Soul on the Street

by William Roache

  I was getting pretty frightened by now because I knew that death from rabies was horrendous. I remembered my father’s assistant talking about someone who had died from it and how awful it was. But I was also in command of 140 men in a desert outpost. I was the doctor, the commanding officer, everything, so I couldn’t just collapse into a state of gibbering terror. That focused my mind a bit.

  It was strange, really, because I was quite convinced that I was dying, and I was frightened of dying in a horrible way, but my fear of death itself didn’t come up. Fear is a very strange thing. So much imagination is involved. We often fear something and when it actually happens it isn’t frightening at all. Now I was faced with it, I was afraid of dying but not of death itself.

  At that time I had no idea about life after death at all. That made matters even worse. How can people live, thinking that this is all that there is, that we’re just chemicals that come together by accident and gain intelligence, and that one day it all just stops? It’s extraordinary. But to some extent that’s what I thought then. There was always a side of me that couldn’t believe that that was how it was, but no one had told me anything for certain and I still hadn’t found any answers for myself.

  Eventually the day came for me to meet the doctor. He drove out in a Land Rover and I drove towards him and we met in the middle of the desert.

  He looked at my nose and said, ‘Well done. It’s healing nicely. You stuck it up very well and there won’t be much of a scar.’

  I took a deep breath and blurted out, ‘Yes, but what about rabies?’

  ‘Oh, no chance of that. We’re out of touch with diseases like that here. Animals don’t contract anything, they’re completely clean.’

  A death sentence was lifted. I could have kissed him.

  I made it up with the fox, too, but the squadron had to move to another outpost every three months and it wasn’t possible to take him with me. Fortunately, the incoming captain was amused by the idea of keeping him. I thought that this was a happy ending, but I later heard that the fox bit his new owner, who promptly shot him.

  I got on well with the Arabs and generally life rolled along fairly smoothly. My 140 men treated me with respect, as ordered by their sheikhs. The way of life was basic and sometimes dangerous and yet it was without pressure. I always had the feeling that if I didn’t want to do something, then I needn’t do it. Putting things off was the order of the day. It was an experience that was out of this world in many senses.

  Not long after I left, however, oil was struck and where once we navigated sand dunes and mudflats to travel between Sharjah and Dubai, today there are modern motorways and the buzz of traffic. Sharjah and Dubai both became part of the United Arab Emirates and today are sophisticated holiday resorts.

  Living with the Bedouin was an amazing experience, but my period in the desert brought me to the realization of what it meant to be in the army. I appreciated the experience I’d had, but it wasn’t the way I wanted to spend my life. I was a captain at that point, in command of 140 men. If I had stayed in the army, I could have ended up being the commander of a battalion or possibly a brigade and it would just have been the same thing, only bigger – and for me a dead end. I actually saw a lot of dead-end majors and colonels. They were just ticking over. They’d gone into a cul-de-sac. I didn’t want that to happen to me. At the end of my service I left the army. It wasn’t for me.

  What now?

  Part III

  On the Street

  ‘Be resigned to the past, attend to the present and be hopeful for the future.’

  CHAPTER 7

  An Actor’s Life…

  ‘The soul who knows should be calm, sure, certain that at the right time the way will be shown.’

  For two years I had lived a biblical existence. I arrived back in England totally disorientated. In London I was completely taken aback by the noise, the speed – the sheer volume of everything. The people, buildings and non-stop traffic were all overwhelming.

  I quickly booked myself into a small hotel close to Victoria coach station and stayed in my room for two days. I didn’t watch the television and even felt hassled by the waitress when she brought me a pot of tea. I didn’t want to go home or see anyone. I was a stranger to this world and didn’t like it at all.

  Eventually I rang home to say that I had just landed and would be coming home the following day.

  I had had no leave for two years and I was entitled to extra leave because of being in the Gulf. As my army service was now finished, the War Office re-enlisted me for six months just to give me my leave entitlement. So I was out of the army, but with six months’ pay.

  I went to my parents’ bungalow and stayed there for the whole six months, hardly ever venturing out. I spent the time building a substantial lean-to garden shed on the side of the bungalow. It survived for 40 years.

  Soon my time out in the Gulf began to seem unreal, dreamlike, another world. Even now when I think back it is hard to believe that it happened. But happen it did and now it was time to face reality. What was I going to do? I had spent no money during my time in the Gulf, so I had something to live on for a while, but this wouldn’t last for long.

  In the meantime my father became seriously ill. He was first diagnosed with diabetes and then TB. He had never been very robust, something of a creaking gate all his life, and for a while we thought he might not survive. He had to take early retirement, but after that he rallied and fortunately was able to resume a normal life, though had to inject himself daily with insulin.

  I still had an overwhelming desire to be an actor, particularly a film actor, but had no idea how to go about it. At 25 I thought that I was a bit too old for drama school.

  Then I heard from a company called Oriental Carpet Manufacturers. They had been passed my name by someone I had served with in the Gulf and were looking for a person to go out to Persia, as it then was, now Iran, to buy carpets from the nomadic tribes who wove them and ship them back. Having lived rough in the desert for so long, I was seen as the ideal candidate. I would initially be employed for six months to work in the warehouse to learn about the carpets and to attend the Berlitz School of Languages to learn Persian.

