Lost and Found

by Lynda Bellingham

  Then, one evening, we were approached at the table by a Scottish lady who recognised me, and wanted my autograph. The look on Milton’s face! You’d have thought we had been discovered snorting cocaine. He was still insistent that nobody knew of Marjorie’s ‘shame’. It was so sad. As for Marjorie’s guilt, it seemed to have increased her religious fervour. She was a born-again Christian and tended to preach at every opportunity. Milton was an atheist so her words of wisdom fell on deaf ears, and she was delighted to have new converts.

  When we were alone it was very hard because she liked to hold my hand and just gaze at me. She wanted me to call her Mum but I just couldn’t bring myself to do so. It would be a betrayal to Mum and Dad. But as Marjorie pointed out to me, it didn’t feel odd to her: ‘Lynda, dear, when I held you in my arms the first time, I felt the floodgates open, and I had to dam all those feelings in order to part with you. Seeing you now, all those feelings have returned. All my maternal emotions that were locked away have resurfaced. But to you, dear, I’m a stranger whom you need to get to know.’ She was right, of course, and I was grateful for her understanding.

  I tried to talk to her about why she gave me up but never really got a satisfactory reply. She talked about the shame on the family, which I understood, but which I also knew other people had risen above; including my granny in England, as I told her. But she seemed to think it was different. I didn’t push it, because I thought we would be able to have many conversations over the coming years and we needed to relax with each other.

  I asked Marjorie how it came about that she married Milton. She explained that after Avis died, Milton would often visit the family because of Sylvia – as he was often away, working, Sylvia spent a good deal of time with the Hughes family and Shirley even taught her for a while. And apparently it was not unusual in those days for brothers and sisters to marry their in-laws if someone had died. Nothing wrong with that, I agreed, but he had been so horrible to her. She laughed and said he was right, though. She had only got herself to blame.

  I began to see a very strong similarity between me and my birth mother, the link of very low self-esteem. She must have seen it too, as one day she said to me, in one of our heart-to-hearts, when I had given a little too much away about my current problems with Nunzio: ‘Lynda, when I held you in my arms in that taxi going to Dr Gordon’s, I kept telling you I loved you because I did not want you to feel unloved or bad about yourself in later life. I had no idea you could inherit no self-worth.’

  I knew that was true. I had spent my whole life trying to please everyone, to make everyone love me, and here I was again, trying to create a good impression.

  The time came to say goodbye and we parted with promises to try and get together again soon. As I turned to Milton he came forward and gave me a big hug, which was lovely. Marjorie bade me goodbye with tears in her eyes and I had such mixed emotions.

  All the way home on the flight I tried to sort out what I was feeling. A mixture of relief to have finally found out about my roots, and terrible guilt about betraying my parents. Confusion in how I felt about Marjorie. I couldn’t love her because I didn’t know her, but I felt a sense of responsibility towards her. Would I be able to like her enough? I had to take it one step at a time.

  THE NEXT TIME we saw each other, Milton and Marjorie came to London and met my parents. I discussed the meeting with Mum and Dad and we decided they would have lunch with Marjorie and Milton. Just the four of them. We chose the restaurant in Liberty’s because it was quite discreet. In a wonderful gesture, Mum made up an album of photos of me from when they had me to the present day. The meeting was a success and went smoothly, although my father did not take to Milton. He thought his attitude to Marjorie was controlling and rather unkind.

  That evening, we all had dinner together. We went to the River Café, which is a lovely place but very noisy. It was a stupid choice for the occasion, and I don’t know why I chose it. It made conversation difficult for Marjorie because she couldn’t hear and, at one point, I realised that everyone was talking to each other except Marjorie. She was just sitting there looking rather forlorn, with a tear in her eye. Milton kept making rather bad jokes at Marjorie’s expense, until my father finally asked him to stop. They were not amused. Well done, Dad.

