Elisabeth Sladen: The Autobiography

Coming from a stage background I had been trained to accept the director as king. Tony Colegate or Alan Ayckbourn could squeeze miracles out of anyone’s performance. Their attention to detail was phenomenal and every man jack of us responded – or we were out. I soon realised that the Doctor Who set-up was different – there was no shortage of advice and leadership but it didn’t come from the director.

Take my first scene, for example. All I had to do was emerge from the TARDIS, creep up on Hal, one of Wessex’s soldiers, and make him jump. Hal was played by Jeremy Bulloch, who was a lot of fun. He’d been a child star – I remember him from Billy Bunter – but sci-fi fans will probably know him as Boba Fett from the Star Wars films. He’s had an impressive career, really, always busy.

I was nervous as hell, of course, so I’d found a quiet place away from the pack to go over my lines. (We didn’t have the luxury of trailers in those days.) When I was given the five-minute notice to take my place I was pretty confident, though. Then I heard a shout from Jon.

‘Lissie!’ he beckoned me over. ‘Come and say hello to our fans.’

Fans? Here?

A truth I soon learned pretty quickly is that wherever you go in the world to film Doctor Who, the fans will find you. I don’t know how they do it. The BBC has always been pretty hush-hush with its arrangements, for the very practical reason that if you have to worry about an audience then you can lose valuable filming minutes. Timing is so essential when you’re involved in an outside broadcast that you can’t afford to waste a single unnecessary second. I looked down the hill and there was Jon surrounded by a gaggle of men and women, boys and girls with their autograph books and cameras out. Jon loved his fans and was totally in his element among them. He couldn’t do enough for them.

But at that moment I felt like punching the lot of them – and him.

I’ve just spent half an hour getting ready for this, I thought. The last thing I need is to be distracted now.

‘Jon,’ I called back, ‘they don’t know who I am.’

‘Nonsense,’ he bellowed. ‘Come along.’

Suddenly everything had changed. This wasn’t a request to join him – it was an order.

I thought, OK, I’m getting a handle on this operation now. Somebody is going to need to be pleased quite a lot.

Of course, no one there was the slightest bit interested in me – I’m not even sure they knew Katy had left by that stage. I did some hellos, then thought I would slip off to do my take.

Jon had other ideas.

‘Look, everyone,’ he addressed the masses. ‘Lissie’s about to do her first scene for us.’

For us?

Then he unfolded his shooting stick – a walking stick that turns into a seat – and he sat, arms folded, surrounded by his fans, waiting for me to perform. If someone else had done this you might think it was a joke but Jon was serious. I’m sure he thought it would give me confidence but honestly, I could have kicked him in the teeth.

OK, maybe that’s a tad harsh, but I just thought, Let me do this first scene, please. Then I can relax.

Of course Jon, bless him, had only the best of intentions. All he wanted to do was make me feel special by giving me the honour of him as an audience – it was his show after all. But what a way to do it: parading me to a bunch of fans who didn’t know me from Adam, while I was getting ready to shoot my first-ever scene. It felt all wrong. I’m not a method actor by any means, but I prefer to put a bit of distance between the real world and my character before a take: I like to focus, gather my thoughts. I suppose Jon didn’t know that.

Kevin Lindsay got along famously with Jon. Being an Australian, he was a natural charmer anyway. Barry Letts was the master, though. The trick with Jon was to keep him in the loop on all decisions. Whether they affected him or not, he liked to be aware. Jon hated thinking anything was going on behind his back. Keep him up to speed, as Barry – and the good directors – always did, and he was a real pussycat. Pull a rabbit out of the hat and you’d have a fight on your hands. You’d see Jon and Barry in confabs and every so often you could make out Barry saying, ‘Yes, dear boy, of course, dear boy.’ He really knew how to play Jon.

It was a skill I needed to master …

*   *   *

One of the questions I’m asked most (after ‘What is so-and-so really like?’) is ‘What is the TARDIS like?’ Even I was aware just how iconic this strange blue box was. Seeing it out in the grounds of Peckforton had been quite impressive. When fans spot it for the first time you can almost see the hairs rising on the backs of their necks. The whole mythos surrounding it is so vast and so very well layered in the psyches of entire generations’ that you can’t help but gasp a little. Even when you see one of the old working police boxes in the street in Edinburgh or somewhere like that, you can’t help but wonder.

Unfortunately, actually working with the thing is slightly less romantic.

I know this sounds obvious, but it was literally a box. It’s no more than a shell. Floor, roof, four sides, that’s it – completely empty inside. No console, no library, no heart. These days it’s lit from the inside and there’s a painted backing, so the magic sort of spills out when you open the door. We just had a solid back wall, which is why you rarely saw the door open face-out.

Apart from the fact our TARDIS had a special key (compared to the modern Yale lock), there’s another advantage the modern model has over ours: it’s bigger. These days five or six people will pile out and you think nothing of it. Back then it was a bit cosy with just me and Jon inside. Once you start adding Ian Marter or someone else then you’re all a little too close for comfort. You certainly notice if someone’s been eating garlic.

But I remember how excited I was stepping in there for the first time. The door closed and the importance of what I was about to do suddenly hit me. It was a massive moment. I was entering that funny blue box as Lis Sladen but I’d be emerging as Sarah Jane Smith.