Mrs Maclaughlan was a member of a theatre club, and often went up to Nottingham to see productions. She suggested she take me there to try and meet John Neville, who was the director of the Nottingham Playhouse. I knew nothing much about theatres then, but I soon discovered that the Playhouse was one of the finest repertory theatres in England at the time, and its reputation was solely due to the work of the director. John Neville became very famous for his work as an actor and director. He went to Ontario, Canada, and founded the Stratford Theatre there, which became very well known throughout the world, thanks to his productions. He also had great success as an actor and was knighted. The last film I remember seeing him in was Baron Munchausen, the Terry Gilliam film.
So off Mrs Maclaughlan and I went to Nottingham. What I did when I got there was up to me. We arrived at lunchtime and she dropped me at the theatre bar, with the agreement of meeting again later that day. It was packed with people waiting to go into the matinee. I cruised round, looking for the director. I had seen photos of him so I had a vague idea what he looked like. Then I heard a voice at my shoulder ask, ‘Need any help?’
I looked at the guy who was talking to me. He was in his thirties, wearing jeans and a T-shirt. He seemed friendly and there were loads of people around so I thought I would be safe enough.
‘I’m Lynda Bellingham and I am looking for John Neville,’ I replied boldly. ‘I have an appointment.’
‘Really? Well, he’ll be around soon. He’s just broken for lunch. Would you like a drink while you’re waiting? I’m Patrick, by the way.’
‘Why not?’ I said. We spent the afternoon talking. He was an actor with the company and told me fabulous stories about the company and life in rep. Several other members of the company came and said hello as the day wore on. I was in my element, telling everyone about my audition for Central, and how I had come to see John Neville to get his opinion on my acting abilities.
‘If he tells me I am no good I’ll give up,’ I announced to the group.
‘Well, young lady, that’s a big responsibility. I hope I’m up to the job.’ Oh, hell! John Neville was standing right beside my chair! I leapt to my feet.
‘I am so sorry, sir,’ I stammered. ‘It’s just I really need you to audition me and give me your opinion. I must know if I have any talent.’
I explained to him that my geography teacher had brought me up to Nottingham and that she was coming back to pick me up at six o’clock.
‘Well, there could be a problem, then,’ he said. ‘I can’t see you today as there’s an evening performance. What about tomorrow morning?’
‘That’s fine,’ I replied, without a thought. ‘Thank you, thank you so much.’ But he had disappeared into the crowd. I turned to the actor beside me: ‘What am I going to do? I have nowhere to stay.’
That was a step too far. The actor looked at his watch, made his excuses, and left. I sat in a daze trying to decide what to do. Then I saw Mrs Maclaughlan coming towards me. I explained my dilemma, but she was completely unfazed.
‘I can ask one of my old students to put you up for the night on their floor. Don’t worry. I’ll stay with some friends and we can drive home tomorrow after you’ve seen him.’ And that was that. She took me to supper, and then dropped me off at a house full of students. I can hardly remember that night. I know the floor was very hard but I didn’t care about sleep. I just kept running my speeches through my head and praying that John Neville would think I had talent.
Bright and early the next morning I turned up at the stage door. So early that no one was there. I sat out on the step and waited. It was quite a long wait and I began to think it was never going to happen, but eventually a lady came out, and asked me if I was Lynda Bellingham, and to follow her. I walked on to the stage and gasped. It felt so good to be there. I looked round and just wanted to open my mouth and perform. Which was just as well, because that was what I was there to do. After I had finished, I stared into the lights and held my breath. How many times was I to do this in my career?
John Neville came onto the stage and stood and looked at me. It seemed like for ever.
‘Well, young lady, you have talent, that’s for sure. I could offer you a job here as an acting assistant stage manager, but you would spend the next year being a general dogsbody and probably get very little opportunity to act. Much better you go back to Central and try and persuade them to take you on and then, in three years’ time, you could come back here as a fully fledged actor.’
Hallelulljah! That was all I needed. I was straight back down the M1 to London.
I DECIDED NOT TO tell a soul what I was up to. Everyone at the jam factory still thought I was going to drama school because I couldn’t bring myself to tell them of my rejection. So one Tuesday I called in sick, took the bus from home to town, as usual, and made my way to the station. I arrived at Swiss Cottage in North London around 9 a.m.
The Central School of Speech and Drama was originally a theatre, which is still there today. It is in a lovely leafy street just off the Finchley Road. I sat on a bench outside waiting for one of the teachers I’d met to come past. I watched with envy as students came and went. They all looked so fascinating. Just like real actors!
Finally at about 11, I recognised the lady who took the movement classes. Her name was Barbara Caister. I accosted her, and asked to see the principal, George Hall. She was rather taken aback, but took me to the front office and told me to wait. I waited another half an hour or so until, finally, I was summoned into a studio-type room. There, behind a huge table, sat most of the staff from the drama department.
‘What can we do for you, Lynda?’ asked George Hall.
You have to appreciate that at this point I was in such a state of panic it could have gone either way. I could have keeled over, and made a fool of myself, or I could have stood up for myself, told them what I wanted and told them what I thought of their cavalier attitude towards my career. I did a bit of both.
