Speaking of naughty, with John Nathan-Turner on set you were never far from a potential conflict. I’m not sure if he did this on purpose but he did like to throw the cat among the pigeons from time to time.
On one occasion I had just completed a scene. Nathan-Turner applauded and walked over to speak to Janet Fielding, who played Tegan.
‘Now that’s how a companion should behave.’
Oh, John, you are such a mixer! I thought. I think he’d always had a spiky relationship with Jan, but I didn’t want to be drawn into it.
JNT could be a bit of a minx but I saw a new side to him on this shoot – as a director. I’m not sure how it came about but when we were at Manod Quarry he ended up taking the chair on the fight sequence with the Raston Warrior Robot – played by Keith Hodiak in a silver one-piece suit. He had all these knives and Cybermen to choreograph and I think he did it masterfully. I would have liked to see John direct more: for good or for bad, he really put his heart and soul into Doctor Who.
For all the large cast and big location numbers, you quickly realise the budgets haven’t changed when you get the call saying, ‘Can you bring some of your own clothes?’ So my blouse is up there onscreen, the Mac is mine – and yes, so are the gloves on string inside it! Why they’re on string I’ve no idea.
I didn’t like the Rassilon stuff much – that whole denouement chugged along a bit too slowly for me. It was like trying to act in treacle. By contrast Jon and I had fun with Anthony Ainley as the Master in the car because those scenes zipped along. I enjoyed Sarah getting a bit tetchy with him: he’s as powerful and clever as the Doctor but she stands her ground. I’d never come up against the Master before so it was good to tick off another landmark villain, something else for the fans to ask me about at the Chicago convention – where most of us were heading immediately after filming.
* * *
It’s always a privilege to receive invitations to go to America. Piling onto a plane after The Five Doctors wrapped had an exciting end-of-term feeling. It’s so nice to be among friends when you’re working and, of course, after such a gruelling shoot even the people I hadn’t really known before had suddenly become close.
We all gave the show a good hard sell in Chicago, which I think was fair. If you asked Janet or Frazer or any of the others what they think about The Five Doctors, I imagine we would all trot out pretty identikit replies. We’d been in better Who productions but this was ambitious and it was fun. Most importantly, it was conceived as a grand gesture, a big celebratory thank you for the fans, and I think it achieved that.
I went to the Chicago convention three years in a row. It was always fun. They were so enthusiastic, and because it fell around Thanksgiving it seemed like all of America was in party mood. I never thought I’d witness the same levels of passion in England.
But then we went to Longleat.
The Seat of the Marquis of Bath had been running a Doctor Who exhibition since 1973 and it had always drawn in visitors to the stately home. With the anniversary coming up, Lord Bath persuaded BBC Enterprises to up the ante and really make a feature of the place. As a result, on Easter Sunday 1983, Longleat threw open its gates to all living Doctors, as many companions as they could muster – and about a million fans!
Stately homes are never built on motorways, are they, but no one in their wildest dreams expected that level of turnout. All the roads were gridlocked and after a while the only people getting anywhere were the police deployed to sort out the mess.
I still get letters about it today. People say things like, ‘I never made it’ or ‘I got within a couple of miles’. Some of them actually struggled through but I’m afraid there were a lot of disappointed fans that day.
Unlike the American conventions, this one was mostly outdoors so you could really appreciate the scale of the audience surging towards you. We were all looking forward to it but at times you knew how it might feel to be a castle besieged by angry villagers. My father, who had come along as my guest, couldn’t help worrying. ‘Is it safe, Lis? Is it safe?’ he kept saying, and I had to laugh. This was a man who had ridden a motorbike through the jungles of Nigeria and now he was shaking at the sight of a horde of Who fans.
Just trying to cope with the vast numbers meant that standards weren’t quite so high as in LA, Fort Lauderdale or Chicago. I managed to nip to the loo at one point and I suddenly heard this voice from the next cubicle: ‘Lis, if I slide a photo under the door, will you sign it?’
