Travelling with my older cousins on the train, across the Mersey, to the seaside town of Hoylake was a regular treat. You knew you were getting closer when you saw the sand on the grass. Usually we’d take sandwiches and spend the whole day playing by the water. In the school holidays we practically lived at Hoylake because Dad would come with us every day. When we weren’t there we’d go to Auntie Doll’s house whenever there was good weather because they had a garden instead of a yard like us. I loved staying over there with my cousins as well – it felt like such an adventure being away from home.
And it seemed I was perfectly capable of having adventures anywhere. At the end of our road lived Mrs Derry, a colourful old Barbara Cartland sort of character. Everything about her was very pink, very chiffon, and she always wore hats with ribbons. It was as if she was always dressed for four o’clock high tea – completely inappropriate for walking around during the day.
Mrs Derry, like a lot of people, kept chickens in her backyard, but unlike everyone else she used to take hers for a walk! She bought a little cat lead and fixed a collar onto a particularly plump bird and every day you’d see the pair of them pecking their way up to the bus shelter and back. Obviously I was fascinated by this and soon began turning up on Mrs Derry’s doorstep at chicken-walking time, begging to be allowed to hold the lead. It felt like such fun to a five-year-old, even when I had to wait for it to poop.
Later on Mrs Derry’s son, Derek, came to live with her and all of a sudden my poultry-walking days were over. He drove a flashy red sports car and wanted somewhere to park it, so he persuaded his mother to get rid of her chickens and build a garage. It was the oddest one I’ve ever seen, with battlements on the roof, like on a castle, and just to make sure no one went near his beloved car, he kept a damn big Alsatian up there as well. I don’t think imagination was his strongest point because of course the dog was called Rex. I hated that dog – it always lolloped over to the side of the garage, barking its head off if you strayed near. In the end I had to walk a different route back from school.
My fear of large Alsatians aside, I think I was pretty tomboyish. Another neighbour’s son, David, was about twenty and one day he came home on a brand new motorbike. It was the most impressive thing our group of six-year-olds had ever seen. After doing a few noisy revs and showing off how loud it could be, David said, ‘Anyone fancy a ride?’
And of course I put up my hand.
While my little friends screamed at me to stop, I climbed up behind my neighbour and said, ‘Let’s go!’ It didn’t occur to me that I was barely big enough to reach round him properly or that I didn’t have a helmet.
The noise was amazing and as we shot forwards I hugged David for dear life. We just drove around the block, about six roads up, six roads back, and it was great. I loved every moment. When we pulled back into Auckland Road, though, there was a reception committee waiting in the shape of my mother. And boy she looked angry.
I can’t remember ever being told off like that. Normally I was such an obedient child that I don’t think Mum knew what to say either.
I had obviously inherited a bit of my dad’s adventurous streak. In fact, while on holiday recently, just getting my breath before filming on the fourth – and fifth! – series of The Sarah Jane Adventures, I found myself thinking about a few old battle scars that were a result of my love of speed when I was young. When I was fifteen I used to walk home from school and fantasise about owning this stunning red Raleigh racing bike that was in the window of the bike shop on the corner of Smithdown Road. Every day I lusted over it, and every day I asked Mum and Dad if I could have it.
‘Bikes are very expensive, Elisabeth,’ Dad would say. ‘Maybe one day.’
And then, not long after Christmas 1961, I walked past the shop and my heart sank.
The bike – my bike – had gone.
I was inconsolable that night and even looking at the other bikes the next day didn’t cheer me up. But of course my sixteenth birthday was just around the corner and on the morning of 1 February, Mum and Dad led me into the yard and there, gleaming in the morning sun, was the red Raleigh.
I would spend every afternoon after school whizzing around the area. Then one weekend a group of us went blackberrying in the fields. For me, finding the fruit was only half the fun – bombing down muddy hills as fast as I could was what I was there for. It was such a great day – and then the inevitable happened. I was flying down a hill when I thought, I’m not going to make that bend. I braked as hard as I could but as I turned, the front wheel clipped a small kerb and I flew clean off. Luckily it was high, thick grass that I tumbled onto, so I just skidded along a raised verge for a few yards. As I lay on my back, gasping for breath, I realised, At least I had a soft landing.
But then the pain hit me.
I went to stand up and couldn’t – my right leg felt like it was on fire. My calf was livid red, like a square slab of fresh meat on a butcher’s block.
The grass I’d landed on had grown over rusty barbed wire. I’d actually had a lucky escape but boy it didn’t feel like it. I can still see the scars of the twenty-one stitches today.
On the bright side, I discovered that if I stretched my scar for a minute or two it would turn bright red. So on the days I didn’t fancy sports it was just a case of limping along to the tyrannical games teacher and saying, ‘Sorry, Mrs Potts, but I don’t think I can walk well enough to take part today.’
And she fell for it every time.
Mum was just as gullible. Once I’d shown her my raw scar she immediately wrote to the schooclass="underline" ‘Elisabeth’s leg has gone septic again. She won’t be able to attend her mock exams today.’ Which of course was exactly what I was hoping for!
* * *
It says a lot for my early acting ability, I like to think, that I got away with my tall tales. But I should have been quite good at it by then considering I’d been training for a dozen or so years.
When I was four my mother enrolled me in a local dancing school. Dancing had always given her such pleasure and she thought it would be a nice thing for me to do with my little friends. Nobody at that time saw it as the first step towards a career in performing.
When Mum picked me up after my first class I was gushing.
‘I love it, Mum. I want to go every day!’
‘We’ll see about that. For now let’s start with Saturdays, shall we?’
After that I couldn’t wait for weekends to come around so I could run along Bold Street, where Shelagh Elliott-Clarke ran her dance school.
‘SEC’, as we called her, had been in Liverpool all her life, acting and dancing. She lived in one of the grand old houses on Rodney Street, which also doubled as the venue for her drama classes. A big, round lady with Beaujoi, a yappy little dog always at her heels, she was in her fifties when I met her. For such a large woman, to this day I have never seen anyone dance so lightly on their feet. She was such an inspiration. I owe her a great deal although she scared the hell out of me, she really did. I think she terrified everyone. One glance from her and you’d be quivering like jelly for the rest of the day. Woe betide anyone summoned to her office for misbehaving or, even worse, not trying hard enough in a class. You’d stand there, white with fear, while she let you have both barrels, her ever-present cigarette waving theatrically around. Somehow, however long the ash extended, it never seemed to fall off.