I opened it up and just saw the words: ‘Enter Sarah Jane.’
My worst nightmare – they want me to play myself!
After a long line of supposedly subservient female companions, Sarah Jane Smith was intended as the show’s nod towards the nascent Women’s Lib movement. I didn’t want to make a big thing of this, though, assuming the Doctor to be a more liberal thinker than 1970s Britons. As the only girl running around UNIT’s military set-up, Sarah Jane needed to make herself heard, but I figured this could be achieved simply by making her a strong character. Of course the writers occasionally had other ideas. In The Monster of Peladon, for example, the Doctor actually orders Sarah Jane to give the Queen the full ‘Women’s Lib’ lecture, no punches pulled. The irony of male writers getting a male character to ‘order’ a woman to talk about feminism wasn’t lost on me. And when the adorable Ian Marter (Dr Harry Sullivan) joined the show, the gender battle became even more overt, although always playful.
All Barry had said to me, however, was, ‘We want Sarah to be very much her own person, someone of today, with her own job, and always questioning everything.’ That’s what I worked with.
So, Sarah Jane was a journalist, a woman with her own mind and her own private income. She was confident, resourceful and inquisitive – to the point of being nosey. Now the most important question: what would she wear?
I got a call from Jim Acheson, the show’s costume designer.
‘We need to take you shopping. Sarah Jane needs some clothes.’
That made a change. So often I’ve appeared on stage or screen wearing my own things. It was refreshing to think they actually wanted to spend a few bob on making my character look a specific way.
Jim Acheson has gone on to greater things, of course, winning Best Costume Oscars for Restoration, Dangerous Liaisons and The Last Emperor. He is such a talent, and always did such stunning work. His are the only aliens you could photograph from the back – the attention to detail was spot-on. I was just getting my head around the character, so it was a relief when he said, ‘Come on, we’re going to Biba.’
Being dragged round all the trendiest stores by your own personal shopper is such a blast. Jim was my own Gok Wan for the day. He had his own fix on how Sarah Jane should look, so he’d wander around, scanning the racks, then suddenly appear at my side with an armful of potential outfits. Time, ironically considering my new job, was against us and the queues for the changing rooms were horrendous. I remember Jim’s face in Biba when I said to him, ‘Stand still for a moment’, then whipped my clothes off.
‘You can’t do that!’
By then I was pulling a new dress over my head.
Any modesty I had was long gone. When you’ve been a dancer or appeared in any sort of theatrical production, you’re used to quick changes but Jim had kittens every time. I think he envisaged newspaper headlines about their new star caught in her undies in public. But I didn’t give that a thought. Who’d be interested in little old me? I was just another girl in a shop.
Like the shopping expedition, everything happened at such a whirlwind pace. I signed my contract on 3 May – for twenty-six episodes – and four days later I was on a train heading towards Manchester.
My life in Doctor Who had begun.
* * *
I’m sure the rest of the cast had already done a table read-through, but casting for Sarah Jane was so far behind schedule that I missed out on that. I was starting cold. My introduction to the serial called The Time Warrior would take place on location in Cheshire. Fortunately I gleaned a bit of inside info on the way up. Brian had worked with Kevin Lindsay, a typically colourful Australian actor, in Watford and they got on well. When we discovered Kevin was also in The Time Warrior – as Linx, the Time Warrior himself, no less – Brian arranged for us to travel together. Typical Aussie, he was so relaxed, which was just what I needed.
‘I’m terrified,’ I confessed.
‘Course you are. But stick with me, girl, we’re going to have fun!’
I believed him – Kevin could give a dying man confidence.
We arrived late afternoon and made our way to the hotel, a charming old coaching inn. It was quite a period place, all slanted floors and low beams, but my bed was comfortable and there was hot water for a bath. That was more of a luxury than I realised.
Soon it was time to go downstairs. The crew and cast were assembling in the hotel bar. This was it, my big entrance into the world – the universe – of Doctor Who. I’d been in enough shows with enough companies not to be anxious about joining another one, but something about this particular programme made me feel nervous. Like Coronation Street, everyone was so established in their roles. Would I fit in?
