CHAPTER 7 CHAPTER 7 ‘The soul who knows should be calm, sure, certain that at the right time the way will be shown.’
For two years I had lived a biblical existence. I arrived back in England totally disorientated. In London I was completely taken aback by the noise, the speed – the sheer volume of everything. The people, buildings and non-stop traffic were all overwhelming.
I quickly booked myself into a small hotel close to Victoria coach station and stayed in my room for two days. I didn’t watch the television and even felt hassled by the waitress when she brought me a pot of tea. I didn’t want to go home or see anyone. I was a stranger to this world and didn’t like it at all.
Eventually I rang home to say that I had just landed and would be coming home the following day.
I had had no leave for two years and I was entitled to extra leave because of being in the Gulf. As my army service was now finished, the War Office re-enlisted me for six months just to give me my leave entitlement. So I was out of the army, but with six months’ pay.
I went to my parents’ bungalow and stayed there for the whole six months, hardly ever venturing out. I spent the time building a substantial lean-to garden shed on the side of the bungalow. It survived for 40 years.
Soon my time out in the Gulf began to seem unreal, dreamlike, another world. Even now when I think back it is hard to believe that it happened. But happen it did and now it was time to face reality. What was I going to do? I had spent no money during my time in the Gulf, so I had something to live on for a while, but this wouldn’t last for long.
In the meantime my father became seriously ill. He was first diagnosed with diabetes and then TB. He had never been very robust, something of a creaking gate all his life, and for a while we thought he might not survive. He had to take early retirement, but after that he rallied and fortunately was able to resume a normal life, though had to inject himself daily with insulin.
I still had an overwhelming desire to be an actor, particularly a film actor, but had no idea how to go about it. At 25 I thought that I was a bit too old for drama school.
Then I heard from a company called Oriental Carpet Manufacturers. They had been passed my name by someone I had served with in the Gulf and were looking for a person to go out to Persia, as it then was, now Iran, to buy carpets from the nomadic tribes who wove them and ship them back. Having lived rough in the desert for so long, I was seen as the ideal candidate. I would initially be employed for six months to work in the warehouse to learn about the carpets and to attend the Berlitz School of Languages to learn Persian.
I had no particular desire to do this work, but I needed to do something and it gave me the opportunity to live in London. I found a small bedsit in Earl’s Court and travelled each day to the warehouse, which was by the Old Bailey.
It was interesting learning about all the different styles and weaves of Persian carpets, but to be honest it was just a job so that I could live in London for a while and sort out what to do next.
All I wanted to do was act. I didn’t know why, but I felt that that was part of my destiny. I was driven to it. There was no doubt about that. I had no reservations at all apart from the fear that I might not be good enough and might not be able to get work. What if I was too shy? That was the only thing holding me back.
In fact, if I had gone straight into acting after school, I think I would have been too shy, too reserved. I wouldn’t have made the grade, I wouldn’t have been able to stand up to it. But my time in the army had given me enough confidence to have a go at it. So it had been a necessary phase. Looking back, I see that clearly.
Also, going straight from school to drama school to acting is pretty tricky, because you don’t experience the real world. That can cause problems for you later.
In the meantime I was no good as a salesman. I was so unenthusiastic that one afternoon I was found asleep on a pile of rugs in the storeroom. My employers weren’t pleased. And then the Persian government suddenly nationalized the carpet industry and everything changed. It was no longer necessary for me to go to Tehran. Oriental Carpet Manufacturers and I parted company, probably with relief on both sides. I could now devote myself completely to getting into acting.
I think my parents were a little worried by this, though they never said anything outright. As a good amateur actress herself, I think my mother would have been quite pleased in one sense, but she knew only too well that acting was an insecure profession. Whatever her private thoughts, however, she left me to make my own decisions.
As for my father, I remember being in the garden with him once – he was a great gardener – and I could tell he wanted to have one of those father-son conversations he thought he ought to have. But in the end all he said was, ‘Are you happy with what you’re doing and do you think everything will be all right?’
I said, ‘I hope so.’
I certainly did.
Weekends visiting my parents were about all the social life I had at that point, though Kath and I made up for a while. In London I would spend my evenings catching up with rock ’n’ roll on an old gramophone I had, and occasionally I would walk down to Earl’s Court station to get some tea and sandwiches from a stall there. It was a lonely existence.
And I didn’t know how to get into acting. I had no connections. I just didn’t know where to start.
In desperation I took to writing to the director of every film that I went to see. I wrote very honest letters about my school acting and my experiences in the army, and got some very honest answers, often telling me that acting was a tough profession and there were plenty of experienced actors out of work. More usually, however, I was gently brushed aside with the cliché, ‘We’ll let you know when we have something for you.’
