Elisabeth Sladen: The Autobiography

show in Harlem. When I tell people this now they’re amazed we dared to go there. White faces in the late 1960s weren’t exactly encouraged, it seems. I didn’t have a clue but you can bet Brian bloody well did. I’m sure he found it hilarious watching Little Miss Innocent stroll about, oblivious to everything. If we did get any harsh looks, I certainly didn’t notice.

The first time I noticed anything really out of the ordinary was when the play began. Everyone on stage was black. Everyone in the audience was black. And then there was us. It didn’t matter but, unless I’m working, I always prefer blending in to standing out and until the curtain went up, I swear I could feel every pair of eyes trained on us.

The play was an audience-participation number and I hate audience participation with a vengeance. I can’t stand it. We did a show like it at Manchester and as soon as you’d get people up on stage they’d start talking to you.

‘Oh, I loved you as Desdemona last week.’

‘I saw your mother in the supermarket. She’s very proud.’

It’s as if the second they reach the stage, they forget there’s a show on.

I remembered this in Harlem when they invited everyone up on stage. Though I tried to hide against my seat, as I’ve said, it was pretty hard in that audience not to stand out.

‘Oh God, I’m not doing that,’ I said, shrinking as far as I could into the seat.

‘You have to,’ Brian said, ‘or else they’ll think you’re racist.’

Reluctantly I dragged myself up into the aisle. A minute later I’m up on stage dancing and generally making an arse of myself. I looked round a few steps later and saw Brian still rooted in his seat. I could have throttled him. Of course I don’t know if he could make out the swear words I mouthed at him, but he looked to be having a great time.

*   *   *

Before we knew it, we were back in Manchester with a season to finish at the Library.

Knuckling down to work on Mother Courage was quite tricky after all the excitement of getting married. It didn’t help that it was such hard work. The stage at the Library rakes quite severely and Jeanie Boht and I had to manoeuvre this large wagon around the scenery. It was so heavy that one lapse of concentration and it was rolling me straight into the audience.

We were on our second day of technical rehearsals and Jeanie and I had just kept it out of Row A.

‘This is ridiculous,’ she said. ‘We’ll have to scrap the scenery.’

The look on Dickie Marks’ face! No one else would have dared to speak to him like that. I certainly wouldn’t. But Jean was a character. And she got her way.

We weren’t far into rehearsals when I noticed Tony hadn’t come in to work. Someone told me he had gone to hospital with colitis. I had no idea he was even ill. And I certainly didn’t realise just how severe it was – he’d seemed in good form at the wedding. It was a sombre cast that went on stage that night.

John Blackmore, Tony’s assistant, had to take over. At rehearsal a few days later I was sitting inside the wagon that had caused so many problems. There’s a part in the play where Kattrin has to stay there for quite a while, so I was looking around at the back of the stage. Because it was just a rehearsal, the great big dock doors at the back, where this thing would be wheeled away to the storage area, were still open. Tony preferred it like that – it meant he could pop in from his office and see how we were getting on.

I still had a few minutes to wait when I looked up and there was the familiar sight of Tony walking past, tapping his fingers on his brown briefcase as usual. He gave me a smile so I waved back. It was so good to see him up and about.

The next day I turned up for work and found Jeanie and John Blackmore in the dressing room looking very down. I decided to leave them to it and went off to get some tea. Before I got there, Mr Colley, the theatre manager, called us all into the auditorium.

What’s this about?

Everyone shuffled in and Colley cleared his throat.

‘Now,’ he said, ‘as I’m sure you all know, Tony died in hospital last night.’

I froze. ‘Died last night’? That was impossible – he’d been at work in the afternoon. I’d seen him, we’d waved.

People were crying but I was in too much shock. Apparently Tony hadn’t left hospital since being admitted after the wedding yet I’d seen him with my own eyes. I know it was Tony. I know that’s exactly who I saw and now I know he was saying goodbye.

Not everyone believes me. Some people think I dozed off in the wagon and dreamt it. I got the same thing later during similar events at Wookey Hole when we were filming Revenge of the Cybermen.

But God, I wish I’d spoken to Tony. I owed him so much – we all did.

Chapter Three

How Do You Keep Your Shoes So White?

ONE OF the nicer moments while I was in Manchester came when a chap introduced himself as the agent Todd Joseph, of Joseph and Wagg. He liked what he’d seen and said he’d be interested in representing me.

‘But only when you move to London. I can’t do anything for you while you’re up here.’

‘What if I don’t want to move to London?’

‘You will. And when you do, give me a call.’

What a cheek, I thought. Why would I leave Manchester?