Nevertheless, the production was of great value, the first success the Nat had yet enjoyed that season, and working with Jonathan Miller was, to me, more than fascinating. He never dealt with the play literally or even directly, but came to it from many an oblique angle, telling witty stories, describing medical cases or great paintings, yet somehow it all related to what we were doing and clarified everything without ever boring as with textual analysis. Rehearsals therefore were the most interesting part of the process, but once we were in front of an audience and there was no Jonathan around to inspire us, cheer us on, our excitement waned.
One of the very few affectionate memories from that strange erratic season was an afternoon in London I shall never forget. It was the anniversary of the victory at Agincourt and the dean of Westminster arranged a celebration in the Abbey where, of course, famous young King Henry is interred. The dean collected all the best-known living “Henry the Fifths” and huddled us into the narrow choir stalls that form a direct path to the great altar. Filling both sides of the stalls, there we sat, all of us Henrys, staring at each other. Then the senior Henry of us all, Sir Laurence Olivier (who had just been made a peer) walked to the altar, turned and gave us the St. Crispin’s Day speech to honour the occasion. He spoke it quite beautifully and, in deference to the location, very quietly with great dignity and simplicity. The silence was unbroken as those words echoed through the vastness of Westminster Abbey. High above our heads, the late-afternoon sun shone through the stained glass, casting long shafts of coloured light which spilled upon the ancient stones. It was a haunting moment—one could imagine that the shades of Garrick and Irving had stolen away from Poets’ Corner and now stood in rapt attention among the dark shadows around us; and that even Henry of Monmouth himself, tiny Henry, had risen from his effigy in the next room and had come forward, his head pressed against the arches to listen in the stillness. It seemed that some six hundred years had slipped away and we were suddenly there, all of us, again at Agincourt—then the sun went behind a cloud and the moment vanished.
A cartoonist’s perception of my Danton
No matter what kind of success Danton enjoyed, the run was to be drastically short-lived, for already forces were at work, nefarious plans brewing behind the management doors on old Aquinas Street. O’Neill’s Long Day’s Journey Into Night was to be mounted next with Larry playing James Tyrone. No doubt spurred on by Tynan, the plan was that it should crown the end of a ropy season and save the day. But Danton stood in its way. Because of our success, I was under the impression that we had already carried the first reprieve, but clearly that did not suit the brass. There was only one course for them to take—delete Danton from the repertory. Jonathan Miller, not afraid to throw his mind about just as a bouncer throws his weight about, had made a lot of people with pretensions feel uneasy and inadequate—pseudointellectuals in particular. There was a great deal of envy and jealousy going on behind the scenes; to some, he was a threat. Extermination seemed the inevitable answer. So we slunked back into our cases wearing our green makeup for the last time, closed the glass doors behind us and died.
It is the strangest of paradoxes that the two major creative forces at the National, one of the foremost critics of the twentieth century and the world’s most honoured actor, should together, each in his own way, be so indefinably insecure. It would take a few more years following that strange frustrating season, but Laurence Olivier’s reign at the Nat was coming to an end. The rumours of Peter Hall’s succession cast a long shadow of gathering power over those last days—and when the announcement of his appointment came, it was handled just as badly as everything else had been. Max, Lord Rayne (don’t Rayne on my parade) and the National’s board bungled it badly and, as usual, Larry was the last to find out. No one in those stifling little cubbyholes on Aquinas Street knew what the other was doing. The withholding of information, the backbiting, the bickering, the bitching, the intrigue continued right up to the end. I have this image of a giant Othello, like a great oak about to be felled, trying to remain upright while swarms of nasty little Iagos keep snapping at its trunk and gnawing away at its bark until at last, weakened at the base, it can stand no longer and comes crashing down to earth.
