I formally became a lesbian in the summer of 1966. At school, I’d had crushes on girls and they were all-consuming. My father knew the father of one of my ‘pashes,’ and had talked about it with him in an amused way; they never realised that it was sexual. Men don’t take lesbianism seriously, unless they want to watch. That’s not a service I have ever provided. But my school ‘cracks’ generated passion so intense that I felt cut in two, almost fragmented by it. I was obsessed with the objects of my affection. I would follow them and moon over them. (When I say moon, I don’t mean that I would expose myself. I’ve only done that to Warren Beatty, and he completely deserved it. The expression of shocked surprise frozen on his face still tickles me even now — more of this later.) But up until my mid-twenties, I’d never put two and two together. So, when it did finally dawn on me that I must be a lesbian, it came as a bit of a bombshell.
Early in 1966, I got picked up on the tube in London. There was this girclass="underline" multicoloured trousers, short black hair, intense eyes. I became conscious of her gaze, looking at me in a direct way, unwavering and decidedly inviting. When I got off at Lancaster Gate, she got off too, and somehow or other, and I’m really not quite sure how, we ended up back at my flat and there it began. We didn’t sleep together — but it was exciting. She was Norwegian; later, when Heather and I had met and I was telling her about it, she called her ‘Norwegian Wood’, which apparently is a Beatles song about a mysterious girl who turns up, sparks passion and then vanishes for ever. This encounter stirred me up. Even when I went to synagogue, all I could think about was sex, and how much I wanted to have love affairs with other women. Let us say, I was ready.
My old Cambridge friend, Carey Harrison, had become a director at the Phoenix Theatre, Leicester. He invited me to join the company and take part in his first play, Dante Kaputt, but I was to start my time there with the well-known potboiler The Cat and the Canary.
I arrived mid-season: the other company members had already got to know each other, so I was on my own. The stage manager was a surly girl with bleach-blonde hair in corduroys called Marion. We hit it off instantly. After rehearsals one April evening, Marion and I walked home together and I invited her in. We sat on the sofa and had a cup of hot chocolate and a talk. I think she was lonely too. Then I began to feel that feeling… a hot moistness in that department. There was a pause and Marion moved closer to me — and kissed me. I responded, my heart racing. Her second kiss was rather different, more aggressive — she pushed her tongue into my mouth. I pulled away and asked, ‘Is this sex?’ I couldn’t believe it. And that was in 1966. ‘Is this sex?’ I remember quite distinctly that I asked her. It was a genuine question, because it was so new to me.
Marion smiled. ‘Yes,’ she said. Well, it sure was.
I’d never felt as aroused as I did during that time in Leicester with Marion. I think everybody but me guessed she was a lesbian, but she was extremely reserved. And she definitely wasn’t in love with me. I was there, I was handy — so to speak — but for me, the moment was intense because it was unique; it was the first time in my life when emotion and sex were coupled. Of course, I fell in love with her.
I knew that I was not ‘the one’, but Marion and I embarked on a relationship nevertheless. All went swimmingly against the backdrop of The Cat and the Canary until another woman appeared on the scene.
Anne Kristen was a fine actress, best known perhaps for her role as Olive Rowe in Coronation Street. She was bisexual, and she and Marion took one look at each other and that was it. I didn’t have to ask, I just sensed it, and I was hurt. And maddened. I wanted Marion to explain it to me. Were we ‘over’? She hadn’t come to sleep with me for some days. I decided to confront her first thing one morning — I had a key to her room, but she wasn’t there. It was obvious where she was. I went straight to Anne’s hotel.
I said to the man on the front desk, ‘I need to give a message to Anne Kristen. I’m from the theatre, it’s very urgent.’
He said it was a bit early to disturb a hotel guest in their room — it was only 8.30 a.m., but I was adamant. ‘No, it’s extremely important that I talk to her. I need to see her now.’ Reluctantly, he told me her room number.
I went up and hammered on the door: ‘I know you’re both in there and if you don’t let me in, I will make a shocking row and you will be discovered.’ They knew it wasn’t an idle threat. Anne opened the door. And there was Marion, lying in Anne’s bed. I was incandescent with rage and jealousy. I jumped on the bed and slapped and punched them both. ‘Don’t hurt her,’ Anne begged. That maddened me further and I deliberately stamped hard on Marion’s reading glasses. When my frenzy was spent, I left and went straight back to Marion’s room, and scrawled on the mirror, ‘LESBIAN CUNT’ in red lipstick. Although I was nominally a grown-up, my reactions were those of a teenager on acid.
I had never experienced rejection like this before — the anguish and fury and jealousy. I didn’t think I would ever feel as intensely again. I went back to my digs and, all alone, watched England win the World Cup. While the whole country went wild with joy, I felt like my heart had literally broken. Later I was summoned to talk to Clive Perry, the artistic director. He said coldly, ‘I’m sorry, we won’t be requiring your services next season.’ He didn’t mention the reason but I knew I was being sacked for violence. And justifiably so. I was lucky not to have been arrested. And that would have meant a lesbian drama in the Leicester Mercury. The last time one of my family was in that paper was in 1877, when great-grandfather Simon went to prison for fraud.
Of course, it was alarming for Anne, who kept out of my way; we never discussed it. Years later I worked with her husband in Scotland, the fine actor, Iain Cuthbertson. I don’t think he ever knew: I hope not. And in the way of theatre, which is a merry-go-round, with everyone coming across each other again at least once, when Anne met me again and propositioned me, I refused. But when I eventually got to know her, long after the Leicester Lesbian moment, I found I liked and admired her and when she died I truly felt sad. How strange life is.
I don’t know why I fancied Marion… because she was there? Because she fancied me? Because she made the first move? That kiss was the thing that set it off. I had never felt confident enough to make the first move. Somebody once said to me, ‘You’re a flirt, you are.’ That’s probably true, but I suspect it’s more about wanting to evoke a reaction, rather than get into bed with someone. Women are more subtle: we don’t trap people up against filing cabinets; such behaviour seems peculiarly male, but there may be exceptions.
The encounter with Norwegian Wood made me realise that my sexual preference was obvious to other gay women, even if it hadn’t entirely been obvious to me. I was ecstatic. Now I had a sexual identity. Now I could say, ‘I am a lesbian.’ Everything fell into place. And it was fun. I still think it’s a terrific thing to be, which is good, because it’s not going to change.
But may I say strongly that being a lesbian is not enough — it’s not all there is; it’s simply another adjective to describe a person. And when people say, ‘Oh, you must meet X, she’s a lesbian too,’ I groan with irritation. I don’t want to live in a lesbian world. I want to live in The World, with everyone else. I would never deny my sexuality — indeed I am often accused of trumpeting it far too stridently and often — but please don’t shut me or anyone else in a lesbian cage. Some gay women only want to be with gay women. I don’t. I pick the people in my life because of who they are, not because of who they sleep with. Let’s open the closet and take our place in the world.