While things had been going well between us in the early days my drinking had just about stopped. Now, I began to deal with Nunzio’s obsession of my being unfaithful by drinking too much. Things then got even worse because Nunzio joined me. One incident that sticks in my mind around this time was the death of Nunzio’s mother. We were arguing a good deal and I was still doing the children’s series and having to deal with Nunzio accusing me of having it off with Ken Hutchison every five minutes. I used to get away and go and see my uncle Row (the uncle who loved to tease me when I was young, and the father of my cousin Gillian). Over the years I had grown very close to him. He had made a mess of his marriage to Gillian’s mother, my Auntie Joy, and Gillian had had a tough childhood because she was sent to boarding school and Row was away a good deal on business.
Around the time that Nunzio and I were having our problems, Uncle Row had to have several operations on his foot. He had to stay in a nursing home and he was a very bad patient. He drank too much, which had given him gout, and he was under strict instructions from the nursing staff not to drink. I would visit him and sit for hours pouring out my woes, and Uncle Row would see it as a wonderful opportunity to pour me glass after glass of Scotch (which I didn’t really like), in order to have some himself. Anyway, the day Nunzio’s mum died I was with Uncle Row getting sozzled. Nunzio didn’t know where I was or he had forgotten. By the time I got home he was bouncing off the walls. But he didn’t know whether to shout at me or cry. He blamed me for everything, which didn’t make sense, but I could handle that because he wasn’t attacking my behaviour as such; just the fact that I made his life a misery. That day we did talk, in between the shouting and accusations. Nunzio broke down and admitted he was frightened I would leave him. That women always treated him badly and that his ex-girlfriend had gone behind his back and been unfaithful. I could handle all this. I felt needed. I would spend my life making Nunzio feel secure, then he would see how much I loved him and he wouldn’t attack me any more. We could move forward.
Nunzio went off to work the next morning as usual. I was sitting on the carpet in the front room of my little flat trying to get myself together. There was a knock on the door and a neighbour was standing there, waving a finger in my face and berating me for all the noise last night. His mouth was moving but I couldn’t hear him. I just broke down and sobbed, ‘Please, please, don’t shout at me. I can’t take any more. Don’t you realise how unhappy people can be, sometimes? They don’t mean to make a noise. I’m sorry, but please don’t shout at me.’ He looked so shocked; he just stopped and turned and walked away.
From this incident came the idea we should start a family. The trouble was I didn’t really want children yet. I still had so much to do in my career. I remember we had a terrible row and Nunzio was leaning into me against the wall and screaming into my face that if I really loved him I would want his children. There comes a point in these situations where there is no logic or refinement in the exchanges; it is fight or just give in, and, for me, it had come to the point where it was easier to just shut up and give in.
The honeymoon was well and truly over – if it ever began. We all make decisions that have far-reaching effects, and we only have ourselves to blame. I knew that, but I don’t think Nunzio ever did, or does, to this day.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
THE JOY OF MOTHERHOOD IN A SEA OF DESPAIR
IN 1982, we bought our first house. It was from a secret auction held by Islington Council, who wanted to get rid of a lot of derelict property. My friend Catharine had got to know about it and we took her very sound advice and put in a bid for a lovely Victorian terraced house in Holloway. Through Catharine we also got a fantastic builder called Eddie Moir. He and his wife, Kath, were wonderful people; sadly, Eddie is dead now but Kath and I still exchange cards at Christmas. They also introduced me to Hetty, who became my cleaner for fifteen years.
Eddie sorted us out in time for the arrival of baby Michael. I was up ladders and scrubbing floors right up to the last minute. I would like to be able to say that my husband was supportive but that would be a lie. He had recently lost his job, and he was very down until well after our son was born. But we were so busy trying to set up our life together that I really had no time to ponder my fate. At least the black moods that descended on Nunzio were more of a general nature than solely aimed at me, so I could pretend to myself that things would improve when our baby was born.
