The Two of Us (21 page)

After a run of serious roles, he was pleased to get a comedy role for a change, playing Reece Dinsdale’s father in
Home to
Roost
by that doyen of sitcom writers, Eric Chappell. It rehearsed in London but recorded up in Leeds. When he came home shattered
each week I put it down to the stress of having to work in front of a studio audience, which he found difficult. When I played
the part of his wife in one episode, I discovered that there was another reason. The night before the recording, we went out
for a meal with everybody and, after we had eaten, I assumed we would go back for an early night before the heavy studio day.
John did not come back to the hotel with me. This was extraordinary because he knew I was nervous and was usually over-protective
of me. He reeled back in the small hours of the morning, blind drunk. The next day during the show, we barely spoke. I was
shocked at his shaking hands and sweating brow. He got through the show and I’m sure nobody but I noticed the state he was
in. All the time I was there jokes were flying around about his capacity for the booze, so I realised this was usual. I was
appalled and showed it. They thought me a miserable killjoy. I comforted myself that when the series ended so would the problem.
He had always been a drinker. I liked drinkers. My dad was one, so was Alec. It did not affect his work, and this was an aberration
caused by him being at a loose end in Leeds. Of course it was.

* Clare Venables. Actor, writer, inspirational teacher and opera and theatre director. One of the first women to run a theatre.
Director of Lincoln Theatre Royal, Manchester Library and Forum, Theatre Royal, Stratford East, The Crucible, Sheffield. Principal
of the Britt School. Director of Education, the Royal Shakespeare Company. Mentor to many of our leading directors including
Stephen Pimlott, Michael Boyd and Stephen Daldry. Dearest of friends and solver of crosswords and people’s problems. Died
17 October 2003, aged sixty. Why do the good die young?

15

It Takes Patience

IN 1985 TED CHILDS was Head of Drama at Central TV. His great gift was discovering and nurturing talent. A bright young academic
called Kenny McBain was keen to break into TV adult drama, having worked on the progressive children’s series
Grange Hill
. Ted told him to find a strong detective series set in the Central area. Kenny suggested the books by Colin Dexter, set in
Oxford, which was about two feet inside the region boundary. The idea was opposed from all sides. When it was pitched to the
big boys they were not at all keen. They thought Inspector Morse was a miserable old sod, and could not believe that a man
who liked classical music and real ale and was a failure with women would appeal to the public. John Birt, then Director of
Programmes at LWT, who had a say in all TV output and was later renowned for questionable decisions at the BBC, was vehemently
against it. John too had his doubts about doing yet another policeman. Kenny, who had only seen him being crude and physical
in
The Sweeney
, did not think he had the intellectual qualities necessary for the role. Ted fixed up a lunch between John and Kenny, they
got on like a house on fire, and by the end of it, they had persuaded each other to go ahead. With John on board ‘the Suits’,
as John called the bosses, reluctantly decided to give it a go.

Kenny recruited another academic, Anthony Minghella, to do the first TV adaptation and they were in business. Anthony insisted
they needed two hours to unravel the complicated plots. This was unheard of in TV. Nobody believed the public could concentrate
for so long in our sound-bite society, but they got their way. Again, one of John’s programmes was breaking new ground. Ted,
as usual, made sure the production values were first class. Top writers like Julian Mitchell, Stephen Churchett, Daniel Boyle
and Charles Wood were recruited to adapt Colin’s books. It was never difficult to get writers for John’s shows because he
was respectful of their work. Top directors too were delighted to be on board. Many people cut their teeth on
The Sweeney
and
Morse
and then went on to film success. One of these, Danny Boyle, came from theatre. John greeted him with, ‘I hope we’re not going
to do any of those bloody trust exercises you do at the Royal Court. Or throw balls around.’ They all enjoyed working with
John and learned a lot from his expertise in front of the camera, acquired from years of experience.

Colin Dexter was quite happy when John suggested subtle changes in the character of Morse. John’s Morse became less sleazy
and more tentative in his attitude to women than the hero of the early novels. John respected Colin’s academic background
and encyclopaedic knowledge, which stood him in good stead when compiling or solving cryptic crosswords. Despite Colin’s deteriorating
hearing, they enjoyed having a laugh over a drink together, although Colin could become miffed when autograph hunters pushed
him aside in their quest to get at John, particularly if they were pretty young ladies.

Kenny McBain’s brilliant choice of team for the series was largely responsible for its immediate success. He had a great career
ahead of him. During the fourth series he contracted a virulent strain of leukaemia and died when he was thirty-seven. John
was devastated.