  Marjorie loved the boys and they loved her. She told them all sorts of stories about bears and Indians and moose! We agreed that we would go and visit the following year and go skiing. And that is what we did for several years. It worked well because we spent a week skiing at Jasper or Lake Louise, which are both beautiful resorts, and sometimes Marjorie joined us. But we had a bad trip one time with Nunzio. We were in the Banff Springs Hotel, which is a fabulous old hotel that was built for the railways; it nestles in the mountains like a shrine to Victorian architecture. Nunzio got cross with a waiter and Marjorie, half jokingly, told him to shut up. When we got upstairs we all said goodnight outside the rooms. We were with the boys in one room and Marjorie was next door. As soon as we were in our room, Nunzio started shouting at me and the boys were getting very distressed. Suddenly, there was a knock on the door and there was Marjorie in her nightie and curlers.

  ‘Nunzio, you stop your bullying,’ this five-foot-nothing granny said. ‘I know what you do to Lynda, and if you lay a finger on her you will have me to answer to!’

  Unbelievably, Nunzio then just laid into her, and told her she was a slut, just like her daughter. We were both sluts and had no respect. I know Marjorie was really shocked. Most people were when they were confronted by my husband in full flow. It was also incredibly hurtful and insensitive, after all she had been through. After that incident Nunzio didn’t come again, which was a huge relief.

  The first time I went on my own to see Marjorie, it was a very emotional experience. The day before my flight was Easter Day 1994, and I had done an Easter egg hunt as usual and made a lovely lunch with roast chicken and all the trimmings. As we sat down to eat, Nunzio decided to throw a wobbly. I cannot remember the reason; there probably wasn’t one. All the food went everywhere, a chair got thrown which caught me on the head. The boys were crying and it was mayhem. I went to bed and was woken, later in the evening, by little Michael standing at the edge of my bed, with a cup of tea for me, and Nunzio with Robbie in his arms. Nunzio apologised, as usual, and said he was nervous because we were all flying tomorrow, me to Canada and he and the boys to Italy.

  I was in such a state by the time I got on the plane. I had left the boys at home, crying, and I was crying now as I buckled up for the flight. I had a huge egg-shaped bump on my forehead as a reminder of another happy Easter.

  When I arrived in Edmonton, Marjorie launched into a cross-examination of what had happened to me. I told her it was an accident. She was not convinced. She tucked me up in a single bed in the guest room and fussed over me for the next twenty-four hours. It was so claustrophobic, I thought I would go mad. The houses are very over-heated in Canada because of the tremendous cold, and it can be suffocating. The cold also means the air is very dry, and every time I touched the nylon sheets I got an electric shock. I was so low and just couldn’t hide it from Marjorie. We talked about Nunzio and his jealousy and his controlling nature.

  Marjorie started talking about my real father, and said he had been the same. He had had a cruel side and would accuse her of all sorts of horrible things: ‘Probably because he was doing them himself, dear.’ He was controlling and very jealous and was always accusing her of wanting other men. We talked about the similarity between them. Marjorie seemed to think she could have changed him. I knew better. She admitted she had had very low self-esteem and that she was so sorry I inherited that rather negative quality. She insisted that she was quite different now and that no man was a match for her. But I have to say that is not how it looked to me. I saw a woman who was very much under the thumb of her husband. Partly because of their age and the society they came from but also because I perceived Milton as being quite controlling. She tried so hard to
understand and give me love and comfort, but I just wanted my parents and my sons. I was so homesick it was ridiculous.

  I also got a bit irritated by her insular view of the world. Marjorie was so cosseted, and really had no idea what was going on in the real world. She and Milton had their careful mapped-out life, and it was a selfish life. They had their routine and nobody could interrupt it. Dinner at 6.30 p.m. Church on Sunday. Then there was their immaculate house: you could never imagine small children ever being allowed to play amongst the myriad china ornaments. Don’t get me wrong, of course they were entitled to it. Milton had earned it. But Marjorie had taken on Milton’s slightly preachy, smug attitude towards others and that got to me. I tried to love her as my mother but I couldn’t.

