Gangsters, Guns & Me - Now I'm in Eastenders, but once I was on the run. This is my true story

by Foreman, Jamie

  ‘You can’t put that!’ said Mum when she saw what I’d written.

  ‘What?’ I said. ‘But we are Church of England.’

  ‘Rub it out,’ she replied.

  I didn’t have a clue what was going on, and told her I couldn’t rub it out. The marks would look terrible.

  ‘Then add “becoming R.C.”,’ she insisted.

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘Italia Conti,’ she said pointedly. ‘Italians are all Roman Catholics, aren’t they, so put “becoming R.C.”.’

  After a futile debate I grudgingly added the words. I thought it was a bit crazy, but, hey, what did I know? Mums are always right, eh!

  That done, it was time to make sure I had something to perform when I turned up at the audition. On Barbara’s recommendation I went to see Mrs Price, an acting and elocution coach who had a small studio in Streatham. She was a demure, gently spoken lady with a wonderfully tolerant, patient demeanour. Just as well because I was as green as green could be.

  Mrs Price quickly gauged my strengths and chose material she felt would best suit me. I needed two pieces – one from Shakespeare and another piece of prose – so she selected a Puck speech from A Midsummer Night’s Dream and a monologue by the Artful Dodger from Dickens’s Oliver Twist. Can you see a pattern emerging? Ironically, the Dodger speech was the one describing seeing Bill Sykes meeting his gruesome end, a scene I was to enact many years later when I played Bill in a film version of the book. Anyway, I digress.

  The song we chose was ‘Morning Has Broken’, which had recently been a hit for Cat Stevens, one of my favourite singers. Unfortunately, we discovered that the only thing broken was my voice. I couldn’t sing a note. We tried some other tunes without much success and eventually decided to stick with what we had.

  I had to prepare a dance too, but that is a memory I have well and truly erased any trace of. What I do know is that Mrs Price worked hard under the premise that I wanted to be an actor, not a song and dance man. She did her best to help me, while I diligently learned my lines and practised every day with the help of my mum and my sister.

  Audition day finally came around. I had never been so nervous in my life. As Mum and I sat waiting in the main reception area at Italia Conti, I couldn’t believe my eyes. Boarding school it certainly was not. We were surrounded by pictures of former pupils such as Gertrude Lawrence and Noel Coward, piano music filled the air and the sound of classes of children singing scales and dance teachers barking routines echoed around the corridors. And then there were the girls. Oh boy! I’d never seen so many lovely young ladies in one place.

  They kept running past in leotards, giggling and flirting; their hair up in ponytails, their faces all made up. The school’s uniform policy seemed to insist that they wore short skirts and the place had a lot of big staircases. Need I say more? If that wasn’t an incentive to do my best, I didn’t know what was. A Churchill speech could not have been more inspiring than the sight of so many pretty girls. ‘Focus, Jamie!’ I kept saying to myself. ‘Focus!’

  Italia Conti had sent a list of what I should wear – T-shirt, dance shoes and knitted trousers. Mum and I had absolutely no idea what knitted trousers were. I turned up in a suit with a pair of tennis shoes under my arm. I’ll never forget being in the changing room with the other auditionees all dressed in the right gear and sneering at me in my shirt and tie. I’ll show you, I thought. Eventually, my name was called. Mum handed me my sheet music. ‘Jamie, if you don’t get this audition I’m going to punch you all the way up the fucking street,’ she said. She sounded pretty serious too.

  My nerves were really getting the better of me as I walked into the little audition room. What a sight I must have been for the two ladies who were there to greet me. There was Miss Brearley and old Miss Conti, the last surviving member of the Conti family – two doyennes of the theatre world who had seen it all and worked with the best. They smiled encouragingly and asked me to give my music to the pianist. There was an air of calm and quiet in the room that only made me more nervous as I walked back from the piano and stood waiting in the middle of the room.

  ‘What have you got for us today?’ asked Miss Conti. ‘Tell us what you’d like to begin with.’

  ‘I’ll do me song first,’ I said, as upbeat as I could. Get the painful bit over first, Jamie, I thought.

  ‘And what will that be?’ they enquired.

