‘Did you fancy me then, Carol?’
‘Darling, I adored you. You made my life hell. You were so cruel to me.’
Feeling a bit the worse for drink I decided to test her on this: ‘Come on then, let’s go back to your flat and make love. If it’s what you’ve always wanted, let’s do it for old times’ sake.’ That shocked her! I never heard another word.
I HAD MANAGED TO hold on to my virginity all through the first year, which was pretty good going, I thought. Especially as I found out that a few of the guys in my year, and some in the second year, had a bet on as to who was going to ‘break me in’ (a lovely turn of phrase, but one must remember that it was the sixties, and there was no political correctness then).
Towards the end of the first year I started to become aware that, as an actress, it was important to be able to use one’s sexuality. Whatever that meant! I was quite self-conscious about my body and had never really thought about it in terms of attracting men. Certainly, I had not realised how important it was to be physically aware of it when performing. Of course, I knew about sex: I had loved my snogging sessions with Karel, but this was a very different ball game; I was beginning to realise there was a hell of a lot more to it than that.
I had been avidly listening to all Carol’s tales about her sexual encounters and it all sounded rather distasteful to me. But for all her romantic trysts she did not have a regular boyfriend, and the boys in our class didn’t seem to have much respect for her. I had been brought up to believe that respect was paramount – I must save myself for the wedding night. I was also terrified of getting pregnant. I think somewhere deep down inside, I had made a pact with myself never to do what my birth mother had done. Whatever trouble I may get into in life, I did not want to involve anybody else.
But this was the swinging sixties and sex was everywhere. Magazines like Cosmopolitan were full of articles telling us how to enjoy multiple orgasms. Whenever I had quizzed my mother about what an orgasm felt like she just smiled rather benignly and said, ‘Oh, don’t worry, Lynda, you’ll just know when you are having one. It is very lovely when you are married.’
Considering that is what she said when we were watching Bill the bull service the heifers, I did not have high hopes for the whole business!
A defining moment for me was during a rehearsal for a play called, ironically, The Rehearsal by Jean Anouilh. I was doing a scene with the lovely Robin Nedwell (tragically, he died very young. He had found fame early in the Doctor series for ITV but did not follow through, and I think the dreaded drink took over for a while. He did try to make a comeback, only to be struck down). In a particular scene in the play, his character tries to seduce a young woman – me. I had to be vulnerable yet give out a sexual vibe.
Our director was not one of the regular staff. Every now and then, the college would bring in outside directors and tutors to give us a different take on things. This play was being directed by a man called Peter Oyston. He was very intense with long blond hair, and we all thought he was wonderful, especially the girls. Because I wanted to impress him, I found I was very nervous and self-conscious. I felt awkward and clumsy, and anything but sexy.
We had to show the scene in front of the whole class, before we finally performed it for the staff, as part of our end-of-term tests. Peter had made me wear a long Victorian nightie – the kind that is all white and done up to the neck. In front of the whole class, he said, ‘Lynda, you’re way too stiff and inhibited. I want you to take off your knickers and bra. I want you to feel your nakedness when you kiss Robin.’
Everybody sniggered. I was mortified. I cringed with embarrassment the first time I did the scene. But then when it came to the showing in front of the teachers, I had composed myself a bit and gave the performance of my life. Yes, I did feel naked and uncomfortable, but that was exactly what the scene needed. Well done, Peter Oyston.
This incident made me even more aware of my virginal status. I had been going out from time to time with a guy in the second year called John. He was pushing me to sleep with him but I was just not ready. He was also the guy who told me they all had a bet on as to who would do the dirty deed with me, so that put me right off for a start. Sod the lot of you, I thought – if I’m going to lose my maidenhood, I would choose someone who wouldn’t blab. But who? I still loved Karel, really, but he was too far away and, anyway, I reckoned if he hadn’t tried already he probably wasn’t interested. Maybe now was the time to put into action my plan to gain experience in the bedroom, and then go home and seduce my childhood sweetheart?