  I also spent the time thinking how different my life would have been if I had been brought up in Edmonton. The small-town mentality was frightening. I don’t want to be disrespectful of this place but I realised just what a wonderful upbringing I had had with my mother and father. I had a real overview of life and even though I was failing miserably in many respects, I did know right from wrong and, fundamentally, had respect for other people and their way of life. My parents had also given me the chance to express myself. I couldn’t imagine Marjorie ever agreeing to me being an actress.

  I returned from that trip with the realisation that I really did not have a great deal in common with my birth mother. I also knew that I had a hell of a lot more to worry about on the home front. Things were seriously falling apart.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  TIME TO MAKE IT STOP

  THE LAST FOUR years of my marriage are a blur. How I managed to run the house, look after two small children and star in Faith in the Future on TV will for ever be a mystery. Faith I did not have in the future. Everything was chaos: the house, which we were doing up; and the restaurant, with which I was still very involved.

  The restaurant was doing OK but Nunzio knew he should really move on: capitalise on its success, and buy closer to the West End. I encouraged him but he was a great procrastinator. He loved the fame and the money, but I think he was actually too frightened.

  He was always going to Italy to show off and, at the end of these trips, we would have guys from Naples coming to work for him. Either friends or sons of friends. Nunzio was obviously pulling the boss card and telling his mates he could help them, including giving them a base at our home for a bit until they found their feet in London. I still had my duties as run-around for the restaurant. Sometimes at 10 o’clock at night Nunzio would call up and ask me to drive to Green Lanes and buy more vegetables. If there was no help around I would have to put Robbie in his car seat, strap Michael in the back of the car, half asleep, and drive round looking for bloody mushrooms!

  I tried to be there for Nunzio, even though our work schedules clashed so badly. I would sit up and wait for him to finish at the restaurant and make him a meal and listen to all the problems. I would get up early to deal with the boys before I went to rehearsals, then be back in the afternoon to pick them up from school, do homework and cook dinner! I had help from a succession of lovely girls, but I still wanted to be hands-on.

  For most of Robbie’s early years, he had Natalie, God bless her. We had met her at the local riding school and, just as I had done with Alena, I recognised someone with the right nature to look after my sons. She was so kind and gentle. The only problem was she suffered from epilepsy. The poor girl had been too frightened to tell me in case I would not have her for the job, but, ironically, I knew all about epilepsy because of my eldest son, Michael.

  When Michael was about thirteen, we drove to Birmingham at five in the morning, one Christmas morning, so I could do the breakfast TV show with Anne Diamond and Nick Owen at the BBC. The boys wanted me to do it because they wanted to meet Frank Bruno, who was also going to be on. The producer had promised me we would be back in time to have our Christmas lunch.

  Halfway up the M1, I suddenly noticed Michael was shaking – it looked as though his seat belt was choking him. We stopped on the hard shoulder and got him out of the car. He woke up but had no recall of anything. He was very pale and shaky. So were we. I rang the studio who told me they had a doctor on call and, as we were halfway there, it seemed sensible to carry on, and have Michael checked out up in Birmingham. It was a terrible morning. We did the show, and the boys were so thrilled to meet Frank, but all I could think about was what was wrong with Michael. The doctor thought it had been a fit and said that we should take Michael to a specialist straight away. All through Christmas Day, and when we put him to bed that night, we watched him like hawks, while trying not to show him we were concerned.

  I got an appointment as soon as I could. Michael had an MRI scan and it confirmed he had had a fit. The specialist recommended we leave things be for the time being, and see if he had another one.

  Nothing happened for a year, but then Michael suddenly had two fits in a row, and the specialist recommended we put Michael on medication for epilepsy. He told us that once the brain got into a habit of fitting it would continue to do so, but by stopping the fits, with drugs, there was a chance that would be the end of the problem. Fits in puberty, especially in young boys, are quite common and they mostly grow out of them.

