The Two of Us (29 page)

About this time a salesman called Alan West came into the pub. He was selling sticky tape and his patter was so good he off-loaded
a caseload during the lunch hour. He had red-blond hair, a snappy suit and a car. Dolly had only ever been in a van before,
so he took her for a ride. He confided his plans for his future. He was going to make a lot of money, get a bigger car and
buy a house at Alderley Edge. He was going to make it somehow. He looked like Van Johnson and acted like Mickey Rooney. She
believed every word he said.

Jack thought their dream had come true when he landed a flat on the new estate in Burnage. A nice area for the kids to grow
up in, a bit of garden even; everyone wanted to live in the model Kingsway Estate. But not Dolly. She couldn’t help it. She
wanted more. It was the suburbs. She hated the bloody garden and lace curtains and the endless tram rides to town. It was
miles from Belle Vue and dead as a door nail. Alan understood. He could see she was a good businesswoman and a bobby-dazzler.
She was wasted. Why not come with him and they would set up in business together? They would make a great team. But what about
Jack and the kids?

She really tried to make a go of being a wife and mother. She arranged a tea party for Ray’s fifth birthday. She made cakes
and jellies and both families came round. The tea-cups clinked. ‘This is very nice.’ ‘Well, you couldn’t want better than
this.’ ‘When are you going to have another littl’un?’ Was this it for the rest of her life? She had to get away or she would
die. Jack would get used to it, he was very easy-going. She vaguely thought she could get the kids later, but Alan wasn’t
having that – they would get in the way of his big plans – and neither was Jack.

Suddenly the worm turned. Jack swore he would never see her again. She didn’t believe him; he had always given in before and
she knew he still loved her. Then he went to court and she was banned for ever from seeing her kids. She hadn’t a chance:
she had deserted her children and her husband. A lot of husbands, returning as strangers from the war, were leaving their
wives, but the other way round was unheard of. Her own mother was bitterly ashamed of her and all her brothers and sisters
told her what a fool she was. Alan West was a spiv. He was a ‘I love me, who do you love?’ kind of bloke. Couldn’t she see
that?

No, she couldn’t. He was her key to a great future. For a while they lived in her sister’s front room. Then they got tenancy
of various pubs and were successful landlords. The pubs got bigger and she did catering – an innovation in those days. Dolly
became quite well known. Especially when
Coronation Street
started and she had a pub near Granada Studios. She managed to push thoughts of Jack out of her mind, but she worried about
the children. One day she was distraught and Alan offered to drive her to Burnage to try to catch a glimpse of them. They
saw her and didn’t seem much interested. John showed up with a friend one day when she was at the Shakespeare Pub in Central
Manchester. Was he just trying to show his pal he really had a mother or did he love her in spite of what she had done? He
often turned up after that. She gave him sandwiches, but he was an odd lad – quiet one minute, then showing off and putting
on voices the next. She would be in trouble if Jack found out, but she knew her son would keep it secret. He was good at secrets.

10 August

I have really lived this grief. I have been totally centred on
my pain. That’s some sort of achievement. Most of my life
has been postponing feeling or thinking what comes next.
But grief like this can’t be avoided. It’s utterly real and has
to be experienced there and then. I am doing what I have
always striven to do – live the moment. I am here now.
Shame I had to learn through pain rather than pleasure.

She did not tell John or anyone that the man on whom she had pinned her hopes and for whom she had given up everything was
a phoney and a drunk. That it was she who worked her arse off running the business while he drank the profits. She kept going
as long as she could, performing the happy barmaid, while behind the scenes she dealt with a cruel drunk. Her son’s visits
petered out but he began appearing on her TV screen.

He visited her once with a friend when he was working in a theatre in Liverpool, but didn’t stay long. Now, even though she
knew he was working in Manchester, she only read about it. He never mentioned her in the papers; or, if he did, it was to
say he didn’t know her. She never told anyone in the pub she was his mother and, although friends told her she could make
a fortune talking to the papers, she would not stoop to that. When she managed to get away from Alan she gave up running pubs
and went to live with her sister Cissie while she sorted herself out. She was at a low ebb. She had put on weight and at the
age of forty-nine it wasn’t easy to find work or attract men. Cissie heard that John was working in Manchester with that Sheila
Hancock and took the risk of phoning and asking if he would visit his mum. When he agreed, Dolly was in a right flap, trying
out various outfits, spending hours in the hairdresser’s, manicuring her nails.

He arrived in a snorting blue MG with the roof down. He looked every inch the star. When Dolly linked her arm in his for a
photo he felt a bit stiff, but his jacket was soft and expensive and his green silk shirt had obviously cost a bob or two.
He told her his shoes were handmade in Italy. She had always turned him out nice, so perhaps something had stuck. She couldn’t
think of much to say to him – his was a different world, the world she had dreamed of. She was so pleased for him – not proud,
she had no right to be proud.

