by Ingrid Pitt
At last the tour finished and I was able to go to bed. I was in pain and popping pain-killers like Smarties. Every time I moved it felt as if the huge scar transversing my belly was about to rip open. The hospital told me the cause was the lesions, the aftermath of the operation, and advised me to exercise. Tone suggested I try golf. It would take me out into the fresh air, was difficult enough to make me forget my other problems – and would give him an instant partner when he felt like playing a round. He found me a wonderful golf pro, an ex-Ryder Cup player called Jimmy Adams and before long I was clouting the ball with maximum enthusiasm and minimum result, but the exercise was working. Each time I swung the club the lesions stretched a little more until the pain lessened. Jimmy suggested I play in some charity matches and introduced me to Garfield Morgan who played Chief Inspector Hoskins in The Sweeney. He was, and is, big stuff on the charity circuit and before long I was a regular as well.
My health was not our only worry. Matka had always run the house for us. It was her territory and we intruded on her routine at our peril. However, she was finding it increasingly painful to maintain her high standards. Her legs – the legs that had kept her mobile and on her feet during all the horrors of the camp and had carried us around Europe for nearly two years – were failing. She didn’t complain but I knew how much she resented the toll they were taking on her general health. She had once said that when she couldn’t walk any more it would be the end of her and now she was having trouble, especially with the stairs.
One night we came home from the cinema to find her lying at the bottom of the stairs. She had fallen down and hadn’t been able to get up. She needed her granny flat now.
There was a small plot of land at the side of the house, so Tonio put in building plans to the council and dug the foundations. By the time planning permission was through the oversite was laid. It was only a matter of time before the walls were up, the roof on and the granny flat, with bathroom en suite, was ready for occupation. Mama loved it and it gave her a new lease of life.
While Tonio was building the flat, he enlarged the kitchen to make the huge farmhouse kitchen we’d always wanted. He also extended the terrace in the garden and built an Argentinian-style barbecue. Asados became our thing and at the drop of a sombrero we had a party and invited everyone we knew. Weather didn’t come into it. If it rained, we just handed out golf brollies and everyone got on with it and loved it.
While I had been sampling the high life of a provincial tour, Tonio had been setting up a touring company of our own: TRIP, which stood for Tonio, Robin and Ingrid Pitt. I wasn’t too sure that it was a prudent thing to do but Robin Ellis was back on the scene and liked the idea. We were to put on a new play by the Emmerdale Farm writer Neville Siggs. Called Duty Free, it was a country cottage farce. I played the much put-upon wife and Nick Tate from Space 1999 played the two-timing husband. Eunice Gayson of Bond fame and Tim Barratt, a veteran comedy actor, played the nosy neighbours. We opened in Bristol, went on to Brighton and a couple of other theatres before we took a week off, during which Tonio and I went to the Cairo Film Festival.
It was all a film festival should be: bags of dinner parties, flash cars and a need to impress the guests. The main British film entry was Euan Lloyd’s Wild Geese, starring Richard Burton, Roger Moore, Richard Harris, Stewart Granger and Hardy Kruger. To promote it the Film Producers’ Association invited Susannah York, Judy Geeson, Georgina Hale and several others, including me, who had nothing to do with the film. On the opening night we were all supposed to be introduced on stage but the public address system was on the blink. The cinema was packed to the rafters with enthusiastic and very vocal Egyptians, who were making the most of the non-functioning mikes. One by one we girls tripped on to the platform, nodded timidly at the raging audience and hurriedly left the stage. Tonio had been roped in to do a public bow, although he hates that sort of thing. He was wearing a white dinner jacket à la Perón and entered holding his arms aloft in imitation of the South-American President. The audience went wild. We never found out who they thought Tonio was but when we left he had to have a police escort while we bimbos walked freely to the waiting cars without any interference.
The festival was due to go on for another week but I had to bow out. I was due back in England to tackle a new venue. When I told the press that I was leaving Cairo to open in a play in Cleethorpes the journalists wouldn’t believe me. I’m not sure I did either. It was a bit of a change: one day enjoying the exotica of the pharaohs – the next holed up in digs with the smell of boiling cabbage, Dettol and damp.
