Especially knowing that everyone on the rig was blaming me!
Despite their reservations, people were very kind. The food on the rig was delicious but, more importantly, I got a series of insightful interviews with some terrific characters. They took me right down to the bottom of the rig, which was even more nerve-wracking than being in the air. Every so often I get flashbacks of clinging to a post as the waves crashed around – and wonder how the hell they persuaded me!
It was such a release to just be myself for the cameras – even if you never quite do the ‘real’ you – and not to rehearse every last detail and learn pages of lines. Working without a script, using your wits, is very liberating. (Perhaps a little too liberating. I thought it hysterical to find myself talking to a man called Rex about shipping wrecks. I couldn’t say his name enough. ‘Now, Rex, can you tell me about these wrecks, Rex?’ Very unprofessional!)
As soon as we were back on terra firma I declared, ‘Right, I’m obviously jinxed. No more flying.’ So, while everyone else flew down to the Scilly Isles for our next recording date, I took the sleeper train to Penzance and then a boat. The director was worried I might run off so he sent someone with me! The train was rattling so much we didn’t sleep a wink, so we both arrived a day late and miserable through lack of sleep. I’m sure they loved me!
* * *
It was while we were staying with my folks during the Playhouse run that I got quite the strangest message.
Mum had taken the call. ‘Elisabeth,’ she said, ‘a man called Frank Kilbride wants to talk to you about landscape gardening, I think. He kept mentioning stepping stones.’
‘OK …’
Gingerly I picked up the phone. I’d barely got ‘hello’ out before I was deluged by a breathy torrent of words in the thickest Yorkshire accent. I managed to pick the odd one out. Yep, he definitely said ‘stepping stones’, but it was nothing to do with gardening. Frank Kilbride was a producer – Stepping Stones was his programme for pre-schoolers.
‘And I thought you would be perfect for it,’ he said, ‘with that lovely, warm personality.’
Now, this was before my Merry-Go-Round had aired. Somehow he’d decided I could front a children’s show. I don’t know if it was seeing me on Swap Shop or Nationwide, or if he was just taking a punt because I didn’t appear to be working (out of telly, out of mind), but he was right – I was looking for something. And after a quick chat with him over at Yorkshire Television a few days later, I’d found it.
To say time was scarce on Stepping Stones was an understatement. The frenzied whirl of studio days at Who seemed positively luxurious by comparison. I don’t think I’d received a single script before I boarded my train up to Leeds – and I was due to record the first of five episodes that afternoon!
It was chaotic but I had a good vibe about this project, right from the off. Frank was a sweetie and had sorted me out with a local landlady, May Brown, who ran a dear little guesthouse on the York Road opposite the Tadcaster Road racecourse. I had the best front room, bacon sandwiches when I got in, meals on a tray in my room if I wanted. Perfect.
Frank’s mind was always whirring. It seemed like I’d barely arrived when I began receiving calls from the local press. At first I thought, Wow, they really support their local programme-makers. Then as soon as I did the interviews I realised they just wanted to know the inside scoop on a former Who girl. Bear in mind I was still amazed every time an autograph hunter popped up, I genuinely didn’t think the media would still be interested in what I was up to a couple of years down the line. Luckily for Stepping Stones, Frank was cannier than that.
It says a lot for Frank’s priorities that after coming up trumps in sorting me out with beautiful May and stirring up press interest, he then completely omitted to mention my co-star on the show.
I got to the studio for the first time and I heard a familiar voice.
‘Hello, chuck, how are you? Are you going to join us?’
Keith Barron was already a highly respected actor at the time. For years, he’d worked solidly on serials and one-offs and also had a decent list of film credits to his name (and would pop up in Who during Peter Davison’s era, a few years later). Quite why he’d chosen to present this show was unclear – maybe his agent was even less sharp than mine! – but I was suddenly glad that he had. From his opening ‘Hello, chuck’, I felt completely at home – but I still hadn’t seen a word of script!