15 March

Jesus, I miss him. I miss the quest for the perfect cup of
tea, watching
EastEnders
, listening to
The Archers
, his
conviction that the experts on the
Antiques Road Show
deliberately value things low so that they can buy them
cheap afterwards – ‘Two thousand pounds my arse’ – his
blue, blue doting eyes, his silky white hair, his little stubby
legs, his funny walk, his rage, his pride in me, him, him,
him. His smell, the sound of his voice, his silent presence,
just knowing he is there. But he never will be. ‘Never, never,
never never, never.’

Kenny’s place as producer was taken by David Lascelles. It was a difficult situation for David, but he knew they were all
right when the first episode under his regime was aired and he read a critic in the
Observer
lauding an esoteric joke about Mozart on the same day as the
News of the World
pronounced John TV’s Sexiest Cop. Although John’s performance was totally unlike Jack Regan and in spite of the many other
roles he had played since
The Sweeney
ended nine years before, the critic John Walsh wrote predictably:

Old
Sweeney
fans wouldn’t have been alone in raising a mocking cheer at Thaw’s new identity. It didn’t or couldn’t ring true. The combination
of home brew and coloratura seemed forced. The Man with no Christian Name heroics only made you wonder if he was christened
Cedric, and when Thaw let himself be bested by a wimpy student carrying a rugby boot, a million disbelieving hearts must have
reassured themselves that had it been Jack, he would have well flattened him.

Despite Mr Walsh’s misgivings, with Inspector Morse another TV icon was created. Towards the end of the series it was revealed
that the initial E, which was all that Morse would disclose of his Christian name, was not for Ernie, as we had speculated,
but Endeavour. Colin explained that Morse’s parents were probably Quakers, amongst whom it would have been a usual name, as
well as being what Captain Cook called his famous ship. For some people, his surname became Inspector Remorse, or Inspector
Morose. Later on there was another version. When Clare Holman joined the cast, she was nervous of meeting John. She breezed
into the make-up van and said, ‘Hello, John, I’m Clare.’ He replied curtly, ‘Hello, Clare, I’m John,’ after which there was
silence. On the set she was confronted with a huge Range Rover to drive which, being small, she found daunting. She managed
to get it on to its mark and got out, and nervously walked up to John. Looking at a piece of paper, her first line was, ‘Excuse
me, I wonder if you could help me, I’m looking for . . . Inspector . . . er . . . looks like . . . Mouse.’ At the first rehearsal
everyone laughed and laughed, including John, and from then on they were great mates, and he became Inspector Mouse.

The public felt that if they sat on Morse’s shoulder he would solve the mystery for them, but at the same time they would
never solve the enigma of his character. Morse was emotionally sensitive but tried not to reveal too much. Jenny Jules, an
actress who worked with him later, describes a Morse scene: ‘A woman had died and there was this scene at the end, just him
for a whole minute, you can see him fighting his emotion, he’s trying not to cry and he’s just listening to Mozart and you
just want to cuddle him. The fact that he found it hard to show emotion: to cry, to break down, I thought that was really
beautiful.’

Actual tears were always John’s last resort, in acting or in life, as the struggle to suppress them is more moving than paroxysms
of grief. Instead, the audience cry for him.

16 March

Got through a whole day without sobbing. A couple sent
me some Bach remedies – Star of Bethlehem and White
Chestnut and Ignatius. Could they be helping? Mind you,
I have a thudding dullness inside instead which is not enjoyable
either.

John Madden admired the technique with which John handled all the information he had to impart in a way that sounded natural.
He had a good ear for rhythm and would orchestrate any passage that could become dull in a way that kept it alive with changes
of pace and pitch. Kevin Whately would find himself hanging on to John’s coat tails if he felt a scene needed a kick up the
arse.

As with Regan’s relationship with Carter in
The Sweeney
, much of the richness of the characterisation of Morse came from his relationship with Kevin Whately as Lewis, his sidekick.
John was never a man who had many close mates but with Kevin he was relaxed and trusting, as well as sharing a similar sense
of humour; they became very fond of each other. On location they shared a Winnebago and at the end of a long day would chew
the fat a bit, congratulating one another on ‘getting away with it’. Over his vodka John would groan, ‘That took years off
me, that bloody scene.’ Morse’s exasperated cry of ‘Lew-is’ became much impersonated, but Morse had an awkward affection for
him. In one episode Morse has been horrid to Lewis, then he confides he feels dreadful about someone’s death. Lewis comes
out with the cliché, ‘Well, she’s at peace now,’ to which Morse snaps, ‘The glass is always half full for you, isn’t it?’

