Many Lives (9 page)

‘I thought she needed her back stretched,' he explained. ‘I read about it in the paper – it's that baby monkey theory. If you hang a baby from a ladder they
can
sustain their weight. Didn't you know?'

‘But she's 10 days old!'

‘I thought it'd be good for her. Anyway, she looked a little hot in all those cardigans – all wrapped up like that.'

‘Hot, John? It's January.'

That was John.

He always did these things with the best of intentions, though.

A few months after our second daughter Chloe was born in 1977, I was working on Pirandello's
The Old and the Young
in Italy. She'd been quite a sickly baby since she'd been born and now she'd gone down with pneumonia. The Italian doctors had put her on a huge dose of antibiotics that weren't working. I was phoning specialists in Rome to see if she'd been prescribed the right medication. Meanwhile, she wasn't getting any better. Back home, John had gone missing and I didn't know how to reach him. It was a nightmare and I was getting more and more distraught. Following the advice of the doctors in Rome, I had Chloe wrapped up in a darkened room. Finally John turned up. I didn't know where he'd been, but suddenly he arrived in Italy. He walked in,
pulled open the shutters, tore open the windows, took Chloe out of her cot and took off every stitch of her clothing. He marched out of the room and the next thing I heard was a splash – he'd jumped into the swimming pool with her.

I'd been doing what the doctors in Rome had told me. John just walked in and thought, ‘This is ridiculous.' She got better quite quickly after that.

John did things his way.

I got home from work one afternoon and couldn't find the dogs. It was pouring with rain. I asked, ‘Where are the dogs, John?' Then I heard a whimpering sound, which I followed out into the garden. I found them. There they were, forlorn and rain-drenched, on the flat roof of the kitchen. John said they'd been getting under his feet.

Children came as a massive shock. Suddenly I was at the beck and call of a tiny, needy pink thing. Nature gives mothers instincts; maybe the hormones that are released into the body during pregnancy prepare you for motherhood. I fell into motherhood with enormous joy. Men are less fortunate. John had a moment of elation and then, suddenly, life was all about the pram and the paraphernalia of babyhood.

In our house in Nottingham we'd had three rooms laid out with Scalextric. It was very elaborate, with bends, bridges, chicanes, pit stops, trees and little people waving us on. I was a John Player Special – very sleek and black – and John was a red Ferrari. When Phoebe was born, I sold half of the track. I don't think John ever forgave me. We had to get other toys and they weren't our toys any more; they were for a baby. He had to get rid of the XK150. It was a hopeless car for a baby and two dogs.

John's a one-off wonder, but a good and sensible husband? No. He's a true artist – completely selfish. That's what true artists are. They have to serve their art. They can't help it. Any good bit of work I did, I was a less good parent.

I think if you have a baby you should make a contract with your partner which says, ‘For the first five years of this child's life we just get on with it. We'll look after our child and won't even discuss whether we love each other, and we won't break up.' The truth is, if you break off a relationship you'll come across the same problem in your next one because, guess what, you take yourself with you. We'd had the heady 1960s but we hadn't got to the age of self-help books, let alone good therapy. Back then we'd only got as far as discussing Freud or Jung.

When you're tending to and loving your baby for at least 15 hours of the day, it's very hard to want to be tending to your husband, too. Maybe he should be tending to the two of you. Joseph is standing behind Mary, looking after Mary, who's looking after Jesus. The man is not meant to be in competition with the baby. You only have a few. Let's do the baby now.

Make sure your man wants to have a child, because otherwise he may not be able to be as responsible as you'd like him to be. Do we listen to what our men say? They usually tell us the truth, in actions if not words. Or do we decide on a man based on what we think we need? I've got friends with biological clocks ticking who have made unsuitable choices and then been amazed when their partners haven't behaved properly. Their men told them the truth but they didn't want to hear it. Half the time, we don't listen to each other.

Everybody has to learn what they have to learn in his or her own way, but I think we have a huge number of questions to ask ourselves about the kind of parents we became. I'm talking about us freedom-seekers of the 1960s. We're a very selfish generation and we've bred an even more selfish one, and it's our fault. But then isn't everything that our kids do that's difficult our fault? It's only the good things they do that are them. I could write a book about that.