  ‘“Morning Has Broken”.’

  This was received with arched eyebrows. They obviously knew something I didn’t. Oh dear, I thought, as the piano struck up the tune that had become the bane of my life over the past few weeks. I began to warble my way through the opening lines and, by the time I got to the second verse, I already felt like the morning was broken. It was a disaster, and I knew it. My heart sank further with every syllable of the bloody song.

  ‘Stop, stop, stop!’ I said to the pianist, who seemed more than happy to oblige. The room went quiet. The ladies looked at me wide-eyed.

  ‘I’m sorry, I’m not a very good singer,’ I explained, stating the bleeding obvious.

  They smiled condescendingly and waited for me to continue.

  ‘How about I do me Puck for you?’ I said, trying to keep things moving.

  They patiently waited for me to continue. I remembered Mrs Price’s advice: breathe deep, try to relax. Easy for her to say. I settled myself as best I could and began.

  When it was over I felt it had gone well and my confidence began to return ever so slightly. At least the ladies no longer had that horrified look on their faces. It was time for my next act.

  ‘What have you chosen for your prose?’ they asked.

  ‘The Artful Dodger from Charles Dickens’s Oliver Twist.’

  The ladies nodded politely, but didn’t look too impressed. From the way I looked and spoke, they were probably thinking I was the Artful Dodger. Still, I gave it my all. Then I moved on to what must have been the most ridiculous little dance routine they had ever seen. Both of them looked quite relieved when it was over.

  ‘That’s fine. Please wait outside, Jamie,’ said Miss Brearley, giving nothing away.

  I collected my sheet music from the pianist, who winked at me sympathetically. I smiled weakly but was totally dejected.

  Oh God! I thought, as I left the room. What had I been thinking? I’m no actor, I was saying to myself, and I’m certainly not Fred Astaire. Why didn’t I pick something by Frank Sinatra? I grew up with Frank’s music, so at least I might have finished the fucking song. I thought of Mrs Price again, who’d drummed into me, ‘Whatever happens, just keep going.’ So much for that pearl of wisdom.

  After an interminable wait in the corridor, they finally called me back in.

  ‘I don’t think that went too well, did it?’ I asked.

  ‘Why do you want to come to this school?’ came Miss Brearley’s reply.

  ‘Because I want to be an actor,’ I said.

  ‘Can you tell us why?’

  Whatever I said, I must have said it with passion. I do remember I told them about my love of film, my theatre experiences and the actors I admired. I told them how determined I was to learn a craft that I had so much admiration and respect for, and that I was ready to give it my total dedication. If my audition performances hadn’t been what they were looking for, then I must have said something to impress them. For what came next was a total shock.

  ‘We’ve made a decision,’ began Miss Brearley.

  Here it comes, I thought. Shoulders back, Jamie. Chin up. Take it like a man.

  ‘But first we must tell you something. That was the worst audition we’ve seen in 30 years…’

  That’s a bit strong, I thought. Me Puck had gone well, hadn’t it?

  ‘…The last person who auditioned that badly was Anthony Newley,’ she continued. ‘You’re in.’

  At first I didn’t register past the ‘worst audition’ bit. Bollocks! I thought. What am I going to do now? For a couple of seconds I was tru
ly gutted. But suddenly it hit me they’d said something else. What was that about Anthony Newley? Had I heard them say I was in?

  ‘Did you say I’m in?’ I said, looking up incredulously. ‘In?’

  ‘Yes, Jamie. We’ve accepted you. Congratulations. But you are going to have to work very hard. Don’t let us down.’

  ‘Thank you so much,’ I said, dumbfounded. At least my mum wasn’t going to punch me up the street. I could barely take it in. One second I thought it was curtains for my acting career, the next thing I knew I was being told I had a place at the famous Italia Conti Stage School. I left the room dazed, happy and a little confused.

  Mum was waiting for me outside, all smiles and excitement. ‘How did you get on?’ she asked.

  ‘I think I’m in,’ I told her.

  She gave me a big hug, but warned me not to get too excited. After all, not everyone had auditioned, and nothing was official yet. I’d been told I was accepted, but only on the quiet. There was nothing to do but stay calm and wait for the other kids to finish.