Signings are the lifeblood of conventions – fans will queue for hours to get a signature. If Sadie ever came along she’d be asked for her autograph, too. And if Jon was around he always made sure she was spoiled by fans. Usually the organisers massively underestimate how long these things take, so I’m forever saying, ‘I’ll sit here signing until I’ve seen everyone,’ which can throw the running order out completely. Sometimes you do get dragged away, because you’re booked for something else but it’s never my choice, I promise!
Signings at Longleat took place in a massive hall called the Orangery. The organisers had a nightmare funnelling the fans into the area but we felt quite safe cocooned in our booths as the most patient people in the world snaked slowly past. Who fans are always so charming and polite and interesting. Sometimes you feel as if your wrist will snap if you sign another photograph but then you see the next smiling face coming towards you and the pain vanishes.
They organised the signings in shifts so I sat down at my place next to Carole Ann Ford and before you knew it, we were engrossed in a mammoth catch-up. Then a BBC chap arrived with a huge stack of pictures for us to sign. Carole spotted them first.
‘Oh my God, I never thought they’d use them!’
‘What’s wrong?’ I said and grabbed a copy.
It was only the publicity shot we’d done at the hotel for The Five Doctors! And yes, we still looked as hideous as before.
‘I’m not having this,’ I said. Carole’s husband and Brian were nattering away in the corner – ‘Over here, boys – we’ve got a job for you!’ Five minutes later every single photo had been submerged in one of the fire buckets of water hidden at the back.
Most fans bring their own things to be signed so it didn’t matter, but every so often I’m sitting at a convention or a book signing and someone will say, ‘Could you sign this, please?’ and it’s one of those bloody photos. God knows how they get hold of them!
It was great seeing Tom and Jon together. Funnily enough, for all Jon’s waspishness, the more time they spent together at functions over the years, the more the two warmed to each other. Pat was there too, and Peter, and I met Louise Jameson again for the first time since our encounter in Richmond all those years ago. It was such fun for everyone. I remember the BBC man steering us all into the exhibition to have our photos taken with the monsters. I’ve got a picture of us all – Louise, Peter, Janet, Sarah, her boyfriend and me all in a line, kicking our legs up.
* * *
Longleat was incredible, and if I’m honest, it would have made a neat ending to my association with Who. If I had to pick a lasting memory, the sight of all those faces would be a pretty satisfying one.
The UK, however, wasn’t the only place desperate to celebrate the programme’s twentieth anniversary. Jon and I were booked for a summer tour of the East Coast of America, although, I confess, when the invite arrived neither of us exactly leapt for joy. Travelling for fun is one thing, but being ferried around on a tight schedule sounded distinctly unappealing. But then the organisers said that Brian and Ingeborg, Jon’s wife, could come.
‘Now they’re talking!’ said Jon. ‘The four of us are on an all-expenses paid trip around the States.’
Suddenly we couldn’t wait. If there’s one thing I’d learned during those fabulous conventions in California, Chicago and Miami – the Americans really know how to spoil you.
We met Jon and Ingeborg at Heathrow. As far as I was concerned we were four friends going on holiday. A lot of our fellow pass
engers, however, only saw the Doctor and his companion checking in their luggage! I lost count of the number of times we were asked, ‘Where’s your TARDIS?’, but Jon always responded as if it was the first time he’d heard it. Such an ambassador for the show – the BBC really didn’t know what they’d lost in him.
The cabin crew weren’t slow with the in-flight drinks and by the time we landed in Tampa, Florida the four of us were buzzing about the four weeks ahead.
‘We’re all in for quite an experience,’ Jon observed.
And, boy, was he right.
You can never fault the passion of US Who fans but the word ‘disorganised’ doesn’t really begin to cover it. Ron Katz was the President of the Doctor Who Fan Club of America and one of the most enthusiastic people you could ever wish to meet – but, as we soon found out, not everyone shared his zeal for the programme.
My mouth literally fell open when Ron handed over the long list of not just theatres, but agents and TV shows we were scheduled to visit in Manhattan, Chicago, Philadelphia and all points in between. Even in four weeks it looked a struggle to fit it all in. Thank God Brian was there.