30 August

Have been searching for John’s old Gucci jacket that we
bought in Rome on idyllic hols. Went for a manicure at
the Nail Place and found it on the clothes peg. It must have
been there for months. No one had taken it or thrown it
out – it was patiently waiting to be found.

She got a job near her sister’s house and again made herself indispensable to her boss (possibly Mr Welsh, the other name
on the bill). So much so that when he was too ill to continue running the pub he sold up and took Dolly to Llandudno to run
a boarding house in partnership with him. It was a lovely little business. Her mother and her sister came on a visit and were
very impressed. Things were looking good again. Six months after everything was up and running she began to have back pain.
Then she started to haemorrhage down below. Her sister took her back to Leedale Road. She had cancer of the cervix, womb and
spine. Her family cared for her. She endured chemotherapy and radiotherapy and acute pain, always convinced she would get
better. She spoke often of her sons. Her family tried to contact John. Ray had moved to somewhere in Australia. John was either
unable or unwilling to see her. Reduced to skin and bone, just before she died, she sat bolt upright and said, ‘Right, pay
t’bill and let’s be off.’ At fifty-two she had paid all right, but would go no further. They had a whip-round and sold her
radiogram to pay for the funeral. Cissie insisted that her rings be given to young John for that was what Dolly had wanted.

As I am leaving, Stuart indicates not one but two fifties-style cocktail cabinets – all gilt and mirrors, faux walnut and
sliding glass doors. They were Dolly’s. Of course they were. And the Bell’s whisky bottle converted into a lamp with the gold
satin shade. Surely John would have enjoyed that. ‘Yeah, go for it, girl.’

I find her grave. Her mother outlived her by two years and tended it every week until her death but it is neglected now. She
ended up at fifty-two a single woman, in a cemetery in West Gorton, buried in the same hole as her mother and father because
it was cheaper. She didn’t get away, but her sons did. As I look at the shabby tombstone on this freezing cold grey day, I
find myself crying. My new friend Shaun touches my arm, puzzled, but I suppose I am weeping for all the people who have mucked
up their lives, thinking the grass is greener on the other side, only to find it’s a desert. For my mother’s generation and
their mothers before them, who have been given no encouragement. And because the Ivys and Dollys never wept for themselves.

5 September

We did it. Sick to death of ‘in celebration’. ‘Memorial’ was
too grandiose so settled for Remembering John. After all
the preparation it worked a treat yesterday. I actually think
John would have enjoyed it. The balance of laughter and
tears was just right and Jack, Lola and Molly Mae running
in at the end lifted all our hearts. Trafalgar Square came
to a standstill for the balloons. Letter from Dr Piggott, our
doctor for many years, summed it all up.

Dear Sheila,

We felt very proud to have been able to share with you,
the family, your friends and your colleagues at that
wonderful outpouring of love and caring. It was simply an
amazing occasion. I could not help but wonder how John’s
father would have thought and felt had he known that his
precious son had had a service remembering him and
devoted to his honour in St Martin’s, that the Prince of
Wales and the wife of the Prime Minister of the day were
there, that some of the most notable of his and your
professional colleagues were there, that numberless
members of the public, his fans, were there, that the bells
rang out for him over Trafalgar Square and the police
were needed to control the public and the traffic: surely
he would have burst with pride, surely you and your
daughters must have too. Was ever a man more deeply
honoured, was ever there more beautiful music on such
an occasion, was ever there more beautiful moving verse
written and spoken so perfectly by Abigail, were ever so
many emotionally in tatters at such an occasion? And did
he not greatly deserve it?

20

I Thought One Was Enough,
It’s Not True

6 September

TV tribute went out. Jack Gold did a great job. God how
he was loved. I wish I had told him more how wonderful
he was – but then he wasn’t always. We are all in rags
now but we did him proud. Wish he could be here to see
it all. Ray was very brave and has become a star after his
contribution to the tribute which he did superbly. Tom
made me laugh at the memorial. Said how he and John
knew this very camp musician who used to speak in a
strange and affected way. One of the things he used to say
was, ‘Let’s commit telephonage.’ That was the last thing
John said to Tom, ‘I tell you what, Tommy, let’s commit
telephonage.’ They never did again, but it was a sweet note
to go out on.

11 September

Dull dead feeling now all the tension of our public performance
for John is over. Life goes on – and on and on. I don’t
think it should. The world should stop as mine has. I’m
sure the relatives of those that died in the US last year feel
the same. Rumblings of pre-emptive strikes on Iraq. The
big boys want to show their powerful toys off and frighten
the little ones. Never mind that bloody phrase ‘weapons of
mass destruction’. The carnage of 9/11 was caused with
the help of a few penknives and fanatical hatred. War is
not a sensible option. It creates more terrorists, especially
if they lose. We have backed some appalling people like
the Majahadein including Osama Bin Laden in Afghanistan
and then are surprised when they turn on us, using the
weapons we sold them to kill us.