Rather than taking away our ability to play, children rewrite the way we can play. Like nothing else, apart from acting, they give us licence to play. Children have free access to the imagination. They're closer to the source, closer to the creative self – that is, the God-self. Half the time they're the ones playing while we're the ones sighing and tidying up. Have a good play with them, we can all tidy up later.

Chloe was born in 1977. Her birth was very difficult. Two months before she was due, my membranes ruptured and I was losing amniotic fluid. I went to hospital immediately and was told labour would start within 24 hours, and that I had to stay there because I was no longer sterile and my baby was at risk of infection. I asked them at what stage of development my baby was. Her chances of survival didn't sound good. They put me in a small ward on strict bed-rest. I lay on the bed and breathed, feeling my baby's tiny body inside me. No longer with any fluid to act as a cushion, I could feel her skeleton – this still baby inside me was not moving. I just lay completely prone and breathed. I knew this baby had to
‘cook' for longer. Guru Maharishi's Transcendental Meditation came into its own. Everyone had been given a mantra. I couldn't remember mine. I made one up. I concentrated on my breathing, and concentrated on the mantra. Slowly the amniotic fluid replaced itself. ‘Baby… Live… Baby… Live…'

Meanwhile, back home, I'd left Phoebe with John. My parents had gone to stay to help with Phoebe, but they couldn't cope with John. They lasted a couple of days and then left. Phoebe got her head stuck in the cat flap and the fire brigade had to be called out. Then she managed to get her hands on a bottle of Calpol. She drank its contents and slept for 24 hours. I knew I had to get home.

I asked the doctor if my baby was viable. I was in hospital trying to save the life of one baby, while the welfare of my other one was at serious risk. It felt time for this baby to come out. I was induced. Chloe was born three weeks early. She'd been due on my birthday but came into the world an Aquarian. An hour after Chloe was born, as far as the hospital was concerned, I went missing. I didn't. I'd picked up this little newborn bundle and taken us both to a bathroom that had a bath you walked down into. I filled it with water and poured in salt and iodine, and sat in it. It was very uncomfortable. My little bundle was on the side of the bath at eye level. ‘It's just you, me and your sister now, honey,' I told her.

It was hard for John to accept ‘the full catastrophe' of a wife and two kids. He just wasn't up to it; it was down to me. I was determined to get out and get home as soon as possible. The love had left the household and I had to look after my babies. I was beginning a new life which I'd brought upon myself.

I
remember watching a programme on TV back in 1977 called
Rock Follies
. I was sitting in my brown candlewick dressing gown. It had a zip down its front for baby's easy feeding access. It wasn't glamorous. I was staring at the television, thinking, ‘I used to do that.' I never thought I'd be a human being again, let alone a vibrant one. I really thought I'd done myself in. Born too soon, Chloe was sick. She was finding it very difficult to latch on and feed. When she did she thew up – projectile vomiting. I had to take her back to the hospital. It was hard. It was frantically horrible.

My husband didn't love me any more. All communication was gone and I didn't know why. I didn't know that when someone feels guilty they can't talk to you. Six weeks after Phoebe was born in 1974, I'd been back making a movie. This time was very different. I couldn't sleep. Because Chloe wasn't feeding properly I had to wake her every two hours to try to get her to feed. In the morning I had to cope with a two-year-old bouncing off the walls.

I remember a moment of silence. ‘Ahh, silence,' then, ‘Silence?' I ran to the stairs. Phoebe had Chloe's head, and her friend Claire, another two-year-old, had her feet. They were swinging her, about to see if she'd bounce down the stairs.

After I'd put the children to bed at 6:30 p.m. the world used to close down around me. With no test card and music, just a blank screen. I couldn't even go out for a walk. Simply going down the garden to get the washing from the line, my ears would be constantly peeled, listening out for the babies. For a young woman – a young selfish woman, who's co-starred in movies, on stage and TV, and who's grown used to having her own money – to find herself suddenly alone and broke with two young babies and thinking she can't cope without her husband; it felt like I'd really mucked up my life.

