Size Matters Not: The Extraordinary Life and Career of Warwick Davis

by Davis, Warwick

  Could that be . . . a script?

  It was.

  The return address was Hollywood, California. I excitedly tore the bulky packet open, pulled out a wad of paper, and looked at the front page. It had one word on it:

  Leprechaun.

  “Aha!” I thought, “this is more like it.” Just then it was time to head for the hospital. The plan was for Sam to give birth by Caesarean. We traveled down with Denise, Sam’s mum, and it was soon time to say good-bye. All I could do was tell Sam I loved her before the porter wheeled her away.

  The next time I’d see Sam she’d be with our son or daughter and life would never be the same again. I was incredibly excited; I knew this was going to be the greatest moment in my whole life but I was still terribly nervous for Sam. My stomach was turning butterflies – goodness knows what Sam was feeling at that point. Now I knew how my father had felt when I was born. I just hoped and prayed there wouldn’t be any problems.

  The appropriately named Mr. Hackman was going to perform the Caesarean and he had assembled a crack team of nurses, pediatricians, and specialist doctors to deal with every eventuality.

  I took a seat in the waiting room with Denise, who began fretting at me. After a few minutes I decided to go get a cup of tea. On my way back I remembered the script which I’d thrown in the back of the car, so I went and grabbed it and started reading to take my mind off the worry and to try to stop Denise from making me even more nervous than I already was.

  The birth, on Wednesday, September 11, 1991, couldn’t have gone more smoothly. Dr. Tuck, one of the specialist pediatricians, gave our baby an examination and told Sam: “He’s perfect,” adding with a grin, “I’m delighted to say you don’t need me,” before rushing off to tell me.

  He! It was a boy!

  We’d already picked a name. It had no particular significance for us apart from the fact that Sam and I both really liked it: Lloyd. I thought that Lloyd Davis sounded like a good actor name.

  Lloyd weighed six pounds and three ounces, which was more or less average-sized, and he looked to be in great health. Everybody was ecstatic. Both Sam’s parents were there by now and they were walking on air, as was I. Life didn’t get any more perfect than this.

  Two hours later as we stared in wide-eyed wonder at our beautiful son, Sam said, “He feels a bit cold.” The nurse fetched a heated blanket but it didn’t help. Lloyd was struggling to breathe. A doctor came in and took Lloyd away to the special-care baby unit. Mr. Hackman appeared and he reassured me that Lloyd was fine.

  At 10 p.m. Dr. Tuck said that Lloyd needed to be put on a ventilator. “There are only four of these at the unit in Peterborough,” he said, “and they’re all in use so we’re going to have to move Lloyd to another specialist neonatal unit in Nottingham.”

  “But that’s almost fifty miles away!”

  I couldn’t believe that our son had to be taken to another hospital; surely this was putting his already fragile life in even more danger? Unfortunately there was nothing nearer, so Nottingham it had to be.

  Sam still couldn’t move at this time. A nurse sat with her and told her when the ambulance had arrived. “Can you bring Lloyd to me before he goes?” she asked. They wheeled him in at 1:30 a.m. in a big portable ventilator.

  The same nurse stayed with Sam all night and helped her get ready to follow in an ambulance to Nottingham. When we got there Lloyd looked fine. He was the biggest and healthiest-looking baby out of all the kids on ventilators.

  On Friday the 13th at 5:45 p.m. a doctor came in, sat down with us, and said, “Lloyd is very poorly. We don’t know if he’s going to make it. There’s a genetic factor we don’t know about which means his lungs are underdeveloped.”

  It was as if all the air had been sucked out of me. I was nauseous, dizzy; a tremendous suffocating weight seemed to be pressing down from above. Our son might die? It made no sense to us. He looked so healthy and active. We stayed with Lloyd the whole time. Although we were able to interact with him for a bit it was very difficult with all the tubes, wires, and the ventilator mask. We couldn’t pick him up at all. Despite this, in a very short span of time we began to feel a bit like parents.

  Sam was still exhausted, however, and had to go back to bed to rest. Just after she did so Lloyd took a drastic turn for the worse and poor Sam was dragged back just in time to see him being resuscitated.

  “His body can’t take it,” the doctors told us. “His lungs are too small.”

  The following Friday, Dr. Nigel Ruggins, a pediatrician from the special-care baby unit, came to see us. “I have the best job in the world but sometimes it’s also the worst. This is the day when it’s the worst. I had thought I might arrive here this morning to find that Lloyd had died in his sleep, so I didn’t have to have this conversation with you.”

  Sam and I held hands.

  “I know he looks pink and healthy at the moment but Lloyd can’t take many more attempts at resuscitation. The longer we keep him on the ventilator the worse his condition will become. His kidneys will fail, then his liver. You wouldn’t want Lloyd to go through all that, would you?”

  We didn’t.

