That afternoon we made all sorts of plans, and I spoke to Richard, who gave me all the information I needed to complete my purchase.
We were off back to London the next day, Saturday, as we had already booked our flights, but now we had to return on the following Monday to deal with all the necessary paperwork. I felt good. I had a plan, and I like a plan. Pat and I could spend our old age in a beautiful place.
For the past couple of years, my mother had been ill, fading away more and more into that awful abyss that is Alzheimer’s disease. She would sit in her prison, locked inside her own mind, but sometimes seeming to know Dad, which made it worse for him. I had watched, when he arrived at the home, how she would turn her head to him and a smile would light up her eyes. Seeing her decline, I had been forced to face the future. I had so many girlfriends who were in the same position as me: no man in their lives, not to mention no pension and not many prospects of earning over the next twenty years. I could let these facts depress and overwhelm me, or I could make a plan and be positive, and this is what I intended to do. Better to be poor in the warmth of Spain, than cold in a flat in London, I reckoned. The boys would be leaving home eventually and that was another thing that had started to niggle in the back of my mind. I did not want my sons to feel I was a burden to them as I grew older; I wanted them to enjoy my company. I was determined to view this purchase of a pad in Spain as the prelude to the next chapter in my life.
So Pat and I turned around on the Saturday, and flew back on the Sunday evening, ready to meet Michael Pattemore bright and early on Monday morning.
He was outside waiting for us at 8.30 a.m. on the dot. First Brownie point to him: punctuality is very important in my book. Then we were off to the police station to get our NIE numbers. This is similar to a National Insurance number, and you need one for practically everything in Spain. We had rather a long wait in the police station and Michael entertained us with lots of stories. He was very charming and funny and we got on like a house on fire.
Driving back to Moraira I was sitting in the back and he kept looking at me in the driving mirror. Was he flirting with me? He asked me how old I was and, when I told him, he pretended to be shocked. He said he thought I was younger. Yeah, yeah! In fact, he confessed later that he had looked at my passport in the police station so he knew exactly how old I was. I told him I was divorced and he told us that he was divorced, and had come to Spain to get away from his ex-wife, who had been having an affair that had split their marriage of twenty-five years. He said he was with someone now but that it wasn’t serious. Well, they all say that, don’t they?!
While we were in the car Michael was planning our return, after Christmas, for the completion date on our properties. In Spain, you all go to the notary and sign the papers on a nominated day. Michael was suggesting the first week in January.
‘But I can’t. I’ll be doing a play,’ I said.
‘Can’t you get the day off?’ asked Michael, blissfully unaware of how theatre works (nobody has a day off unless they are dying). I explained this to him and he said to Pat and me that this was a problem because the papers all had to be signed on the same day: ‘Could you give Pat your power of attorney? Then she can sign for you.’ We agreed that was the best way to do it.
Pat and I began to appreciate more and more the powers of the Pattemore and what an ally he was to have. Had I been trying to do this on my own it would have been a nightmare. There was so much red tape to get through. But Michael took us through everything with ease and we finished up in a tapas bar with a large glass of vino tinto.
Pat now had power of attorney to return and sign on the dotted line for me.
‘Brilliant. You sorted my flat,’ I said to her, ‘now all you have to do is find me a man!’
We had a very long lunch and then said our goodbyes. That night I fell into bed and dreamt of a notary who looked like Michael Pattemore, and had an office like a tapas bar. Hasta la vista!
BACK IN LONDON, life went on. I was getting a fair amount of publicity as I was appearing on The Bill twice a week. I had landed a great part thanks to Paul Marquess, who was the producer at the time. He saw beyond the obvious and cast me as a real villain. Irene Radford was a widow whose husband had been killed by a cop and had taken over his criminal activities of sex, slavery and drugs! It was a fantastic opportunity for me to play a completely different kind of character and I attacked it with relish.
It started out as a couple of episodes and ended up with me doing a six-month stint. I had a terrific time with the cast, especially Roberta Taylor and Beth Cordingly.
