Chapter Twelve

The Contract

One Life, Many Lives

Eventually, the pieces all join together – it all becomes one in the end.

It’s like our lives: they all join together, too. We’re all in the same struggle, and we’re all part of the same perfection. Though, like sunshine and clouds, we often become temporarily disconnected from our purpose. We know the truth but then we fall away, flawed species that we are. The joy and love on the face of a baby is complete – before they have ego, before they individualize, before they fall away, before they separate out and adapt to the deep loneliness of atomized existence.

Before we fall away we know there is one life that runs through you, me and everything that exists. That life is what we call God. One life; one energy. It’s also called love. It was the truth I realized on the rooftop at RADA. It has little to do with religion.

We are spirit in body, and our spirit is the perfect gift of God. We are love.

I believe our souls leave an energetic imprint – a record of this lifetime. Imagine a vast data-bank in which you could find the records for every human life that has ever been. In the same library you’d be able to access detailed information about the history of the universe. Constantly being updated, it’s an information repository for each of our many lives. It’s there, somewhere out in the ether.

Malibu

Rising from the Pacific Ocean and sweeping to the heavens above, the Santa Monica Mountains form the scenic backdrop to my life now. When I wake, their sharp ridges and deep canyons frame the rising sun; and at dusk, together with my dogs we watch a golden disc drop into the horizon far beyond the rolling surf.

If I could lay out my life along the water’s edge and soar in the sky like the mountains’ eagles, I’d see a jigsaw; no longer messy pieces of a puzzle but a remarkable tapestry. Our lives are a blessing we stitch together, from moment to moment and life to life.

I love to sew, to paint, and to play with clay. Sometimes I make clay jigsaw puzzles and fire them. Sometimes some of the pieces go a bit awry in the corners because they’re clay, and unpredictable. That’s how my life would appear as I soared over it: unpredictable, and with tricky edges, but joined up perfectly in God’s grand scheme.

Barnet

I came into this life in Southgate, North London, in 1947; emerging from the ashes of the Second World War and born on the cusp of a new age.

I can remember my amusement at having feet, of wearing shoes, of walking and running – of being in body. I loved the whole experience, my appreciation heightened by a lingering memory-trace of what it was like to be without body. If there was a wall, I had to walk on it. If there was a window, I had to climb out of it. My friend Heather and I would never do the simple thing and just go to the cupboard where my mother kept the biscuits. That wasn’t enough. We’d go round to her house and sneak into the living room where her mother kept a glass canister full of biscuits. We’d help ourselves and then escape with our loot by climbing through the lavatory window, jumping onto the garage roof and sliding down a drainpipe. It felt glorious to be physical, to have a body, and to play.

About seven years old, sitting in the garden at home

Angels

I’ve already mentioned my flying angel friends. I’ve always known about angels and I’ve always loved them. Before falling asleep I’d say a prayer: ‘Matthew, Mark, Luke and John, bless this bed I lay upon, two angels at my head, two angels at my feet, now I lay me down to sleep.’ The Virgin Mary had angels, and my mother had an angel that looked after her, too.

She was going to visit a friend who was in trouble and needed her help. She was at a railway station, very weary and struggling with her suitcase. She was about to faint. Suddenly, a tall young man with blond hair appeared at her side. ‘Let me help you with that,’ he said, taking her suitcase. She didn’t utter a word, yet he knew which platform, which train and which carriage to take her to. Then he disappeared. The next time she saw him it’s possible he saved her life. She was travelling on a coach, sitting very close to the driver. What happened next took place in an instant. The driver had a heart attack and slumped in his seat. Mummy saw him drop and prayed hard. Suddenly, the young man who’d helped her at the railway station was there. He brought the coach to a halt and disappeared.