Somehow in two-and-a-half days we managed to film five episodes! Arrive in the morning, rehearse, record, lunch, then another rehearsal, another recording session. Bang, bang, bang! Then it was off to the bar for a drink and back to May Brown’s. I liked my routine but Frank, typically, worried about me being alone.
‘Come on, Lis,’ he said, ‘I’ll take you back in my car to meet the family. We’ll have a nice bit of Yorkshire ham.’ So I’d meet his wife and children every time I went up and then he’d drive me back to York Road. Frank was such a chatterer and bundle of energy and so thoughtful that you felt like you were out on a jolly every night.
We had very little time in the studio but Frank made that fun as well. Always talking, always on the move, up and down those gantry steps all day … You couldn’t go five minutes without him popping out to call encouragement or improvements, or just laughing. I think his energy must have been rubbed off on the First, because he had a nervous arm. You didn’t know if he was flagging a horse down or telling you to start. His arm would be going nineteen to the dozen and Keith and I would be staring at each other: ‘Was that a cue? Was that a cue?’
I had such fun working with Keith. On one of our first episodes we were kneeling down next to a table that had a toy train set on it. As the train chuffed round and round its track we had to sing: ‘Bippetyboo, bippetyboo, I’m on a train, I’m off to loo.’ Then ‘zipperty zoo, zipperty zoo’, and so on: it was simple but silly.
The First gave one of his funny cues, then I started singing, but all I heard from Keith was ‘bippety – whooooh!’ I looked round and he’d disappeared under the track!
Retakes were rare as hen’s teeth so I had to carry on – even though I could see Keith’s backside sticking out from under the table while he tried desperately to stay out of shot. I don’t know how I got through it. By the time I finished I was laughing so hard the mascara was streaming down my face. Afterwards Keith said, ‘Oh my God, Chucky, I’m so sorry – but as soon as you said “Bippetyboo” I thought, What am I doing here? I can’t do this any more!’
He left shortly after that!
We did a good deal of filming outside the studio as well – nothing that required flying, thank goodness. I remember being sent to lots of farms and very quickly realised that I do not like the smell of animals. But there I was, week after week, standing in the middle of a goat herd or pig sty, saying, ‘Look at these delightful creatures!’ Frank decided we’d have a goat in the studio one week and of course it did the usual thing of making a mess. I thought I was going to gag. It’s affected me for life. I used to take Sadie to farms when she was young and I’d have to say, ‘You run through there and I’ll meet you at the other end.’
Just like on Merry-Go-Round, there was no clothes budget so you had to wear your own things. That was OK for the first few weeks, but even when you’re just putting different tops on with your jeans, you eventually start to run out. So I went to this old folks jumble sale and bought a horrendous bed jacket, which was the most incredible sickly pale green and pink, with a pink ribbon belt. I thought, If I wear this, they’ll have to get me some clothes. So I did.
And they couldn’t have been happier!
I must have done Stepping Stones for about two-and-a-half years (although the title changed at some point to My World) and – apart from the farmyard aromas – I adored every minute of it. A couple of days’ work with delightful people every few weeks – what’s not to love?
Looking back, though, was it a mistake to stay rooted in a kids’ show for so long? Should I have
been trying to do more ‘serious’ roles? After all, I’d just turned thirty – was I throwing my career away?
* * *
If I’d been worried about being perceived as a fluffy children’s personality, two events made me grow up – fast.
The first was a happy one. Brian and I bought our first house. Strictly speaking, we bought our only house – because we’re still there today! After looking far and wide we found a place round the corner from our flat in Ealing. When we pulled up outside I said to Brian, ‘How on earth can we afford this?’ Then we went inside and found out: it needed a lot of work but we just fell in love with it. It had the high ceilings and bay windows that I adore, so we bought it. Anyone who visited over the next few months was likely to find me doing a Spider-Man impression, bent double up a ladder painting, or scrubbing the ceilings and walls. I’ve always loved physical work in acting, but when it came to decorating I felt pain in muscles I never knew I had.
