This Much Is True

At the end of term, we were in rehearsals for the first show. There is a scene where we’re walking around the Luxembourg Gardens in Paris, and Alice B. Toklas is holding a little basket with Tuscan herbs in. Natasha suddenly announced: ‘I can’t do this. I can’t work here. I’m sorry, I’m not doing the show.’ I said, ‘Why, what’s up?’ Natasha said, ‘These herbs — they’re not Italian!’ I said, ‘Darling, we’re in America. They can’t get Italian herbs. These are the herbs that she would have had in America.’ She said, ‘No. I’ve got to be absolutely authentic in my work. I can’t stand this!’ She stormed off, and we had the devil of a job to get her to come back. In the end she did agree to perform, but only after I had to practically go on my knees and beg for her return.

The last performance with Natasha was in Kingston, Ontario, at the university there. It had been a bumpy ride, but the work was good.

In 1987, Sonia and I decided to take the show on a tour of Australia, opening in Sydney, then back to the Universal Theatre in Melbourne in December. As an English actress, it was unbelievably difficult to get permission to do theatre work in Australia; I had to find an Australian Alice B. Toklas. Luckily, my friend Chris Westwood said that she knew the perfect person.

I arrived at Sydney Airport to meet my mail-order bride. I looked up… and up. And there she was, Pamela Rabe — my perfect Alice.

Pamela is nearly 6ft tall — Alice B. Toklas was about 4ft 10ins — but it didn’t matter. In her acting, Pamela encapsulated the brilliance and the charm of the character.

We instantly had a terrific working relationship; what a relief, after all Natasha’s tantrums. Pamela went on to win best actress of the year.

A few years later, I returned to America to play Gertrude again. Every year, in Michigan, there is a huge lesbian festival called the Michigan Womyn’s Music Festival. The festival organiser had rung me and said, ‘Miriam, we’d love to invite you to join our festival. It’s just for five days, and women come from all over the world to the Land.’

‘What’s the Land?’ I enquired.

‘A wealthy lesbian lawyer owns a large property in Cedar Rapids and she welcomes our festival there for those five days. This year, as usual, we are expecting thousands of lesbians and we would be honoured if you would provide the entertainment. It’s often music, but this year, for the first time, we thought we might have a play.’

‘Golly,’ I said, ‘that’s quite a tall order, but all right, I’m in.’ I called Pam and she agreed to fly over and perform the shows.

Pamela and I were met at Grand Rapids airport by a sweet young girl, all braids and hippyness. She said, ‘Hi! I’m River.’ That was the first warning bell. Then she said, ‘Oh, WOW! It’s just so great that you two are here.’ She explained that the land on which the festival was held was ‘womyn’s’ land: no men were allowed on it.

River then drove us to the Land, which was a nice big meadow. It was her job to show us to our accommodation. I looked across the Land, which was a sea of tents. It looked like a Woodstock for dykes. River said, ‘We have such a great tent for you, Miriam. Follow me.’ ‘Tent?’ I shrieked. ‘Tent? Look, I don’t want to be difficult, River, but I don’t sleep in tents. Mummy always said that Jewish girls don’t sleep on the ground. [I have no idea if that’s true.] Is there any other kind of accommodation that we could possibly have?’ River replied, hesitantly: ‘Well, you could have a log cabin, I guess…’ ‘That’s the one! Thank you,’ I cried.

River led the way across the Land; we followed sweatily, weaving our way carefully through the legions of treacherous tent pegs. Eventually, we arrived at our lovely log cabins — by a mosquito-infested lake.

It was the middle of August, and it was hot — and I mean 40^ºC in the shade hot. Unfortunately, there was an illness going around the Land: norovirus, an extremely unpleasant stomach bug that causes vomiting and violent diarrhoea. We didn’t get it, but apparently everybody else had a dose. So it was boiling hot, and the Port-a-Janes (note: not Port-a-Johns — the American name for Portaloos) were brimming with diarrhoea. The only time that men were allowed on the Land was when they came to empty the loos. At this, a great cry went up from all the womyn: ‘MEN ON THE LAND! MEN ON THE LAND!’ What with the norovirus and the heat, this sole male function was now a frequent necessity.