Lost and Found

by Lynda Bellingham

  I had the most wonderful time filming those three series. My son, Michael, would always come with me up to Yorkshire, partly to keep Nunzio happy but mainly for me and Michael, because he just loved it out on the moors. We shot all the interior scenes at the studio in Birmingham and then went filming for six weeks up in Leyburn, in Yorkshire.

  Sadly, Helen was not often out of the kitchen. For some reason, the writers always put her making bread or doing the washing-up when things were hotting up in the cowshed! So usually we were not away for long.

  I relished those few days away from Nunzio’s critical gaze. I had found the most perfect place to stay in a village called Middleham. It was an old miller’s house that had been turned into a small B&B. They didn’t normally take small children but they made an exception in Michael’s case and, bless him, he never let me down. We had a beautiful double room that looked out on to the small village green. At the end of each long and happy day, Michael and I would sit in the dining room at the old miller’s house and eat an enormous dinner of fresh homemade soup, a roast and piles of homegrown vegetables. Followed by a big pudding. The lady who cooked made a soup called Wensleydale cheese soup. It was delicious; I got the recipe and we still make it today.

  There was nothing to Middleham except several pubs and three or four racing stables. Michael and I would be up at five to go filming, and we would stand on the side of the green in the early morning mist and watch the horses and their riders file past. It was magic, listening to their hooves on the road and their snorting, and the whinnying and the jingling of reins, and the laughter of the jockeys disappearing over the hill. There was also a blacksmith, and Michael would watch him for hours.

  While I was filming, Michael would stay with the costume van and our lovely dresser, called Ray, would keep an eye on him. The great thing about a film set for small children is the discipline. They learn to do as they are told because everyone on the set has to abide by the rules. When the first assistant shouts ‘Quiet!’, we are all quiet. Michael also used to wander round the fields and bring back lovely knick-knacks like bits of old wool and a sheep’s skull. Don’t you love little boys?!

  While we were up there we also acquired our dog, Star. There was a scene to be shot involving a bitch giving birth and she has eclampsia (don’t ask me to explain it, I’m only an actress). The vet had found a lovely Collie bitch who was about to give birth so we settled down to film with her. The farmer who owned the dog was telling us that he would keep one of the puppies as a working dog and sell the rest. From that moment Michael didn’t stop asking me for a puppy. ‘But we can’t have a sheepdog in London, Michael,’ I’d reply. The farmer’s wife heard and insisted that the dog would adapt to its surroundings. That was it; we were hooked. Michael chose a puppy with a star on its forehead, and because it was appearing on TV we called it Star. We couldn’t take him straight away as he was too small, so we agreed to wait till the next time we came up to film.

  When we returned, our dog was waiting. The farmer’s wife had knitted Michael a red and white jumper with rows of collie dogs on it and he was so chuffed. Star travelled back on the train with us and made himself completely at home in north London. Because of his herding instinct, he used to give other dogs in the park rather a hard time, but he became a brilliant goalkeeper and was the perfect children’s dog. He lived to a ripe old age, and is buried in the garden of my friend Catharine’s house in Worcestershire.

  I was so happy to be away. It became more and more the pattern. My work was a haven to me. I was with people who liked me and thought I was talented. There was no shouting or ugly scenes, and I was reminded that life did not have to be a battle. I could relax and be myself and, most importantly, being me did not mean I was behaving like a ‘slut’. I could go and have a drink or a meal with the cast.

  Actually, this was not quite true, because Nunzio was always on the end of the phone. When I got back to the hotel in Birmingham at night, I would always have to phone him, or take calls through my meal. I started inviting people to the hotel so we could have dinner. Lovely actors like Wanda Ventham would join me. Chris Timothy was also very supportive because I had told him what I had to deal with.

