This Much Is True

I’ve always wanted to get close to people and understand them — at times, perhaps, to extremes. I remember at Cambridge, my friend, the late Susan Andrews, once shouting at me, ‘For God’s sake, Miriam, just give me some space!’ Initially, I thought she meant that I was standing too close to her, but she explained that I crowded her soul. I got in the way, I now see that. I was always asking questions: ‘Why do you like that piece of music? What makes it important to you?’ I’ve always wanted to know people. It’s curiosity partly, because I can’t imagine that people are different from me, and yet I can’t imagine anyone being the same. This paradox is at the heart of all our intercommunication: ‘Are you like me?’ ‘Why are you not like me?’ ‘Could you be like me?’

I usually pick up a new friend or two on a production, which is why my phone contains a list of 11,833 names. Take Patricia Hodge, for example. Hodge has an icy, aristocratic hauteur about her, but she loves filthy jokes. We met in 1974, when we were both in The Girls of Slender Means for the BBC. The cast of the show, together with the director, Moira Armstrong, became a team. We behaved like schoolgirls from St Trinian’s. There’s a scene where we girls had to escape through a narrow window and the only way to get through was to take off all our clothes. I complained to the camera crew that it wasn’t fair that we didn’t even know their names while they had seen every last bit of us. They rose to the challenge. They arranged for Don Smith to snap them all naked, bits covered by large placards with their names on. Each girl was presented with their own copy of this revealing photo in a brown envelope. We had to have the last laugh. I asked Don to quickly take a nude picture of us for Camera Crew 14. It was 13 February so we made it their Valentine. The picture is in this book.

We have always met for reunions over the years and, at ninety years old, Moira is still very much part of all our lives. She is a cherished phenomenon of the golden days of television. And when our beloved Mary Tamm died in 2012, thirty-eight years after we first met, all the ‘Girls’ attended her funeral. I write this two days after our latest reunion which was held at my house. Everyone brought something wonderful to eat as they know I can’t cook. As we talked and laughed for hours, the years fell away.

Hodge has been there when I’ve needed her, particularly when I’ve got into scrapes. A confidence shared with Hodge would never go any further. She’s much more private than I am — I’d trust her with my life. When I had my disastrous affair in America and Heather left me, it was she who suggested therapy, which, in turn, led to meeting Margaret Branch.

And the best thing is that friendship is contagious. Once someone is your friend, they bring new friends into your life. In Bali in 1983 I got close to my guest-house cleaner, Mahardiker. He was a temple dancer when not looking after guests. He had a natural physical grace; carrying up my breakfast on a tray, he would check his appearance in the mirror on the stairs — just a quick look to ensure his ‘line’ was clean. One day he said, ‘Sister, [he always called me Sister] what is your religion?’ Somewhat surprised, I said, ‘Well, I’m Jewish, but I don’t really believe in God.’ He smiled and said, ‘We have another Jewis [this was how he spoke] in the guest house. You must meet.’ And so he introduced me to a young, shy, Australian, Robert Green. He became my greatest chum and eventually my lawyer; his family in Australia became my family; his mother Beryl became my close friend and through her I met Robin Amadio who then introduced me to Andrew McKinnon, who brought Dickens’ Women to Australia and changed my life. Mahardiker died of AIDS some years ago. He was a beautiful (if naughty) man.

I want to make people happy; I’ve always tried to smile and say positive, complimentary things. In the theatre, that is sometimes difficult. There is an art in going backstage after seeing a performance. Certain formula responses can mask disappointment at a production without destroying the person. Famous ones are, ‘What about YOU!’ delivered with a big smile and a hug, along with, ‘You really stood out tonight.’ With close friends, I say, ‘I thought you were marvellous. Shall we talk about it tomorrow?’ because, occasionally, you can say something useful, but not straight after a show. I always mention if I can’t hear what people are saying, or if their hair hides their face, because that’s something that can be immediately rectified. We all should try to make people feel good: if you can’t say something nice, then shut up and don’t say anything at all. Of course, sometimes I can’t help saying horrible things about people I don’t like, but it’s not, on the whole, to their faces.