At the beginning of the second year I went to live with Nik and his flatmate, Carlos de Carvalho. It was so lovely, and right in the heart of the West End in Marylebone High Street. I loved living there near all the shops, and you could walk to the theatres. It was the best address I ever had.
So here I was, in my new room, in my lovely flat, planning the assault on my virginity. I usually told Nik everything but I had decided to keep this plan to myself. Writing this now, I cannot believe I was so calculating about the whole thing. All I had ever heard from my mother was how wonderful it was to meet a man and fall in love. To discover the trust and confidence in one man and to be able to give yourself to him, completely, and want to bear his children. I still wanted that to happen, and would search for it for years. But at this moment in time it seemed the most important thing I could do was to get the whole sex thing out of the way, so I could get on with my acting. Maybe all the time spent with lads in the pub had given me a warped sense of how romance should be? Perhaps, by osmosis, I had become more like a man in my attitudes. There was sex, and there was love, and maybe the two did not always go together.
I decided who was going to be my seducer. He was called Jay and he was in my class. He was very handsome in a Brad Pitt kind of way, and all the girls fancied him. He was always with impossibly beautiful girls who looked like models. This was another reason to choose him, because it was a challenge. He was also very shy and I knew he would not tell anyone. Looking back now, I just can’t believe I had all that confidence.
I got loads of wine in, so the next time he came round to see Nik I would be ready. The dreaded night arrived, and we all had supper, while I poured copious amounts of wine all evening and hovered until, finally, Nik went to bed, and Jay got up to leave. I jumped him. Well, in for a penny… He looked very taken aback and, I have to admit, not that interested, but he was a well-brought-up young man and didn’t turn me down.
I would like to have been able to report here that the earth moved, and bells rang out. But sadly, real life isn’t like that, is it? I hardly felt a thing. I wasn’t even sure if we had done it. Climax, no. Anti … very much. Jay sloped off into the night and I went to bed feeling decidedly let down. I awoke in the morning not so much feeling like a real woman, as feeling like a complete prat. You know that moment, in books and films, where the heroine rushes to a mirror and looks at herself, long and hard, and then smiles a little enigmatic smile? Well, I rushed to the bathroom, not to use the mirror, but to examine my nether regions. Horror of horrors! I had got crabs. Welcome to the real world, Lynda. Cosmo magazine forgot to mention this when it was harping on about orgasms and free love.
So that was my first introduction to sex. Not surprisingly, it took me a while to find Mr Right. Thirty-eight years to be precise. But more on that later.
CHAPTER SIX
A FINE ROMANCE
AFTER MY DISASTROUS introduction to sex, I went on a bit of a mission. I was determined to discover the secret of success in bed. Of course, this was doomed from the start, as experience has shown me that good sex is not necessarily about the mechanics, but very much about the emotional involvement. But the trouble was that I was surrounded by everyone seemingly having a wonderful time, and I wasn’t.
I confessed to Nik what I had done and he was appalled. It was worse than telling my parents. He was so censorious about it. Every time I brought a bloke home he would sit and glower at us or look a
t his watch. One time he actually turned off the electricity. This had the reverse effect, though, as we went to bed that much more quickly! I was really very confused about sex and couldn’t distinguish between the guys I liked as friends and the ones I went to bed with. I did make some good friends though, including Michael Elphick, who was in the third year. He was the kindest man, but God did he drink, even in those days. I remember sitting with him in my little bedsit, in the very early days of Central, and trying to get him to eat something. He just laughed.
‘Lynda,’ he said, ‘I drink. I don’t eat.’
‘But it is so bad for you,’ I replied.
‘I know, darling, but listen to me, I don’t want to grow old. I will be dead by the time I am forty.’
Well, he made it to his fifties and the world is a sadder place without him.