Only one way to find out …
The bar area was already full, although I didn’t recognise a soul. Then I spotted Jon Pertwee at the bar. A quick double-take and he recognised me.
‘Lissie!’
His booming voice carried across the room and two-dozen heads swivelled my way. Well, if they didn’t know me already, they did now. It was embarrassing at the time but actually it got all the introductions out of the way early on. Kevin and Jim Acheson appeared out of the throng and showed me off around the room. It was such a blur but everyone was friendly.
Finally I found my way to the bar where Jon was waiting. He gave me a great big hug, which was his seal of approval to the rest of the cast, I think, like a Roman emperor giving the thumbs-up sign.
Relaxed, he said, ‘Now, what would you like to drink, Katy?’
Katy?
I didn’t say anything – I didn’t need to. A second later Jon realised his error.
And burst into tears.
Oh Christ, I thought, what on earth have I signed up to here?
There’s not much you can do when the most important – and largest of life – character in the room breaks down in front of you, especially with the whole bar looking on. I didn’t know whether to comfort Jon or run. To be honest, I just wanted the ground to open up. I think I stood there awkwardly for a second, but it felt like an age. Then I felt an arm around my shoulder and I was led away. I learned later it was Peter Pegrum, one of the visual effects guys. Right then he was my knight in shining armour.
‘Don’t worry about Jon,’ Peter said. ‘He just misses Katy, that’s all. It’s not personal.’
It was nice to hear. But by the end of the night I was ready to punch the next person who even mentioned that woman’s name. (Of course, I didn’t mention this when Katy and Matt Smith joined me on the Sarah Jane Adventure Death of the Doctor. But then why would I? You only have to spend a second in Katy’s company to realise how wonderful and scatty and delightful she is. The idea of anyone holding a grudge with her is inconceivable. In my defence, I didn’t know her then …)
So it wasn’t the most comfortable evening I’ve ever had. Jon quickly recovered his normal bubbly self and a bit of a party atmosphere picked up again, but the feeling lingered: whatever I did onscreen, I just wasn’t Jo Grant.
But sod that, I thought. This is the age of Sarah Jane.
I’m sure if you ask anyone else about that night they’ll say I was quite drunk. I can reveal now that it was an act. I still wasn’t much of a drinker – I might have had one gin, but I pretended to be a lot further gone than I was. It just seemed easier. Almost the diplomatic option, actually, because the next day I could say I didn’t remember anything. But I’ll never forget that night – as everyone relaxed and got to know each other, good friendships were made. Apart from Jon’s episode, there was quite a lot of ribald joking going on, and more than one fellow saying a blue joke then panicking when he saw me. ‘Oh, I’m sorry, Lis.’ As if I’d never heard swearing before! Jim Acheson’s assistant, Robin Stubbs, really took me under his wing. He’d been on my episode of Some Mothers … and I became strong friends with him and his wife later. That night he was my guardian angel.
At breakfast the next day there were one or two people nursing han
govers. Jon was as lively as usual and afterwards he and I were led into a big room, where Sandra Exelby was waiting to do our makeup. You know I love actors’ tales and Jon rattled off a couple of stories that had Sandra and me in stitches. Half an hour later we climbed on the bus with everyone else. I sat next to Kevin and braced myself for the day ahead. The real work was about to begin.
* * *
The reason we were in Cheshire can be answered in two words: Peckforton Castle. Although built as a folly in the 1800s, to the untrained eye Peckforton looks exactly like a mediaeval castle. And that is exactly why we wanted it. Strictly speaking, we needed it to be two mediaeval castles.
The Time Warrior, written by future script editor Robert Holmes, was a four-part serial featuring warring neighbours Irongron and Wessex. Irongron, the local aggressor, wants to conquer all before him and unquestioningly accepts the fantastic weaponry offered by the stranded stranger Linx – a Sontaran whose ship has crashed in Earth’s Middle Ages.
A Sontaran – an alien! I’d never encountered the like.
In the story, Linx kidnaps scientists from the twentieth century to aid in his repairs, conducted in his laboratory at Irongron’s castle. The Doctor sets off in the TARDIS to investigate and Sarah Jane stows aboard. That, in a nutshell, was the start of my adventure.
