This Much Is True

Simon is a precise director, and his standards are high. He had a way about him that made me want to try harder to please him. He knew everyone’s part better than we knew them ourselves. He gave me the single best piece of direction that I have ever had. In the dustbin, Nell is recounting her memories, talking about herself as a young girl and Simon said, ‘As you’re going back into your memory, just stroke your hair.’ And as I was talking, I gently stroked my hair, in that tender way that you might if you were conjuring up some deep, long-forgotten memory of your youth. Suddenly, as I touched my hair, it happened: I saw myself in the mirror, Nell as a young girl, and all at once I embodied that look that you give yourself, suffused with the pleasure of seeing your reflection when you’re young and gorgeous. It was that simple gesture, a preening moment of a young woman in her excitement, remembering… ‘Oh, I was so beautiful!’ then, she, the character, was somehow back in that moment of time.

When people talked to me afterwards, everybody spoke about the moment when I touched my hair. That was Simon’s gift to me — he opened the door. It was clever of him, because the instant I did that, it was as if I had turned on a switch and the part itself then fell into place. He might have said the same thing to some actors and they would have just stroked their hair, but I knew what he meant: I saw what he wanted me to convey in that moment. I remember it to this day.

I wouldn’t say it was the hardest role I’ve ever taken on because, to be truthful, I think every role I’m about to do is the hardest one I’ve ever done. But this was particularly difficult. Within our production we showed everything. It was a happy and completely terrifying experience — testing and intellectually trying. Beckett doesn’t write like other writers. He has a different vision of the world. It takes a while to see it.

My part was the smallest part in the play, and sometimes I was quite relieved about that, but for the moments that Tom Hickey, who was in the other dustbin, and I were together on stage, I felt that we were an old married couple, that we did have a history together. Tom gave me that feeling; he was one of the ‘sharers’ and so generous in his praise. I’d say, ‘I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing.’ And Tom would tell me, ‘It’s great. Just keep doing what you’re doing!’ He gave me confidence.

Tom died in Dublin in May 2021; I mourn his passing with all my heart.

PG Tips and the Caramel Bunny

My voice-over work took off in 1974. I’ll always remember it, because it started on the afternoon of Mummy’s funeral. At the graveside I could hear somebody wailing. I thought to myself, ‘God! How absurd to be carrying on like that! This is a private moment. Why on earth would anyone do that?’ Then I realised; it was I who was screaming.

We came back from the cemetery. We were in the sitting room at home and now I had to be the hostess, politely handing out tea and Jewish biscuits to all the mourners. Suddenly, the phone rang, and I picked it up, because when the phone rings, that’s what you do; it hadn’t occurred to me to take it off the hook.

A crisp, female voice said, ‘Hello, is that Miriam?’ It was Wendy Noel, enunciating clearly down the phone. She had been an actress once, and then became a voice agent, working for Bryan Drew. She said, ‘I’ve got room for you in my stable now and I’ve got a booking for you on Thursday next week.’ She told me the time and said I’d have to be at a certain studio to do the voice-over. ‘Is that all right? Can you do that?’

And I said, ‘Oh, yes. Thank you. I’ll be there.’ She told me to write it all down, and not to forget. I was in grief but as I put the phone down, I thought, ‘If only Mummy could know I’ve got the best voice-over agent in London.’ It was a major door opening because Wendy was the queen of the voice agents and all the advertising executives trusted her — if Wendy Noel suggested one of her voice artists, well, you got the job.

Not for a second did I think of saying I wasn’t feeling up to the work. It was my profession. I wanted to say yes. I wrote down all the details, and I turned up on the day for my first gig. Punctuality is a key factor in voice-over success. Where seconds count, you can’t afford to arrive late. I never did.

I started slowly, but from that first job came more and more until, eventually, by the middle of the eighties, I was the top-earning female voice-over artist in the country — and it was extremely lucrative work. At the top of my tree, I was doing about eight a day, rushing up and down Soho, my pager affixed to my jumper.