I Love the Bones of You
Page 29
Dad’s chair remains in the same position. My mum, the twins and I still feel a bit self-conscious when we sit in it. The memories it harbours aren’t cushioned; they’re strong, hard, vivid. It’s why, no matter how old I am, however distant the memory, there will forever be a part of me on the carpet with my toy Indians looking up at him in it. We moved to that home when I was seven months old, and Dad only left it for the last year of his life. Every time I go into that house, I am accessing memories, but now instead of the past I am thinking of the present. I think of Dad sitting in his chair, but instead of picking up his dictionary he is picking up this book. What Dad, I hope, would find when he opened these pages is an open and honest letter to himself. I wanted to express not only the complexity of our love but its truth. I have said throughout that the writers who captivate me, take me to areas that both fascinate and inform, are those who present life in its most absolute form. Sometimes they leave a kiss, sometimes they leave a bruise. But always they leave something. I wanted this book to be the same, sometimes bathed, sometimes shadowed, in reality. Relationships are complex. You can, if you want, present a key connection in terms of two people skipping hand in hand through a sun-dappled meadow with a butterfly net, but surely there can be few for whom that picture is realistic. To be truthful has a worth. A value. Honesty is not to heap criticism on someone, it is not to present life as a spaghetti western, one person a goodie, another a baddie; it is to explore, emotionally, environmentally and historically, the dynamics of interplay, character and personality. Cause and effect. Effect and cause. Me and Dad. Dad and me.
My dad died in 2012. His self went some years previously. What writing this book has allowed me to do is have a conversation with him the like I’ve never had before. The same bloke who, in my head, sighed wearily at my travails in Macbeth – ‘What? You fell off the stage?’ – is there trawling through the pages of this book. ‘You think it happened like that do you, Chris? Aye, well, I might have to have a word about that!’
Dad, I’m sorry if there are elements misremembered. And, Mum, I’m sorry about the glitter on the box-room carpet.
I love the bones of you.
Eulogy
I would like to say more than a few words about Joseph Ronald Eccleston Esq – a gentleman and a scholar.
Mum, Keith, Alan – I am very sorry for your loss. I would never assume to speak for you. We all had our own very specific relationship with Dad. He wasn’t just the Two Ronnies, as my mum used to call him, he was lots of Ronnies. But I hope I can reflect some of your feelings about the man as well as my own.
In 2004, Dad was in the Hope Hospital having his life saved. He was recovering from a massive operation. My mum and a nurse were linking him as he walked – shuffled really – along the corridor. He was in a lot of pain and was confused both by the anaesthetic and his dementia. But from somewhere within himself, as he approached the swing doors, he remembered to step aside to let my mum and the nurse go first. The only problem was they were holding him up. He had impeccable, impeccable manners – he insisted on it with us three lads – so the first thing he would want to say to you is thank you. Thank you for coming out for him and thank you for supporting his family – we won’t forget it.
To use one of his favourite expressions, he would ‘drop cork-legged’ to see how many of you are here. He would not have expected it. He was modest. He would have counted you though – just as he would count our Christmas cards every year and numerous other things. He would have counted you and then said to me, ‘How many people do you think are in this church?’
‘I don’t know, Dad. How many?’
‘Eighty-six! Eighty-six! I can’t stand it.’
Whenever we drove past a churchyard, my dad would be guaranteed to say, ‘How many people do you think are dead in that cemetery?’
‘I don’t know, Dad – how many?’
‘All of ’em!’
He had a volcanic temper. He could be fierce and uncompromising and he lacked patience. I got on the wrong side of him and most of the time I deserved it. There may be a few other people who felt the blaze. There are certainly some in the upper echelons of Colgate-Palmolive on Ordsall Lane. ‘Upper echelons’ is an important detail. Dad was never going to advance his career options by being nice to the bosses. He was a man who put principle, as he saw it, before self-interest. If you were wrong, you were wrong, and you were told.
Anybody would have thought he was born in Salford.