I also had a very exciting outing around this time. ITV was celebrating its fiftieth birthday. There was a big do at the Natural History Museum, attended by the Queen, and I discovered when I got there that I was to be in the line to be introduced to Her Majesty. I was sandwiched between Nicholas Parsons and Harry Hill.
Harry was wearing one of his trademark shirts with a huge collar, but no black tie. An ITV executive pulled me aside and asked me to persuade him to put his tie on as it was protocol. I duly went up to Harry and berated him as though I was his mother. He agreed to put the tie on with the retort, ‘God, I never thought I’d be told off by the Oxo mum!’
We all stood in line for hours waiting for the Queen to reach us and, as is typical of theatrical people, we were all chatting nineteen-to-the-dozen and had to be told to pay attention as our monarch drew nearer. Harry was hysterical and gave Her Majesty a card that his daughter had made for her. This is not done, apparently, and the Queen looked rather bemused, looking round for someone to take it from her. I stepped in, quick as a flash, ‘Allow me, your Majesty,’ and took it. She gave me a radiant smile, thanked me and wished me luck.
TOWARDS THE END of November 2004 I found myself, one evening, sitting in my trailer in a car park in Bushy (the way you do with these glamorous TV locations). I was filming an episode of Murder in Suburbia, a crime series, when my phone bleeped at me. A text.
‘How’s it going, Miss B?’
It was Michael Pattemore! My heart gave a flutter.
‘Sitting in a car park near Watford,’ I texted back.
We exchanged a few more words but then I was called on to the set and that was that. Then, one evening, Pat was round for supper and, fuelled with a few glasses of wine, I rang Michael to see how things were going. He flirted outrageously with me while Pat just nodded sagely. I invited Michael to call in at any time if he was going to be in London. Maybe around Christmas?
He told me he would be in Manchester with his girlfriend. Which rather put the dampener on things, so I left it at that.
I had started rehearsals for Losing Louis at the Hampstead Theatre Club and was grateful for the diversion. The play was written by Simon Mendes de Costa and directed by Robin Lefèvre. He was a terrific director and I had worked with him a hundred years ago on Richard II, starring my dear old friend, Nik Grace.
I love rehearsing almost more than performing. Trying things out with the character, and getting to know the other actors and how they work. Alison Steadman and David Horovitch were brilliant together. I had worked with my other half, Brian Protheroe, in the play we did with Janet Suzman and Maureen Lipman, The Sisters Rosensweig, and we had the same producer now, Michael Codron. It was good to be working with Brian as someone I trusted, especially as I had to flash my fanny at him! We worked very hard before Christmas and were looking forward to a few days off.
The day before Christmas Eve, I was running round getting everything sorted. This year, though, was not quite so busy because Robbie had gone to America with his friend, Aaron, and his family, and Michael was going to Italy with his dad, on Boxing Day. I had decided Michael and I would go and see my father on Christmas Day because he had been taken ill in the last week, and Barbara and Jean decided it would be better if we all came down to see him, just in case things did not improve.
I was pottering in the afternoon and decided to give Michael Pattemore a ring and wish
him Happy Christmas.
‘Where are you?’ I asked.
‘In England,’ came the reply.
‘Oh, great! Are you going to call in and say hello?’
‘Well, that could be difficult just now as I’m on the M6.’
‘Oh, right.’ I tried to hide my disappointment.
‘But I’m going to pick my daughter up from Windsor,’ Michael continued.
‘Well, that’s just down the road!’ I said. ‘Come and have a drink.’
‘I’ll see how I go for time,’ Michael hedged. ‘We have to get back to Manchester.’
Of course, the girlfriend. But he and I could have a drink just as friends, couldn’t we? I put the phone down and wondered what to do next. What if he came? I had better make myself presentable.
It was now mid-afternoon, and at six o’clock I got a call to say the traffic had been terrible and that Michael had only just picked up his daughter.