Lewis proudly quotes, ‘Well, if you can meet with triumph and disaster / And treat those two imposters just the same . . .’

Morse: ‘Kipling.’

Lewis: ‘No, All England Tennis Association. It’s above the door of the Centre Court.’

Morse: ‘So it is.’

The way John delivered that line summed up their relationship with gentle humanity.

One of John’s skills, invaluable in playing policemen, was that he was a good listener. Hard to do realistically, to
really
listen, not just act it. My friend Faith Brooks said: ‘John listened. He listened when conversing. He listened when acting.
He listened with intensity to music. It’s good to talk, it’s even better to listen.’

This made him easy to act with, and it was why everyone wanted to be in
Morse
, from Sir John Gielgud onward.

17 March

I just can’t bear to sort his things. His trousers are still
folded on the chair, his watch by the bed.

The beginning of the thirteen-year series was shot while John’s life was in turmoil. It was obvious from the first showing
that
Morse
would be a huge success. So why did he continue to be so wretched? He did not get demonstrably drunk as he had in Leeds, but
his moods, which once he could be jollied out of, were now becoming more frequent and impenetrable. They seemed to descend
on him for no reason. He came home from work and after his first drink was usually on a high, but after going upstairs for
a shower he would become uncommunicative and dour, burying himself in his script to learn the next day’s lines. Where he had
been funnily cynical he became at times viciously cruel, not only to myself but to the girls, who came to resent and sometimes
fear him. Never physically, but he could wound just as much with his tongue. It was incomprehensible. I tried desperately
to fathom why he was like this. We would have anguished discussions, long into the night, which got nowhere. I instinctively
felt it was something to do with his childhood giving him this growing hatred of women, and me in particular. I would say,
‘I’m not going whatever you do or say to me,
I’m
not leaving.’ There were times of blessed respite when he showered me with gifts and love. He became two different men – Jekyll
and Hyde. If I tried to talk sensibly about it he claimed not to remember the things he had said. He sometimes denied them
so vehemently that I began to question my own recollection and wonder if I was exaggerating. I felt completely disoriented;
the rows often ended with me cravenly apologising. It was sick behaviour.

All this time I was trying to work at the National Theatre. Ian McKellen and Edward Petherbridge formed a talented company
to work together for a year on several plays. I had one of the best parts of my life in Madame Ranevskaya in
The
Cherry Orchard
. I was also the first woman to direct a show in the biggest auditorium, the Olivier. Insanely, I decided that at the end
of Sheridan’s
The Critic
, the whole set would fall down and catch fire around the actors. The scene is a patriotic pageant led by John Bull, with
Britannia flying above on a cloud, and my idea was a metaphor for the British Empire collapsing around our ears – it seemed
apposite at a time when Thatcher had declared that our absurd war in the Falklands, with 225 British and 652 Argentinians
dead, had ‘put the Great back in Great Britain’. I very nearly killed Ian McKellen and several other brilliant performers
at the dress rehearsal of this spectacular scenic wonder created by Bill Dudley and engineer Peter Kemp. But the worries at
the theatre were nothing to what awaited me at home.

I began to dread being there with John, subjected to his Back Treatment. Sometimes his face contorted into a mask of pure
loathing towards me. Jo went to Bedales as a weekly boarder. She hated leaving but she equally hated being at home, trying
to mediate between us. The months dragged on in utter misery and chaos. We were on a rollercoaster. I could not believe that
all that we had built up together was falling apart.

It was almost a relief when I discovered the cause. Searching for something on top of the wardrobe in the spare room, I found
a half-empty bottle of whisky. I was appalled as I unearthed more and more hidden bottles. I felt grubby spying on him like
that but I knew enough about drink to know that if you were secretive about it, you were in trouble. I confronted John with
my discovery. His shame was terrible. I phoned Anthony Hopkins, who made no secret of having had a drink problem himself.
He was not surprised to hear from me, having heard on the grapevine that there might be a problem. He wisely told me there
was nothing I could do to help John, that it was up to him. The best thing was to look after myself by going to Al Anon, a
twelve-step organisation for people involved with anyone with a drinking problem. It was sound advice. At my first meeting
I felt such relief when I heard the other people talking of their experiences. I recognised that John’s behaviour was a symptom
of what I came to think of as an illness, just as asthma is.