He was born in Salford and my mum’s grandmother remembered a little boy running around James Street shouting, ‘Vote Labour! Vote Labour!’
He voted Labour all his life. He also voted for Pat Eddery, Willie Carson, Lester Piggott and Jonjo O’Neill at the bookies at the top of Coniston Avenue. He liked a bet. Money had always been tight, especially when he was a child, and having a bet was a lovely bit of defiance. Two fingers to a false idol.
My dad read me Black Beauty and The Adventures of Tom Sawyer. My mum was working night shifts at Westerns and he was suddenly in charge of my bedtimes. I was amazed. As far as I knew, Mum did all the soft stuff, the lullabies and the comforting. It was magical hearing him read. He had a very strong reading voice, a deep love of language, and he read with feeling and skill. It brought us closer.
Sometimes he would fall asleep before I did, and I would just look at him – my dad.
If I had to distil mine and my dad’s relationship down to one period, it would be those nights in the early ’70s in that bedroom on Coniston Avenue, because, though my dad was very male and protective and fierce and a great footballer, I loved him most for his tenderness – we all did.
He was really very, very vulnerable, my dad (perhaps we all are). But his class, his era, his gender, meant he had to keep it hidden.
Before I went to bed, I’d wash my face and brush my teeth and then he’d say, ‘Part your hair.’ I was puzzled by this. My mum didn’t make me part my hair, and anyway, I didn’t have a parting, so I’d say, ‘Why, Dad? I’m going to bed. Nobody will see me.’
‘Never mind,’ he’d say. ‘Part your hair.’
I went to bed looking like Alan Ladd.
Somebody once said to him, ‘You must be very proud of your Chris on the telly.’
And he said, ‘I’m proud of all my three sons. One’s a builder, one’s an upholsterer, and one’s an actor.’
If Keith was building an extension, he would turn up just to look at it. If Alan was upholstering a Chesterfield, he would deliver it with him, brimming with pride. And if I was on the telly or in a play, he would say to me, ‘You took off a very good part.’
Me, Alan and Keith went out into the world with the absolute certainty that he loved us and that if we needed him he would be there – it may sound banal or clichéd, but many people don’t have it.
He believed in loyalty. It was the centre of him. It was how he made sense of life and the world. If he said he would do a thing, he did it. And if you then returned that loyalty, he was in your corner for life. He wasn’t interested in money or possessions (apart from his dictionary – he loved his dictionary) or status. He believed in an exchange of trust. He believed in – and it’s an old-fashioned phrase this, from his era – ‘good fellowship’. ‘All for one and one for all.’
I’m going to shut up now, but I can hear him in my ear saying, ‘I enjoyed it, but you left out the most important thing. You haven’t said anything about my wife, Elsie.’ And I really am saying it because it’s what he would want me to say – and this is a direct quote, which I heard many, many times.
‘Marrying Elsie was the best thing I ever did.’
Dad, from the bottom of my heart – thank you.
