I asked him how long he was going to hold me. He said, ‘I don’t know. Could be quite a long time… it might be overnight.’ ‘You can’t be serious!’ ‘I’m sorry about that, miss, but that’s the way it is. Anyway, you better come with me, and we’ll pop you in a cell.’
The prison officers were on strike which meant the remand cells were full, because those on remand couldn’t be processed into the jail. There was a three-week backlog. Despite this, as I followed him down a long corridor of occupied cells, he eventually located an empty one, and locked me up. In the cell there was a high, small, single-barred window, a long, narrow bench from wall to wall topped with a dirty mattress, and a lavatory with no seat in the corner.
I thought, ‘I’ve got to keep calm, I’ve got to stay sensible and not get scared.’ I could hear people talking in the cells down the corridor. To steady myself, I started to recite Wordsworth’s poem, ‘On Westminster Bridge’:
Then I heard someone say, ‘Blimey, there’s a woman in there.’
I put my head to the bars. I couldn’t see anything, but I said, ‘Hello, is somebody there?’ A man’s voice replied, ‘Yeah, what are you doing here?’ I said, ‘I was caught parking on a double yellow line.’ He then said, ‘Blimey, I didn’t know they could put you in for that.’ I asked him what he was in for, and he said, ‘Burglary.’
‘Did you do it?’ I asked.
There was a long pause and he said, ‘No comment.’
We talked for a bit. He said, ‘You know, I’ve been three weeks in this fucking cell. And there’s no hot water. We haven’t washed. It’s not right.’ Well, it wasn’t right. I told him, ‘If I ever get out of here, I will do something about it. And if you give me your phone number, I’ll phone your wife and tell her that you’re all right.’ He said, ‘Would you do that? I’ll write my number down.’ Then he said, ‘Do you want a book to read?’
‘Well, yes, I suppose I do. I might be here a long time,’ I replied, gratefully.
‘I’ll get the chap to give it to you.’ He called the policeman, who was patrolling up and down outside in the corridor, and asked him to pass me his book. It was a book of jokes! He’d written his wife’s telephone number on the title page.
Time was ticking on by now, and I was growing desperate. I said to the patrolling policeman, ‘Look, I’ve got a voice-over at four o’clock, I’ve got to get out.’
He said, ‘What do you mean by «voice-over»?’ I explained: ‘Well, I’m an actress, and I have a job to do in Soho.’ And he said, ‘You’re not going to get out for that!’ ‘It’s my livelihood,’ I insisted. ‘Well, I don’t know whether I’ll be able to sort that for you,’ he said. ‘But I’ll bring you lunch.’
I was brought a meal — some godawful pudding and an unrecognisable main — all slopped onto one plate. Revolting. I went back to chatting to the men down the corridor, which passed the time.
Eventually, the station sergeant came, unlocked my cell and took me to the desk. He charged me with parking on a double yellow line, littering and causing a breach of the peace — I imagine that was because I said the motorcycle policeman had a small dick. I think that was the thing that really irritated him.
He discharged me on bail, with instructions to attend Bow Street Magistrates Court the following morning.
I made it to the voice-over, only slightly late. Everybody was terribly amused by my tale, but when I got home, thinking about my impending court appearance, I was quite shaken, mainly worried that my father would find out.
I went to court the next morning. I was told to sit in a separate waiting area with a bunch of people who’d also been arrested the day before. Most were drunks, all either Irish or Scots. At least I could work on the accents. When it was my turn, I stood before the magistrate as the arresting officer read out my three charges. The magistrate asked how I wanted to plead: I said, ‘Guilty.’ He asked if I had anything to add in my defence. I said, ‘I’m very sorry. I know I shouldn’t have said the police officer had a small dick, but I was cross. I was only away from my car for a minute; I thought that to give me a ticket was an over-reaction. However, I accept that I shouldn’t have got angry; I shouldn’t have said that; I shouldn’t have torn up the parking ticket and thrown it on the ground. But I don’t think I should have been given a vaginal examination.’
There was an audible intake of breath from those assembled. Taken aback, the magistrate said, ‘What do you mean?’
‘Well, the officer thought my peppermints were heroin or something,’ I explained. ‘And I was given a vaginal examination because he thought that I’d stuck some drugs up myself, which I had not!’
The magistrate listened, and said, ‘Is it a first offence?’ I said, ‘Of course it’s a first offence!’ Then he said, ‘I’m going to fine you £25 for causing litter because you tore up the notice, and you shouldn’t have done that. All other charges dismissed.’
I often wonder what happened to the nice man in the next cell. As promised, I did ring his wife, who was pleased to hear he was all right.
The whole affair was a revelation to me. My spirit was unbowed by it, because I just thought the police were silly to lock me up for all those hours and to pursue charges. But I was protected by all the things my parents had fought so hard to provide me with: the confidence of my class, education and social status. It clearly demonstrated how different life is for people without my advantages.
Money Talks
When people say to me, ‘Oh, I never talk about money, religion or politics,’ I say, ‘What the fuck do you talk about, then? Those are the things that matter!’ Money is one of life’s essentials and there’s no point pretending that it isn’t. It matters how you earn money, what you do with it, and how you spend it.
I was always brought up to have a healthy respect for money, and not to waste it. My parents personified two different reactions to having been brought up in poverty. Daddy was naturally stingy — turning off the lights everywhere; Mummy was naturally generous. She liked to give; Daddy didn’t. He did give, in the end, but he never made any payments gladly — and he had to be prompted, even for synagogue dues. When we were getting out of a taxi, for example, Mummy would always say, ‘Come on, Joe, give the driver a tip!’
He used to ask me, ‘How much are you earning now?’ Usually, in the early days, the response would be, ‘Oh dear, oh dear.’ Later, as I got wealthy, he’d respond with pleasant surprise: ‘Oh! Really?’
I’ve always tried to keep a balanced attitude, erring on the side of generosity where possible, because I think meanness is horrible. Like my mother, I’ve been canny with my investments. It was never expensive clothes and cars with me — it was always houses. I didn’t have any children (a lifetime’s investment in themselves); that meant I could afford to buy property. Twice I’ve bought houses with other people. I advise young people to pool their resources with those they trust, and buy at auction, having had a surveyor’s report. And have an agreement drawn up, with three important headings: Usage, Maintenance and Disposal. This will lower the chances of a breakdown in communication.