My close mates remained in my own year. The lads consisted of Robin Nedwell, David Robb, Greg Floy and David Nicholas (who is also sadly dead now), who was Robin’s oldest friend from school in Wales. He was the first gay man I ever knew. No one really talked about it; David was outrageously camp and it didn’t matter, except when they all came to stay for a weekend on the farm. My father took us all out on the tractor and trailer to pitch bales of hay. Nobody wanted to look a cissy, so the boys gave it their all, except David. He took one look, threw his hands up in the air and screamed, ‘No, dears! I am not doing manual labouring for anybody. Now, where’s the gin?’ My father’s face was a picture. But he took it all in his stride and really got on with David after that.
The other lads would spend all day on our old horse, Shammy. Tiddlywinks was long gone by now, but for some reason we had this old horse still, and the boys used him to practise for the films they were – one day – going to star in. David Robb always made us laugh because he had long blond hair and a beard, and looked like General Custer. He would sit atop the horse raising a stick in the air like a sword and practise his charge. Actors!
The rest of my time was spent with dearest Nickolas. He was the perfect student. He went to see every production in the West end. He would accept any invitations we got as students. He practised his voice exercises religiously and could stand on his head for hours! He is still very fit now, forty years on, unlike the rest of us.
Nik was the one who educated me in all things non-sexual. Although, we did have a ‘moment’ that I’m sure he won’t mind me telling you about. After I had confessed to my escapade with Jay it took a while for us to get back on an even keel. I know he was disappointed with me and felt our friendship might be threatened if I found a boyfriend. But as the weeks went on and he realised I was quite happy with just having the odd fling, we were back to normal. Then, one day, while we were talking, he confessed he was frightened that as he did not seem to get on with girls very well, maybe he was gay. ‘Nonsense,’ I replied. ‘Come on, I’ll sleep with you and show you that you’re not gay.’ It may seem a bit shocking now, but don’t forget that we were in the Age of Aquarius. Sex was not a big deal any more and, as Nik was my best friend, it seemed a natural thing to do. So we had a night of passion and as far as I was concerned it was OK. Quite good, in fact. Nik seemed happy enough. However, it was only a few weeks after that that he announced to me he had decided he was gay. Well, you can’t win them all!
FINALLY, MY QUEST for romance was satisfied. That summer, in 1968, Carol and I decided to hitch to La Baule in Brittany. Carol had told me she had an aunt who lived there, so once we had got ourselves there it would be a cheap holiday. Carol’s parents lived on the Isle of Wight so we decided we would take the ferry from there to St Malo, and then hitch down to the coast. I think we had twenty-five pounds each for spending money, and our return ticket on the ferry. Carol’s parents were going to meet us at St Malo in two weeks’ time. I had never been abroad without my parents before, and despite Carol’s tall stories of world travel, I suspect that neither had she.
The crossing on the ferry was a gas. We met a group of yachtsmen from New Zealand who were going down to La Baule for a regatta. Carol immediately fell in love with one of the guys and disappeared, leaving me with the rest of team. We drank copious amounts of red wine and I remember I had to leave the table rather abruptly to be sick in the loos. On my return, I didn’t let on to the guys because I didn’t want to look like a wuss!
By the time we arrived in St Malo, Carol had organised everything. The boys would give us a lift to La Baule, we would find her auntie and then the party would begin. Fair enough. I had started to relax a bit seeing that, actually, Carol wasn’t completely useless, and had her upsides. The guys dropped us on the esplanade and went off to find their campsite.
‘So, what’s your aunt’s address?’ I asked.
‘Um, I am not quite sure, darling. But don’t fret, I’ll remember it when I see it. Let’s just wander up the promenade a bit.’ An hour later, we were on our third turn of the promenade and Carol was in tears.
‘I just don’t know,’ she wailed, ‘it all looks the same!’
We then tried to find a phone box (these were the dark days without mobile phones) so we could ring her parents and check the address. We finally got through to her mum who announced that, as far as she knew, the aunt had died.
‘Didn’t you organise all this before we came?’ I demanded.