I was having my baby at University College Hospital. I was having an elected Caesarean because the baby was breach. I had been going to private ante-natal classes because although I wasn’t a household name as such, people did tend to recognise me and I felt more comfortable practising my breathing exercises in a more secluded environment. I made a friend for life in these classes, called Anna Ferrante. She was a dentist at the time and married to a GP called Albert. They lived in East Finchley, and her daughter, Alice, was born a day or so after Michael. We had such a laugh and, as both of us had husbands who were not very hands-on in the baby stakes, we teamed up at the back of the hall and had a ball. In the event, it turned out my breathing exercises were not required. I had an epidural Caesarean (that enabled me to be awake), having been taken into hospital two days before and then induced.
I lay in my ward for two days wondering if I was in a kindergarten – the expectant mothers were all so young. They were all unmarried and two of them used to go out and get cans of lager to while away the time. One night, one of them insisted to the nurse that her waters had broken, but the nurse just replied that when one had drunk as much lager as she had that night, she was bound to pee it all out. Charming. They used to love coming to look at me: ‘that woman off the telly’. I felt like a stuffed dummy on show in Madame Tussauds.
When it was time for the Caesarean, I was wheeled down to the operating theatre with Nunzio at my side, doing his best to be supportive. He was in such a state that I completely forgot what was happening to me and was busy talking him through the procedure. So I suppose in a strange way he did help! With the epidural all I could feel was a bit of pressure, but it seemed to take for ever to find the bloody baby. The doctor was such an age feeling around inside me, I was half expecting him to produce a pork pie and a hat.
Towards the end of the operation, Nunzio decided to lean over and look past the screen they had put up, and take a peek. It was a big mistake and he had to leave the room very swiftly. When I quizzed him afterwards about what he had seen, he said, ‘Dio mio [my God], Lynda, I saw everything. They take out everything to find the baby. I could see your liver. I know it was your liver, because I recognised it from the restaurant!’
Michael Peluso was finally lifted out triumphantly at 11 a.m., 13th April, 1983, weighing 6lbs 12ozs. As they laid him on the scales, he peed in a wonderful arc, much to the amusement of his father. He was then whisked away from me and I was sewn up and taken back to the ward. I fell asleep, only to be awoken by excruciating pain in my abdomen. I couldn’t even call out. As I lay there waiting for someone to come, I honestly thought I was dying. Finally, a nurse came and explained that it was because the painkilling drugs had worn off. Well, give me some more then! She refused saying that the epidural should be enough. I just lay there, whimpering, for what seemed like for ever, waiting to die.
In the morning, the gynaecologist came to see me and I asked why I had to endure this pain. He was so embarrassed and apologetic. There was nothing on my notes to explain to the staff that after my epidural I should have had painkillers once it wore off, otherwise I would go into postnatal contractions because my womb thought it needed to expel the afterbirth (or something like that – I couldn’t fully concentrate on what he was saying, for obvious reasons). Well, thanks a lot, guys!
Unfortunately, I also got the ward sister from hell, who recognised me from my General Hospital days, and who decided she was going to make damn sure I didn’t get above myself. Everyone was treated the same in her ward, thank you very much… She would force me out
of bed, as I clutched my stomach – which I really felt was going to deposit its contents on the ward floor – and shushed me down the ward to the toilet. I won’t go into details but suffice it to say that week was horrendous.
And on top of all the female stuff one has to endure, one then has the visiting to contend with. Every time I managed to shuffle down to the toilet, I would hear shrieks and inevitably it would be a guest of mine, arriving with wonderful flowers and a five-minute monologue to amuse the entire ward. Biggins won that competition, needless to say. Women were clutching their stitches, helpless with laughter. By the time everyone had left I was exhausted. There was little time for bonding with the baby; it was all about nappy changing and wheeling the trolley and learning to breastfeed. I could hardly hold Michael I was so sore, but I was determined, and I was very lucky I had no problems whatsoever feeding him – I had so much milk I was in danger of drowning the poor little mite.