  I was so worried. It’s always the way, isn’t it, when your children are ill? It’s unbearable. We were also told that while he was on these drugs, and it was a three-year course, that Michael must get plenty of rest, and avoid stress and alcohol. He was now fourteen and about to start his GCSEs. Not a good time! My stress levels were pushed to the limit anyway and then to top it all, Nunzio blamed me for Michael’s condition, saying it was down to me giving him too much apple juice. What?!

  I’d also had another very frightening experience of epilepsy because my dear friend Jack Tinker’s youngest daughter had the condition. She was very good about taking her medication, but the problem can be that because the person feels so well while on the drugs there is a strong inclination to want to stop taking them. Jack’s daughter did this, with absolutely tragic consequences, as she had a fit one evening and drowned in her bath. I had the difficult task, with my son, of trying to make him understand the importance of taking the pills, without making him incredibly scared.

  Then Natalie had a fit while I was at work and Nunzio was at the restaurant. The boys were on their own with her in the house. It must have been awful for Michael, who could understand what was going on, but was helpless to stop it.

  A few weeks later, dear Natalie came back from holiday feeling great, didn’t take her medication for a few days and, she too, tragically, had a fit and drowned in the bath. I still feel so bad for her family.

  If it means anything, she did my son a huge favour, because he never forgot to take his drugs after that. After three years without a fit, he was able to come off them and has been fine ever since. Thank God.

  OVER THOSE YEARS I could not have survived without the support and companionship of some of the mothers I met through my sons. These are friendships that are born in the playground: women who initially come together because of the shared interest in their children but discover a good friendship on top of that.

  Sandra Horley, the head of Refuge, the charity for women and children suffering domestic violence, was a mother at my son’s school. I would see her at the gate and wish I could talk to her. But I still had to keep my personal problems under wraps, because of my Oxo contract. If I lost that now, there would be no money for all these extras in the house that, sometimes, kept Nunzio quiet. As the face of the nation’s favourite mum, I had to keep the perfect-family charade going.

  I KEPT MY HEAD down and kept going. I made sure my sons did all the stuff the other children did. We had the birthday parties and the special cakes, thanks to my sister Jean. She made amazing themed cakes, and once did one for Robbie based on Michael Jackson. There was the little Jackson, as a werewolf, standing on top of the cake, in front of a huge moon that she had made out of a melted glaci
er mint. She put a candle behind it and it made the moon glow. The boys loved it. Another year we had a Ghostbusters van, and another year a huge dinosaur cake. That was a disaster, because we went to the park and left the cake on the table and when we returned later, we discovered the dog had eaten it. Star had green poo for days!

  My career seemed to have a life of its own at this time. Second Thoughts continued to be a big success and, thanks to the support of Jan Etherington and Gavin Petrie, I not only had great scripts to perform, but also a shoulder to cry on. They knew what I was going through and did everything they could to make life easy for me at work.

  There was also an interesting moment when dear Lynda La Plante rang and told me she had written a series about a policewoman, and that she had suggested me for the role. I realised I would not be free and had to pass. The series was called Prime Suspect. Let’s not even go there! I remember standing in the new kitchen, trying to talk to Nunzio about my disappointment over not being able to have a crack at the role. His attitude was very much why was I making such a fuss? I had got Oxo and Second Thoughts. But he just couldn’t see that much as I loved doing comedy, I longed for a dramatic role, and that it was so important to me that the industry took me seriously. The discussion then moved on to why was it so important to me that I still had a career? Didn’t I care about my family? Weren’t my children important to me? Nunzio then suggested I just wanted to be a success so I could go out and fuck lots of men. But this was how it always was these days. It was like a broken record over and over again.

  Slowly but surely, I was becoming aware that Nunzio’s catalogue of recriminations, paranoia and behaviour towards me was getting worse. Much worse. Around this time, he locked me in the living room and spent the next several hours pacing the floor and screaming at me. If I tried to respond, it made him worse. So I sat rigid on the edge of the sofa for most of the night while he prowled round me like a caged animal, hurling abuse at me and yelling into my face that I should be dead.