It was in Cleethorpes that I learned that I was about to become a published author. After Tonio had cut down my novel, Cuckoo Run, from 250,000 words to a more manageable 120,000, I had stuffed it under the bed. I had written the book merely to prove I could and didn’t feel like holding myself up to ridicule by trying to get it published. However, Tonio decided to get cleaners in to do the carpets, my manuscript resurfaced and he took it along to Futura without telling me. Just before curtain up he rang to tell me that Futura’s commissioning editor, Marjory Chapman, had phoned to say she wanted to publish Cuckoo Run. Amazed and thrilled, I slammed down the telephone, ran in the pouring rain along the pier to the dressing-rooms and told everybody that I was about to be a published author.
Thirty-Two
Duty Free did great business in the provinces and we had theatres vying for dates and offering wonderful guarantees. Even the mighty Moss Empires wanted us. Louis Benjamin, their boss, badgered Tone to bring the play to London but Tonio didn’t think he had enough experience to take on the West End. When Moss Empires were persistent, however, he began to waver. He discussed the idea over lunch with John Pact, his business manager. John was a theatre junkie and the thought of coming into London excited him. They left the restaurant, walked immediately to Coutts Bank in Cavendish Square, and successfully buttonholed the manager.
We had to pay penalties to provincial theatres for abandoning the rest of our tour, remodelled our wonderful sets to West End standards, changed the name from Duty Free to Don’t Bother to Dress, papered the house . . . and got lousy reviews.
On the opening night I had planned a small party at the Embassy Club after the show. In my excitement I ended up inviting over fifty people. Bill Kenwright took me aside and told me that he gave the play three weeks. He was wrong. It lasted five weeks and was a constant haemorrhage on the bank account. At last we were forced to face the fact that the coach parties Moss Empires had predicted weren’t going to materialise. There was no miracle in the offing. Traditionally and legally, you have to put up notice to quit two weeks in advance. We intended to put it up on Saturday but Tonio talked to the managing director of Durex, the condom manufacturers, and persuaded him that it would be a capital idea to underwrite a play in the West End: ‘Durex presents: Don’t Bother to Dress.’ The publicity would be breath-taking.
Tonio put the plan to Moss Empires, who did not seem to have a problem with it so he rushed around, had a fresh sign made for the marquee, set a printer to designing a new programme and the PR agent to writing a press release. He estimated the change-over would take a couple of weeks.
On Monday we were told that Louis Benjamin wanted a word. It sounded ominous. Benjamin announced that he didn’t like his theatre being used to advertise French letters. Tonio told him that it was our only chance of survival but Benjamin was adamant. Durex were disappointed but there was nothing they could do.
The play was losing us an estimated £3000 a week. I spoke to the cast and asked them to consider accepting a back-dated notice to the previous Saturday and luckily they agreed.
We were still in a terrible fix for money. Tone rang his best friend and fellow pilot, Joe Khan, and told him his problem. Joe wasn’t interested in investing in the play but he proved what a good friend he was by instantly offering to lend us money to get out of the West End. Tonio gratefully accepted. We got the play off two weeks later. It had eaten up the reserve we ha
d built up on tour, the loan we had from Coutts and another chunk of the house. It was time to go back to the mortgage company to ask for more money.
We decided to take another play on tour. Woman of Straw, a wonderful story about greed, had been a movie with Gina Lollobrigida and Sean Connery. Tonio again sought commercial sponsorship and went to British Caledonian who, to my surprise, agreed. We got the sets built, the tour signed up and Harry Hitchcock, boss of British Caledonian, came to the première. It went well, we made a small profit and I loved the play.