I used to make spirit puppets for the charity Free Arts for Abused Children. I’d spend a day with young children who’d been put in institutions because their parents were constantly at war with each other, or on death row, or for some other reason that had led to them being taken away from their home. They’re bitter children. There’s nothing better than meeting a grumpy kid at the start of the morning and then, at the end of a day of art, getting a big painty kiss and a hug.

A spirit puppet is just a clump of newspaper wrapped in Plaster of Paris bandage on top of a stick, with another stick going crossways for arms, dressed with bits of scrap material and painted over. It’s a guardian angel. When we start making them, the children usually think their angels have to be white with blonde hair. I’d explain otherwise. We’ve ended up making yellow angels, green angels, turquoise angels, angels that look like Diana Ross and angels that look like Michael Jackson. I’d ask them what their angels did. Some were angel doctors who could mend mummy and others were angel astronauts who could take them far away. We’d stick them in the ground and I’d get them to make a wish. You’re not there to be a psychiatrist; you’re there to do the dirty work of painting, gluing and sticking-together. Give a child the idea that they have a guardian angel and, guess what, they have one. Tell them they can talk to it, and they will. Introduce them to the realm of possibilities and they’ll fly with it. Making guardian angels with children for the day; that’s practical spirituality. Free Arts is a beautiful thing; it’s one of my favourite charities. I’ve done lots of fundraisers for them. I get a lot more out than I put in. Be really selfish, go and do a Free Arts day.

Interlife

I knew about angels before I came here. When I was under hypnosis, during a session of ‘soul memory research’, I experienced a memory-trace of grey-and-white wings and of being in the middle of a discussion. I was saying that I didn’t want to go back to being in a body. I didn’t think I needed to go back and lead another life but was being gently told I must.

The hypnotherapist I worked with is based in North Hollywood. She believes we carry memories that go way beyond this life – memories we can draw on to make better sense of the life we’re living now. She studied with Dr Michael Newton, the original pioneer of ‘soul memory research’. Through his work as a hypnotherapist Dr Newton helped clients uncover memories of a dimension beyond, or parallel to, the physical one we inhabit. Uncovering more and more evidence of a spirit world from which souls pass into life in the physical dimension, he started outlining what he called the ‘interlife’ – a realm of ‘life before life’. Under hypnosis, I discovered that I came into this life with a contract. It’s ironic that I’ve signed contracts for each job I’ve ever done in my life – hundreds of them – signing up for a few hours a day, a week, or a year; sub-clauses initialled after the back and forth of negotiation of fine points. I’ve never been on a permanent contract with the RSC, National Theatre or a film or television company. I’ve had so many contracts; some brilliant, some fun, some a big compromise – all individual jobs, one after another. I’ve been a negotiator and a barterer, I make deals; it’s how I came into this life. I didn’t want to come in at all. I didn’t want to leave the realm of spirits and angels. So I made a deal. I’d only go back to the physical realm if I was born into comfort; with all the necessary ingredients of living to make it a happy and good life – good parents, a good family, good looks and success. They were the terms agreed. But what would be the point if not to learn? My contract had an unexpected twist.

Under hypnosis, I felt myself slip into a collection of cells, vessels and tissue. Blue angels were laughing and darting across my vision as I fitted into a transparent shell that sheathed me in opaqueness. My transition to the corporeal was heralded by jokes and kindness, sweet peals of laughter and bells. The angels were celebrating.

At first it was warm and comforting, then it changed and the host body became a vile place to be. There were spots in the liquid I was floating in. It felt disgusting and contaminated. Something was wrong. The host body was unwell. My mother had chicken pox. As a result I was born with no hearing in my right ear and only 80 per cent in my left.

Steph’s Deaf

In one version of my story I have an idyllic childhood, cocooned in the secure and predictable environment of an English middle-class suburban life. In this version my mother loves me unconditionally. When she was very old I realized there’d been another version. It was closer to the truth. The reality of her unconditional love had been otherwise. Towards the end of her life I started to see how extremely controlling and judgemental she was. I realized she’d always been like that. It made me think that the unconditional love that I’d thought I’d given to my own children was just as conditional as my mother’s had been to me. I’d probably been just as controlling, too. I remember wanting to go to tap-dancing lessons and wear a wrap-around angora top – I wasn’t allowed. My mother had too much good taste.