  After we’d given consent at about three o’clock that afternoon, we watched as Nurse Melanie, who’d become good friends with us in a very short space of time, took Lloyd off the machine and gently handed him over to us.

  We were given a special quiet room, so we could have some privacy with our son. We cuddled and told Lloyd we loved him so much. For a little while, we were a family together, and we got to know our son. He moved a little, he looked so alive, so healthy. It seemed like a strange thing to do at the time but I’m very glad we took a photograph. You need these things, the mementos.

  About thirty minutes later, Lloyd passed away.

  He had given us nine unforgettable days and we treasured every single one.

  Leaving him at that point and saying good-bye was the hardest thing Sam and I have ever had to do. There is nothing in life that can prepare you to face something like that, nothing.

  The drive back to Peterborough was awful. We just didn’t want to go home, not to our unfurnished house, filled only with brightly colored baby toys, cards from well-wishers, and a freshly painted nursery. It hurt so much. It’s as if your arms ache with emptiness, with the impossible desire to hold your child.

  But we didn’t know where else we could go.

  Later that night as we cuddled up in bed, Sam said, “I want the pain to go away, Warwick. I want to fast-forward a few years so I don’t have to feel like this.”

  It was very hard for us to accept Lloyd’s death. We’d gone from the happiest moment in our lives to the saddest within a few days. It was very difficult to accept that medical science had been unable to save our son. But in Lloyd’s case, there really was nothing they could have done differently. We had to come to terms with the fact that there’s no magic in medicine.

  Lloyd was buried at our local church. On the day of the funeral we were ambushed by a journalist, angling for an interview. Although we like to help journalists whenever possible and we do now happily speak about Lloyd, back then it was too awful. It seemed like something we couldn’t possibly ever face. It didn’t help when an American magazine, not stopping to consider the time difference, phoned us at 4 a.m. – again to ask for an interview.

  Any routine became a major ordeal. Our world had collapsed. To then just go back to the mundane stuff, like going to the shops, answering letters, and paying bills, it all felt so pointless. What difference did it make if we paid the bills? This was such an awful low point, an incredibly difficult time for both Sam and me.

  Sam was also physically exhausted. She had gone through a Caesarean and her body had been prepared for a baby. She had to readjust to not being pregnant and also not being a mother. She was physically shattered and needed time to recover.

  It was hard for friends and relatives as well. They were there for us, but there’s not much to talk about, they didn’t know
Lloyd, they’d never seen him, and so this only served to isolate us further. It made grieving very difficult.

  Sam and I are very happy people and our house was always full of laughter, noise, and activity. But after Lloyd’s death, it was hard to start laughing again.

  It didn’t help that we were still broke. I had no prospect of work, and spent my days worrying about our future and how we were going to keep repaying the taxman. I wondered how we were ever going to come back from this.

  Then I remembered the script.

  Lloyd, our wonderful baby boy.

  a Just ask George Lucas.

  b Despite everything, Daniel has since made a tremendous success of his life and is now a highfalutin’ TV producer. He’s also just got engaged (poor woman). I intend to make a speech whether he wants me to or not.

  Chapter Twelve

  Lep in the Hood

  Me as the Leprechaun, with Sam and Daniel.

  With Mark Jones, writer, creator, and director of the first Leprechaun. He almost burned down his home in an effort to impress me.

  Insane genius makeup artist Gabe Bartalos (he’s on the left). Gabe is responsible for more upset stomachs than the Delhi Belly.

  About to grab a very famous pair of legs – they belonged to Jennifer Aniston. Leprechaun was her first big screen role.

  Seriously, you’re Warwick Davis?” the amazed voice on the other end of the line said.

  Mark Jones, the writer and director of Leprechaun, couldn’t believe “Willow” had called him back. After all, this was the craziest idea for a movie he’d ever had. He wanted me to star as an evil leprechaun in a tongue-in-cheek children’s horror flick.

  What could I say? It was . . . interesting. I’d never played a bad guy, and this was a chance to go against type, an idea I loved. The further you step away from your own character the more challenging and fun it becomes and the Leprechaun went about as far as it was possible to go. I also knew a change of scene would make all the difference both personally and professionally right then – and it would pay just enough to keep the Inland Revenue at bay.

  As Mark and I chatted, we really gelled. I could tell this was going to work.

  Sam was all for it and one week later we were on our way to Heathrow, ready to catch our flight to Los Angeles. This was just what we needed. It was as if we had been magically airlifted out of our gloom. Of course, we would never forget Lloyd. You always feel some sadness and wish things could have turned out better. But with time the sadness becomes manageable, you learn to accept it, and the experience becomes part of who you are. We were still grieving for Lloyd then, of course, but we were so grateful for the chance to be somewhere new. We knew that life still had many things to offer us and this opportunity gave our spirits a much-needed boost.

