She played a surrogate mum in the show and she felt like one as well, because it was such a loving relationship between herself and the cast and crew. Lis loved fussing around the kids and being part of such a big, dedicated team. (She would have made a wonderful grandmother.) Decades after her theatre training she was still an ensemble player at heart and it gave her such a thrill to think all those lovely people around her had employment at that moment because of her. She was so happy that her good fortune could be shared with as many others as possible.
Of course, with that realisation came great pressure. In her final days and weeks, Lis was at her most despondent when she thought about her dozens of good friends in Cardiff, and many more unseen champions of Sarah Jane in London, who would be out of work because of her. And then there were the fans, hundreds of thousands of disappointed children, who would be left with unfinished adventures. ‘All these people are depending on me,’ she would say. ‘I’m letting everyone down.’ It was typical of her – worrying about everyone else when really, she should have been thinking of herself.
* * *
Lis was very stubborn, extremely motivated and quietly ambitious. Once she’d recovered from the shock of being given her own show she determined to do everything she could to make it succeed. If that meant leaving her home and family to live in Cardiff for six months a year, then so be it.
The BBC provided a wonderful apartment in the Bay area that Lis transformed into her home from home. But more than anything she loved coming back to her real home – and to us.
In the early days she would return virtually every weekend. Being driven all the way to London was her one luxury, but while it was Elisabeth Sladen who left Cardiff, the woman who climbed out of the car in Ealing was unmistakably Lis Miller. She had no problem separating her two lives. Perhaps the long journey helped her adjust. Seconds after entering our house she’d find some little job to do, often in her beloved garden. You couldn’t stop her.
‘Mum, I’ll do that.’
‘It’s all right, I won’t be a minute.’
The idea of relaxing never occurred to her. If she wasn’t pinned down with coffee and a flapjack, she would never have stopped.
From being the centre of a creative maelstrom one minute to running around fussing and clucking over us like a mother hen the next, Lis took it all in her stride. Or so we thought. As the programme became more successful and the schedule more punishing, Lis’s trips home became less practical and we began to visit her instead. That was when she confessed, ‘Every time the car taking me back to Cardiff pulled away from our house, I cried. Every time.’ As much as she adored being Sarah Jane, she loved being Mrs Miller.
Lis kept that secret to herself for several years, but that was her way. She was intensely private. In fact, you know she would have hated us revealing any of this!
She was an actress, she was famous and she was often recognised, especially in the last few years, but she wasn’t a celebrity. That wasn’t the life she led, or the lifestyle she wanted. Lis only wore dark glasses if it was sunny.
So then, you might ask, why did she write her autobiography? The simple answer is because she was asked: again and again and again. But even at her first meeting with Jeff, her co-writer, she admitted, ‘You’re going to hate working with me. Most actors put on a mask when they take on a role – I put on a mask when I’m talking about myself.’
She wasn’t joking, but over the course of 18 months she confided more and more. But still, after every session she did for the book, she’d fret, ‘What am I doing? Who on earth would want to read about me?’ She didn’t believe she was at all interesting – ‘It’s Sarah Jane people want to hear about, not Mrs Miller.’
She was also terrified of offending someone in print. The idea of getting an old colleague’s name wrong, forgetting them or mis-remembering an incident filled her with dread. But her biggest worry was upsetting the fans of her shows (she could never bring herself to admit they were fans of hers!). Even though she was no devotee of science fiction, she owed so much to people who were. Lis loved going to conventions, being made to feel so welcome by thousands of children – or children at heart – and being welcomed into their world. Her greatest fear in writing this book was that she’d get her Who facts wrong. She was devastated by the idea that fans would think she didn’t care. Despite being assured, ‘It’s a book of your memories. It’s how you saw the world – it’s not a Who encyclopaedia,’ she never fully believed it. The idea of just one child being disappointed in her was almost too much to bear. For that reason alone she nearly pulled the plug on the project at least half a dozen times.
* * *
Watching the news reports and the tribute programmes the night Lis died was surreal. We couldn’t believe she wasn’t there any more. There she was on the TV screen, smiling and laughing and looking beautiful. How could she be gone?
It probably still hasn’t sunk in yet. Over the last five years we’ve grown accustomed to Lis being away all summer. We’re used to not having her in the house all the time, but she always returned. Now, whole hours or even days can pass and then you suddenly realise all over again: this time she’s not coming back. Our cat, Chyna, is still looking for her. Every time the front door opens, she’s disappointed.
Lis died early in the morning, just before we arrived at Meadow House. A nurse brought us a cup of tea and sat with us. Later, she said, ‘My son will be devastated. He loved her.’
It was the first clue that we wouldn’t be the only ones grieving.
We had cards from so many friends and family, some real blasts from the past. We had many more from strangers, people whose lives had been touched by Lis at some point. There were heartfelt messages from fans of her original Doctor Who appearances and others from kids who only knew her from The Sarah Jane Adventures. Young or old, it doesn’t matter. She reached out to them all, as she reached out to us.
Some of the tributes were very nice. Tom, David and Russell all said such lovely things on television and in the papers. And wonderful Ed Russell, who worked with Lis as a BBC brand manager, embarked on a walk from Cardiff to Television Centre in White City in her memory. The money is still coming in, but as we write nearly £20,000 has been raised for Meadow House Hospice in Lis’s honour.
* * *
It was thinking about all these people, mostly strangers, who had been moved by Lis that brings us here, to this book. For weeks her desk had remained untouched. We knew the manuscript was there but neither of us wanted to pick it up. It was too personal and we weren’t ready. Not yet.
But then one day we did.
We read page one and we were hooked. Lis’s voice rang out from every line. It was just black text on white paper but it was indisputably her – her way with words, her little phrases, her love of life and of people poured out. Sam, her editor, was very kind and offered the opportunity to cancel the project but we both agreed we had to share this with her fans. After all, they – you – are the people it was written for. You are the reason it was written.
Words, of course, will never bring Lis back but we are luckier than most: we have her book, we have her face in magazines and we have her voice ringing out, seemingly on loop, from the repeats of The Sarah Jane Adventures. It’s of some comfort hearing those episodes in the background as we get through each day.
Everywhere we turn there are reminders that the world lost Elisabeth Sladen, but we lost Elisabeth Miller. This book, hopefully, is a fitting tribute to both.