  Eventually I was called into the main office, and introduced to Mrs Sheward, a prim and stern-looking lady wearing a frilly blouse, pearls and a cardigan over her shoulders. Her hair was swept up into a bun and her glasses were perched near the end of her nose. At first her school-ma’am look frightened the life out of me, but what she had to say soon put me at ease.

  ‘I don’t know what you did, Jamie, but they’ve taken a shine to you,’ said Mrs Sheward with a smile. ‘They think you have something to offer, so I’m pleased to welcome you to Italia Conti.’

  This was it. This was the moment I’d been hoping for, and now it had arrived it was like I was floating on air. I felt I’d come so far, a feeling that was heightened when Mrs Sheward told me how many kids hadn’t been accepted. I was one of only a handful picked for that year. I felt so proud.

  My face said it all when I walked out to meet Mum, and she was totally made up. ‘You did it, Jamie!’ she said as she hugged me. ‘And you were wearing a suit.’

  She was right. We laughed together and as I stood there I noticed a picture up on the wall. It was Anthony Newley smiling down on me. I laughed a little bit. How did I get away with that? I thought. At the same time I told myself I’d have my picture up on that wall one day, whatever it took. And I’m happy to say I now do.

  I’d walked into that audition as a boy in the doldrums. A boy who hadn’t been to school in ages. A boy whose life was going nowhere fast. A boy whose father was in prison. Being accepted, getting a place in that most prestigious academy, made me realise how lost I’d been. Suddenly having a future, a new direction, made me feel good in a way I hadn’t for a long, long time.

  What with Dad being away, we were pretty hard up at the time, but Mum had set aside some money to take me out for a little celebration. Off we went for a glass of wine and a meal, and it was one of the happiest moments of those bleak years when my dear father was away from us. Mum raised a toast to me, and to our family. ‘You wait till we tell your dad,’ she said. ‘He’ll be so proud.’

  We told Dad on our next visit to the Scrubs, and he was delighted. Buster and Jimmy were in the visiting room, and all of them looked so pleased as they toasted me.

  Later that year I received a present that, considering how little money was knocking about, came as a huge surprise: a beautiful long stereo system with a smoked plastic top. It was a state-of-the-art Bush with a record deck on one side, a radio and four-track tape deck on the other. I’d wanted one for ages, but not for a second had I expected to get my hands on such a top-notch piece of kit. I’ll never forget unwrapping it and staring up at Mum, mouth agape.

  ‘That’s from your dad to say how proud he is you got into Conti’s,’ she said.

  She didn’t need to say any more. I could feel the tears welling in my eyes. It was the best Christmas present I ever had.

  Things were looking up, and I had a new vocation. It was time to go to work.

  THE WORLD’S A STAGE

  What have I let myself in for? I thought. I was staring at a timetable Italia Conti had posted to me to give me a flavour of what I’d be getting up to at stage school. There were acting classes, sure, but on top of them were ballet lessons, tap lessons, singing lessons and, worse, maths, reading and writing lessons. An awful load of lessons I wasn’t interested in, in other words. I was only interested in the boxes that had ‘acting’ in them somewhere. Still, I supposed I was willing to give all the other stuff a shot. The main thing was I was off to become an actor, and I felt like the luckiest kid in the world.

  These days the Italia Conti School is at the Barbican, north of the river, but back then it was in Landor Road down in Clapham North, on the site of the old Avondale Dance Hall. My dad had spent a lot of time there in the fifties, no doubt doing a bit of business and having a good time with his mates. It was nice to feel a link to Dad’s past, but the only parallel would have been the girls. Put simply, whatever Dad had been up to down the Avondale, he wasn’t carrying a pair of ballet shoes in his bag.

  My first day was weird, to put it mildly. For a start, I’d been at an all boys’ school since my primary, and it was a big shock to the system to be suddenly surrounded by hundreds of pretty girls strutting around in miniskirts. A very welcome shock, mind you. Being performers, they weren’t shy, and it was quite something to come up against such extrovert and flirtatious young women. I was like a fox in a chicken pen. All those lovely, long legs and fluttering eyelashes certainly gave me pause for thought – and, after a moment of deliberation, I quickly concluded I was in heaven!

