Elisabeth Sladen: The Autobiography

Mustardseed – I didn’t even like his name.

Most of the time SEC taught us personally, but every so often she would invite guests to give us further inspiration. One day she said, ‘Girls, we have a treat today. Tony Colegate from the Liverpool Playhouse is going to take a lesson.’

Tony was assistant director at the time but he was such a talented actor too, although he never really enjoyed it. The only Irishman I ever met who didn’t have an accent, he was clever, quite hypnotising to listen to, and very powerful when it came to putting his ideas across. I dreamed of working with someone who was as passionate and talented as him. How often had I walked past the Playhouse and stared longingly at the posters of people like Tony Hopkins? That was where I wanted to be.

Of course, being a filmstar would have been fine as well.

When SEC announced that a film crew were seeking extras for a few days, my friends Jackie and Alex and I ran down to sign up. The film was Ferry Cross the Mersey starring Gerry and the Pacemakers – I think it was their attempt to do a Beatles-type movie. All I knew was, it was my chance to be seen by an audience of millions.

In the end, I was so embarrassed by the final result that I’ve never told anyone about it. You certainly won’t find it mentioned on my CV! Our contribution involved going down to the Mersey Ferry and riding it back and forth all day to Beddington, so we were in the background while the main actors wandered around the ship. Anyone would have been happy with a pound a day for that. Then the moment came for our close-up. I had on my Mary Quant dress and I thought I looked the business. The three of us couldn’t wait to see it at the cinema.

Well, thank God DVDs didn’t exist in those days! The finished scene was horrendous – or rather, I was horrendous. At that moment I realised how little I knew about movie acting. My hair was all over the place, my smile fake on film and as for my weight – you really do look two stone heavier onscreen. I remember sitting in the cinema with Alex and Jackie and we cried. I nearly gave up acting there and then.

If anything, though, it simply focused my desire to work harder on my stagecraft. In summer 1964 I joined the Hillbark Players for their open-air production of Much Ado About Nothing – a risky undertaking in the Wirral, even in July. We played outdoors at Hillbark House. Entrances and exits were behind bushes and from the house. I wore a yellow frock as Hero and the local papers said I was ‘charming and sincere’ and ‘engaging’. There were a couple of boys who I kept in touch with; they’d come and sleep on our floor in Liverpool sometimes. One wanted to be an artist. I quite liked him, and my Elvis posters came down and his paintings went up in their place – for a while.

My hard work was noticed at school. SEC came over one day, and said, ‘There’s a place going for an assistant stage manager at the Liverpool Playhouse – I think you should go for it.’

Talk about a bolt from the blue.

‘But what about my lessons, what about my acting?’

‘My dear Lissie, you will learn more in a year at the Playhouse than a lifetime in this studio.’

Encouraging as ever. And it made sense, but there was a caveat. ‘There’s just one thing. It’s a post for a student – if they find out you’ve been to drama school you’ll not get in because they’ll have to pay you more!’

I was nervous enough auditioning for David Scase, the Playhouse’s famous director, but keeping that little secret made me a bundle of nerves. I must have said something right, though. A couple of days later Shelagh found me before class.

‘I’ve just had a phone call from the Playhouse. Congratulations, my dear, they want you.’

Now I just had to convince my parents. It had been hard enough to persuade them to let me go to dance school in the first place – and now I wanted to quit halfway through and join a theatre.

‘Are you sure, Lissie?’ Mum kept saying. ‘Are you really sure it’s what you want to do?’

‘Mum, for the chance of acting at the Liverpool Playhouse I would happily wash that stage every night on my knees,’ I said.

I’m such a bloody idiot – that’s exactly what they had me doing!

Chapter Two

Here She Comes, Sarah Heartburn

THE LIVERPOOL Playhouse, on Williamson Square, is a beautiful, majestic old building that was built as a music hall in the 1860s. It’s where Noel Coward first worked with Gertrude Lawrence as child actors and where London’s Old Vic relocated during the War. I wasn’t aware of this rich history as a youngster, of course. All I knew, every time I walked past its tall, imposing stone columns, or occasionally if I was lucky enough to see a play in its luxurious auditorium, was that the people inside that building were lucky enough to be doing the thing that I most wanted to do for the rest of my life.

But now I had my chance.

I’ve still got the letter from David Scase, the artistic director: ‘We’re delighted to welcome you to the Liverpool Playhouse Repertory Company.’ As I made my way to the theatre in August 1965, I clutched it tightly just in case anyone needed proof that I deserved to be there. Reaching Brythen Street, I stopped. There was the sign marked ‘Stage Door’. A shiver ran through me. Stepping through that door would be like stepping into Narnia – my life would never be the same again.

I thought of the dozens of productions I’d seen there, all the stars who had stepped through this door before me. It was such a magical company at the time: Cynthia Grenville, Lynda Marchal – who became Lynda La Plante – Tony Hopkins, future husband and wife Malcolm Read and Helena de Crespo, and Jean Boht. I used to watch them all. And Patrick Stewart, he was marvellous, although bald even then. I remember going to see him as Oberon in A Midsummer Night’s Dream – it only cost a few coppers for a seat up in the gods – and I don’t think people recognised him when he came on because he was wearing a wig. Normally the fact he became bald so prematurely meant he got all the meaty, older man parts, but this time they actually wanted him to appear younger.

Here I was, a few years later, about to follow in their footsteps. It didn’t matter that I was only a student, I was still part of the same company to count my hero Robert Donat, Rachel Kempson, Rex Harrison and Michael Redgrave among its alumni.

I took a deep breath and went in.