Nevertheless, I kept at it. Something was driving me on. I just knew that it was meant to be. I never rationalized it – at that time I never rationalized anything, really, I just got on with whatever it was I felt I wanted to do. I think at some point you do have to rationalize what you’re doing, but taking highly important steps always has to be intuitive. You have to have that inner driving force. It’s probably your higher self, or soul, telling you, ‘This is your destiny – get on with it.’ Once you’ve felt that, then you can start to rationalize. But if I’d started to rationalize before I went into acting, I wouldn’t have done it. Getting work was so against the odds. Not that I fully realized that then – ignorance was bliss.
I was encouraged by a letter from the producer Anthony Asquith, who at the time was trying to make a film about Lawrence of Arabia. He said that when production started he was sure that there would be something for me. Sadly, production never did start until David Lean got hold of it some time later.
Then one day I received a telegram. It was from the director Brian Desmond Hurst, asking me to his mews house in Belgravia.
I was shown into a long room filled with paintings, statues and objets d’art. At the far end, sitting behind an ornate desk, was Brian Desmond Hurst.
‘I have this letter here from you. Sit down and tell me more about yourself.’
He was a big man both physically and personally, and a very well-known director, but I felt at ease immediately and told him what he wanted to know.
When I had finished he said, ‘Right.’ He picked up the phone, said something softly to whoever was at the other end and then handed it to me.
‘William Roache?’
‘Yes, hello.’
‘You’re playing the part of an anaesthetist. Your call is for a week on Monday at Shepperton Studios. Will £40 a day be all right?’
That sounded wonderful to me. ‘Yes.’
‘It’s probably three or four days’ work.’
‘Yes, that’s fine.’
‘You are a member of Equity, aren’t you?’
Ah. A glorious moment came to a sudden end. In those days you couldn’t work if you weren’t a member of the actors’ union. In spite of this I heard myself say, in a little voice, ‘Yes.’
‘You’ll get the contract in a couple of days. Bye.’
I slowly handed the phone back to Brian Desmond Hurst, who was saying something. I wasn’t really listening until I heard, ‘Anyway, you’ve got the part. But I don’t mind telling you that I’d like to go to bed with you.’
Startled, I stared at him. He had not given the appearance of being a gay man, but I suppose I was pretty naïve about such things in those days; an innocent at large you might say.
‘Not now,’ he said. ‘I have an open house every evening and you are very welcome. You will meet some famous faces. Anyway, off you go, and if I don’t see you before, I’ll see you a week on Monday.’
I walked out in a daze. I’d got a film part, lied about being in Equity and been propositioned. I felt happy, worried and embarrassed all at once. It was probably all in a day’s work for an actor, but was I cut out for it?
Later I did go to some of Brian Desmond Hurst’s parties. They were very good. I met some interesting people there. You were quite safe as long as you made sure you weren’t the last to leave, and that meant not over-indulging in the Guinness and champagne cocktails which were Brian’s favourite tipple.
My main concern was having lied about my Equity membership. At that time the unions were paramount and members weren’t allowed to work with a non-member. If I turned up, the film would be blacked. So when the contract arrived I decided to go round to the Equity office in Harley Street and own up.
‘Truth is above all else the pinnacle to soul growth.’
Slowly and sadly I walked into the office, convinced that my first film part was going to be taken away from me.
‘Well,’ said the official briskly, after I had outlined the situation, ‘you’d better fill in these forms. Get someone to second you and then you’ll be a full member.’
I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. Everyone had said that the greatest hurdle would be getting Equity membership and here I was instantly leaping that hurdle.
I know that I had lied in the first place, and that really wasn’t a good thing to do, but thankfully my film part was meant to be.
‘When the spirit is right, matter will be right.’
The film was called Behind the Mask and starred Michael Redgrave and Tony Britton. The mask in question was a surgeon’s mask – funnily enough, it was a drama about doctors. I played a young anaesthetist waiting to be interviewed for a job. I had three lines, but virtually all I had to do was walk from the waiting room through some swing doors into the interview room. The filming all went very smoothly and I will always be grateful to Brian Desmond Hurst for giving me that start, though I quickly learned not to mention his name, as the wrong conclusions would be drawn.
Meeting fellow actors was really useful, as they gave me lots of tips. One was to buy Contacts, a small magazine which had the names and contact numbers of all agents, film companies, casting directors and television companies.