  Another shock was the theatricality of everyone and everything at the school. I’d been used to boys’ stuff – football, rugby, cricket – and boys’ games, and this new, alien environment took a bit of adjusting to. But, being me, it didn’t take long to assert myself and start flirting with the girls and making the boys laugh. As for the maths, reading and writing classes, I soon realised they weren’t for me.

  Although I’ve always been an avid reader, academia wasn’t my bag at that age. I just wanted to do as much acting as possible, so I decided to go my own way. Whenever I had any ‘academic’ classes, I’d bunk off and sneak into a senior acting class or two. I built up a strong rapport with the teachers and, seeing how keen I was, they ended up giving me carte blanche when it came to diving in and out of classes.

  I’d been given a great chance to shine and I was determined to grasp it with both hands. In those first few months, I was like a sponge, soaking up everything around me, and the acting classes were a revelation. I was introduced to a world of techniques by teachers who pushed you hard to bring the best out in you. I loved improvisation, which gave me enormous freedom to express myself; a freedom that, having come from the regimented confines of boarding school, I’d only ever experienced on the sports field. I quickly realised that, far from being out of my depth, I had found my spiritual home, and soon recognised it was a matter of confidence and self-belief – two things I’d never been short of.

  I settled in almost immediately and I think everyone took to me straight away, especially Mrs Sheward and her lovely daughter Anne, who ran the school’s agency. Thanks to her, within just a few months I was rewarded with my first professional audition. And what an audition it was: an opportunity to join the greatest theatre company in the world – the National Theatre at the Old Vic – at that time under the artistic directorship of the greatest actor in the world, Sir Laurence Olivier.

  It might sound strange, but I wasn’t nervous. I’d been nervous auditioning for a place at the school, but now I was there it all felt like the most natural thing in the world. Obviously the harsher realities of life at home allowed me to put things into perspective. When your dad’s away in prison, it’s his welfare that keeps you awake at night, not getting a part in some play. Also, I felt older than my years and was very comfortable around adults. I’d been around them all my life in the pub, after all. Perversely, I think it was my r
elaxed attitude to the acting world that gave me an edge at my first audition.

  I was with Stephen Benton and Steven Howell – a couple of mates from school – and we set off in the company of my favourite chaperone, Mrs Da Costa. She was a wonderful Jewish lady with a great sense of humour that helped us to stay really relaxed. A lovely old girl.

  In those days, the National had its rehearsal rooms in Aquinas Street, just off Stamford Street, in Waterloo. They were nothing fancy, just a couple of mobile homes. One was an administration block with a small canteen, the other the main rehearsal room. We were in the canteen, waiting for rehearsals to break for lunch, when all of a sudden the doors flew open and in flew some ‘luvvies’. But these weren’t just any luvvies; these were Larry Olivier’s luvvies, the crème de la crème of British theatre actors: Dennis Quilley, Sir Michael Hordern, Anna Carteret, Clive Merrison, John Shrapnel – the list could go on and on.

  I felt my pulse quicken as they filled the room with such exuberance and laughter. I felt that buzz again, the same buzz I’d had in Barbara’s dressing room. I wanted to be a part of this, I was going to be a part of this. This was where I wanted to be.

  The audition was for The Front Page, the comedy classic by Ben Hecht and Charles MacArthur, and I was up for the role of ‘Boy Scout’, a ‘walk-on’ part. The great Michael Blakemore was directing. I was called into a room and soon found myself being scrutinised by Michael and his assistant. Michael looked me up and down, did a bit of chin-stroking, then gave his verdict on the little boy standing there doing his best ‘Boy Scout’ impression.

  ‘No, I don’t see him as Macduff’s son…’ he began.

  Macduff. Macduff. Who the hell’s Macduff? I thought. There’d been some mistake. I wasn’t there to be anyone’s son; I wanted to be the one in the neckerchief and woggle! I wasn’t happy and, not being versed in the dos and don’ts of being 15 and dealing with a great director, felt like I should say something. I’ve never been backward about coming forward, even then.