To be honest, I had been so worried that I would not like the baby when it arrived and not be a good mother, I was almost in denial about the whole thing. You’re so tired, it’s like being in a pit with high walls where, every time you manage to get near the top, you slip and fall back down. I even thought I might hate the baby or it might hate me from all the rows it had heard in my womb. Silly me.
I remember one night, going in to feed Michael. Everyone else in the ward was asleep and for once it was quite quiet. There was just the sound that babies make when they are sleeping; little snuffles and whines. I was still having trouble standing upright but I got Michael in my arms and put him to my breast. His little fingers were trying to grasp my skin, feather light. He sort of opened his eyes and squinted up at me. He really seemed to be trying to catch my eye and hold my gaze, and tears just welled up from deep within me. I had no idea I had this store of emotion inside me. It felt so raw, this love I had for him. It was like electric energy sparking inside every bone in my body and I wanted to scream with this pain of love I felt for this little animal at my breast. The world stood still. I was inside the bubble that all women experience, I believe, where they connect with their child for the first time. The bond is snapped round your heart and can only be removed by your death. I am sorry to be so dramatic but that is how it felt to me. Whatever else happened to me in my life, I knew I would never forget that moment.
So now we were a family. Nunzio’s sister, Rosaria, had come to stay so that she could help me in the early days, as after a Caesarean one is supposed to rest for six weeks. Her experience of children was giving birth at fifteen to Gennarro, who was then cared for by her mother and sister. Bless her heart, she meant well, but Rosaria was a bag of nerves. She had no patience and would grab Michael from me and pace up and down the kitchen shaking him in her arms and rocking madly from foot to foot trying to get him to go to sleep. From day one we fell out because she wanted to give him a dummy. No way. Not my baby.
I had also got a deadline to meet as far as my recovery was concerned because I was booked to do an episode of The Gentle Touch starring Jill Gascoine. The plan was that I would express my milk into little bottles, which could then be kept in the fridge and substituted for my breast when I was out during the day, filming. I had spent hours getting Michael to take the bottle. He was not keen and had to be coaxed. Patience was paramount.
Two days with his Auntie Rosaria and all my hard work was out the window. He would scream if the bottle came near him. So now I had to go to work knowing that he was crying his eyes out and Rosaria would be in the kitchen, getting her knickers in a twist. And where was Nunzio in all this? Sitting at the kitchen table, day in, day out. On returning home, exhausted from filming on some godforsaken housing estate in east London, my breasts full to bursting, I would be greeted by a screaming baby and two adults sitting at the kitchen table, smoking. I ended up in the bedroom crying down the phone to my mother, who finally said, ‘For goodness’ sake, Lynda, get a grip. It’s your baby, do what you think is best and send Rosaria home.’
Isn’t your mum’s advice always the best? I found a nanny who would come filming with me so I could feed Michael as we went along. Needless to say, we had a couple of disasters. The first girl was caught, by Nunzio, shaking poor Michael. The second girl was very efficient but I just couldn’t stand her.
Anyone who has gone through these early days will share with me the torment of trying to get it all right. I had to work because we needed the money, so I just had to get on with it and improvise where necessary.
Day relentlessly followed day; there was no respite. Nunzio finally got a job so at least I didn’t have to worry about him, and I could have some time alone just to be with my baby.
Then, just as I was coming out of that early fog of breast milk and hormonal emotion, we moved on to the next challenge.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
A COMMERCIAL BREAK
AS IF MICHAEL’S birth was not enough to change my life, my agent rang one morning and suggested I go along and meet the director of a new campaign for Unilever, starring as the mum of a family that used Oxo gravy.
I was very snooty about the whole thing and, at first, I declined. Back then, doing commercials could be very dodgy for the serious career. I was still having problems being taken seriously as an actress because of all the comedy I had done, so being in a series of adverts would just about finish off any credibility I might have achieved. But Nunzio and my agent persuaded me to go along and meet Derek Coutts, the director.