  I had no particular desire to do this work, but I needed to do something and it gave me the opportunity to live in London. I found a small bedsit in Earl’s Court and travelled each day to the warehouse, which was by the Old Bailey.

  It was interesting learning about all the different styles and weaves of Persian carpets, but to be honest it was just a job so that I could live in London for a while and sort out what to do next.

  All I wanted to do was act. I didn’t know why, but I felt that that was part of my destiny. I was driven to it. There was no doubt about that. I had no reservations at all apart from the fear that I might not be good enough and might not be able to get work. What if I was too shy? That was the only thing holding me back.

  In fact, if I had gone straight into acting after school, I think I would have been too shy, too reserved. I wouldn’t have made the grade, I wouldn’t have been able to stand up to it. But my time in the army had given me enough confidence to have a go at it. So it had been a necessary phase. Looking back, I see that clearly.

  Also, going straight from school to drama school to acting is pretty tricky, because you don’t experience the real world. That can cause problems for you later.

  In the meantime I was no good as a salesman. I was so unenthusiastic that one afternoon I was found asleep on a pile of rugs in the storeroom. My employers weren’t pleased. And then the Persian government suddenly nationalized the carpet industry and everything changed. It was no longer necessary for me to go to Tehran. Oriental Carpet Manufacturers and I parted company, probably with relief on both sides. I could now devote myself completely to getting into acting.

  I think my parents were a little worried by this, though they never said anything outright. As a good amateur actress herself, I think my mother would have been quit
e pleased in one sense, but she knew only too well that acting was an insecure profession. Whatever her private thoughts, however, she left me to make my own decisions.

  As for my father, I remember being in the garden with him once – he was a great gardener – and I could tell he wanted to have one of those father-son conversations he thought he ought to have. But in the end all he said was, ‘Are you happy with what you’re doing and do you think everything will be all right?’

  I said, ‘I hope so.’

  I certainly did.

  Weekends visiting my parents were about all the social life I had at that point, though Kath and I made up for a while. In London I would spend my evenings catching up with rock ’n’ roll on an old gramophone I had, and occasionally I would walk down to Earl’s Court station to get some tea and sandwiches from a stall there. It was a lonely existence.

  And I didn’t know how to get into acting. I had no connections. I just didn’t know where to start.

  In desperation I took to writing to the director of every film that I went to see. I wrote very honest letters about my school acting and my experiences in the army, and got some very honest answers, often telling me that acting was a tough profession and there were plenty of experienced actors out of work. More usually, however, I was gently brushed aside with the cliché, ‘We’ll let you know when we have something for you.’

  Nevertheless, I kept at it. Something was driving me on. I just knew that it was meant to be. I never rationalized it – at that time I never rationalized anything, really, I just got on with whatever it was I felt I wanted to do. I think at some point you do have to rationalize what you’re doing, but taking highly important steps always has to be intuitive. You have to have that inner driving force. It’s probably your higher self, or soul, telling you, ‘This is your destiny – get on with it.’ Once you’ve felt that, then you can start to rationalize. But if I’d started to rationalize before I went into acting, I wouldn’t have done it. Getting work was so against the odds. Not that I fully realized that then – ignorance was bliss.

  I was encouraged by a letter from the producer Anthony Asquith, who at the time was trying to make a film about Lawrence of Arabia. He said that when production started he was sure that there would be something for me. Sadly, production never did start until David Lean got hold of it some time later.

  Then one day I received a telegram. It was from the director Brian Desmond Hurst, asking me to his mews house in Belgravia.

  I was shown into a long room filled with paintings, statues and objets d’art. At the far end, sitting behind an ornate desk, was Brian Desmond Hurst.

  ‘I have this letter here from you. Sit down and tell me more about yourself.’

  He was a big man both physically and personally, and a very well-known director, but I felt at ease immediately and told him what he wanted to know.

  When I had finished he said, ‘Right.’ He picked up the phone, said something softly to whoever was at the other end and then handed it to me.

  ‘William Roache?’

  ‘Yes, hello.’

  ‘You’re playing the part of an anaesthetist. Your call is for a week on Monday at Shepperton Studios. Will £40 a day be all right?’

  That sounded wonderful to me. ‘Yes.’

  ‘It’s probably three or four days’ work.’

  ‘Yes, that’s fine.’

  ‘You are a member of Equity, aren’t you?’

  Ah. A glorious moment came to a sudden end. In those days you couldn’t work if you weren’t a member of the actors’ union. In spite of this I heard myself say, in a little voice, ‘Yes.’

  ‘You’ll get the contract in a couple of days. Bye.’

  I slowly handed the phone back to Brian Desmond Hurst, who was saying something. I wasn’t really listening until I heard, ‘Anyway, you’ve got the part. But I don’t mind telling you that I’d like to go to bed with you.’

  Startled, I stared at him. He had not given the appearance of being a gay man, but I suppose I was pretty naïve about such things in those days; an innocent at large you might say.

