Our Golda for six months of the tour was Thelma Ruby. She was a wonderful company mother, intensely professional but she loved a good laugh. She travelled with her wire-haired dachshund Candy and we went on a dog-mating expedition together, another extension of my role as the Matchmaker. The male dog in question was called Guy: Thelma wanted to teach Candy to sing ‘I’m in love with a wonderful Guy.’ She remembers my being very anxious that Candy was enjoying the experience. (Did you know that the dog has a bone in its penis? Unlike man.)
The show was hard work: we performed eight times a week. There were two matinees, one either on Thursday or Wednesday, and one on Saturday — but I was young and full of energy. I liked to get to the theatre about two hours before curtain up; it takes me a while to get into character. The best way I can describe that process is that slowly you divorce yourself from what’s going on around you; you think about the show and you think about moments that you weren’t so happy with and how they can be improved. It’s a continuous process of getting into focus as the run progresses.
The other cast members were housed in different accommodations around the area, and after the performance we’d usually end up heading off in different groups for dinner and drinks — most actors don’t like to eat a big meal before a show, so we tended to eat quite late. It was nearly always Indian, Italian or fish and chips, rather than going back to our lodgings and having to cook something from scratch at about midnight! On Sundays, when we had a full, blissful day off, we would often find a special pub or fine restaurant and go off in a group.
It was during the run at the Nottingham Theatre Royal that both my understudy and I very nearly missed a Monday night performance. If the main actor is a no-show, well, it’s not ideal but the show goes on with the understudy; but for neither of us to turn up would have spelt disaster. At the time Heather was on a research trip to England and was living in my flat in Gloucester Terrace. I tried to get back nearly every weekend to see her on the Saturday night after the second show, and if the leg of the tour was within reach of London, I could stay until the Monday morning. My understudy, Andonia, had a Mini estate, and she would always give me a lift, but one day when we were driving back on the Monday afternoon to Nottingham, the Mini broke down on the motorway. Andonia wanted to stay with her vehicle; I had no idea how I was going to get to the theatre and, of course, she was my understudy, so one of us had to get back. Nothing for it — I had to hitch a ride. I flagged down a passing car and pleaded with the driver, ‘Now, listen, you’ve got to take me to the stage door of the Theatre Royal. I’m an actress and I’m appearing tonight in Fiddler on the Roof and we have fifty minutes to curtain up.’ And that wonderful man took me right to the door.
Apart from Manchester, where we had our Handforth bolthole, and Glasgow where I stayed with my father’s family, I was mostly in rented rooms. Back then, each theatre provided a list of approved theatrical digs — of course, the list of ‘theatrical landladies’ is a repository of real characters who have formed an intrinsic part of theatrical lore.
All the established theatrical digs had a well-thumbed visitors’ book; it was fascinating to see who had just been staying there, or had lodged there in the distant past. The visitors’ book also became famous as an efficient and discreet way for lodging actors to pass on information to the next incumbents — famously, ‘Quoth the Raven’ was code for the warning: ‘Don’t set foot here again’, because the full line from Edgar Allan Poe’s ‘The Raven’ reads, ‘Quoth the Raven, «Nevermore.» ’ Apparently, the letters ‘LO’ or ‘LDO’ would be a cheering sight for the male visitors, alerting them to the possibility that the ‘landlady obliges’, or ‘the landlady’s daughter obliges’! I never came across those types of coded messages in any of the places I stayed in, but I enjoyed getting to know my landladies — if only purely in the strictly non-biblical sense.
My landlady in Leeds, for example, was an adorable Jewish lady called Sadie Shooman. Sadie was the secretary to Dame Fanny Waterman, the founder and director of the Leeds International Piano Competition.[10] Sadie made wonderful chicken soup and chopped liver. Another of my landladies, Shirley Rubinstein, was married to the playwright, Alan Plater. She loved theatre, enjoyed talking about it and we remained friends until she died. Possibly the most famous theatrical landlady was Mrs Mackay. I didn’t actually stay with her, but Mollie Hare, the oldest member of our company did. On an earlier occasion, Mollie’s sister, Doris Hare — a well-known musical comedy actress — was staying with her, and Mrs Mackay knocked on Doris’s door and came in. She said ‘Good morning’ to Doris. Doris said, ‘Good morning’ in return. Then Mrs Mackay went over to draw the curtains, turned to Doris and said, ‘Well, your mother’s dead.’ Mrs Mackay had taken the phone call and was meant to break the news gently to her. Let us say she lacked finesse. On a more upbeat note, Derek Nimmo told the story of when he was performing in Bolton during rationing, his mother delivered some delicious steak and asparagus to his landlady as a treat for him one day. When he arrived back at his digs, the landlady proudly told him she had cooked his steak, and ‘put the bluebells in some water’. Another of my favourite landlady stories is one that Lionel Blair’s gifted sister, Joyce, told me. Joyce was one of my best friends in Santa Monica. Lionel arrived in new digs somewhere up north. He went to the loo, and when he had done his business, he tried to pull the chain but no flush was forthcoming. He was pulling and pulling and pulling when his landlady, hearing the unsuccessful pulls, called up to him, ‘Mr Blair! Mr Blair, you have to surprise it!’
For Christmas, we were at the King’s Theatre in Glasgow. We had a full Christmas season there, which was for about two months, so I stayed with Auntie Eva and Uncle Harold in Pollokshields. After that we were in Aberdeen for January, then on the second-last stop of the tour we played at the King’s Theatre in Edinburgh. The stage was on a revolve — it had a mechanism which meant that it slowly rotated a full 360 degrees — and that was how the scenes changed. We were all on stage in Anatevka when it started its stately turn — and then suddenly lurched to a halt. Several cast members fell off. The mechanism had jammed and we were stuck on stage mid-scene, so they had to stop the show for about half an hour. Those who had kept their balance had to sheepishly go off into the wings and wait for the mechanism to be fixed.
Leeds was the last stop. By the end of a full year on the road we were all extremely tired. It was Passover, and I had taken over the role of the Jewish mother of the company when Thelma Ruby left. As such, I decided that it was my job to find somewhere for me and my fellow Jews in the company to go for our Seder night, the special supper that we all have at Passover. I asked the theatre management to put an advertisement in the local Jewish Echo.
A woman rang up. ‘Oh, hello, I saw your advertisement about finding people to play host to members of your company for Passover. I would like to offer a Seder night meal to Barry Martin.’ Barry had taken over from Lex and was now the star of the show playing Tevye. I said to her, ‘I’m so sorry, Barry has relatives in Leeds, so he will be going there for supper. However, I have got a young lady in the company, she’s a violinist in the orchestra, and it’s the first time she’s been away from home. So, it would be really kind if you could offer her your hospitality.’ ‘Oh, no, I’m sorry. I only want Barry Martin.’ ‘I didn’t realise your hospitality was so selective,’ I replied, and put the phone down.
10
Since that stay in Leeds, I’ve always wanted to meet Dame Fanny Waterman, and just last year, soon after her one hundredth birthday, I achieved my ambition, thanks to my dear friend, the late Dr Richard Shephard, who used to be the director of music of York Minster.