‘Oh, darling, I meant to, but you know how it is? I got waylaid.’
‘Laid being the operative word,’ I snapped. ‘So, basically, we have nowhere to go and not enough money to stay anywhere?’
Carol burst into tears again. This was to become the pattern of the holiday. When things were going well Carol was the fun-loving temptress who was up for anything. But the minute things went slightly pear-shaped she collapsed in a heap.
At least I discovered I am quite practical and inventive in a crisis: ‘Come on,’ I said. ‘Let’s go and get a drink and make a plan.’
As we set off down the bloody promenade again I spotted our New Zealand friends on the beach.
‘Rescue ahoy!’ I said, pointing them out to Carol. She was off like a greyhound from the traps.
Within thirty minutes we were set up. The boys had an old tent we could use, so as soon as they had organised the yachts, they would take us up to the site and pitch it for us. Carol was back up to speed. She was in her element. She danced round the men like a firefly, teasing and flirting with them all till they were putty in her hands. I was quite happy to let her do all the work if it meant we had a roof over our heads.
Our roof proved somewhat lacking. The tent was very old and tiny and leaked. This we discovered the second night, to our dismay. Someone suggested we rub butter on the holes (don’t ask!) So then we had a leaking roof and butter in our hair from where we kept hitting the top of the tent, because it was so low. After bursting into tears again, Carol pissed off and slept with her bloke every night, so it was just me who had to endure these trials. Believe me, it was a relief.
We had great fun as the whole yachting thing meant we had access to all the parties. We used to go to the casino every night and spend hours drinking and messing about. Then it was a stagger along a winding road, back up the hill to the campsite.
During the day Carol and I would sunbathe on the beach. One morning, I was lying there and a voice above me remarked, ‘You have beautiful breasts.’
I opened my eyes and saw an old man standing there. Very well dressed, and not bad looking, for an old person. Looking back now, he was probably only in his early forties.
‘Would you care for a coffee?’
‘No thanks, I’m busy,’ I snapped.
‘But you don’t look very busy, Mademoiselle, and I will buy you something lovely.’
‘What do you mean?’ I asked.
‘Well, I am sure a young girl like you would love to have some beautiful clothes to wear.’
‘I can buy my own clothes, thank you very much,’ I retorted. Despite this, we started a conversation and I realised he thought I was some kind of waif and stra
y. Maybe he had a Henry Higgins-complex and wanted to turn me into a lady. Who knows? Anyway, we parted with a slight plan that we might bump into each other in the casino that night. We did. He took me to dinner while the rest of the gang looked on, from afar. They were under strict instructions to keep an eye out for me, and to come and drag me away if I gave a signal.
The guy seemed to think that I was some kind of peasant girl. I had proudly told him my dad was a farmer, thinking he would realise I was not destitute, but he must have taken that as a sign that we were mere peasants who tilled the land. All evening he kept telling me how to hold my knife and fork and which glass to use. He also spent a great deal of time trying to get his hand up my dress, under the table. When we had finished dinner, I announced I needed to get back to my friends. He shrugged his shoulders in that wonderful Gallic way and said, ‘Alors, mon amie. I give up. You do not want a present then?’
‘What sort of present?’
‘Some money, perhaps, to buy some clothes?’
‘What do I have to do for this present?’ It was slowly beginning to dawn on me exactly what was at stake here.
‘Just a little kiss for me.’ But where, I thought?
‘Sorry,’ I replied tartly, ‘I don’t do anyone favours for money. I am an actress, and an independent woman. Bonsoir, Monsieur,’ and I flounced out.
When I told Carol and the gang they all laughed. But later Carol told me I should think about it. Just a kiss or two. What harm was there in that? And I would get some wedge.
‘No, Carol. That’s like being a prostitute.’
‘Well, suit yourself.’
The next day I was sunning myself in my usual spot when I heard the Frenchman’s velvet tones again.
‘Bonjour. Comment ça va?’
‘Fine, thank you. What do you want?’
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