When I am nervous or angry, I often get tearful. So I began my plea full of verve and determined self-righteousness, and then halfway through I started to cry. I just needed them to understand how much I wanted this place, and how there was never any thought of ever going anywhere else. That all my friends had come to Central, and that I couldn’t understand how, last year, they had all thought I was talented enough to join the school, and so what had happened, since, to change their minds? I told them all about John Neville, and finished up by announcing that if I was talented enough for John Neville, then I should be talented enough for them.
You could cut the silence with a knife. Finally, George Hall took off his glasses and said, ‘Well, what can we say? We told you to ring at the beginning of September. Nothing has changed. I’m sorry.’
‘But you can’t just dismiss me!’ I replied. ‘Do you realise this is my life we are talking about? It is not as simple as a phone call. This is a matter of life and death to me. How can you treat people like this?’
‘I’m sorry,’ came back the answer. ‘You will have to ring up. Thank you for coming and good luck.’
And that was it. Just like that, these people had destroyed all my hopes and dreams. The journey home was the longest of my life. I sat on the train and howled. I sat on the bus and sobbed. My father opened the front door with a smile on his face. How could he? How could I tell them I was a failure?
‘Lynda. Welcome home! We’re going to celebrate with my homemade elderflower wine.’ Blimey, this must be a celebration. Dad’s elderflower wine was treated like vintage Dom Perignon.
‘What are we celebrating?’ I mumbled.
‘Your place at the Central School of Speech and Drama.’
‘No,’ I cried. ‘You don’t understand. I’ve failed. I…’ Dad cut me off.
‘Lynda, they rang while you were out. They’ve offered you a term’s trial. You start on September the twenty-second. Well done, girl!’
In just a few hours, my life had gone from tragedy to triumph –
it was always going to be like that for me. But for now it was triumph, and I was over the moon. I was on my way to stardom.
That summer passed in a haze. I triumphed as Puck at the Pendley Shakespeare Festival. I triumphed on the conveyor belt at Moorhouse’s jam factory. I was a star in the Dark Lantern. All the lads said I would come back a changed woman, especially as they reckoned I would lose my virginity several times over! Finally, I said goodbye to Karel. He didn’t believe I would really go. I think that because he had no ambition himself, he couldn’t recognise it in others. He just didn’t understand how my love of acting was all-consuming and even made me forget about him (well, sometimes. I had a bit of a plan in the back of my head that I would grow into this amazing, sophisticated woman at college and would come back home and seduce Karel one day).
It was the end of the summer and the end of my childhood. So many people go through this, don’t they? It’s so bittersweet: the excitement of a new life mixed with the sadness of saying goodbye to all the familiar things around us.
CHAPTER FIVE
LEARNING TO SWING IN THE SIXTIES
I WALKED UP THE front steps of the Central School of Speech and Drama in September 1966 and it was like my life had finally begun. All around me were fellow students, laughing and shrieking. Energy and hope filled the air. The foyer of the old theatre was full of bright sparkling eyes, animated faces and long hair being tossed flamboyantly. Male and female. This was the sixties. It was just like the musical Hair. I expected everyone to burst into song and go into a dance routine. I pushed my way into the girls’ cloakroom and was greeted by screams of delight from all the new girls. It smelled of sweat and perfume and talcum powder. Yes, this was it. The smell of the greasepaint and the roar of the crowd. Well, that was to come later but this was where I belonged.
I immediately started into my routine, telling jokes and putting myself down, but it was as though all the last few years had been a rehearsal for this moment. I fitted in here. Yes, I would have to fight my corner to be heard, but I understood all this. I was good at holding court. All those hours in the Dark Lantern were not wasted.
I unpacked my gear. All brand new, of course. My uniform. But unlike my school uniform, which I hated with a passion, this was different. I lovingly placed my black tights and leotard in the locker. I hung up my dark green, full-length practice skirt, and put my dance shoes on the shelf. The tools of my trade. An actor prepares.
I wandered into the coffee bar, got in the queue and waited. The boy next to me was chatting animatedly to all who would listen. Suddenly he turned to me and asked which class I was in. I told him.
‘Same as me, that’s great. I’m Nik. How do you do.’
‘Lynda. Pleased to meet you. Isn’t this just great?’
We hit it off immediately and have been best friends ever since. Nickolas Grace has become one of Britain’s leading actors, and is probably best known for his role as Anthony Blanche in Brideshead Revisited. Nik managed, in that first meeting, to ask me if I was still a virgin. We realised we both were, and made a pact to try and remain so for as long as we could.
We went into assembly together full of hope.
The routine in that first year was pretty easy, really. We had classes every day consisting of movement and dance and voice. Then there was the incredible George Hall, who taught musical theatre. He is the most wonderful teacher and man. So completely talented and inspiring; I just thank God I was lucky enough to work with him.
I asked George, when I left Central, what had persuaded them to take me on that day I came to visit the school. He laughed and said that they had all agreed that even if I was the worst actress in the world, I would always work because I was so pushy.