PHOTOGRAPHS
1. Let Him Have It (1991). Derek’s scaffold was the platform for my career – it was a huge responsibility. © Alamy
2. Cracker (1993–94). Bilborough’s death scene in this show gave me a television career. © ITV/Shutterstock.com
3. Playing David Ste
phens in Danny Boyle’s Shallow Grave (1994). © Alamy
4. Hearts and Minds (1995). The best performance of my career so far. © Fremantle Media/Shutterstock.com
5. Hillsborough (1996). The most important drama I have been, or will ever be, involved in. © ITV/Shutterstock.com
6. Our Friends in the North (1996). Considered a landmark drama in British TV history and rightly so – the breadth of writer Peter Flannery’s vision was extraordinary. © Alamy
7. Jude (1996). The only picture of me acting on Mum and Dad’s wall was from Jude. © Alamy
8. Gone in 60 Seconds (2000). A terrible performance. I was informed recently that I was so bad in it, I’m good. I’m happy with that. © Alamy
9. Doctor Who (2005). I loved playing this character almost as much as I loathed the politics of making the show. © Alamy
10. The A Word (2016–present). I’ve never loved a character and a show more. © Alamy
11. Macbeth (2018). To play Macbeth at the RSC was my ultimate ambition. A deeply flawed performance and production. © RSC
1. Let Him Have It (1991). Derek’s scaffold was the platform for my career – it was a huge responsibility. © Alamy
2. Cracker (1993–94). Bilborough’s death scene in this show gave me a television career. © ITV/Shutterstock.com
3. Playing David Stephens in Danny Boyle’s Shallow Grave (1994). © Alamy
4. Hearts and Minds (1995). The best performance of my career so far. © Fremantle Media/Shutterstock.com
5. Hillsborough (1996). The most important drama I have been, or will ever be, involved in. © ITV/Shutterstock.com
6. Our Friends in the North (1996). Considered a landmark drama in British TV history and rightly so – the breadth of writer Peter Flannery’s vision was extraordinary. © Alamy
7. Jude (1996). The only picture of me acting on Mum and Dad’s wall was from Jude. © Alamy
8. Gone in 60 Seconds (2000). A terrible performance. I was informed recently that I was so bad in it, I’m good. I’m happy with that. © Alamy
9. Doctor Who (2005). I loved playing this character almost as much as I loathed the politics of making the show. © Alamy
10. The A Word (2016–present). I’ve never loved a character and a show more. © Alamy
11. Macbeth (2018). To play Macbeth at the RSC was my ultimate ambition. A deeply flawed performance and production. © RSC
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
I would like to thank the countless millions who each day provide care, unseen, unacknowledged, for those they love afflicted by the terrible illness of dementia. They are the ones who truly deserve our respect and accolades. I would like also to recognise the pain, strength and dignity of those who experience mental illness, and the work of those committed to helping them. For facilitating my own desire to make the socially reflective drama so pertinent to the family I grew up in, I thank the incredible writers who shared that same belief, determined to highlight the institutionalised blight of injustice and inequality that has treated generations with disdain, when, in fact, they were remarkable, individual, irreplaceable.
For allowing me to shine the spotlight on one such family, I’d like to thank Simon & Schuster UK, my publisher Iain MacGregor and my editor Melissa Bond. I was given the opportunity to reveal the man and woman who made me – Ronnie and Elsie Eccleston – and I am sure their tireless love and dedication will resonate with many. My agent, Claire Maroussas, I would like to recognise for all her hard work in bringing this book to fruition. I would also like to thank my literary agent Paul Stevens, my former agent Lorraine Hamilton, and my great friend Davey Jones, who was there for me in my time of need. Thanks also to Larry Taube and friend-through-the-ages Pooky Quesnel. John Woodhouse, many thanks for your diligence in seeking to understand me and transforming my mind into the written word. Anthony Venditti, thanks for your great help and comprehension as an existential psychotherapist.
The city of Salford is also deserving of mention. Those remarkable square miles shaped me, and still do, for which I am eternally grateful. You can take the boy out of Salford . . .
More than anything, I would like to thank four people: Elsie and Ronnie Eccleston and my children – all you have ever given me is love. Albert and Esme, if I can give you what my mum and dad gave me, then I’ll be happy. Thank you for your love. The future is yours.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Salford-born Christopher Eccleston is one of the country’s most highly regarded actors working today. He is the recipient of an Emmy Award and two BAFTA Award nominations, and is best known for his work on television and in film – in particular, for his collaborations with directors such as Danny Boyle and Michael Winterbottom and writers Peter Flannery, Jimmy McGovern and Russell T. Davies. He currently stars in the BBC drama The A Word, and was recently seen on stage with the Royal Shakespeare Company in the leading role of Macbeth.
First published in Great Britain by Simon & Schuster UK Ltd, 2019
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Copyright © Christopher Eccleston, 2019
The right of Christopher Eccleston to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.
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Hardback ISBN: 978-1-4711-7631-9
Trade Paperback ISBN: 978-1-4711-7632-6
eBook ISBN: 978-1-4711-7633-3
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