Needing to be able to maintain tight control, if anything slipped beyond her grasp – including when she encountered something she couldn’t do anything about, as far as she was concerned – it would cease to exist. And that’s what she did with my hearing impairment.

I only have mono hearing – I don’t hear in stereo. I’ve no sense whatsoever of where sounds come from, so I nearly get run over on a daily basis. A specialist explained it in terms of painting. He explained that my hearing is similar to a primitive painting. There’s no perspective, it’s a flat canvas; an object at the bottom of the canvas is on the same plane as an object in the middle. In hearing terms, it means a faraway sound enters my perception without sounding far away. Parties are hell. If I’m on the telephone and the person I’m speaking to has noise in the background I can’t continue with the call, and if someone in the room speaks to me while I’m on the phone, I can’t hear them.

Working in the theatre brings a whole set of challenges. Working out the acoustics of a new venue is just one of them. Working out how much projection an auditorium requires takes the assistance of another person. I usually ask one of the cast to speak to me from the back of the theatre, and then to listen to me delivering a line or two. I learned an invaluable technique from my wonderful voice teacher, Kate Flemming, at RADA; I still use it today. She taught me what’s called ‘rib reserve breathing’. Basically it involves keeping your ribs out the whole time and grabbing breath to fill your lungs without moving them. When the person listening to me from the back of the theatre thinks the level of my voice is right, I repeat the line using the same amount of breath. If they say it sounds good, I know how much breath to use to produce the right level of sound for that auditorium. A voice check in a new venue is important to all actors; to me, it’s vital. When I’m being fitted for a corset I have to remember to swing my ribs out while I’m being measured. On film it’s different, then I just say, ‘Torture me, I don’t care, I want to look thin.’

When I was a child it took a while for my parents to notice that something was wrong with my hearing and, when they realized it wasn’t right, they did what they could. I had test after test, then I had my adenoids out. After that, my parents didn’t know what else to do. As far as my mother was concerned, I wasn’t deaf any more and the subject was closed. I still had to live with it. Reciting the ‘Hail Mary’ at the convent school, instead of, ‘Hail Mary, full of grace, The Lord is with thee, Blessed art thou among women, And blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus,’ I heard, ‘Hello Mary, full of grease, blessed is your fruity womb.’

My classmates thought it was hilarious when it was my turn to recite the prayer. I was teased terribly at school.

In some ways, maybe my mother’s approach was brilliant parenting. My lack of hearing was never used as an excuse for not achieving at school, but it had more of an effect on me than was ever realized – particularly its denial. It was as if I wasn’t accepted for the person I really was.

It took me years to stop being ashamed of being deaf. I hid it. When I couldn’t hear, I would pretend to be bored with the conversation and, rather than lean in and lip-read, I would try to look aloof. I excluded myself. I left myself out. I didn’t want to be part of the deaf community, either. Deaf people had speech impediments, were the brunt of jokes and were thought to be slow on the uptake. I refused to learn sign language, too, even though I was warned I might lose all hearing by the time I was 21. I was in as much denial as my mother.

As I got older I learned to compensate, but it took years for me to be able to ask people to be on my left side, in order to be able to hear them speak. I remember people thinking I was coy, or getting the wrong idea because I’d be looking intently at them while they were speaking. I knew I needed help but it wasn’t something I could bring up, because my deafness wasn’t acknowledged. I felt alienated.