I’ve always loved being part of a repertory company, so travelling with everyone on the bus was in my comfort zone. Both regulars and newbies had bonded pretty well the night before so there was a real buzz in the air. The first day’s shooting looked like it might actually be fun.
While the supporting cast, including June Brown – later Dot Cotton from EastEnders – were getting to grips with their cumbersome mediaeval costumes, I had no such problems. Jim Acheson had found me a smart brown trouser suit, large-collared shirt and jumper. After the state of me in Z-Cars and my shopkeeper’s overalls from Some Mothers it made a change to actually look nice for once.
I think Barry originally hoped to direct The Time Warrior himself but had become tied up with Terrance Dicks in preparation work for the BBC’s new sci-fi show, Moonbase 3. Instead we had a chap called Alan Bromly. When people talk about the ‘old school’ ways of the Corporation in the 1950s, it’s people like Alan they’re referring to. The image of pipe and trilby sums him up to a T.
I don’t know why Barry hired someone who hadn’t worked on a Who before – I suppose everyone needs their chance but handing him a new companion to introduce to the series was quite an order. Or maybe it wasn’t. Perhaps it only seemed important to me. I found Bromly hard to connect with. Not unpleasant, just distant – we were on different wavelengths. But no matter how hard I tried to retune to his frequency, he wasn’t terribly receptive. I thought, I could really do with a bit of direction here. I’m in this show for 26 episodes. If I don’t get the first one right, it’s going to be a nightmare.
But my legacy wasn’t at the head of Bromly’s agenda: he had a job and a schedule to stick to and no silly little actresses were going to delay him. About the only words I heard from him were, ‘Action!’ and ‘Cut!’ Point and shoot, move on quickly. Meanwhile I just had to trust my instincts that I was doing Sarah Jane justice.
I wasn’t the only one introducing an important recurring character, though. Kevin Lindsay, as Linx, would do such a sterling job that the Sontarans would return again and again – even popping up in The Sarah Jane Adventures. Jim Acheson designed the costume and Sandra Exelby helped the effects people with the head mould. Linx looked like a squashed frog in shining armour with a big bowl-shaped helmet. Of course, the joke was that when the Sontaran took off his helmet his head was the same shape underneath. I love twists like that. About the only bit of Kevin you could make out were his eyes and tongue. It was an incredibly inventive look created on the usual BBC shoestring budget.
For Kevin’s first scene he had to step out of his spaceship, which looked like a giant silver golf ball. With one hand on his hip, he announced, ‘I am a Sontaran.’
Kevin’s lazy Aussie vowels really made the word sing: ‘Son-TAR-run.’
Bromly was puffing away on his pipe, not saying much as usual. Then he beetled over, script in hand, and said, ‘Kevin, I think it’s “Son-terran”,’ emphasis on the first syllable.’
‘Well, I think it’s “‘Son-TAR-run”,’ Kevin snorted. ‘And I come from the fucking place, so I should know!’
And that’s how it’s been pronounced ever since.
To his credit Alan didn’t push it and we all had a laugh.
Coming from a stage background I had been trained to accept the director as king. Tony Colegate or Alan Ayckbourn could squeeze miracles out of anyone’s performance. Their attention to detail was phenomenal and every man jack of us responded – or we were out. I soon realised that the Doctor Who set-up was different – there was no shortage of advice and leadership but it didn’t come from the director.
Take my first scene, for example. All I had to do was emerge from the TARDIS, creep up on Hal, one of Wessex’s soldiers, and make him jump. Hal was played by Jeremy Bulloch, who was a lot of fun. He’d been a child star – I remember him from Billy Bunter – but sci-fi fans will probably know him as Boba Fett from the Star Wars films. He’s had an impressive career, really, always busy.
I was nervous as hell, of course, so I’d found a quiet place away from the pack to go over my lines. (We didn’t have the luxury of trailers in those days.) When I was given the five-minute notice to take my place I was pretty confident, though. Then I heard a shout from Jon.
‘Lissie!’ he beckoned me over. ‘Come and say hello to our fans.’
