This Much Is True

We are all scared. We are all secretly shaking with fright inside, uncertain of what we should be doing, saying and thinking; anxious about what our lives are going to be. I believe that if you can allay those fears, if you can soothe people, and hug them, and make them feel it’s going to be all right, you’re doing a public service. Often most of us are too busy, or worried, or tired, or just can’t be bothered to take on the difficulties that another person is going through. But if you can, it makes the most enormous difference to try to understand the other person, to try to feel their pain, and to see the world through their eyes. This is at the heart of acting.

People are hungry for affirmation, for validation, for a sense that they matter: to know that their presence on earth is of importance to somebody. When I was making Miriam’s Big Fat American Adventure, I visited a well-run women’s prison in Virginia. I met two young recidivist offenders — drug addicts who’d been convicted of thieving. I talked to them for quite a long time; I told them the truth: that they were both beautiful and intelligent, and that they could and must do more with their lives than spend them in prison. ‘I know that you’ve got a contribution to make,’ I said.

These two young women told me that nobody had ever talked to them as if they were human, or as if there was any potential there for a better life. I found that remarkable and sad. I don’t know if it made a difference to their fate after they were released: drugs were the way of life there; they were addicts and it would have been very hard for them to break away from their social environment — but they were incredibly grateful that I had spent time with them, looked into their eyes and talked to them about themselves. Many people need that, and that’s why I still think that my early obituary was right, I would have made a good probation officer. I like to think of myself sitting behind a desk, looking into a criminal’s eyes, and making him see that there was a future beyond prison.

My friends aren’t bound to me by blood or obligation, but through affection, experience, shared interests and kindness. One of the greatest pleasures of writing this book has been double-checking memories, gossip and naughtinesses with my friends — and finding out so many more. This book could have never taken shape without them and it has made me miss them all the more keenly — especially those who are no longer here. I grieve for them afresh. I’d like to name those who have died before me, to thank them and honour their memories.

My dear friend, Sonia Fraser, director, acting coach, confidante. Together we wrote Dickens’ Women, toured the world and shared our thoughts. I miss her terribly. My friend Liane Aukin, who died in 2016. Director, actress, thinker. She bought a house near mine, in Kent. Liane was beautiful, articulate, argumentative and a wonderful cook. We would talk for hours. Carol Gillies, my friend from Newnham, who became an actress; we shared a dressing room in Orpheus Descending. How we laughed. John Shrapnel, my lovely chum from Cambridge, fine actor. Mark Lushington, best talker I ever heard. Kay Daniels, Australian academic, cleverest, wittiest, Heather’s first love. Beloved Roger Hammond, brother of my Newnham friend Hilary, loyal, enthusiastic, very funny, a gifted actor. Richard Shephard, composer, Director of Music at York Minster, urbane and elegant, such a generous appreciator, died of motor neurone disease too soon, I miss him dreadfully. Robin Park, Scottish, a singer who lived in Amsterdam, so funny, a gentle man. John Tydeman, my BBC radio drama mentor, a Titan and yet very tender. Peter Sokole, a gifted viola player, struck down by COVID. Laura Kaufman, my Newnham friend. Joan and Ken Harrison, Heather’s cousins in Australia in their nineties, an inspiration on how to grow old, and so good to us. Ruth Alboretti in Montisi, Irish, wise and such a wonderful hostess. And most recently, Jack Palladino, brilliant private detective, Heather’s brother-in-law, murdered by thieves in San Francisco — he photographed them on the camera they tried to steal.

Everyone I’ve known leaves footprints on my life. Thank you.

Friends bring out the best in me, and that’s what I cherish: they make me feel that I am worth knowing. Maybe it’s a good idea, as Shakespeare said, to bind your friends to you with hoops of steel. They certainly are my armour and my fortress.

Blood Will Tell

Early in my career, I got the chance to audition for Crossroads, a now defunct soap opera set in a hotel in the Midlands, which was very popular and used to go out on ITV every day. It was hardly distinguished television but it was a solid job, so I didn’t care.