FUNNILY ENOUGH, Anthony Hopkins, who one day would win an Oscar and a knighthood in the same year, had the last laugh on all of us that season. Abominably treated as he had been, at last poetic justice had raised its righteous head. It came in the form of a small cassette, one of which I still have in my possession. Bored in his dressing room at the Nat, over several nights he brilliantly improvised into his recorder a satire on the state of the London theatre and the decline of its Old Guard. In it he portrays Alec Guinness and Laurence Olivier, their careers over, eking out a pitiful living as two camp old theatrical dressers. They constantly bitch to each other about the new wave of young talent that are taking over and being knighted in the process. A mimic of sheer genius, Hopkins manages to capture with uncanny accuracy the voices of all the leading lights of the London stage. Paul Scofield, Alan Badel, O’Toole, Burton, Finney, etc., and of course the senior group Guinness, Olivier, Richardson and Gielgud. On the cassette, Olivier eventually goes into hysterics as more young talent commands attention. He cannot bear, for instance, that his wife, Joan Plowright, has just been cast as Lear and even the National Theatre’s doorman begins to present a threat. The last straw occurs when young Albert Finney drives up in his new Rolls and announces, “Allo lads! I’ve just bought the Old Vic and am turnin’ it into a supermarket.” Olivier, in a screeching falsetto, hurls himself off a parapet into the River Thames. There is a long silence—then Tony, in the famous doleful tones of Ralph Richardson, says quietly, “Ah, poor old Larry. Never could stand competition, you know.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
A STORMY WEDDING AND A TASTE OF PROVENCE
The Perspex doors and marble surround were still not in place at Hyde Park Gate, which meant anyone coming up the stairs into the master bedroom would be treated to full frontals of both of us taking a shower. Controlling my ire, I finally tracked down Doug Norwood and gave him a call. “Where’s the marble, Dougie?” “Marble? What marble?” “You know what marble.” “Oh, that marble.” There was a slight pause. “It’s not in the country yet.” “Not in the country?” I repeated like an idiot. “No,” said Dougie. “What country is it coming from then?” I hissed between clenched teeth. “Greece” was the casual reply. There was a shop in the lane right behind our house that sold and cut marble slabs to order. I had quite recently seen some very attractive pieces of white marble at reasonable prices just lying about waiting to be snapped up. I told him so. “Ah, but the Grecian variety is clean, unblemished, not a fleck in it,” he assured me. I was about to explode when the lady of the house, Mademoiselle Elaine, came into the room. “Tita Wilson just received an official letter from your governor general. He can present you with your medals at a private ceremony in Quebec’s Citadel this October.” I hung up on Dougie.
Of course, I’d forgotten. Two years before, I had been awarded my country’s highest civil honour, approved by Queen Elizabeth II—Com-panion of the Order of Canada—the honour that would have made my mother so proud. I had not been able to receive it in the public ceremony as I was out of the country. Ever since Canada had become a separate dominion, our then uptight dull little government issued an edict abolishing all titles previously conferred upon Canadians. How then were their achievements to be recognized? No one could any longer accept knighthoods or peerages. It was just another colourless gesture and a slap in the face to a country that could use some colour. A few enterprising individuals decided, therefore, that we create our own honours coupled with royal sanction. It worked. So my special order was in a sense an honorary knighthood, or as we irreverently dubbed it, “the consolation prize.”
“What a great idea,” I said to Elaine, “we’ll sail over on the France. I’ll show you New York. We’ll take a first-class sleeper on the train up to Can
ada, then over to Quebec, pick up the prize, then on to Montreal, where we’ll get married!” Neither of us was dying to marry. We were perfectly happy “living in sin,” but certain countries and the occasional hotel were still rather old-fashioned about it, so we reluctantly agreed to relieve the pressure.
On the way over from Southampton, the France shuddered under one of the worst storms to hit the Atlantic in many a year. The first day, we rather enjoyed being blown all over the upper decks, but that night, things were getting really serious. Here was a liner equipped with the world’s best stabilizers, bouncing about the ocean as if she were a dinghy. The fabulous dining room was closed for most of the trip; the ship keeled over on its side at what seemed a fixed angle of 45 degrees. At night, the vessel creaked ominously as it rolled about the angry sea. It was so noisy, the wind and rain joining in chorus, you could barely hear the dogs barking and howling on the top deck. Elaine spent most of the time in her bunk—I didn’t realize how much she disliked being on the water. But brave mutt that she was, she never once complained. What had promised to be a soothing crossing replete with every luxury had turned into a replay of “The Wreck of the Hesperus.”