Armed with this magazine, I set about writing even more letters, at times up to 100 a week. About half would be answered and some would lead to interviews. Quite soon I got a small part in a television series, Ivanhoe, starring Roger Moore who, incidentally, had also been given his big break by Brian Desmond Hurst.
Filming was taking place at Beaconsfield Studios. I was given a knitted string outfit and a balaclava, painted silver to look like armour, a bow and a quiver of arrows. Roger Moore came along and said, ‘Hello.’ He was looking fine in his knitted string, as he had a red tabard over it. In fact, he looked the perfect Ivanhoe except that he had curlers in his hair. He was delightful and very amusing.
I played a guard and had to look out from the battlements. To my surprise everything was shot at a terrific rate that left no time for thought or motivation. Eventually the director rushed over to me and the exchange went something like this: ‘Right – Roache, is it?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘Okay, get up on the battlements there. Did you get your script?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘Well, you can forget that. I want you to look to your front, then shout over your shoulder, “My lord, a knight is coming and he rides alone,” then take an arrow out of your quiver, put it in the bow, point it at the knight and then say, “Dismount, Sir Knight, and keep to the path.” Have you got that?’ ‘I think so.’ ‘Right, action!’
Thinking that it was only a rehearsal, I staggered through these instructions with considerable hesitancy. But when the director said, ‘Cut!’ and disappeared, I realised that that was my performance and I’d barely a clue about what I was doing.
After that I got a small part in the film The Queen’s Guards, directed by Michael Powell. Here I was a wireless operator in a tent in the desert.
My career was moving on nicely, but seeing actors at work I realized that I had a lot to learn. I thought that the only place to do this properly was in the theatre. So I started writing to theatrical companies and whenever I heard that auditions were being held for the West End I went along and read for them. One of them was for Billy Liar with Albert Finney. He was a very strong and likeable character, but he really made me aware of how much there was to learn. Needless to say, I did not get the part.
Around this time some people were suggesting I had started too late in the profession and should switch to something more secure. This was disheartening. Others were more encouraging, however. I started taking private lessons from a quite well-known actress called Ellen Pollack. She taught me basic stagecraft and gave me a lot of help in audition pieces. I was very grateful for her tuition.
One of the companies that I had written to was St James Management, which was run by Sir Laurence Olivier. Not having their address, I sent the letter to Olivier himself, who was playing at the Cambridge Theatre in The Entertainer, assuming that he would pass it on to the casting director. I was amazed when I got a short note from Sir Laurence himself, saying, ‘Come to the stage door at 7.10 and I will see you for a few minutes.’
At 7 o’clock sharp I was outside the stage door. By 7.10 Sir Laurence hadn’t appeared. Oh well, I thought, why should he remember?
My hopes weren’t very high, but nevertheless I hung on. About five minutes later he came round the corner and straight up to me.
‘Mr Roache? Do come in.’
We went into his dressing room. He gave me a gin and tonic and offered me a cigarette – an Olivier, naturally – and said, ‘I hope you don’t mind me getting ready while we are talking.’
He sat down and started to put on his make-up, chattering away all the time about his gout and how he was going to Hollywood soon to make The Prince and the Showgirl with Marilyn Monroe. Here I was, a complete nobody, sitting with the world’s most celebrated actor in his dressing room and feeling completely at ease. Eventually he said, ‘What can I do for you?’
‘Well, I’ve come into acting rather late,’ I explained, ‘and I’ve been told I should get out and find a more secure profession. I just thought that a word of advice from you would be worth a hundred from anybody else.’
He replied, ‘Don’t give up, definitely don’t give up. I had two years myself that were absolutely terrible, with nothing happening at all. It was really dreadful. But if it’s in you, keep at it. As I said, I’m off to America soon. When I get back, remind me about this conversation and I’ll see what I can do for you.’
He shook my hand and wished me luck.
‘Hope in its greatest and grandest sense illumines the way.’
I walked out full of renewed determination. I was so amazed and thrilled that such a great actor should have taken the time to be so helpful to a young unknown. Later I realized that truly great people will always find time for you and always be kind and courteous.
I didn’t get in touch with Olivier in the end, as I was wary of appearing sycophantic. I wanted to make my own way. What he did for me, though, was give me new resolve. I wanted to be good, I wanted to learn, and I was sure that the only way to learn acting properly was in the theatre. So I went straight to an agent, Daphne Scorer, and said that I had been in repertory theatre in Colwyn Bay. I hadn’t, of course – I’d only attended the theatre when I had been at school there – and here I was lying again, but I was getting desperate to move on and, after all, it had worked with Equity. So I decided to push my luck.