  I had had to tell someone because it was intolerable, otherwise; trying to appear normal after a phone call where I had been called a hundred foul names. And while it was lovely having Michael with me, it was just another thing to worry about so meant more stress. I know that Robert Hardy used to get impatient with me sometimes. He shouted at me one day because I had to leave early to get Michael from school, saying it was like trying to rehearse in a bloody crèche. I did understand his frustration, but what could I do? He is a lovely man actually, and very interesting to talk to. In the early days, when I first started, we used to go and have lunch in the executive dining room at the BBC, and he would tell me wonderful stories over a bottle or two of Burgundy.

  In between filming for the BBC, I was still doing the Oxo commercials and I also did a six-month run in the West End in a play called Look No Hans starring my old friend David Jason. I was playing his wife who had very little to do except run on and off in a big brimmed hat and spotted dress. He was so funny in that play. It was a tour de force for him; the rest of us just came on and fed him lines really, so he could go into a comedy routine. There was a lovely actress called Anita Graham in the play with me. She was a six-foot blonde and very funny. We used to sit in my dressing room and knit and bitch about David taking too long to do a scene, because it was a Saturday night and we wanted to get home. The trouble was if the audience encouraged him, David would have gone on all night. Sometimes, if it got too much, I would actually go on to the stage in one particular scene, clap my hands and say loudly, ‘That’s enough, get on with it.’ The audience would howl with laughter and think it was part of the script but David knew it was a message and we meant business. It was the first time I had my name in lights outside the theatre, and my dear sister Barbara took a photo that is framed and on my wall. I was so thrilled.

  Alena used to bring Michael in on a matinee day and we would go and have tea somewhere. It was wonderful near Christmas because I would take him on an open-topped bus all round the West End, where all the lights were up, to look at the decorations. It became a Christmas tradition. Into the West End and on to a bus to see the lights. Then down to Harrods to see Father Christmas. Then a McDonald’s or sometimes tea in a posh hotel.

  We did these things without Nunzio, not because we didn’t want him to join us but because he was just not interested. He would go on and on to people about how he played with Michael, but he very rarely ever did anything; he would sit in front of the TV and watch sport most of the time. He did take Michael to Italy when I was doing Look No Hans and I missed his first steps. I was so upset. When they came back I came out of the stage door to greet them and round the corner came a little grown-up, tottering towards me!

  In 1986, I also played The Inquisitor in a series of Doctor Who. Colin Baker was the Doctor, Michael Jayston was The Valeyard and Bonnie Langford was the Doctor’s assistant. I had an extraordinary costume with a huge headdress that was attached to my shoulders with sticks in it to keep it upright. There is a photo of me looking rather like Joan Collins, with a great deal of eye make-up on and long false nails painted red. The nails were so long I couldn’t get my tights on or off so a very sweet girl from the wardrobe department had to escort me to the ladies’ loo and help me get them on and off each time. Poor girl! I opened the series by flouncing into a courtroom for the Doctor’s trial. I then took my seat with great aplomb and stayed there for thirteen episodes, at the end of which I rose from my chair and left the courtroom with great aplomb! I have always been rather miffed that since they brought Doctor Who back, Russell T Davies has never asked me to come and be in an episode. I was a Time Lord, after all!

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  ANOTHER BUNDLE OF JOY BUT IT IS THE CALM BEFORE THE STORM

  WHILE ON HOLIDAY in Italy in 1987, I found o
ut I was pregnant again. Everyone was delighted. So was I, but there was a little niggle in the back of my mind. However, as an optimist, I just brushed it away. It was all going to be good. We had a successful business and Nunzio was so thrilled. For a while, things were calm.

  Robert Ciro Peluso was born on Easter Sunday, 3rd April, 1988. He was luckier than his brother Michael in that we had more money so he was born privately at The Portland Hospital. Julie Walters was on the floor below. It was very posh compared to UCH five years earlier, but it could not make up for the fact that the cracks in my marriage were widening: even on the first night of our new son’s life, Nunzio managed to reduce me to tears.