The last day on board was noticeably calmer and we did manage to sample at least one sumptuous repast in the main dining room. “What time do we dock?” I asked a waiter. “Dans le région de sept heures au matin, monsieur.” I tried to convince Elaine that the very best view of Manhattan was coming up the Hudson, going past the Statue of Liberty and meeting head-on the whole spectacular panorama of skyscrapers, their pinnacles reaching to the sky. We set our alarm clocks for 5:30 a.m. in order to arrive on deck early and time it right. We did. I held on to her hand tightly to prepare her for what was to come in case she fainted at first sighting—but alas! Neither we, nor anyone on deck that morning glimpsed even a hint of the Statue of Liberty, nor a smidgeon of the city. The Hudson River, the harbour, the entire metropolis, all were covered in the densest of pea-soup fogs—you couldn’t see your hand in front of your face.
It was only when we disembarked at Pier 47 that the fog began to lift. While waiting for our luggage, Fuff was treated to her first encounter with New York humour. Two of the porters, tall, tough Irish denizens, were joking amongst themselves when a couple of gay male lovers came down the gangway with four Afghan hounds. One porter turned to the other and in his best longshoreman dialect shouted, “Heh! Get a load of dem faggot dawgs.”
Jane Broder was there to meet us, God love her. Elaine fell for her at once and vice versa. We were taken to the hotel, a surprisingly seedy and run-down Algonquin, another disappointment, only to learn that most of my friends in town were away. Would you believe what I did? I took my bride-to-be to see my first wife, Tammy Grimes, who was starring with Brian Bedford in Private Lives on Broadway, simply because she was the only person I knew left in the city. I even took Fuff backstage afterwards to meet her. How about that for tact?! However, we were soon boarding the train for Montreal. It was an overnight trip and the moment we entered our stateroom, which looked most comfortable, we hit the sack. We woke hours later as dawn was breaking outside the window. It was absolutely freezing in the compartment. We peered out. “Are those the Rockies?” she asked, not too familiar with U.S. geography. “No, I think they’re just tall telephone lines and highrises.” But I didn’t recognize anything I was seeing. The train was not moving. “Where are we?” I asked a passing porter. It appeared there had been a power failure. We had barely started and were stuck a mile or two outside New York City. Finally we got going, both of us clutching each other to keep warm. To add to the horror, the trip to the border took another whole day. We were consoled by the beauty of Quebec City and the fact that I was being privately presented with my honour by the governor general himself in the throne room of the old historic Citadel. I imagined for a brief moment a fantasy that I was Wolfe accepting the surrender of Montcalm as the shimmering reflection of the St. Lawrence River played upon its fortress walls. And then lunch would follow with Their Excellencies à quatre!
The next day, we left that most European of North American cities for Montreal and my old stomping ground, the Ritz-Carlton, where we hit the Maritime Bar with no uncertain vengeance. The next morning, I took my bride-to-be for a long walk up the steep streets so she could see all the old mansions that had once enjoyed a proud past; and then onto the higher slopes of Mount Royal—nostalgic for me, bewildering for her, but she patiently humoured me. Poor thing, I was dragging her all over my town hoping to God she’d like it. On our wanderings, we passed the great stone wall that surrounded the old estate Raven’scrag. I half wondered if I might catch a glimpse of that woman in tweeds and scarf hurrying along by the wall whom I had seen haunting the place several times before, but there was no one about, just the sound of falling leaves and the swirling winds. “What are you looking for?” I heard Elaine say. “Oh, nothing,” I lied. I felt embarrassed and too much of a fool to tell her.
Alice and Toby Johnson, who bravely gave us away
THE ONLY PEOPLE at our wedding service the next day were my old childhood friend Toby Johnson (Polly’s son) and his wife, Alice, who acted as best man and bridesmaid, respectively. The minister, Reverend Phillip Moreton of the Unitarian Church on Sherbrooke Street, had just remarried Elizabeth Taylor and Richard Burton there, quietly, without any hoohah. He was tall and exceptionally handsome with a beautiful speaking voice, which made the verses sing and gave our service an unexpected romance. Afterwards, Toby, Alice, and Mr. and Mrs. Plummer enjoyed a giggly, pissy lunch at the Ritz. It was the smallest and best wedding ever.