Meanwhile, my book was being prepared for publication. My editor’s husband, Ian Chapman, published Alistair MacLean and asked him to read the manuscript of Cuckoo Run. Perhaps he would be prepared to write a line or two which they could use to push the book? Alistair, one of the kindest men I’ve ever met, rang Ian Chapman and said, ‘I love it! Tell Ingrid, bloody well done.’ Sadly, he died soon afterwards so didn’t get to write anything on the cover of Cuckoo Run but what he said to Ian meant a lot to me. The book was such a success that it sold out its entire print run in eight weeks.
One day Tonio and I were watching John Wayne in True Grit on TV when the broadcast was interrupted to bring live action from the SAS assault on the Iranian Embassy. It was nail-biting stuff that had us on the edge of our seats Euan Lloyd, a first-class producer who has a string of action hits to his credit, lived right around the corner from the Iranian Embassy and watched the entire nightmare. Never one to hang around, he was the first producer to register the film of the siege with the title Who Dares Wins, the motto of the SAS. I heard about it, rang him immediately and asked him round for lunch. It was a marvellous summer day, the garden a kaleidoscope of colour and I had bought some great T-bone steaks. In spite of all that, I couldn’t get Tonio away from the television. When Euan arrived I tried to take him through to the garden but he wasn’t interested.
‘You have got television?’ Euan asked, seriously concerned. I nodded and pointed to where Tonio was crouching on the sofa in semi-darkness. It was the day that Botham did the impossible and dragged England to victory over Australia by 129 runs. I accepted defeat. There was going to be no glorious asado on the sun-drenched terrace. No artful to-ing and fro-ing while I angled for a chance to suggest his film could not but be enhanced by my presence on the screen.
When the game was finally won, Euan suddenly remembered he had work to do, jumped up, practically kissed Tonio for sharing such a wonderful experience with him, and made for the door. I was seething but managed to paint a suggestion of a smile on my face. Euan kissed me, stepped out of the door, turned and said shortly, ‘If you want the part of Helga, it’s yours. Second lead, great part. I’ll send you a script.’ And he was gone.
A couple of days later the script arrived and Euan phoned to ask me what I thought. This was the first film script I had been offered since George went on the rampage and the thought of it was enough to bring tears to my eyes.
My friend Tom Pendry MP invited Euan and Ian Sharp, the director, to come to the House of Commons to watch a debate so that the scenes in the House would look authentic.
The film – and making it – was great. The SAS guys impressed me to the bone. It was Lewis Collins’s best film. I thought he was totally brilliant as Captain Peter Skellen of the SAS. The only sad bit was that Euan was determined to use Judy Davis when he could have had Jane Fonda for the main lead. The Americans didn’t like an Australian imitating a Yankee terrorist and the film didn’t do all that well in America, where it was called The Final Option.
After Who Dares Wins I worked on Smiley’s People for the BBC. I had a fun cameo part. Alec Guinness would bring Fortnum & Mason biscuits to lighten up rehearsals. He was the most caring and generous actor I have ever worked with and would give close-ups to me that he could have had for himself. Curt Jurgens played my lover. I’d known Curt since Eagles and we’d chat about old times with Alec.
Through Chris Chrisafis – Euan Lloyd’s co-producer – I landed a part in Wild Geese 2, a feature film about breaking Hess out of Spandau where he had been imprisoned since the war. Laurence Olivier was to play Hess and Richard Burton the mercenary sent in to spirit him away and deliver him to the West, where he could impart some great secrets.
I flew to Berlin, where the film was to be shot, the day before filming started. I was very excited at the prospect of working with Richard again so when some American friends asked me out to a polo match I judged it a distraction. Later that evening I was in my room when one of the Yanks phoned to ask me if I had heard the news: Richard Burton had just died. I was shocked and wandered downstairs where I ran into Euan and babbled out the bad news. Euan turned ashen and hurried to his room. Later that night he flew back to London to sign another actor and make sure the funding was still forthcoming from EMI.
Edward Fox took over Richard’s part and shooting continued on Wild Geese 2. To be in Berlin was horrific for me. We were filming near the border and I was paranoid. I felt binoculars were trained on me, rifles aimed at me, I even imagined I could hear gunfire. I was jumpy and nervous and tried to stay in my hotel room as much as possible. I wondered if the tormenting images imprinted on my brain in my youth would ever fade and leave me in peace. I longed to return home.