  Robbie’s birth had been quite eventful because he was early. Rosaria and her son Gennarro were staying with us for Easter, with the idea that she would be around again to help. The night before Easter Sunday, Nunzio had had a busy night in the restaurant, so when he came in late, he had fallen asleep in front of the TV. I woke in the early hours with terrible pains. I thought it was wind, so I went downstairs and made a cup of tea and sat talking to the dog. Star would always follow me round everywhere and he could feel something wasn’t right. It slowly dawned on me that I was going into labour. This had not happened the first time because I had had an elective Caesarean. I suddenly panicked because it was Easter Sunday and I had promised Michael an Easter egg hunt in the garden. I couldn’t let the little lad down so I got the eggs and wrote the clues, and in between contractions Star and I went round the garden hiding the eggs. I must have looked a very strange sight, practically bent double, stopping every few minutes to breathe and then crawling on all fours under a bush. My dad had always said that when we three girls went into labour it would be no problem as long as we had a bale of straw and some hot water!

  I finally rang Mum at about 8 a.m. and she said I should ring the gynaecologist as soon as I could. I waited till nine and then got his answering machine. That’s private medicine for you! I heard nothing for another hour so I rang the Portland and they said to come in. I then had to wake Nunzio, who was less than pleased as he had a hangover. He insisted we take everyone with us. Rosaria, Gennarro and Michael (but not the dog, who looked very forlorn as we drove away). We were like a band of travelling gypsies arriving at the hospital.

  Peter Saunders, my wonderful gynaecologist, arrived and announced it would be ages to the birth yet, and did I mind if he went to lunch as he had friends coming round that day? I nodded weakly. Nunzio also decided to leave and go home as there was nothing he could do and the family wanted feeding. Fine. So I waited and contracted on my own. At about 3 p.m. the midwife decided it was time to sort me out and called Peter. I was now having full-blown contractions and it was very difficult giving me an epidural for the Caesarean as I couldn’t keep still. We managed it in the end and away we went. Nunzio managed to get back in time to see the birth of son number two.

  What a little sweetie he was with his mass of black hair. The Portland had a policy of giving new parents a celebratory meal in the room. So there we were, me, Nunzio, and Robbie in his cot, when suddenly Nunzio was having a go at me. I honestly can’t remember what about, but each time the nurse came in, I would hide my head in my hands and Nunzio would sit and glower. At one point, the nurse dared to suggest that Nunzio give me a hug and stop making me miserable. The look he gave her sent her scuttling from the room.

  When I brought Robbie home it was to a house full of people, and it stayed that way for weeks. It again meant I had no time to myself to think about my situation. Everything was stress. We had invited Nunzio’s brother Michele to come and live in England with his family and work for Nunzio in the restaurant. I spent hours trying to find him a flat. I organised the deposit and the mortgage on a lovely flat in Barnet and then I cleaned it up and furnished it. Then, just as they were due to move in, Nunzio and his brother had a big fight and he decided to take his family back to Naples, leaving us with a flat to get rid of.

  I don’t know what the fight was about, but around this time we had an Italian girl who came to visit, and work in the restaurant. She was the daughter of a friend of Nunzio’s family. Just what you need around the house when you have just had a baby: she was all long brown limbs and tossed golden hair. It is extraordinary how I put up with it, when you consider that Nunzio spent half his waking hours accusing me of being a slut and sleeping with all and sundry, yet here he was now working with a girl half his age who couldn’t keep her eyes off him. He used to take her home after work, and I thought nothing about it until Michele, Nunzio’s brother, said to me one day before he left, ‘Don’t worry about Teresa, she is not important. My brother is a fool.’ I questioned him further but he wouldn’t be drawn. When I asked Nunzio for an explanation he just smiled. I can see his face even now! He just smiled and shrugged his shoulders. Can you imagine if that had been me?

  It was the last straw. I had done humiliation before. I got very beady and edgy. We now had a lovely girl helping me called Valentina. We had met her the year before on holiday in Sardinia. She was such a gentle soul and she understood the Italian mentality better than anyone. We were standing in the kitchen one day and I had Robbie in my arms, and Nunzio stormed in, screaming and shouting about something. I was not in the mood to listen and told him to go away. He swung round, narrowly missing little baby Robbie. It was too much. Even Valentina gasped and told me to give her the baby. She withdrew and Nunzio just ranted and raved at me. He finally went back to work but I knew he would be back later.