Our first couple of nights were very pleasant. There was a party atmosphere as we all got to know Tampa and delivered our first talk at the town’s university to hundreds of fans. Jon was in full evangelical mode, ready to spread the gospel according to Who. I liked that – I could hide behind his coattails, as I had for that original photo session. We weren’t exactly living in the lap of luxury but, as Jon pointed out, ‘It will be different when we get to Manhattan.’
And it certainly was.
After a series of bus trips we finally arrived at our hotel at three in the morning. Most places are dead at that time of night. This one was alive – and not with the type of clientele with whom you really want to share accommodation.
‘Christ, it’s a hooker’s hotel!’ said Jon.
I couldn’t disagree, but all I wanted to do was eat. ‘Do you think their restaurant’s still open?’ I asked.
Jon looked mortified. ‘No, no, darling! We’re not eating in this place.’ And he marched us straight out and into a cab.
Where we ended up wasn’t much better. Honestly, it was as if we were staying in Stalag Five. The receptionist wore all the room keys on his belt, like a jailer. It was the only place he could trust them not to be stolen. Anti-theft measures seemed to be the hotel’s priority. Our pillows and all our bedding were stitched with the hotel’s name in bright colours. Very chic! It really was like being in prison.
At least there was air conditioning. You were in no doubt about that because each room had a giant, noisy box above the bed.
The next morning Jon and I were being taken to record a TV programme. I opened our door just in time to see Ingeborg and Jon march past. I couldn’t help noticing he had a big plaster on his nose.
‘What’s …? I began to say but Ingeborg pulled a face and mouthed, ‘Don’t ask.’
I got the story eventually. ‘Oh, darling,’ she said, ‘poor Jon was so tired last night and the air conditioning was so noisy. I reached up to switch it off – and it fell on his head!’
We both burst out laughing but it must have hurt, especially with that nose.
Jon’s day didn’t get much better. We were taken in a car to what we thought would be a large Manhattan TV studio. The truth was some way short – quite an ugly building in a rather grubby area. Jon took one look and said, ‘I’m not going in there.’
Ron Katz looked horrified. His big idol was upset!
‘Come on, Jon,’ I said. ‘It will be fine, the three of us together.’
The inside, it turned out, was even worse than the exterior. Ron led us nervously to an office door and knocked. The guy inside looked like a Coen Brothers’ send-up of a typical TV producer – bald, big cigar and loud. His office was tiny and crammed with scripts. Ron ushered us in. Jon shook his head, upturned a wastepaper basket, and sat indignantly on that in the hallway.
As it turned out, I don’t think his behaviour hurt our chances.
‘These are the actors from England I told you about,’ Ron announced eagerly.
The producer stared blankly through a fug of smoke.
‘Who?’
‘I sent you a letter.’
The guy gestured to the pile of mail on his cluttered desk. Poking out near the bottom was Ron’s letter – unopened.
Just when I thought it couldn’t get any weirder, the producer looked at me and said, ‘Do you have a Green Card?’
‘No.’
‘I can fix that.’
‘Oh, thank you,’ I said – I was just being polite.
Then he asked, ‘Are you married?’
‘Yes, I am.’
‘Hmm, I can fix that too.’
I’d heard enough. I grabbed Jon and we headed back to the hotel. By the time we arrived, Ingeborg and Brian had moved our stuff to the nearby Ramada, which had a swimming pool on the roof. Bliss.
It wasn’t entirely perfect, of course. The walls were paper-thin. In fact when I heard Jon complaining to his wife about the standard of room service I couldn’t help laughing.
‘Lissie, is that you?’ his voice boomed from the other side of the wall. ‘Can you believe they served me a paper cup? Outrageous!’
For all our trials I have to say we had a hysterical time. Brian and Jon got on famously, holding court at the bar every night, while Ingeborg and I became friends for life. You probably couldn’t pick four more different people but we really gelled, especially in the face of adversity.
