The social life of an actor can often be rather lively, it’s fair to say. We are performers, after all, so whether we are in a pub surrounded by friends or at a party surrounded by strangers, our public will, and must, be entertained. Imagine then, if you will, what it must be like when actors socialize with other actors. Not easy, is it? I mean, how on earth does anyone manage to get a word in? While there’s some truth in the public perception, Pru and me have been socializing with fellow actors all of our adult lives and I’m delighted to inform you that full conversations featuring anything up to four or five actors at a time have been known to take place. Amazing!
Truly, the friendships we have made since becoming actors have given Pru and me an immeasurable amount of pleasure and continue to do so. I was determined to work this aspect of our profession into the book somewhere and it was Joe who came up with a suggestion as to how I might go about it.
‘How about the garden parties?’ he said. ‘The ones you and Ma used to host. They were always very joyous affairs.’
He didn’t need to make any further suggestions. ‘Perfect,’ I said. ‘Thanks, Joe.’
I forget when exactly, but sometime during the 1970s we started hosting garden parties on summer afternoons at our home in Wandsworth and they became rather famous. As well as friends of old, we would always make a point of inviting the people we were working with at the time, so it could be actors, producers, stage managers, directors. Anyone and everyone we had befriended, basically. Numbers-wise, there’d normally be about a hundred to a hundred and twenty and we’d always try to have everyone out by 7 p.m., although we didn’t always succeed.
As I have with so many subjects herein, I asked my three children what they remembered of these gatherings. Sam and Joe recall being asked to act as greeters, which they always did with great aplomb. ‘Good afternoon, red or white?’ they’d say brightly to our guests on opening the front door. This was the 1970s and 1980s when drinking alcohol at parties was almost obligatory, so it was best to get in early. Once the guests had arrived, the boys were free to socialize. Fortunately, they had always been comfortable in the company of adults (they’d had very little choice really) and there were always people wanting to make a fuss of them.
When I asked Juliet, who was quite often the instigator when it came to social gatherings at Wandsworth, she said that she would have to consult her diaries for her memories. A few days later she came back to me, informing me of an entry she had made consisting of just two words – ‘Bryony streaked.’
‘Good lord, I remember Bryony,’ I said to her. ‘What an afternoon that was.’
Now, before your imaginations begin to run away from you, despite these gatherings of ours taking place in the 1970s and 1980s, our guests were not in the habit of removing all their clothes.
Bryony was not an actress, I should add. In fact, if memory serves me correctly, she worked in television production. Her reasons for deciding to streak across Wandsworth Common on a Sunday afternoon in broad daylight, however, are not known to me. I do remember it happening, though.
Until then, I had only ever witnessed streakers at cricket matches and such like, where they would eventually be apprehended by embarrassed-looking police constables who would cover up any offending items using a helmet. To have a streaker appear at one’s garden party, then, was an honour. And I wasn’t the only one to think so. Half the residents of Wandsworth (the male half, mainly) spent the best part of twenty minutes applauding Bryony as she circumnavigated the common. When she finally leapt up our steps again and came back into the house she received a standing ovation the like of which Pru and me would happily have died for at the end of a performance.
The only other story I have to offer you that features nudity in Wandsworth involves Sir John Betjeman, although not as the protagonist. I consulted Pru before including this story and when I reminded her of it and then asked if we should incorporate it into the manuscript, she said, quite earnestly, ‘Oh, you must. John would love it.’
Fair enough.
It was in the 1960s that Pru and I first met Sir John Betjeman. It was, of course, a great honour to make his acquaintance and we were happy to learn that he knew we admired his work so much. Sometime in 1970, Pru received a telephone call from Sir John asking if she would like to join him on stage for a recital of his poetry and prose.
‘What’s it for?’ I asked.
‘It’s for the BBC. Part of their Christmas schedule, apparently. An Evening with Sir John Betjeman. It’s being filmed at the Collegiate Theatre in Bloomsbury.’
‘And who else is taking part?’ I must confess I was beginning to feel slightly jealous.
‘Just me and Sir John,’ said Pru.
‘Right.’
As actors, I expect we always manage to derive at least some pleasure from every job we are lucky enough to be offered, but just occasionally, something comes along that makes you feel especially pleased to belong.
Unfortunately, I wasn’t able to attend the recording as I was working, but at 10.05 p.m. on Christmas Eve in 1970, Pru and I sat down and watched the broadcast together. It has never been repeated on television since and could be lost, for all I know. It was marvellous, though. Highlight of the season.
Sir John visited us in Wandsworth from time to time. Very often he’d come for lunch and when it was time for him to go Pru and I would walk him to his car. One day, we were doing just that, after having had a protracted conversation about horticulture in one final attempt to impress our green-fingered guest. I informed him that one of our neighbours had a particularly impressive garden.
‘They live in that mock-Tudor house over there,’ I said, gesturing in its direction.
I was acutely aware that Sir John also had an interest in Tudor and mock-Tudor architecture, so I was sure I was on to a winner.
‘In fact, Sir John,’ I said as we approached the house in question, ‘why not take a look?’
The wall that ran along one side of the garden was just low enough for Sir John to see over it, but a few seconds after doing so he recoiled suddenly.
‘I’m most terribly sorry, madam,’ he called. ‘Please forgive me.’
Curiosity got the better of me and while Sir John continued proffering words of apology, I took a look. Our elderly neighbour was happily sunbathing on her lawn in the almost all-together.
‘Oh, please don’t worry,’ she shouted, after Sir John had offered yet another apology. ‘Hi, Tim. How’re you?’
‘I’m fine, thanks,’ I said, giving her a quick wave before retreating quickly. ‘Enjoy the sun.’
‘I’m most terribly sorry about that,’ I told Sir John. ‘I really had no idea.’
‘Oh, that’s quite all right, Tim,’ he said. ‘You were right. What an absolutely splendid garden.’