‘Well, why don’t you both come for dinner and stay the night?’
What am I like?
I rushed around making up the beds in Robbie’s room. I knew I had some steaks in the fridge as I always have food in my house, because you never know how many boys will turn up at any given moment. The phone rang again an hour later.
‘We’re lost on the North Circular.’ I talked them through the last bit of their journey and, five minutes later, they were standing in my kitchen.
Stacey, Michael’s daughter, was lovely. She was a similar age to my Michael. She was very attractive and had a lovely smile like her dad. We had dinner and drank lots of wine and then watched me in my penultimate episode of The Bill, which was showing that night. How tacky is that? Making them watch me on the telly. Poor Stacey could hardly keep her eyes open, so I showed her the bedroom, and left her to it.
Michael had had an overnight bag which I had put in the room, but after he had been to say goodnight to Stacey I noticed the bag had moved to outside the bedroom door. Hmm!
Michael and I drank lots more wine and had a lovely evening. It was so relaxed as he was so easy to get on with. I, however, was in a dilemma. The wine had made me amorous, but my brain was telling me to leave it because he had a girlfriend, even though it ‘wasn’t serious’. Then I was trying to convince myself that even if we did go to bed together it probably wouldn’t be that great, and that this would be a good thing, because then I wouldn’t be interested any more and we could all go our separate ways, no harm done.
But there was a nagging voice in my head that was telling me that this wouldn’t be true; that everything about Michael attracted me. He was the first man I had met in years who was a proper human being; I really liked him and wanted him to like me. But he had been through so much in the last five years, since his wife left him, and he was obviously wary of relationships. I just wanted to hold him and feel his energy around me. That is still one of the things I love about him, his lust for life and positive energy. So many people in my life had taken my energy along the way. You are either a giver, or a taker, but here was a fellow giver.
It was no good, I was going to have to succumb to my baser instincts, and test the water. I leaned over and kissed him. That was all it took. As we went to the bedroom, I remarked that his overnight bag seemed to be making its own way to my room.
‘It hoped it might get lucky,’ said Mr Pattemore, with a wink.
Suffice to say, it was neither a shock nor a revelation to me to find that I had met my match in every way. It was as though I rewound my entire life that night, and started at zero again. It was fantastic, and for the first time in my life I wished I had not had so much red wine. I wanted to be sober!
In the morning I sat in the bath, while Michael stood at the mirror, shaving. I felt so comfortable. I am extremely insecure about my body, but with Michael I felt no shame, no fear, and no guilt. Just complete contentment. He seemed rather subdued and I suddenly felt very vulnerable. Was he regretting his actions?
I waved him and Stacey off from the gate and went off to walk the dog. I was feeling very confused. I had spent an amazing night with a great guy, who seemed to like me, but where was it going? I did not want the answer to be nowhere. But what could I do?
As I was walking back I suddenly saw Michael standing by his car in the distance. They had forgotten something. Stacey ran into the house to get it and Michael and I stood on the pavement in silence.
‘I don’t want to leave you,’ he said. ‘I don’t want to you to go,’ I replied.
He gave me a hug and, as Stacey came back, he got in the car and gave me a wink.
‘I’ll ring you very soon, I promise.’
I waved them goodbye and actually believed him.
I went inside and tried to put Michael aside, for the time being at least. It was Christmas Eve, usually my favourite day of the year, but this year there was a cloud hanging over it. My dear dad was fading.
MY son Michael and I set off on Christmas morning with the car full of goodies. My father was living with Ba and David by now. I was going to cook, as Barbara had been doing all the work looking after Dad, and visiting Mum in the home she had had to move into.
When we arrived, I could tell from Barbara’s face that things were not good. I took Michael upstairs to see his grandad. He knew who we were but he seemed very weak. Michael was shocked: when you don’t see someone very often, the different changes are much more marked.