Next day, Toby took us out to Senneville to see Polly in her new abode—a charming old stone cottage of early French Canadian style, which had been one of the gardener’s cottages on the estate. Polly, of course, had been forced off her island by the building of the Trans-Canada Highway Bridge, which tore right through the center of it with its great pylons and towered above it. Most of the island had gone. Gone was the house, the stables, the tennis courts, the beautiful inlet with its herons and water lilies; just a few sad trees by the lake remained to remind one there had once been an island there. Progress had torn asunder this particular paradise, but as expected, Polly’s stoic spirit and her humour bore her along splendidly. I had always looked for her approval in everything; it had become second nature to me, and after lunch was over she put her arm around my bride and gave me a huge assuring wink. The brief reunion had been a welcome tonic, but it saddened me that Elaine would never see the magic island about which I had regaled her so often.
Once back in London, a few weeks had passed before we learned that the Unitarian Church where we’d tied the knot had burned down—evidently torched by a mad lady organist, who had seriously suffered from unrequited love for the handsome reverend. Toby and Alice reported that only the church’s basic structure remained standing, that the roof was no longer there and the smoke-filled gaping hole was open to the sky. Had all our vows flown through the open roof to be scattered on the winds? Or was it merely the collective smouldering of passions that had suddenly ignited those sacred walls?
TITA (Don’t-Shoot-the-Messenger) WILSON and her cheery, breezy manner were both there at the front door of no. 9 to greet us on our return with the surprising news that the unmentionable marble surround from Greece had at last arrived. “It’s in one piece, a perfect circle and it’s flawless,” she reported with a devilish wink. “But how are we going to get it up to the fourth floor?” we asked nervously. “Don’t ask me. Let’s just have a drink!” I called Dougie and repeated the question. “We’ll hoist it up by crane from the street below.” “How is it going to get through the windows?” “We’ll have to cut it in half, but not to worry; you’ll never see the join.” The day arrived. The men took one look at the windows above and shrugged helplessly. Oh, they got it in all right, but they had to cut it up in four pieces to get it through. That was the day I fired Dougie.
Tita turned up again the next day with t
he news that during our absence the Invicta had docked! It had been most carefully packed and there was not a scratch on it. Good Ol’ Jane Broder had seen to that. We put it in a garage I rented just down the lane behind the house. A total rehauling was in order—the engine examined and authenticated, the floors rebuilt, a new hood put on, the weepers and side-flaps seen to—it needed a lot of TLC. Tita, in her marvellously offhand way, proved once again invaluable. “I think I have just the man for you—he can be the greatest help.” “Who’s that,” I asked. She blushed. I don’t think I’d ever seen “Teets” blush unless it was a blood-rush from too much champagne. “My new friend.” She actually primped. Now our Teets was used to a lot of romantic liaisons and took them all in her stride, but this time it looked serious. He was a Scot, handsome, blond, very Nordic in appearance, with a bucolic charm. He tried to drink everyone under the table but only succeeded in getting himself there first. He wore the same old sports coat with elbow patches and the same corduroy trousers day in and day out and loved beyond anything a good Indian curry. He also loved Tita and his name was Angus Clydesdale.
The Marquess of Clydesdale (the famed horses were named after his family, not the other way around) would upon his father’s death become the fifteenth Duke of Hamilton and Brandon, Scotland’s premier dukedom and titular head of the church. Once one of the most powerful families in that country for centuries, they had owned a huge landmass as well as large tracts in Canada and generous chunks of Florida. They had many castles—Broddick, Linlithgow, amongst others—as well as the immense Hamilton Palace, which had been destroyed in the nineteen twenties. However, over the years, their power and their fortunes had diminished, and they were now hanging on as land-poor lairds. When the Nazi Rudolf Hess came to England on that abortive mission for Adolf Hitler, his plane landed by mistake in Scotland on Angus’s father’s estates. Two of the Duke’s old retainers and some farmhands apprehended Hess—called the authorities and Herr Hess spent the rest of his life in an English prison.
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