I thought of the dozens of productions I’d seen there, all the stars who had stepped through this door before me. It was such a magical company at the time: Cynthia Grenville, Lynda Marchal – who became Lynda La Plante – Tony Hopkins, future husband and wife Malcolm Read and Helena de Crespo, and Jean Boht. I used to watch them all. And Patrick Stewart, he was marvellous, although bald even then. I remember going to see him as Oberon in A Midsummer Night’s Dream – it only cost a few coppers for a seat up in the gods – and I don’t think people recognised him when he came on because he was wearing a wig. Normally the fact he became bald so prematurely meant he got all the meaty, older man parts, but this time they actually wanted him to appear younger.
Here I was, a few years later, about to follow in their footsteps. It didn’t matter that I was only a student, I was still part of the same company to count my hero Robert Donat, Rachel Kempson, Rex Harrison and Michael Redgrave among its alumni.
I took a deep breath and went in.
The best job in the world can be ruined if you’re working with the wrong people – fortunately, right from day one, the backstage crew at the Playhouse were superb. David Scase went out of his way to make me comfortable but I was thrilled to meet once again his deputy, Tony Colgate. He’d been such an inspiration during his lesson at SEC – I couldn’t wait to work with him. Jenny Smith was the stage manager and my boss. Her assistant, Sally Crowgey, was extremely glamorous, always very high heels, low zip and lots of makeup. She was lumbered with showing me the ropes, and fortunately she’d been there long enough not to worry about someone else coming along trying to do her job. Ivor Dykes was a great character, a lighting guy who was terrified of heights. If you went anywhere near his ladder when he was up in the gods he soon let you know about it! His assistant, Michael, didn’t have the same problem. He was very sweet. Finally on that first day, I met Christopher Bullock, my stage director. Even now I only remember him one way: six foot two of absolute authority. You didn’t mess with Chris – or his brother, I heard – but right from the word go he was nothing but caring and paternal towards me. One of the first things he said was, ‘Now, Lis, we don’t want any involvement with these actors, do we? They’ll all try to hit on you, you know.’
Hit on me? I thought. I was quite a bit bigger then, not fat but what people in Liverpool at the time called ‘bonnie’. ‘Isn’t your Elisabeth looking bonnie, Mrs Sladen?’ I was always hearing. Compared to all the skinny actresses I was working with, I couldn’t imagine anyone looking at me twice. Anyway, boys were off the agenda – I was there to learn.
I had an amazing first week and then I thought my world was going to fall in. Kay, the company manager, approached me one morning. ‘So,’ she said, ‘you’re from a drama school.’
God, I’d forgotten about that.
I felt the tears welling. ‘Does that mean you’re going to throw me out?’
Kay just sighed. ‘No, it just means we have to pay you £4 a week instead.’
So I’d only been there a week and already I was getting a raise, but it wasn’t the best of starts.
Now I don’t think there is a piece of paper big enough to list every aspect of the role of ASM. I had to sweep the stage, look after the props, manage the ‘book’, operate sound effects and generally run the backstage area in Jenny’s absence. In other words, it was a bit – no, a lot – of everything. But, do you know what? I couldn’t have been happier! To find myself so immersed in a real live theatre was a dream come true. And to be given a wage for it when I would happily have worked for free was unbelievable.
They really got their money’s worth. I arrived at nine in the morning and, on a show night, left with everyone else around eleven o’clock – often straight to the nearest pub (in my case for a sparkling water) to unwind. The day I joined they were just beginning work on a production of Seidman & Son starring David Kossoff and I was given immediate responsibility for the show’s props. Any cushions or teapots or guns or rugs that were to be used in a scene, I had to put there and make sure they stayed there. If an actor needed to enter stage left with a book, I had to give him that book. And if he came off-stage with a cigarette lighter, then I whipped it from him and made sure it was ready the following night. I seemed to spend the whole evening chasing one cast member after another – ‘Have you got your personals? Where are your personals?’ The pressure was tremendous.
And the buck stopped here. As Jenny reminded me, if I didn’t do it, it didn’t happen.
Opening night came and I had never been so nervous. Mum and Dad were in the audience and even though they couldn’t see me, I’d told them everything I was doing. As I sent the various plates and hats and other bits and pieces onto the stage I could imagine Mum applauding them as though I was up there myself. A week into the run and the adrenaline began to wear off. I loved it, but boy was I tired! I remember Kossoff passing me, almost on my knees, on his way to the stage. ‘Ah, dear,’ he said in his rich accent, ‘Vot’s a nice girl like you doing in a job like this?’
There were two other main roles for the ASM apart from props. The next one I was given was working the panetrope – basically an old-fashioned sound-effects machine. If a telephone needed to ring, that was me. Whenever there was a doorbell, that was me. It was all pretty straightforward – or so I thought. In rehearsal I had to play a track of a car supposedly reversing into its garage. Basically, you just press ‘play’ on the machine and turn the volume up, but I did it so fast it sounded like the car had exploded.
‘No jerky movements,’ Jenny said. ‘Nice and smooth.’
Well, that night it was certainly smooth. It took about five hours for that car to park!
My other job was the hardest and most important – and the one I was best at. It was called being ‘on the book’, because essentially you had to sit with a copy of the script and make sure everything happened when it was scheduled. The work started in rehearsal when you had to write down notes about the actors’ movements, counting their paces, and noticing every detail – I suppose it’s the equivalent of taking Polaroids for consistency in films. Two pages before every sound effect, lighting cue or stage entrance, you would put a mark in the script to give you some warning. Then on the night you’d sit at the side, looking for cues, and go, ‘Standby, Mr Cowdrey, your call’ when it was two pages from his entrance. Then there would be another call, and a little bell to press. Or if it wasn’t an actor I’d be saying, ‘Cue electrics’ or ‘Cue lights’. The book is the oil in the machine – I really enjoyed it.
But of course it was acting I really wanted to do. The second play of the season came and went. When the third was announced, The Long and the Short and the Tall, there was no part for me. I didn’t expect there to be, but it was still a shame.
For the new play, as well as the usual company, Tony Colegate had cast two of his favourite actors of the day: Steven Berkoff and a guy from Birmingham, Brian Miller. Tony had worked with them both before and only had great things to say.
Rehearsal day arrived and the cast began assembling. I was there early as usual – the lot of the ASM. Suddenly, though, the door in the giant soundproof screen opened and my head was filled with different thoughts entirely.
Brian Miller had stepped backstage and my mouth literally fell open. I don’t know what it was. He was wearing a tweed jacket with leather elbows and jeans. And he had very red golden hair. I couldn’t take my eyes off him.