John and I had decided to have a trial separation. He'd gone to Stratford-upon-Avon to work with the Royal Shakespeare Company. I didn't think I would be able to manage on my own without him. Phoebe was going through the terrible twos. I had to make a conscious decision to still allow some love for John. If I didn't I knew I wouldn't be able to love Phoebe and Chloe. I think you have to have love for the father or you won't have true love for your baby – you're trapped. It felt like a real decision I had to make. Now it hardly seems real – this old friend of mine, this silly old actor – it was another life. At the time, though, it was heart-breaking. I've always said John's a splendid actor but a ridiculous husband.

How could he leave? I was totally disbelieving. I kept thinking he'd come to his senses. How can you have a young wife and two babies and just leave them like that? I was convinced he'd come
back, but he didn't. Truth is, I was running on empty before Chloe was born. I had no understanding of marriages not working. You made your vows, put on your ring and made it work. Nobody in my family got separated or divorced. I took my vows seriously, and now I felt my little tribe had been betrayed. I guess I should have had a clue when John lost his ring down the drain.

The problem with adultery is the conspiracy. Other people know what you don't. On the level of personal pride it's really hurtful, and the conspiracy leads to people avoiding you. My isolation became horrible. I couldn't understand why friends were staying away. I thought it was because I was toxic in my misery. I'm sure I was, but it was more than that. They had information that I didn't. When I did find out what had been going on, my world completely cracked apart.

I wish I hadn't been brought up with Walt Disney. I wish I hadn't had this expectation that “one day your prince will come” and, when he comes, that's it. It's so sadly unrealistic. The dishonesty of the conspiracy, the lying: when truth is withheld – it's crippling. Being unfaithful to the one you love is a disloyalty and it's not fair; it
is
a conspiracy. There was that attempt in the Sixties for free love, but we weren't up to it. We did a distortion. Partner-up if you want, but if you can't do it honestly, then don't do it.

Before John went to Stratford he was always going missing. One time I had a full plate of meat and roast potatoes, gravy, peas; the lot. John was on his way out of the door to go and see a man about a dog or whatever he was doing. I told him if he went the plate was going on the ceiling. He just looked at me and kept walking. I threw the plate so hard the peas embedded themselves in the plaster. They dried there and had to be painted over.

When Chloe was five months old John and I both got work in Sheffield – in plays at The Crucible Theatre. I was being directed by Peter James in Alan Ayckbourn's
Absurd Person Singular
and John was in Gogol's
The Government Inspector
. We shared a flat with Hildegarde Neil, Brian Blessed and their baby, and I had my two. It was above a rice and curry store. Strangely, it was the perfect way to get back into work. Phoebe started saying ‘Mummy's working' in a Sheffield accent and John was John. One night we had a visit from the police. John had performed one of his very special tricks. He'd done it before and he's done it again since. It involves racing against flashing blue lights. When he was finally stopped and taken to the police station, he jumped on the station desk, telling them they couldn't arrest him because he was the government inspector. He was completely drunk. Sheffield had its moments of fun but Sheffield was difficult.

Back in London I was on my own again with the girls. I'd walk up and down Kilburn High Road looking for the cheapest tomatoes. ‘Eggy-in-the-Nest' became our favourite meal. I did what work I could, but money was tight. An egg on spinach is a very cost-effective
and
nutritious dish.

Once, I had a matinee performance and the babysitter was late. I had to leave. I left a note outside for the babysitter, put Chloe in her basket, and took her and Phoebe over the road to the convent opposite our house. I knocked on its imposing front door. Two hairy nuns answered. Phoebe looked up at them, doe eyed, while they peered down on the slumbering Chloe – wrapped in swaddling clothes, lying in a basket. Their faces softened. I explained my predicament and they took the girls in. I whispered a word of thanks to Mary as I passed her statue in the garden.

I don't think they suffered from the experience; and they were given their first chocolate. Phoebe took to using a chair to reach the door handle to open the front door. She'd sneak across the road where she'd pick flowers from the convent's garden, knock on the door and exchange them for sweets with the nuns.