12 September

To Oxford to open a scanner at the Radcliffe Hospital.
Nice dinner in University College with medical types.
Forced myself to be entertaining and acted enjoying myself
and eventually I did. Nice people.

13 September

Took Jack and Lola to Somerset House. They loved running
into the fountains. Ended up sopping wet. Shrieking with
laughter. They are upset by John’s death but can still experience
pure joy. Albert Camus: ‘In the midst of winter I
finally learned that there was in me an invincible summer.’
There certainly is in kids. My summer is a bit more vincible
at present.

16 September

I feel I have reached a fork in the road. One route leads
to recovery, the other to life-long martyrdom. There are
no oughts or shoulds but I
could
choose the positive route.
I almost feel I’m in danger of clinging on to my grief for
fear of losing him if I let it go. A poem someone sent me
sums it up:

You can shed tears that he is gone

Or you can smile because he has lived.

You can close your eyes and pray that he’ll come back

Or you can open your eyes and see all that he’s left.

Your heart can be empty because you can’t see him

Or you can be full of the love you shared.

You can turn your back on tomorrow and live for yesterday

Or you can be happy for tomorrow because of yesterday.

You can remember him and only that he’s gone

Or you can cherish his memory and let it live on.

You can cry and close your mind, be empty and turn your
back

Or you can do what he’d want.

Smile, open your eyes, love and go on.

20 September

Felt happy today. The family gathered at Lucky. The children
rolled on the grass. The sun was soft and warm. The
garden full of autumn flowers. It was a different kind of joy.
Without the edge, without the excitement but a loving day.

22 September

I don’t believe John would have ‘wanted you to be happy’.
He would have been pretty miffed if I wasn’t gutted in fact.
But I do believe it is a negation of our life together to be
unhappy for the rest of mine. I can’t help it now, for a
while. But he relied on me to get things done. And I must
get this grief done. Eventually. The difference with my
ability to cope is now I don’t have him as a sounding board.
To bore, to make light with, to unpick problems with, to
vent my spleen on. So? I do it alone. Or with my lovely
family. Or with my friends. – Or somehow. I have to learn
to be alone. You can do it, kid.

27 September

Went to see hypnotherapist. Lots of talk about starting a
new life, closing the last chapter. Came out feeling very
positive. Passed the Wallace Collection in Manchester
Square and thought: ‘Well I don’t have to hurry home,
there’s no one waiting, I’ll pop in.’ I’ve often heard how
good the restaurant is so went into the courtyard and, sure
enough, it was beautiful. Sat in the sun feeling very proud
of myself when a young woman came up and snapped,
‘Have you booked? No? Then I’m afraid you must leave.’
Slunk out thinking she wouldn’t have been so rude if I’d
had John with me, or any man come to that. It’s true that
women on their own are not treated well, even by other
women. Sat in my car and had a sandwich, thoroughly
depressed. I have started on Ativan to help me sleep. Those
small hours in the morning are intolerable.

29 September

Lot of stuff about Edwina Currie’s affair with John Major.
Little rat says, ‘It is the one event of my life of which I am
most ashamed.’ He let himself stay ashamed for quite a
while, as it lasted from 1984 to 1988. She’s getting all the
flak of course. One article said adultery was necessary to
keep a marriage alive but you must keep quiet about it. I
swear I have never for one moment needed to commit
adultery. John was all I ever wanted. And I’m sure it was
true for him too. Maybe we were freaks of nature.

30 September

Horrendous accountants’ meeting. Don’t understand a
word they say. I don’t know my ISA from my elbow.

1 October

Felt really wretched today but found a quote from Flaubert
that cheered me up: ‘To be stupid, selfish and have good
health are the three requirements of happiness but if stupidity
is lacking all is lost.’ Another nice one of his: ‘The mass of
men lead lives of quiet desperation.’ And they’re all trudging
down Hammersmith Broadway by the look of it.

3 October

Talking to people about John. Interesting how different
people saw him. I suppose we are all like that, not just
actors. We try to be what people want us to be. Or not.
Either way we are sort of acting a role. Especially women.
I’ve been Mummy, wife, lover, public person, charity
worker, leader, learner, bossy or dependent and a million
other things according to the company I am in. My big
problem now is what am I to be on my own? I don’t have
to be anything for anyone and I am lost. No one’s telling
me they need me so I feel redundant. No one’s saying I’m
beautiful so I am ugly. Above all, no one finds me sexy so
I am becoming what I actually am – old and past it.