I have a huge regret that as a result of all the bad feeling from Nunzio, our sons never knew their grandad or granny as well as they should have done. I remember looking at all the artwork on the door in my parents’ kitchen. Jean’s children, Laura and Martha, had done loads of pictures for Granny and Grandad and they were pinned up every visit. There was nothing from my boys. We had so few visits over the years because Nunzio made it so difficult and, once we were separated, he had told the boys that Granny had made Mummy leave him. He also told them that Granny and Grandad didn’t love them as much as their other grandchildren because they were not blood relations as I was adopted, so that made things difficult. How wicked can anyone be? If only they had spent more time with my father they might have had a different take on what being a man is all about.
I sat with Dad, after Michael had gone downstairs, and held his hand. It was the moment I always dreaded. Seeing my father as a weak old man. He had always been so strong and true, my knight in shining armour. Suddenly, I realised he was my knight and had always been my knight. I couldn’t live without him. I just held his hand and couldn’t even talk to him. He wanted me to straighten his pyjamas, which I did, but I felt it was such an intrusion. It had been fine to wash Mum and dress her but somehow pulling the clothes round this proud man just felt wrong. He held my hand tightly and I could hardly hear him when he spoke. He was always very softly spoken, even when he was telling me off, which had made it all the more effective. Now he was trying to wish me a happy Christmas, and I was trying not to cry. I fixed on his moustache. It was white now but still the same as it had been all my life and it tickled me when I kissed him, like it had always done. Please don’t die, Dad! That was all I could think. I felt like I was screaming it at the top of my voice. Please don’t die.
We are so selfish about death. We grieve for ourselves. My father had spent the last few years without the woman he loved so much. He had had to watch her mentally slowly leaving him, without being able to break free from her. Sitting with my father now I realised he must be so tired of hoping. The spirit keeps going against all the odds but I think Dad just decided he couldn’t wait, any more, to go.
We all had a rather solemn meal together and then Michael and I drove back to London. I was going to see Amanda Redman on Boxing Day, for lunch, and Michael was off to Italy with his dad. Mr Pattemore rang me to wish me a happy Christmas, which just made me feel even sadder. I would have loved to have sat with him and listened to his stories. If I was honest I would love to have taken him to meet my father. That is one thing I regret very much, that neith
er of my parents ever met him.
I went back to rehearsals for Losing Louis, determined to keep my life on track. There was a good deal to think about, not least my opening night. Michael Pattemore rang me every now and then for an update. I was hoping he would be able to find a way to come down for New Year’s Eve, as he had said he would try.
I had missed using my dining room this Christmas and wanted to share the tree and all the bits and pieces I had made, so I invited all the cast to supper at my house towards the very end of the year. Everyone had a lovely time; we had all bonded by now and were ready to show our play to the world.
I was clearing up after they had all gone; I always put the music on full blast and open a bottle of champagne as I wash up. I had some very steep stairs in my flat that went down to the bedrooms and time and time again I had said to the boys not to run up and down the stairs in their socks, as they might slip. So what did I find myself doing? I ran down the stairs in my tights.
I fell really badly, landing in the small space where the stairs turned the corner, and lay there winded. Had I not been drinking I may well have hurt myself even more, who knows? On the other hand if I had been sober I would not have slipped in the first place. I went to get up and let out a yell – the pain in my back was excruciating. Then the panic set in. What the hell was I going to do? I just couldn’t move.
I have no idea how long I stayed there but, eventually, I managed to turn myself round and I got down the rest of the stairs on all fours. I got on to the bed and lay there until I fell asleep.
As soon as it was a reasonable hour in the morning I crawled to the phone and rang my sister, Jean. She came and took me to A&E. They couldn’t tell me much except I had probably bruised my back very badly and should just rest. Great. Jean got me home and into bed. She rang the theatre and they were wonderful and wished me well. I had to get better quickly as I had a play to do.
I was feeling very wobbly. Then Michael phoned to say he was so sorry but he couldn’t come down to see me. It was impossible. That was the last straw.
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