  I was in pieces. Valentina was so kind and she knew how frightened I was. She suggested I went and stayed somewhere else for the night so Nunzio could calm down: ‘Don’t worry, I will keep Robbie safe. He would never hurt him.’ She was right, so I went over the road to my friend and neighbour, Maggie Leonard. I knocked on her door at ten o’clock in the evening and she was great and took me in and calmed me down. I stayed in her front room all night, watching my house over the road.

  The next morning, I watched Nunzio leave the house and go to work and then I went home. I had had enough. I gathered up the boys and bundled them into the car and drove down to my parents. They were shocked to see me. I had always tried not to tell them too much about what had been going on with Nunzio because I didn’t want to worry them, but they knew really. Even so, I don’t think they were aware of just how frightened I was of him. We talked and talked and I told them everything, and we all agreed I had to leave.

  Then the phone calls started. Nunzio was screaming at me. Then my dad took the phone and he shouted at him. All day backwards and forwards went the calls. Finally, Nunzio said he was coming to get us. He arrived at my parents’ house and took over. I still have a clear picture of it all these years later, of Nunzio standing in the kitchen with my mum and dad, shouting at us. He seemed to tower over us all, even my dad. His loud harsh voice bounced off the walls, making the children cry. My mum tried to reason with him, but she said all the words he didn’t want to hear, like ‘divorce’ and ‘better we parted for the sake of the children’. He turned on her and screamed at her: ‘You know nothing, you are English! I will never give up my boys. I am Italian, my family is everything to me!’

  ‘So why don’t you treat them better?’ was my father’s measured reply. Nunzio was having none of it. After much arguing and then tears he agreed to leave me in peace to think about what to do for the best. I managed to stave off a decision for two weeks, but every day he was on the phone for hours. His rage had turned to pleading with me. He promised he would change. He would get help. He loved me. He wore me down and despite my parents begging me to be strong and leave him, I went back. We arranged to have therapy sessions, which we did for the next three years or more. It helped me to go and talk, sometimes, because at least someone knew the hell I was going through, day in day out. But I really don’t know if it helped Nunzio, or our marriage. Going over old ground often just opened up old wounds and he would come home to me and have a go at me again.

  I FEEL THIS
IS the moment for me to take a break from telling my story and explain just how difficult this is for me. I think that if I go through the rest of my marriage to Nunzio, blow by blow, it just becomes a succession of depressing stories. It wasn’t all depressing, anyway. We did have some wonderful moments but sadly, for every happy time, there was an even worse unhappy time. Domestic abuse is by its very nature a private and secret thing, usually carried out behind closed doors. That is why it is so difficult to discover. I have given many talks over the last few years to women who have been through far worse than me. But the same things always come up. The isolation from family and friends. The drip, drip of abuse. The control in terms of money and time. The unpredictability of the abusive partner. The desire to please and placate all the time and, most important of all: the fear. It is crippling. It permeates one’s whole life. Everything is affected by it. Sleep becomes impossible and normal friendships suffer because of it.

  There is no way for anyone who has not been in this situation to really understand because it takes so long to reach that point, but there always comes a day when you no longer have any control over your life. You have been made to feel so worthless that there is no option but to stay in that relationship because you think no one else is going to want you. I have watched films and plays that do not come anywhere close to explaining to the outside world what goes on. I just hope that anyone reading this who has had similar problem will know that you are not alone, and that the very best thing anyone in this situation can do is talk about it. Tell someone. Don’t block out your family and friends. The more people who know, the better. Even in cultures where it is ‘acceptable’ to beat one’s wife, it must be stopped. It is not acceptable. We all know that bullies are really cowards, but it’s not easy to stand up to them when you are cowed, and beaten, after years of taking it on the chin. Literally. If society were really to take up the cause it could make a huge change. Just like the drink-driving campaign has made it almost impossible for anyone to drink and drive in public and get away with it, so it should be with abusive behaviour of any kind. Whether it is in a marriage, or the work place. No one should live in fear.