. I suppose I was just in the right place at the right time.
But where was I? Yes, indisposition has required that I take another short break from Patients – much to the distress of my legions of fans (they’ve been so kind) and the producers, who would have taken me to the studio in an ambulance if they thought they could get another day’s work out of me. They’ll just have to get along without me, even if the ratings dip when Geoffrey’s ‘having treatment’. Ginger’s promised them that I’ll be back in action by the end of this week. I can’t wait! I hate inactivity – ‘resting’, as we actors call it. I certainly feel well enough to get back to the studio, as long as I can take it easy I’m a bit shaky on my feet but that’s just lack of exercise. Simon’s got me doing a twenty-minute aerobics session every day with his Cher tape, and I can feel my energy levels returning. A friend of Anna’s comes in twice a week for aromatherapy sessions, and she works wonders! My doctor is sceptical (‘At least it can’t do any harm,’ was all he’d say) but I know I’ve stumbled across something important. I’ve always been willing to try new things, things that the establishment frowns on. Wouldn’t it be funny if, this late in life, I were to discover a cure ? A cure for chronic chest complaints would be of universal benefit.
So, I’ve spent a lot of time thinking about my life recently. Simon’s been reading over the chapters that I’ve already written – a strange experience, hearing my life unfold like a story book. So much love, so much pain. But in the end, it all came out for the best. At least my story has a happy ending: I’m at the top of my career, surrounded by people who love me. How many can say that?
But the greatest gift of all is the lesson of humility and forgiveness that life has taught me. Yes, there were people in my life who hurt me, but now at last I can understand them, even love them.
First there were my parents, typical products of a sexually repressed generation, narrow-minded and afraid. In them the warmth and spontaneity of our working-class heritage had been ground away, leaving me with a deadlier legacy – the terrible memories of satanic abuse. How many others hide this secret ? And yet when I try to think of my parents now, I can hardly see them in my mind; just a vague picture of cold, loveless people, forced by prejudice to betray the one person who truly loved them.
Then there was Nutter, my dearest, oldest friend, who never had the courage to face up to the one thing in his life that he really wanted – me. His youthful dreams of stardom washed away in a flood of drugs and booze and cheap sex, he sold his soul in adult life for grim, crushing respectability. Frightened of his own desires, he let his one chance of happiness slip through his fingers.
And Phyllis – I was a mere child when I fell under his spell. Perhaps he loved me; I sometimes think he’s the only one who ever really did – after all, he sacrificed his life for me. But it’s a shock now to listen to these cold, clinical accounts of our life together, as Simon reads them back to me with a tremor in his voice and a flush on his cheek. How open to misconstruction! Ours was in fact an innocent relationship, although I see now that in the world’s eyes it looked irregular, even criminal. Oh, I didn’t care in those days! I was young, innocent, with no thought for tomorrow. And suddenly: a friendship cut short, a burden of guilt that I would carry for the rest of my life, the parting gift of a sick old man. Even now I can see the glimmer of suspicion in people’s eyes. I did not kill Phyllis! Will the past never let me go?
Nick and Janice, my twin satellites through the madness of the sixties. Janice was a tiny talent who wanted so much more from the world than she deserved, and ended up destroying herself rather than letting go of her dreams. And Nick, who turned all his energies to a grasping, unprincipled quest for money, but who created almost by accident something wonderful, who launched my frail bark on the stormy waters of show business, and gave the world a handful of photographs – little enough in themselves – that record a beauty that time and sickness can not destroy. Recently I surprised Simon with a gift – a vintage copy of Super Boys – so he could see me in my prime. I watched him as he turned the pages, his excitement writ large. He said I was ‘hot’. I still am! Where is Nick now, I wonder – an old man as he must be. Smaller, frailer, still sporting that chestnut wig, unaware to this day that people laugh at him in the street.
I know perfectly well what’s happened to Pinky: he remains at Her Majesty’s pleasure for a few more years. Poor Pinky: a vindictive ‘closet queen’, so envious of those of us with the courage to live our lives openly and without shame. I wonder if they’re allowed to watch Patients in their cells.
And finally, poor John Kinnell. Simon (who knows about these things) tells me that John ended his days a superstar in the art world, the subject of long eulogies in highbrow magazines. His photographic work from the seventies to the nineties is highly regarded – and yes, those portraits of me, taken in the first flush of our affair, are his masterpieces. Strange to see a snapshot of one’s life held up as an icon. We were both young then and very much in love. But our paths diverged: John embraced the dark side, promiscuous, amoral, daring fate to do its worst. And John, alas, died last year; may he find peace at last. But I chose life. I’m still here.
And here’s Ginger, always by my side, always encouraging me to work, work, work. And she has news for me, news that I can exclusively reveal through the pages of this book! Yes, I am sad to announce that this is to be the last series of Patients – for me, at least. The time has come for me to move on to my next (my greatest?) project, but more of that later. First of all there’s the news of my dramatic exit from Patients. Ginger promises ‘a television event that will be talked about in a hundred years!’ What could it be ?
I have been back at work now for – a number of weeks, I think, although the days are so busy that I’ve little opportunity to count the passing time. And less time than I’d
like to finish my autobiography ! But finish it I must, for the next challenge is awaiting me, the project that will finally vindicate me, that will ensure my immortality. Ginger announced with delight that a major film production company has picked up the option on this book – before it’s even finished! – and now Simon and I are happily working on draft ‘treatments’. Of course, there are things that will have to be changed. Truth and honesty have always been my watchwords, but I know (who knows better!) that there are just some things that won’t ‘work’ on screen. Chapters of this book will have to be rewritten before publication. There are certain episodes in my life that I do not want paraded before cinema audiences as some cheap form of entertainment. Print the legend!
Patients goes from strength to strength. Now that I’m back in the saddle it’s once again the most popular show in Great Britain, and I believe that it’s successful all over the TV-watching world as well. And I’m the star of the show. I have so many lines to learn these days. It’s as if my whole life is given to the show. I’m Geoffrey twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week! It’s enough for me, as long as that’s what the fans want. And I’m preparing to give them something unique, perhaps the greatest and most daring piece of television they will ever be lucky enough to witness. Yes, Geoffrey will die on screen. Finally, my audiences will be forced to go through the grief and pain of death, a pain I’ve known so many times in my life. They’ve begged me over and over again not to let Geoffrey die. But nobody lives forever! And it’s time for me to move on. To tell you the truth, living with the character of Geoffrey is dragging me down. I’ve spent so much time in a sickbed, I’ve almost come to feel at times that I’m sick myself. Geoffrey has become a terrible weight around my shoulders, like the Old Man of the Sea. Thank God I’ve got Simon beside me to help me learn my lines and keep a grip on reality.