We were living in a huge house in West Hampstead. It cost a fortune to heat and I was skint. I kept the living room cold and we lived in the kitchen with the Rayburn. I used to turn the heater on in the bathroom 20 minutes before the kids were going to have their bath. It was miserable but I did four new plays in 1978:
The Singular Life of Albert Nobbs
with Susannah York,
An Audience Called Edouard
with Susan Hampshire and Jeremy Irons,
The London Cuckolds
with Ken Cranham and
Can You Hear Me at the Back?
with Hannah Gordon. All brilliant to do, but they didn't pay a lot. By the time I'd paid for childcare there was just enough to keep Eggy-in-the-Nest on our table.

In
Albert Nobbs,
Susannah and I played two 19th-century women who lived their lives as men in order to escape the crushing poverty that would usually have been a single woman's lot back then. It's a play about gender and inequality. I did it a year after Marilyn French's book
The Women's Room
came out. Once again I found myself involved in a percolating energy of the time. And I was living it: experiencing the impact of gender inequality at the hard end.

The fourth play I did that year,
Can You Hear Me at the Back?
had the most darling cast ever – Peter Barkworth, Hannah Gordon, Edward Hardwicke and Michael Maloney – but it was one of the worst plays ever. We toured for a few weeks and then brought it to the West End and spent a year at the Piccadilly Theatre. It was
solid money but I didn't get the slightest bit of satisfaction from one performance.

I was working hard, always working; I was supporting my family but dragging myself along, in a deep depression. I called Peter Barkworth one day and told him I was just too low to do the performance that evening. He came round immediately.

‘You have to do it, Stephie,' Peter warned me. ‘The producers won't notice the difference if you're feeling off, but when the curtain goes up they'll notice if you're not there.'

Just after I'd co-starred in
The Nightcomers
with Marlon Brando, back in 1971, I'd failed to appreciate the power and influence producers have. I'd refused to do some publicity in New York. I was young, naive and didn't know how to deal with the different aspects of the business. It had resulted in the door to Hollywood being firmly shut in my face for a long time. Peter was a dear, wise man. It wasn't just the producers. I owed it to the cast to get myself together and go to work.

Despite the uninspiring nature of the play, it wasn't without its laughs. During one performance Peter managed to turn the line, ‘I've watched you lose your nerve' to, ‘I've natched you wooze your lerve.' He had me in fits on stage. I responded with ‘Uh-huh' to which he replied, ‘Oh, you beast.' We were playing. I badly needed to play. After another performance a young Canadian guy was waiting for me at the stage door. He came out with a line about ‘falling in love with my back,' and asked me to a restaurant. To be in a situation where I'd have to talk was the last thing I wanted. I was so full of my story of misery I didn't dare go out to dinner. I told him to take me skating. He took me to the Electric Ballroom in Camden. It was perfect for me, a roller disco – no talking, just
all-night dancing on roller skates. I became a regular. It was one of a few clubs that played host to the black dance music scene in London at that time. After work I'd go dancing. I'd get home at daybreak, the music still pulsing through me and my body buzzing. When you totally lose yourself in the music, dancing induces its own kind of catharsis. It was what I needed: distraction – vibrant and intense distraction from my emotional pain. It was an unconscious recovery process and I became fit, in a head-turning kind of way. I discovered that if I didn't stop, if I kept on running, I could outpace the pain.

The process I'd use these days would be entirely different. I would try to sit with the pain. Far better to just sit with the pain; to let go of the fear, go through the pain and accept it as part of life at that moment. Back then I had to keep running for a long time. I didn't have a toolkit to draw on; I just kept on the move. On my 35th birthday I went hang-gliding on skis. I jumped off a cliff near Val d'Isère. I skied off the edge of the mountain thinking, ‘If I die now, I'll die flying.'

While we were doing
Can You Hear Me at the Back?
I invited Michael Maloney to lodge with us. One day I asked him what he'd been doing earlier. He told me he'd been looking for a flat. I said, ‘You're going to come into our house and be the big brother my girls need – the constant male.' I felt we needed that energy around the house. Michael was a 20-year-old macrobiotic of Jesuit schooling. He was the right person at the right time. Sent by the universe – as well as being opportunism of the highest order on my part. It's still how I live. Don't be shy – seize the moment.

I was lost in my own emotional state, as far as my own needs went, but I knew what my kids needed. It's because of them that I survived. My children made me brave.

There was only one time, when I saw them so happy with my mother and father, that I felt they'd be better off without me.