4 October

Decided to let the family go to Luckington on their own.
I stayed in London and saw friends. I think I have to create
my personal life as a firm base before I can contribute
strongly to the family, otherwise I depend on them too
much. Expect too much. Want them to dote on me like
John did. And why should they? They have their own lives
and families. We are extremely close but it is a family
relationship. They want me to be strong – their mother –
not some feeble old fart constantly demanding attention.

5 October

A breakthrough. Clare V. to stay. Can’t believe she’s dying.
She’s so full of life. Watched Robin Williams on the
Parkinson Show
and this bereaved woman and one with
terminal cancer literally fell on the floor laughing. Even
though the laughing hurt Clare’s ribs. What a tonic laughter
is. Mind you, the champagne helped. She had been given
a bottle of amazing Dom Perignon champagne. We made
our gravy with it as well. Delia hasn’t thought of that.

6 October

Email from Clare. She is so gutsy.

Darling person WHAT a lovely weekend. I go into the week
with renewed energy and fits of giggles. I had a fab relaxing
and enlivening time. You are such a dear. I know John is
sitting on his cloud beaming with pride – I know because
I asked his pyjams – for which great thanks. Let me know
how you are at regular intervals whether gloomy or not.
You are doing brilliantly.

How can she be so concerned for me when she is ill and
facing death? She is a miracle person.

10 October

Curious day. Found myself by mistake at corporate lunch
for donors to the National Theatre. Everyone talked about
how they would have liked to meet John. I actually rasped
bitterly to the umpteenth, ‘Well you’ll have to make do
with me.’ Showed Ellie Jane a tiny picture of Alec in his
flying kit and she burst into tears. She has been so stoic
up to now. She’s had so much sadness in her life, losing
two fathers and the worry over Jack.

11 October

Followed Helen’s advice and cooked myself a proper meal
instead of a ready-cook or sandwich. Laid the table and
ate it with a glass of wine. It felt good.

12 October

Took Jack and Lola to cinema in Kensington then over to
Holland Park and the Commonwealth Institute. Looked up
at Troy Court. Who would have thought when I looked out
of those windows, drowsy with love, that I would one day
be out here – an old woman playing with her grandchildren?
But we had fun. Pretending to hide from the police when
they came round to lock up the park. They both had those
divine giggles where you can’t breathe. So did I.

13 October

Appalling bomb in Bali. A small one first to get people in
the street, then a huge one that killed at least 184 and
injured 300-odd. Wicked, wicked. Those lovely, gentle,
beautiful people. But it turns out it was a club where
Indonesians were not allowed. And I remember the stories
of brutality when we were there. Perhaps it wasn’t as idyllic
as we tourists think.

14 October

The world is such a mess. I feel old and miserable. Do the
two things go together? You end up singing the blues. At
the end of
Twelfth Night
, when everyone’s happy, Will has
the clown sing a song that keeps repeating, ‘The rain it
raineth every day’. I seem to remember the song also has
the word ‘tosspot’ in it. One of John’s favourite terms of
abuse. The world is full of tosspots. But the rain doesn’t
rain every day. Not in Provence anyway.

15 October

Went to see Clare Higgins in
Vincent in Brixton
. She was
wonderful. Jo and I went backstage to thank her for her
help with John. Said how hellish it would have been if he
had died during the drinking days. I would have been so
full of regret. We may even have died hating each other.
Of course we never did really but it would be too late to
make amends.

16 October

Broke the curse of the Wallace Collection. Had a lovely
lunch with wise James Roose-Evans and no one told me
to leave. Later went to a concert at Wigmore Hall and
enjoyed that too. I’m groping my way out of the dark. I
accept every invitation I get and force myself out and about.
Come on, girl, get your act together. This is it. Make the
most of it before you too lose it.

Life, I mean.

25 October

Enjoying France with Clare V. Lotta laughs. She has the
ability that John had to disregard her illness completely but
she,
un
like him, is calmly preparing for death. Telling her
friends she loves them and allowing them to tell her, as Udi
did. Sorting John’s clothes in France. Two things I cannot
part with. His dogs. A hideous pair of shorts he brought
back from Canada with Scottie dogs around the legs which
he wore with socks and sandals. A ludicrous sight, far
removed from Ernie Morse. And his mincing boots. A
strange pair of hand-stitched ankle boots that some extra
conned him into buying. They made him walk even more
oddly.

26 October

Offered some of John’s clothes to David. He was very
moved. He didn’t see John that often, only when we came
to France, but said he felt he was a sort of father figure.
Just by being there John appears to have been so many
things to so many people. John was fond of David but
never put himself out much for him yet David felt his
strength and he made him into what he needed. Just like
the public have.