If something is meant to be, it will happen. In no time at all the agent called me in to meet Norris Staton, a producer who was looking for someone to play the juvenile lead in a summer season at Clacton-on-Sea. I sat there while she told him what a wonderful young actor I was and about all the plays that I had been in at Colwyn Bay, which was a total lie because I had never set foot on a stage in my life.
When she had finished he turned to me and said, ‘If you want the job, it’s yours.’
‘Thank you,’ I said.
We signed the contract on the spot.
The first few weeks at Clacton were hard and it was apparent that I didn’t know what I was doing. At first I didn’t even know the vocabulary – terms like ‘upstage’ and ‘downstage’. A quick lesson here was: never lie beyond your own ability.
We rehearsed in the morning, then had the afternoon free and the performance in the evening. There was a lot to learn because we were doing a play a week. As I was obviously so inexperienced I was given smaller parts in the second and third plays, but I was learning fast and, with a little help from my colleagues, by the fourth play I was back to playing the juvenile lead. Donald Masters, the director, said to me, ‘I’ve never seen anybody improve so much.’ I learned a tremendous amount and will always be grateful for my time at Clacton.
I was also pleased to discover that most of my fellow actors were sensitive and insecure, rather than the outrageous extroverts I had feared. It wasn’t all ‘Hello, darling!’ Of course there are more extrovert personalities in the profession. They tend to work in variety. But I found that most of the actors at Clacton were quite shy and acting was a way of expressing themselves.
That season also gave me my first experience of showbiz digs – and that was a bit of an eye-opener. The landlady was very strict and you had to be sitting at the table on the dot for your breakfast and leave the house for the day straight afterwards. She was also very tough when it came to morals: there was one fellow in the house who was having an affair with a girl in the cast and she used to climb in through the window when they both thought everyone else was safely tucked up in bed. Anyway, the landlady’s husband had a pretty shrewd idea what was going on and one night I saw him tying string outside the window with tin cans attached to it. Sure enough the girl set them off rattling on her nocturnal visit and the following morning the man was told at breakfast – in front of all of us – to pack his bags and be off. How times have changed!
I had a fling myself that summer with a young actress called Jill who fortunately had a more tolerant landlady.
Looking back on those early attempts to become an actor I am reminded of someone once asking me, ‘What particular ability was it that made you want to become an actor?’ and I said, ‘It wasn’t an ability, it was an inability, a shyness, overcoming shyness.’ I think this is true for many actors. When you’re on stage, you’ve learned your lines and you know what you’re saying, so you have confidence in yourself, and the audience has to sit there and listen, and that gives you the opportunity to be something. I think it’s actually childish exhibitionism that initially makes people want to become actors.
When you are working in television and films, of course, you don’t get the feedback from the audience and a lot of actors will finish a scene and then turn and say, ‘Was that all right?’ They just want the director to say ‘Well done.’ At some level we’re all insecure and seeking approval.
I was coming along. My aim was to do mainly theatre and to be in films occasionally. At the end of the season I went home and wrote to Nottingham Rep., which had a very good reputation and the added advantage that I could live at home. They offered me the job of assistant stage manager, which involved shifting the scenery, sweeping the stage and taking on occasional small parts, all for £6.10.0d a week. I took it because Nottingham was known for its very high standard.
This was a very different world from the summer season. It was far more serious, with some really good actors, strong direction and classical plays. It was just the place I needed to start my drama training in earnest.
There were three ASMs and one of the others was Brian Blessed. We became good friends. After seven months of hard but rewarding work I applied for an audition to Oldham Rep., which also had a good reputation. Brian helped me to choose the audition piece, from Cat on a Hot Tin Roof, and then coached me. It worked – I was offered the position of juvenile lead. This time I was up to the job.
I stayed at Oldham for 12 months. It was weekly rep. and I only had one play off in the whole year. The plays included Tea and Sympathy, Meet Me by Moonlight, Charley’s Aunt, A Midsummer Night’s Dream, The Merchant of Venice, Night Must Fall, Of Mice and Men, The Shop at Sly Corner, Death and Brown Windsor, Robin Hood, Dinner with the Family, Goodbye, Mr Chips, Solid Gold Cadillac, The Ghost Train, Hindle Wakes, The Long and the Short and the Tall, and many more.
By the end I was brain-numb. Performing a play in the evening, rehearsing during the day and learning lines at night was hard work. There was no time for anything else. I went to the cinema once during the year and there was not a moment without masses of learning to do, but it was the best possible drama school.
I had served my apprenticeship and now I really was an actor and ready for anything.