Fans? Here?
A truth I soon learned pretty quickly is that wherever you go in the world to film Doctor Who, the fans will find you. I don’t know how they do it. The BBC has always been pretty hush-hush with its arrangements, for the very practical reason that if you have to worry about an audience then you can lose valuable filming minutes. Timing is so essential when you’re involved in an outside broadcast that you can’t afford to waste a single unnecessary second. I looked down the hill and there was Jon surrounded by a gaggle of men and women, boys and girls with their autograph books and cameras out. Jon loved his fans and was totally in his element among them. He couldn’t do enough for them.
But at that moment I felt like punching the lot of them – and him.
I’ve just spent half an hour getting ready for this, I thought. The last thing I need is to be distracted now.
‘Jon,’ I called back, ‘they don’t know who I am.’
‘Nonsense,’ he bellowed. ‘Come along.’
Suddenly everything had changed. This wasn’t a request to join him – it was an order.
I thought, OK, I’m getting a handle on this operation now. Somebody is going to need to be pleased quite a lot.
Of course, no one there was the slightest bit interested in me – I’m not even sure they knew Katy had left by that stage. I did some hellos, then thought I would slip off to do my take.
Jon had other ideas.
‘Look, everyone,’ he addressed the masses. ‘Lissie’s about to do her first scene for us.’
For us?
Then he unfolded his shooting stick – a walking stick that turns into a seat – and he sat, arms folded, surrounded by his fans, waiting for me to perform. If someone else had done this you might think it was a joke but Jon was serious. I’m sure he thought it would give me confidence but honestly, I could have kicked him in the teeth.
OK, maybe that’s a tad harsh, but I just thought, Let me do this first scene, please. Then I can relax.
Of course Jon, bless him, had only the best of intentions. All he wanted to do was make me feel special by giving me the honour of him as an audience – it was his show after all. But what a way to do it: parading me to a bunch of fans who didn’t know me from Adam, while I was getting ready to shoot my first-ever scene. It felt all wrong. I’m not a method actor by any means, but I prefer to put a bit of
distance between the real world and my character before a take: I like to focus, gather my thoughts. I suppose Jon didn’t know that.
Kevin Lindsay got along famously with Jon. Being an Australian, he was a natural charmer anyway. Barry Letts was the master, though. The trick with Jon was to keep him in the loop on all decisions. Whether they affected him or not, he liked to be aware. Jon hated thinking anything was going on behind his back. Keep him up to speed, as Barry – and the good directors – always did, and he was a real pussycat. Pull a rabbit out of the hat and you’d have a fight on your hands. You’d see Jon and Barry in confabs and every so often you could make out Barry saying, ‘Yes, dear boy, of course, dear boy.’ He really knew how to play Jon.
It was a skill I needed to master …
* * *
One of the questions I’m asked most (after ‘What is so-and-so really like?’) is ‘What is the TARDIS like?’ Even I was aware just how iconic this strange blue box was. Seeing it out in the grounds of Peckforton had been quite impressive. When fans spot it for the first time you can almost see the hairs rising on the backs of their necks. The whole mythos surrounding it is so vast and so very well layered in the psyches of entire generations’ that you can’t help but gasp a little. Even when you see one of the old working police boxes in the street in Edinburgh or somewhere like that, you can’t help but wonder.
Unfortunately, actually working with the thing is slightly less romantic.
I know this sounds obvious, but it was literally a box. It’s no more than a shell. Floor, roof, four sides, that’s it – completely empty inside. No console, no library, no heart. These days it’s lit from the inside and there’s a painted backing, so the magic sort of spills out when you open the door. We just had a solid back wall, which is why you rarely saw the door open face-out.
Apart from the fact our TARDIS had a special key (compared to the modern Yale lock), there’s another advantage the modern model has over ours: it’s bigger. These days five or six people will pile out and you think nothing of it. Back then it was a bit cosy with just me and Jon inside. Once you start adding Ian Marter or someone else then you’re all a little too close for comfort. You certainly notice if someone’s been eating garlic.
Elisabeth Sladen: The Autobiography Page 10