Which was just as well …
Looking back I don’t know how we coped, but one of the funniest things was being turfed out of our hotel in Philadelphia. We’d started the day with Bloody Marys – hospitality was excellent, I have to say – but I think there was a problem with the bill so we had to relocate, in our drunken haze, to the Holiday Inn. Brian and I giggled our way through it but moods across the hall were more highly strung.
Ingeborg was crying, ‘Oh, Jon, oh Jon!’, and so out came the happy pills. Hysterical. I think I woke up at one point in the shower at three in the morning. One of my favourite conventions ever!
I seem to remember a fire alarm going off during Jon’s talk in Chicago’s Granada Theatre, which wasn’t so bad considering the place was freezing. And somewhere along the line I was asked for a pair of knickers to auction! Apparently you’re able to see a flash of my pants in The Ark in Space – I had no idea – so they wanted to recreate it. I foolishly handed over a red pair but I was told, ‘Oh no, you were wearing white in the show’, so I went back to my suitcase. The guy who eventually bought them – for quite a few dollars, I think – asked me to sign them. It’s disturbing to think there’s a pair of your pants hanging up on someone’s wall.
I was sad when it was all over: Jon and I had never been closer. It turned out that a four-week bus tour was no time at all – little did I know that an even bigger commitment was just around the corner.
* * *
After such a carefree few months I thought it was time to take a step back from the Whoniverse before I got tired of it again. When I got the call from Barry Letts to appear in his new BBC production I couldn’t turn it down. By then, especially after our boozy nights in Fort Lauderdale, Barry was more of a family friend than a colleague – I would do anything for him.
The show was Alice in Wonderland, which brought back fuzzy memories of the school production of Through the Looking-Glass – and of poor Edwina Currie! This time I’d be playing the Dormouse, which sounded fun. As usual Barry had surrounded himself with trusted favourites. Roy Skelton was the Mock Turtle, Linda Polan was with me again and Jonathan Cecil, who’d also been with Linda and me in Gulliver, returned as the White Rabbit. Best of all for me was that Brian was cast as the Gryphon – my husband and my mentor, what could be better?
As a pair of daft non-planners we dared to assume good times were just around the corner for both of us. And we were right –
but not in the way we expected.
In the summer of 1984 I went along for my first costume fitting. The designer that day was Jackie Stubbs, who had worked with me on Who. Jackie put down her tape measure and then said, ‘Lis, do you think you should have a pregnancy test?’
‘A what?’
Jackie could tell I’d put on weight since we last met and that my bust had grown.
‘It’s the only explanation, Lis,’ she said.
In disbelief, I went to a chemist and took three test packs home with me – they all said the same thing.
Our neighbour at the time was Mandy, a sixty-year-old Austrian who had escaped from the Nazis over the Alps. I was always round there knocking back the odd sherry with her and Arnold. That day I was so shocked by the tests I went crying next door, ‘Mandy, I’m pregnant!’
Then I fainted on her kitchen floor.
Shocked as I was, I have to admit it wasn’t an accident. Events over the previous couple of years seemed to have been building up to it. In 1983 Brian had gone into hospital to have a bronchial cyst removed. It wasn’t in any way a life-threatening operation but I distinctly remember leaving his bedside and coming home, opening the front door and thinking, It’s so empty. So quiet. Where are the children?
Brian got a clean bill of health soon after, as expected, and later that year we went to the Greek islands to celebrate our fifteenth wedding anniversary. What could be more romantic? Then one night we were dining in a beautiful taverna and got talking to the waiter. We explained how long we’d been together and after congratulating us, he said, ‘Where are your children?’
That question again!
It sounds ridiculous, I know, but it took a complete stranger asking that to make us think: Why don’t we have children? The answer, like so many things in our lives, was because we simply hadn’t got round to it. For the first time I questioned whether our policy of not planning anything had been the way to go. And, for the first time, I decided, no. This was something that needed to be planned – and the sooner the better.
Elisabeth Sladen: The Autobiography Page 30