Derek was very well known in the advertising business. He was a fantastic director and not only created our campaign but also the Gold Blend coffee adverts with Anthony Head and Sharon Maughan. I was asked to do a test with another actor called Michael Redfern, and an assortment of different children.
It was quite fun and I thought no more about it. Then, a couple of days later my agent called to say they wanted to see me again. So I tested with a different husband and another set of children. I went home and heard no more. I was asked back about three or four more times, at which point I decided I was bloody well going to get this job just to prove I could! And I did!
It was like landing the leading role in Gone with the Wind, there was so much hoo-ha about it. The money was fantastic and everybody was thrilled for me. I still felt a bit of a niggle; being a mum making gravy for my family was not quite how I had seen my career advancing. But Nunzio was thrilled, and it would mean we had some financial security for the next three years.
Michael Redfern had been cast as the husband, and we had three children: Nick, Alison and Jason. We all used our own names. Our first Jason lasted a few years and then he was replaced by Colin. It is amazing, looking back, how over the years the children grew up. By the time we were doing the last commercials in 1999, Colin was married with two children! He worked for the Ministry of Food, I think, by then. The eldest boy, Nick, also changed. When we started, the first Nick was a very intense young man, who later became a vegan, and had to give up his role in the adverts because of his beliefs. He wouldn’t touch the meat. I bumped into him years later and I think he was working for television in the costume department. He was a very gentle soul. He was replaced by Nick McKechnie – his sister, Donna, is an actress and comedienne, and Nick now has a very successful band. He was very clever and full of energy. Alison, my character’s daughter, was a bit of a lost soul. She was a sweet girl and desperately wanted to be an actress. Her father was an actor and started a drama school with Alison’s mother. I think they worked very hard when Alison was growing up. Over the years she struggled with her weight. When you’re growing up, it is difficult enough dealing with all the usual sorts of issues; all the more so if you are in the public eye. It’s also not easy to sit round a table all day staring at piles of food and not eat! Mind you, after staring at a roast chicken that had sat under the heat of the studio lights all day, eating was the last thing I wanted to do. But Alison would pick at the food all day, while still having the odd packet of crisps and her lunch and dinner. I became l
ike her nagging mother, constantly telling her to stop nibbling. Poor girl!
It was particularly fascinating watching the home economist, Sue, cook all day and managing to make things look fresh and inviting. She used to brush the roast with olive oil just before a take to make it look succulent. Another trick, which was revolting, was to blow cigarette smoke under the lid of the serving dish so that when I lifted the lid it looked like steam. We never actually ate anything that was on the table – Sue would serve something separately for us, thank goodness Our house was not real. It was a set built in the studio based on a real house somewhere. Sue would have this oven and little kitchen set up at the side and cook all day.
Michael Redfern was the perfect foil for my character. Stoic and strong, and always there for his wife and family. He used to complain that all he ever did was smile benignly into the camera. He was an amazing joke teller and had a vast repertoire of terrible jokes. We would have to sit for hours round the kitchen table while the lights were adjusted and other bits of equipment tweaked, and he would entertain us all nonstop. Some days, I would have to leave before his close-ups because I was often working in the theatre, and so I was unable to feed him his lines or give him a reaction to his. The poor man had to act to an empty chair at the end of the table! He was brilliant. We laughed so much.
It was actually very tiring to film the adverts as the days were very long. We were in for make-up at 7 a.m. and often we would work until ten at night. There is a saying in the business that the ‘pack shot’ is the most important thing in a commercial which, as the name suggests, is the close-up of the product being advertised. In this case it was the famous little red cube. Sometimes they would use a hand artist to hold the Oxo cube in close-up, but more often than not it would be me. It could take hours to film the all-important moment when I unwrapped the cube and sprinkled it into the stew. Thankfully, there was a lovely props man who had a big bowl of the stuff and he had a special little gadget that made the dried stock into a square that was then easier to break with my fingers. There was also a special way of pulling off the foil and I had to do this over and over again. It would get really hot under the lights and the smell of the powdered stock would get to me in the end. I would have to go home and have a bath to get rid of the smell.
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