There was only so much we could do ourselves. When it came to walls being knocked down and RSJs fitted, we got the experts in. It would have been hellish to try and live there during that, so John Blackmore, Tony Colegate’s assistant director at Manchester, offered us both a tour of Alan Ayckbourn’s Bedroom Farce. We snatched at it.
Well, that was a mistake! Living in digs again was just horrendous – I would have preferred to take my chances under the dustsheets at home. The venues weren’t much better. At the theatre in Middlesbrough we were told not to flush the loo backstage because it would reverberate around the auditorium. Opening night in Newcastle pretty much summed it all up. The guy playing Trevor was quite uptight, really bodily stiff, which I’d noticed when I had to swing him round in rehearsal. When we got to that part in the show, I grabbed his shoulder and heard this crack. I had dislocated his arm! He wore it in a sling for the rest of the tour. The only thing that kept us going was knowing our fees would go towards fixing up the house.
It was such a relief to finally get the place looking ship-shape but we couldn’t celebrate because there was someone who was no longer around to see it. My mum had been ill since Christmas. She had been on heart tablets since I was about twenty, so any illnesses were potentially serious. I’d been popping up to Liverpool as often as I could, in between Stepping Stones and other bits. I kept saying to her, ‘You look tired, what does your doctor say?’ But she was a strong-willed woman – she wasn’t going to slow down for anyone. She died of a heart-attack in March 1978. I was actually in Liverpool at the time but I’d gone out to visit cousins. When the call came I felt my world fall apart.
* * *
At times like that you really need your partner’s support – that’s why Bedroom Farce was so perfect; it meant Brian and I could be together. Then I had a small part in a telly thing called Betzi, which only involved a few days up in Norwich for Anglia. The cast was amazing – people like Roland Curram, Sheila Gish’s husband – but the director had some funny ideas. When we got to the rehearsal room there were footprints all over the floor telling you where you should be and how you had to get there! I’m glad I didn’t have a very big part – it’s not at all easy to walk where someone else wants you to; it’s like playing Twister.
I had more luck on my next telly. Send in the Girls – the story of a group of ambitious women in a high-pressured sales promotion team – was made by Granada, who had always been good to me. I auditioned for Ollie Horsburgh and won the lead part of Beverley. Then he said, ‘Now, we need to find you a husband.’ Guess who they hired?
I didn’t even know Brian had been asked. Ollie had no idea of our relationship so it had nothing to do with that. In fact, he got himself into a terrible panic when he realised.
‘Lis, are you OK with this? We had no idea – I’m not sure I can handle this!’
But I couldn’t see what the problem was: I was delighted. It was also nice to have strangers think we made a good couple!
The close links didn’t end there. Sadie’s future godfather, Ray Lonnen, was in that one. Brian had known him longer than me, so we had lots of fun being back in Manchester together. And one of my idols, John Carson, was in it as well (I still find myself delivering lines in The Sarah Jane Adventures in a Carson style). He was amazingly influential on me – but on the day of the last dress rehearsal he did a wicked thing. There I was in full slap and frock when he said, ‘Lis, you know my wife wrote this – and she doesn’t think you’re right for it.’
I could have hit him. Ollie was pleased, the producers were pleased. If his wife had a problem, she’d had months to voice it.
If this is what you have to put up with doing adult drama, then I’ll take kids’ telly any day! I thought.
My next ‘grown-up’ thing, a sitcom called Take My Wife, wasn’t much fun either. Once again it was up in Manchester, where Brian happened to be working on something else. The director, a dour Scot called Gordon Flemyng, went up to him and said, ‘I am giving your wife a hard time.’
‘Thanks,’ said Brian. ‘I’ll be looking forward to going home tonight!’
I loved Dougie Brown in it, also Joan Benham and Victor Spinetti. Victor was very funny. He rang me up afterwards and said, ‘I am doing this story about D.W. Griffith the film director, and I know you adore Lillian Gish.’