  ‘Not now,’ he said. ‘I have an open house every evening and you are very welcome. You will meet some famous faces. Anyway, off you go, and if I don’t see you before, I’ll see you a week on Monday.’

  I walked out in a daze. I’d got a film part, lied about being in Equity and been propositioned. I felt happy, worried and embarrassed all at once. It was probably all in a day’s work for an actor, but was I cut out for it?

  Later I did go to some of Brian Desmond Hurst’s parties. They were very good. I met some interesting people there. You were quite safe as long as you made sure you weren’t the last to leave, and that meant not over-indulging in the Guinness and champagne cocktails which were Brian’s favourite tipple.

  My main concern was having lied about my Equity membership. At that time the unions were paramount and members weren’t allowed to work with a non-member. If I turned up, the film would be blacked. So when the contract arrived I decided to go round to the Equity office in Harley Street and own up.

  ‘Truth is above all else the pinnacle to soul growth.’

  Slowly and sadly I walked into the office, convinced that my first film part was going to be taken away from me.

  ‘Well,’ said the official briskly, after I had outlined the situation, ‘you’d better fill in these forms. Get someone to second you and then you’ll be a full member.’

  I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. Everyone had said that the greatest hurdle would be getting Equity membership and here I was instantly leaping that hurdle.

  I know that I had lied in the first place, and that really wasn’t a good thing to do, but thankfully my film part was meant to be.

  ‘When the spirit is right, matter will be right.’

  The film was called Behind the Mask and starred Michael Redgrave and Tony Britton. The mask in question was a surgeon’s mask – funnily enough, it was a drama about doctors. I played a young anaesthetist waiting to be interviewed for a job. I had three lines, but virtually all I had to do was walk from the waiting room through some swing doors into the interview room. The filming all went very smoothly and I will always be grateful to Brian Desmond Hurst for giving me that start, though I quickly learned not to mention his name, as the wrong conclusions would be drawn.

  Meeting fellow actors was really useful, as they gave me lots of tips. One was to buy Contacts, a small magazine which had the names and contact numbers of all agents, film companies, casting directors and television companies.

  Armed with this magazine, I set about writing even more letters, at times up to 100 a week. About half would be answered and some would lead to interviews. Quite soon I got a small part in a television series, Ivanhoe, starring Roger Moore who, incidentally, had also been given his big break by Brian Desmond Hurst.

  Filming was taking place at Beaconsfield Studios. I was given a knitted string outfit and a balaclava, painted silver to look like armour, a bow and a quiver of arrows. Roger Moore came along and said, ‘Hello.’ He was looking fine in his knitted string, as he had a red tabard over it. In fact, he looked the perfect Ivanhoe except that he had curlers in his hair. He was delightful and very amusing.

  I played a guard and had to look out from the battlements. To my surprise everything was shot at a terrific rate that left no time for thought or motivation. Eventually the director rushed over to me and the exchange went something like this: ‘Right – Roache, is it?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘Okay, get up on the battlements there. Did you get your script?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘Well, you can forget that. I want you to look to your front, then shout over your shoulder, “My lord, a knight is coming and he rides alone,” then take an arrow out of your quiver, put it in the bow, point it at the knight and then say, “Dismount, Sir Knight, and keep to the path.” Have you got that?’ ‘I think so.’ ‘Right, action!’

  Thinking that it was only a rehearsal, I staggered through these instructions with consid
erable hesitancy. But when the director said, ‘Cut!’ and disappeared, I realised that that was my performance and I’d barely a clue about what I was doing.

  After that I got a small part in the film The Queen’s Guards, directed by Michael Powell. Here I was a wireless operator in a tent in the desert.

  My career was moving on nicely, but seeing actors at work I realized that I had a lot to learn. I thought that the only place to do this properly was in the theatre. So I started writing to theatrical companies and whenever I heard that auditions were being held for the West End I went along and read for them. One of them was for Billy Liar with Albert Finney. He was a very strong and likeable character, but he really made me aware of how much there was to learn. Needless to say, I did not get the part.

  Around this time some people were suggesting I had started too late in the profession and should switch to something more secure. This was disheartening. Others were more encouraging, however. I started taking private lessons from a quite well-known actress called Ellen Pollack. She taught me basic stagecraft and gave me a lot of help in audition pieces. I was very grateful for her tuition.

  One of the companies that I had written to was St James Management, which was run by Sir Laurence Olivier. Not having their address, I sent the letter to Olivier himself, who was playing at the Cambridge Theatre in The Entertainer, assuming that he would pass it on to the casting director. I was amazed when I got a short note from Sir Laurence himself, saying, ‘Come to the stage door at 7.10 and I will see you for a few minutes.’

  At 7 o’clock sharp I was outside the stage door. By 7.10 Sir Laurence hadn’t appeared. Oh well, I thought, why should he remember?

  My hopes weren’t very high, but nevertheless I hung on. About five minutes later he came round the corner and straight up to me.

  ‘Mr Roache? Do come in.’

  We went into his dressing room. He gave me a gin and tonic and offered me a cigarette – an Olivier, naturally – and said, ‘I hope you don’t mind me getting ready while we are talking.’