I sat in luxury on the aeroplane flying back to beautiful England, looking forward to my two treasures fetching me home from the airport.
At London Airport Tone and Steffanie picked me up and took me to the VIP lounge since the news they had to tell me couldn’t wait until we got home. It was fantastic: Thames TV were going to make The Peróns into a series. Tonio and I had written the book some time before and it had been published by Methuen in 1982. John Frankau wanted Hugh Whitemore to write the scripts. The news of getting a TV series off the ground and some dosh at last was so great that after considerable celebrations Tonio and I agreed to let Steffanie go to boarding-school. My father had always said that the one thing parents owe their children for bringing them into the world is to give them a proper education. What you have between your ears will give you a chance for a better life. Tonio insisted that she would have the best, whether or not we could afford it, and we chose Hampden House in Amersham. She went at once and I missed her so much that while our agent and John Frankau sorted out the contract for The Peróns, we motored down to Steffi’s school and took her out to lunch, dinner or even brought her home for the weekends. Tone threw in driving lessons on the school estate since Steffanie was car-mad.
At last we got our contract backed up by some much needed cash. Then the TV technicians went on strike. What did we care? We were actually paid more money because Thames was closed down while they were out. We were going to work on the project with Hugh Whitemore, who was not an expert on the subject matter. He seemed to love the whole idea. But he had to finish the script of Return of a Soldier, a film for Alan Bates and Glenda Jackson. Then something else delayed him. I offered to write the scripts with Tone but John Frankau was determined to have Whitemore. Without warning we learned that Frankau had been replaced by Verity Lambert. By this time we were under the impression that Hugh’s work was coming along like a house on fire. Production, scheduled originally for November, was put forward to the spring of the following year. Verity asked to see the scripts and Hugh had to admit that he hadn’t even started. She cancelled the project. We were paid off and that was the end of yet another dream. Disappointment wasn’t the word for it.
I called Lew Grade. He was receptive and asked to read the book. We had a number of meetings. Then I was invited to breakfast. His breakfast meetings were legendary. I sauntered into his sumptuous office suite, we discussed the series over croissants and coffee, and he was excited. It was all going my way when he got a telephone call. It was unbelievable. I was about to agree my contract with the customary handshake but I knew from the way Lew reacted on the phone that I was in trouble. His face just folded over. When he hung up he shook his head and stood up. I was stunned. He told me that Faye Dunaway was playing Evit
a and Robert Mitchum Perón – in Hollywood. I thought I would throw up all over the table. In the end, Mitchum backed out and the whole thing was a disaster. But not as great a disaster as it was for us.
Still, one good thing came out of it all: my kid got a good education.
Thirty-Three
On 15 January 1986 my mother died. She was nearly eighty-four. She had spent fifteen years with us and I’m sure both coming to England and having the granny flat had lengthened her life. Looking after us had made her happy and given her a purpose in her final years but as she’d lost strength and felt herself to be a burden she’d turned despondent. She became increasingly frail and disorientated. Twice the police had to bring her home because she’d lost her way. She started focusing on the past, talking about the war, my father and the camp; about when the Nazis had lined up prisoners and shot them; when they hanged Annie Jadkowska. She repeatedly reminded me of the hanging and about a red cabbage she had stolen, which had nearly cost her her life. It was disturbing to hear my mother, who had not talked of the camps for forty years, reviving these memories. Steffanie, who was at drama school, stayed at home. I didn’t leave the house either. We both wished to be with Mama. I couldn’t bear the idea of her being alone when the time came.
A few days before her death Mama looked at her door and shook her head. She seemed to see someone there but she wasn’t ready to go. ‘No, no, no,’ she said gently. On the day she died, she looked at the door and smiled. She waved her hand at somebody she saw standing there and nodded. ‘Yes,’ she said firmly. I like to think it was my father. It is said a loved one comes for you when your time is up.