‘Yes,’ I said, wondering where this was going.
‘Can you sing?’ he then asked.
‘God,’ I said, ‘no, I can’t!’
So he put the phone down. No goodbye – just hung up! I wonder what I missed out on …
* * *
If I’d been the sort of person to dwell on these things – and I certainly wasn’t – I think I would have felt quite content with how the 1970s were ending for me. Consistent work in some high-profile television programmes, a few adverts as well, and the possibility of a role in a film coming up – that wasn’t bad. And I’d done it all without stepping anywhere near a science-fiction programme. I’d managed to maintain a career and successfully put some distance between me and Who. Yes, I missed Tom, and Ian – although I occasionally bumped into him in Ealing – but I was actually quite proud of making a clean break. I’d never seen an episode before I joined the show and I hadn’t watched one since. It wasn’t exactly sour grapes because I’d never been a fan.
Which is why I surprised so many people with what I did next …
Chapter Thirteen
Affirmative, Mistress!
ON DAY one of filming School Reunion back in the summer of 2005, I found myself sitting down next to the Tenth Doctor during a break. Believe it or not, this was actually the first time David Tennant and I had had a moment to ourselves since I’d first arrived in Cardiff. On any production, there are so many people buzzing around all the time – crew, cast, friends – that private moments are genuinely rare. He was such easy company and straightaway confessed that he’d been a big fan of Sarah Jane. Wanting to keep it that way, I said, ‘Whatever you do then, don’t watch K-9 and Company.’
‘Too late,’ he laughed. ‘I’ve seen it!’
‘Gosh,’ I said, ‘you must really be a fan if you’ve seen that and you still want to work with me.’
Because it had been such a crushing disappointment: K-9 and Company should have been my first leading television role and on paper it had all the potential to become a Sarah Jane Adventures for the 1980s. That was the plan at the time but it didn’t work out like that. In retrospect I should never have got involved, and I very nearly didn’t, but John Nathan-Turner, of whom more below, could be extremely persuasive. The rotter!
* * *
The world of Who never stays still. JNT had replaced Philip Hinchcliffe’s successor, Graham Williams, at the start of 1980. He arrived in all-guns-blazing mode and you’d hear all kinds of stories – he was thinking of dropping the sonic screwdriver, K-9, and even the TARDIS! I think he just wanted to shake things up a bit, although he eventually got his way with the dog. Not all his ideas were about breaking with the past, though. In the summer of 1980 I
received a message asking if I’d go and see him. What on earth for? I wondered, but in the end decided, Why not?
So I pootled along to Threshold House: I have so many happy memories of that building, it’s a shame they don’t use it any more. Even the stroll up to the front door seems like a trip down memory lane, all those familiar shops and restaurants.
John’s reputation was as a bit of a showman, so I was already primed for the flamboyant gestures and shirts as loud as his voice.
What I wasn’t prepared for was his offer:
‘Lis, I want you to come back as Sarah Jane.’
‘You’re joking!’
It was as if I was trying to talk myself out of it.
‘We’re deadly serious,’ John said. ‘You were the most popular companion. We want to put you and Tom back together. The Dream Team – the fans would love it!’
Ah, ‘the fans’. How often I’d hear those words from John over the years.
I shook my head. ‘I don’t think so, John.’
‘You don’t have to make your mind up now,’ he boomed, still smiling confidently. ‘Take a few days. Talk to Brian, talk to your agent.’
‘Look, I’m sorry, I don’t need to discuss it with anyone. I had such a good innings with Tom, I can’t risk going back and it not working – that would be so upsetting to me and, yes, the fans – I don’t want to go there.’
Think about it from Tom’s point of view, I told myself. He’s been there for years, he’s in his own groove, he’s moved the Doctor on, I’m sure – although I’d not seen it – I’d just be an anchor from the past. I was genuinely worried that maybe I wouldn’t fit in any more. What if he took it the wrong way? What have they brought her back for? It’s my show!
Elisabeth Sladen: The Autobiography Page 26