Elisabeth Sladen: The Autobiography

I admit it was quite hard work getting back into the groove, especially learning how people did things outside Who. Some of it was quite an eye opener – and not always for bad reasons. I couldn’t believe it when I was shown to my trailer.

My own trailer!

It wasn’t as hi-spec as the one I have on The Sarah Jane Adventures – nowadays I’ve got my own bed, and a microwave and even a shower – but it felt like a palace compared to the old days on Who. Just having somewhere to take your lunch other than squatting on damp hillocks, in makeup vans or under awnings made me feel like a superstar.

I was sad when it was over so when the call came for more episodes, I didn’t hesitate – ‘Just tell me when.’

Two days later, I was on the train back up to the Peak District.

This sudden change of fortunes ought to have sounded warning bells. By now it was all very chaotic and they seemed extremely behind. Reshoots were going on left, right and centre and the script I was posted told its own story (every time there’s a change it’s printed on different coloured paper). This was pink – way down the line. By the time I arrived I’d just about got it memorised – and then the buggers handed over an amended version.

Committing two separate speeches to memory is far easier than learning two versions of the same one – you get so confused, your tongue’s saying one version while your brain is remembering the other. I was still poring over it in makeup with a couple of the other actors when I heard one of them say, ‘It’s no good – I can’t learn this.’

‘Thank God for that!’ I said. ‘I can’t make it stick either.’

Not surprisingly we had a lot of trouble that day. It didn’t help that the cameramen wouldn’t stop talking to me about Doctor Who! I was shoving rescue remedy down my throat and grabbing my script in between takes. During one seated scene all three of us had our scripts out of shot on our laps so we could snatch an emergency peek!

I had fun but it wasn’t the big comeback I perhaps needed to boot me up the backside and get me back out there. In fact after that, I only took one more stab at acting, in a series called Faith in the Future with Lynda Bellingham – then I just thought, Do you know what? I’ve had a go, I’ve been busy, but I haven’t really enjoyed it.

And so I retired.

Goodbye work. Goodbye acting. And goodbye Doctor Who.

*   *   *

Knowing I wouldn’t be working again made it more fun to spend time with my old Who cohorts. In 1996 I bumped into Jon at an event organised by Nathan-Turner. Jon was in his mid-70s by then, but he looked well. He was on good form, too – cheeky, chatty and brimming with gossip as usual. We had a marvellous time reminiscing about this and that, at ease without any work pressures hanging over us. Among other things I remember he was very excited about going to stay with friends over in New England. Then at one point he leaned in and I thought, This must be good if he’s lowering his voice! Jon was hardly discreet.

But this time the gossip was about him: ‘By the way, I had a little crie de coeur recently.’

That floored me.

‘Oh, Jon, I didn’t know you had heart trouble!’

‘It’s nothing, darling,’ he said, dismissing my concern with a wave of his hand. ‘Just a little warning.’

That was the last time I saw him.

A few weeks later I got home and saw my answerphone flashing. I was still taking off my coat and unpacking my bags when I flicked ‘play’, but the message soon had my full attention.

I recognised the voice instantly as Stuart Money, a close friend of Jon’s.

‘Hello, Lissie, it’s Stuey,’ he said. ‘I’m on my way to the airport. It’s about Jon. I will talk to you later but I think you’re going to get quite a shock.’

I sat by that phone for the rest of the day – if anyone else called I just told them to get off the line. And then my worst fears were confirmed: Jon had suffered a heart attack in America.

My Doctor was dead.

I went to the funeral. Sadie sent a little something, too. But do you know who wasn’t there? Barry! No one had told him. Incredible. He was devastated, of course.

The problem with being in the public eye is you’re not given a chance to grieve. Every time I thought that I was over the shock another journalist would pop up asking for a comment. I don’t normally mind, but I wanted to do the best by Jon and I also wanted to be alone and cry.

It wasn’t until I did manage a few minutes alone with my thoughts that I appreciated just how much we’d experienced together. All the shows, obviously, but there were so many private moments, too. Even our big US trip – yes, Brian and Ingeborg were there and we all had a blast – but there were only two people up on those stages. Jon was the only one who knew what I’d gone through first hand. And now he was gone.

Jon’s legacy speaks for itself, but all these years later I do get annoyed at the number of people popping out of the woodwork to tell you how Jon was, what he thought, and what he apparently said to them. There are certain DVD commentaries where the world and his wife seem to have an opinion and I find myself shouting at the screen, ‘How do you know? You weren’t there!’ Some of them weren’t even born at the time, for goodness’ sake.

*   *   *

The older you get, the more often you have to deal with loss. When my father died, on Boxing Day 1994 – aged 94 – I thought my world had collapsed. We’ve always been alone down here in London but at that moment I suddenly realised it was Brian, Sadie and me against the world.

The tragedy of being associated with such a long-running show is that, inevitably, people you worked with,