  Airports are interesting places. These days, if I’m flying on business I’ll fly first class, but when I’m paying, I’ll fly economy. You’d have to be crazy to spend thousands on first class. Nonetheless, because I’m an actor, lots of people assume that I belong in first class and this sometimes includes the people at the check-in desk.

  When we rolled up to check in at the British Airways section in Heathrow, we were greeted by a very smart uniformed gentleman who clicked his heels in salute. He then swept up our bags, loaded them onto a trolley, and ushered us past the lines to the first-class section.

  He delivered our bags with a flourish and beamed. “There you are, sir.”

  “Ah, right,” I said.

  “Something the matter, sir?”

  “Oh no, no, but er . . . We’re not flying first class. We’re economy. Any chance of an upgrade?”

  It never works but I always ask or try some silly scheme. I sometimes strategically put a few photos of me in my various film roles inside my passport and let them accidentally spill out onto the counter as I check in. “Oops, sorry about that, I always have to keep a few handy for fans, you know?”

  They always notice in the U.S. but then invariably apologize and say, “First class is full, sir,” in a treacly voice – peppered with strychnine. In the UK they simply pretend not to see them.

  I nearly missed a flight once. “Sorry I’m late,” I said. “Autograph hunters.”

  The desk clerk looked over my head and said, completely deadpan: “Why, is there somebody famous in the airport?”

  It sounds extremely odd but I really do need the legroom. My legs stick straight out over the edge of the seat – I can’t bend them as my knees are too far back. So when someone in front puts their seat back I’m suddenly concertinaed into my chair. It’s also very hard for me to get in and out if I’m not in the aisle seat. If the person next to me is asleep, I’ll usually just balance on the armrests and walk across. I’ve never woken a fellow passenger yet, although I dread the day when someone opens their eyes to find me nose-to-nose with them just as I’m straddling their chair.

  Despite these hurdles, I still fly an awful lot. On another flight with Sam, I’d really tried my damnedest to get us an upgrade. At check-in they’d told me it was full but now I was on the plane I could see there were loads of empty seats in business class. Sam didn’t mind and went to sleep.

  Imagine my delight, then, when the film started and I couldn’t see it (this was still in the days before TV screens were in the backs of every seat, when they used to show in-flight movies on a screen in the middle of the plane).

  “Aha,” I thought, “this could be my ticket to an upgrade.” I called over a flight attendant.

  “I can’t see the screen.”

  “Oh my goodness, I’m so sorry about that. Hang on, let me see what I can do.”

  This was more like it. Business class, here I come. I started to gather my things in preparation.

  The flight attendant returned five minutes later and handed me a metallic flight case.

  “What’s this?”

  “Sit on that and you’ll be able to see.”

  With the hard, ice-cold metallic suitcase below me, I could see about half of the screen. Then I realized I was sitting in the exit row. The rule is that if you feel you can’t open the emergency hatch then you shouldn’t be sitting next to it. I called the flight attendant.

  “So sorry to disturb you, only I’ve just noticed where we’re sitting and I don’t feel confident I can open the door in an emergency.”

  “Oh my goodness,” she said, “you’ve got a good point there. Hang on.”

  I rubbed my hands in anticipation as she headed off again. She returned two minutes later.

  “I’ve just asked someone in another row and they’ve very kindly agreed to swap with you.”

  As my smile faded, she gestured to the row just in front of us.

  Now I was still in economy, with less legroom, sitting on an uncomfortable metal box and watching a film I didn’t want to see.

  “Hmmm,” I said, thinking out loud, as Sam settled down beside me and tried to get back to sleep. “Perhaps I could –”

  Sam’s eyes snapped open. “Just leave it, Warwick.”

  Once we were in California, Sam and I met Mark Jones at his house in the Hollywood Hills. He was a successful TV writer who’d produced scripts for many popular 1980s TV shows, including The A-Team, and now wanted to make movies. It was a hot September day and he put on a very pleasant lunch.

  Mark showed us around his house, he was especially proud of the fact that he had a real fireplace.

  “Let me show you how good it looks when it’s lit,” he said enthusiastically.

  “No, really, you don’t have to.”

  “But I insist. I’ve never had an English person stay with me before so I’ve never had an excuse to light it.”

  I’m still not sure what he meant by that exactly but I let him start the fire and the house quickly turned into a baker’s oven.

  “Is it me,” I said a few minutes later, “or is there a slight smoke haze in here?”

  The smoke alarm went off.

  “Aw jeez, that’s embarrassi
ng,” Mark said.

  “Why?” I asked.

  “The alarm’s connected straight to the fire department.”

  Minutes later the house was full of macho firemen stomping around demanding to know what was going on and where the fire was, and then why anyone would want to light an open fire on a balmy September evening in California.

  It turned out Mark hadn’t realized that he was supposed to open something called “the chimney vent.” He was deeply embarrassed that our first meeting had turned out the way it had. So was I. But despite being a little char-grilled and a bit worried about Mark’s sanity, I signed up for the movie.