Listening is very tiring for a person with a hearing loss. We have to fill in a lot of the blanks to follow the gist of what’s being said. When someone covers their mouth with their hands we can’t hear what they’re saying because we won’t be able to read their lips. I’ve made friends laugh because I’ve not heard the last thing they said; which might have been to do with a completely different subject but I’ve replied as if they were still talking about their original topic. It’s funny among friends, but my hearing loss can make me feel panicky at an airport or train station. I can’t hear anything over a tannoy if there are other sounds around me. I can’t tell where individual sounds are coming from, I just hear a wall of indistinguishable noise.

Deaf people seek quiet places. That might sound odd, but they’re the only places we can hear with any clarity. I love to visit with friends, one on one, in a park or at home; never in a popular noisy restaurant. As deafness increases, sociability decreases. We’re upset at not being able to hear and are annoying to communicate with. It’s a slow spiral to isolation.

I have two charities that I support with all my might. One is Sense, and the other is Hearing Dogs for the Deaf.

Sense supports deafblind people. One really important thing the charity does is assist people in communicating with their hearing-impaired relatives and friends. A tiny and sweet example might be to offer a deafblind person a cup of tea by taking their hand and writing the letter ‘T’ on it, and watching for a response. We’re deaf, not stupid. We don’t want big embarrassing mime acts. We don’t want big anything. We definitely don’t want to be shouted at.

Deafness can be very lonely. I’m fortunate that I’m happy in my own company. I actually need to spend a lot of time alone. Listening is exhausting. I’m also fortunate that I have a job in which I know what the other people are saying – because of the script. I know when I’m getting tired; I start to talk too much. That way I don’t have to listen so much. Being with my dogs is a way that I can be in company and not get tired. Everyone knows what amazing companions animals can be; imagine having one that listens for you. A hearing dog will let you know when the telephone is ringing or when someone is at the door; it will wake you up when the alarm goes in the morning and, to top it all, it’ll be your best friend. A hearing dog can be any size or any breed, though mongrels tend to be the most intelligent. I’ve known some scruffy little mutts who have turned their owner’s lives around – even saved their lives. The dogs seem to know it, too; the right pairing of a trained hearing dog and its master is a close and very moving friendship.

My mother did the best she could, based on what she knew and on her own personality. Making it up as we go along, what more can we do as parents? I started out as a novice, we all do, but ultimately my children have been my greatest teachers. As if looking in a mirror, I see myself reflected back from them. I’m forever indebted, for where would I be without them? It’s such a complex and difficult challenge, such a beautiful and humbling experience. Maybe we get wise by the time we’re grandparents.

My contract’s twist, which was not negotiated, was my hearing loss. There were the wonderful absolutes of the 1950s and then I just rode the crest of the wave. But it would have been like that – it was in my contract. I always found myself in the right place at the right time, but I would have; that was what I’d negotiated. The only thing I hadn’t been told was that I was going to come into this life deaf. But how good is that? What would the point to coming back have been if there wasn’t an edge?

I was hosting an award ceremony for the National Council for Communicative Disorders in Washington, D.C. Earlier that day I’d been to the Holocaust Museum; it had recently opened. I felt a bit anxious because I hadn’t written my opening speech, but I really wanted to see this new museum. The speech wrote itself. I realized that, had I lived in Nazi Germany, I would have been killed – like anybody else with an impairment. Instead, I was able to welcome a deaf Miss America onto the stage of the John F. Kennedy Center to congratulate her for overcoming her disability and to celebrate her success. That was a good feeling.

It was through the National Council of Communicative Disorders that I met Senator John Glenn and his wife Annie. How can you have an astronaut as a friend? This life is extraordinarily bountiful. It’s the munificence of the life I’ve been given. It has included an impairment that’s offered me a very particular insight and a grasp on humanity. An impairment can be an asset. It’s an area in which I feel responsible.

I’m so lucky to have come so far from when I was a little girl who couldn’t hear very well, who wouldn’t answer to ‘Steph’, because ‘Steph’s deaf’; all the way to becoming a well-known actress who’s proud to spread a better understanding of deafness. I’m no longer ashamed of my impairment, but proud of my success.

It’s been a long journey.