We used to have tutorials for movement and voice, where we were seen individually by the teacher. Litz Pisk was the movement teacher. She was unique, both as a teacher and as a woman. She was only four foot something tall and had a hunchback, but what she could do with her body you would not believe. She had a mane of pure white hair that she wore up in a bun. She seemed ancient to us but she probably wasn’t more than forty. She was from Austria and had a thick accent. She spoke very fast and often got things in English mixed up. This made her seem very eccentric and sometimes difficult to understand. The boys always used to take the piss out of her because she would wave her arms in the air and tell you to fly.
‘Darlinks, you can do it! You can fly!’ But, believe me, she was an amazing teacher.
She advised Vanessa Redgrave on her film Isadora, and Vanessa would come to some of our classes to work with Litz. She had been to Central a few years before so knew Litz very well. I was completely overwhelmed to find myself standing next to her. She was, and is, a legend to me.
Litz’s way of teaching would be to stand you in front of a long mirror and basically pull you apart, physically and verbally. She would say to me, ‘Look at you, my darlink. You are like a sack of potatoes and they are all falling out.’ Posture was everything to her. I was just not the kind of actress that appealed to her (think of Vanessa and you have the one that does). Short, rather boyish girls who laughed and joked a good deal were not on Litz’s radar. But I did so want her approval of me and I worked really hard in her classes.
The most wonderful thing happened years later. When they did my This Is Your Life in 1991, Litz was my final surprise guest. She had been retired for years and must have been in her eighties, but she travelled up from Cornwall to London to appear on the show. I could not believe it. It was such an honour. My dear mum knew how much I had adored her at drama school and, all those years later, here she was again. It meant so much to me that she came, particularly because I felt, and still do feel, sometimes, that no one has ever taken me seriously as an actress. To hear Litz announce, on television, that she had followed my career with interest, and that I worked so hard to achieve success meant the world to me. Mind you, she didn’t actually say she thought I was a wonderful actress, so maybe I am deluding myself!
By now, I was living in a bedsit quite far from the college. Mum had come up to London with me to find some digs. We had trudged up and down the Finchley Road, and it was dire. Most of the places were uninhabitable: filthy dirty, and depressing.
We finally chose a room, in a huge house in Golders Green. The bus stop was right outside so it was easy to get to the college. It was one big room at the front of a house owned by an old lady. It was very dark inside, with big heavy furniture and all the chairs had antimacassars on the back. She showed us a downstairs loo, with a basin, which was for my use only, she said (but the first time I came home and went to sit on the loo she was on it!)
Thankfully, I only stayed for a couple of weeks because I managed to get a room in a house round the corner from college, where Stephanie Daniel lived. When I moved in, Mum helped me clean it. It took us three days and we both went down with a mystery bug, which I am sure we caught in there, from the filth. I painted everything white and red. I had one gas ring and learned to cook three-course meals on it. I had a white bedspread and red cushions and I painted an old chair red and had red curtains. I was so proud of it. I used to entertain all the waifs and strays. Not with my body, I hasten to say, but with my cooking. I became quite well known for my culinary skills, and for giving out TLC to young men who were too drunk to go home.
Sex was not on the agenda. Nik and I had our pact, as I mentioned, that we were going to keep ourselves pure! But it did not stop me from going out and having a good time. So much so, that by the end of the first term I was admitted to hospital with exhaustion. First they thought it was meningitis, but after tests proved there was nothing wrong with me, they decided I just needed to rest. I never do anything by halves and moderation is not in my vocabulary: I worked hard and played hard.
By the end of the first term I was told I was in for the duration and no longer on trial. I continued to dip in and out of different groups of friends and spent most of my time, as usual, with the guys in the pub. I did hav
e one girlfriend in my class called Carolyn (Carol) von Beckdendorf. She later changed her surname to Seymour.
WHEN I VENTURED out with Carol it was to a different world. She used to frequent a club on the King’s Road called the Pheasantry. It was very posh and trendy. I was like the country bumpkin following in her wake of celebrity. It was the combination of theatrical and posh that was so overwhelming to me. I was not sophisticated at all but I learned fast. We drank champagne and vodka in these places – very different from my pint of cider with the lads.
The highlight of this period was Anthony Hopkins. He was going through a very difficult period in his life and drinking heavily. He used to hold court at the Pheasantry doing his impersonation of Richard Burton doing Dylan Thomas. I used to sit on the floor, cross-legged in front of him, just listening. One night he noticed me, and we started talking – and this was the cue for Carol to interrupt and drag me off.
I had started to notice that every time someone showed an interest in me Carol whisked me away. Was it jealousy? Teenage lesbianism? A bit of both, I suspected. Whatever it was, it was very annoying, and I got fed up with it. We would have a huge row and not speak for a week, then make up, and then it would all start again. After we left college, Carol landed a dream job in a series for the BBC called Take Three Girls. She became very famous, along with Liza Goddard and Sue Jameson. Some years later, when I was walking along Kensington High Street, a black cab stopped and out jumped Carol. We had a tearful reunion and went and drank copious amounts of champagne in a bar and talked about old times. The whole subject of her feelings for me came up. I tried to make sense of it all.
Lost and Found Page 5
