I made lists of the female characters I wanted to play: there had to be Miss Havisham from Great Expectations, of course; and drunken midwife Sarah Gamp from Martin Chuzzlewit. But I also included the lesbian Miss Wade, from Little Dorrit, a figure of twisted power and pathos; Miss Mowcher, the dwarf manicurist from David Copperfield; Mrs Corney, the workhouse matron from Oliver Twist; and Dickens’s tenderest portrait, Miss Flite from Bleak House, a crazy little old lady — a ward of the court and victim of the interminable lawsuit Jarndyce v. Jarndyce — who goes every single day to the High Court of Chancery, awaiting a judgement on her inheritance. There was also a trio of blokes: the beadle Mr Bumble from Oliver Twist; Towlinson from Dombey and Son; and Pip from Great Expectations. In total, I played twenty-three Dickens characters.
Then Sonia and I started to piece the script together, linking the characters with the figures from Dickens’s life who had inspired them, with lots of cutting and pasting, and printing. Remember, we didn’t have a computer then. We also talked to Claire Tomalin, who was writing her biography of Dickens. Claire was incredibly generous and talked openly and without reserve, not withholding any of her insights for her own book. We also spoke to the great Dickensian scholar and professor of Victorian literature at Birkbeck, Michael Slater, whose book Dickens and Women provided so much meat for our play. Michael gave me hours of his time and vast knowledge. We’ve become close friends and never stop talking Dickens.
It was clear that Dickens’s relations with women informed his work: the damage caused by his mother; his unsuccessful first great passion, Maria Beadnell; his Scottish wife Catherine Hogarth, whom he married in 1836, and with whom he fell out of love; Mary Hogarth, his seventeen-year-old sister-in-law, who died in his arms. His sorrow at losing Mary was so great that he wanted to be buried with her ashes; and finally, in 1857, his meeting with Ellen Ternan, his last love, who was to be his mistress until his death.
Michael doubted that Dickens’s relationship with Ellen Ternan was consummated; he is convinced she never allowed him to sleep with her. I said, ‘Michael, I can’t agree with you. Of course they slept together!’ It is unproven that Ellen may have had a child who died, but of course they had sex. It took us nine months to finish the script. We worked all hours — sometimes, I was so overwhelmed and exhausted that I would fall asleep on the floor: that’s always my escape when I’m frightened of something, but that’s how we did it. It was a true collaboration; without Sonia, it could never have happened.
I had never wanted to do a one-woman show; it’s lonely and frightening being on stage alone, never hearing another voice. So when the time came to take our show to the Edinburgh Festival, I asked David Timson to play Dickens and Mr Bumble, and to sing the haunting contemporary songs Michael Haslam had found. And Sonia engaged Helen Crayford to play the piano.
The show was originally called Wooman, Lovely Wooman, What a Sex You Are!, which is a quote from the ballet master Mr Turveydrop in Bleak House. We performed at the old university medical lecture theatre in Teviot Place. We had no idea whether the show would work until I said the last lines — and there was utter silence in the theatre. I stood there in the dark and I thought, ‘Oh my God — they don’t like it.’ Suddenly, there was an explosion of applause that came roaring out from the auditorium and people were on their feet, stamping. It was a moment of unalloyed triumph. There was just me on the dark stage, then the lights went up and I could see Sonia in the wings, joy across her face. It was an extraordinary moment. That was when we knew we had a show. It sold out immediately and later we were asked to transfer to the Bush Theatre in Shepherd’s Bush and then to the Hampstead Theatre Club in Swiss Cottage.
In 1990, Sonia and I took the show to America. David didn’t want to come with us because he had just got married so we had to find a replacement. Norman Lear — who had me on a retainer (more of which later) — wanted to show me off to the Hollywood community in readiness for the upcoming sitcom he’d planned; so he put up the money. I asked my friend Susan Loewenberg, who ran LA Theatre Works, to help, as Norman knew everything about television but not much about theatre. We did a try-out performance. Unfortunately, our replacement for David hadn’t learned his lines. Norman wasn’t impressed. ‘It’s a bit heavy, isn’t it?’ he said. Then he had a bright idea. ‘I know. Why don’t you get a ladder in the interval? Go onstage, climb the ladder and tell some Jewish jokes.’ He thought that might lighten the mood. Honestly!
Susan Smith, my beloved American agent, had a better idea: ‘Ditch the guy, he’s hopeless, doesn’t know the lines, waste of time. Do it yourself, all alone, as a one-woman show. You’ll be terrific.’ The idea scared the living daylights out of me, but I took her advice. We changed the text a bit, I learnt the lines and when we opened at the lovely Tiffany Theater on Sunset, I played all the parts including Mr Bumble. The proposal scene was such a hit, people swore there were two actors on stage. Our little one-woman show has had a long life. I went to London first, back to the Bush Theatre, then to Hampstead and then to the Duke of York’s Theatre in the West End with one of the best sets (by Kendra Ullyart) I’ve ever seen, based on a giant reproduction of Dickens’s books. Our show was nominated for an Olivier Award, in the Best Entertainment category.
In 1993, the British Council invited us to tour India with Jonathan Rutherford on piano and a terrific production manager, Mark Pawsey. Whatever the drama, Mark could deal with it. Even when our luggage and the travelling set disappeared in Bombay, he was calm. Around India we went, it was a tale of ten cities: Delhi, Chennai, Bangalore, Visakhapatnam, Agra, Patna, Lucknow, Bombay (Mumbai), Allahabad and Hyderabad. In Patna, the set and costumes again didn’t arrive; they had got stuck on a train. So I performed in the open air on a sandy floor in my own clothes, without lighting and it was one of the best shows I’ve ever done. The Indian audience was intelligent and responsive. They know and love their Dickens, and the Q and A sessions were a delight. At one in Delhi, I wanted to give the blind members of the audience a chance to ‘feel me’ so they would know more about the show and the texture of my Victorian trouser suit. I took one blind patron’s hands and placed them on my chest. He quickly pulled his hands away — ‘Oh, you are fat!’ he exclaimed. I may have smashed his dream.
In Kolkata (Calcutta) we arrived on the same day as Mother Teresa. I hoped I’d be able to meet her and our driver assured me I would. He would take me to her ashram at 4 a.m. when she prayed at the service and met those, like me, who wanted to talk to her. I got up early the next morning and was driven to her ashram. A nun welcomed me and guided me to a huge hall, with many worshippers. It was a Catholic service; my driver urged me to take Communion, but I felt that would be wrong. After the service, we lined up to meet Mother Teresa. It resembled a Papal audience; she was all in white, very small and brown, with an intense gaze. When she looked at me, I felt she saw into my soul; it was a disquieting experience. ‘How is it in England?’ she asked me. And then we dispersed. She had such tremendous authority you could be in no doubt that you had met someone very special.