Authors: Mike Read
Of course I had wanted Lady Betjeman to approve and, as invited, drove down for lunch in my old MGA to the home of her daughter Candida Lycett-Green in Calne, Wiltshire. I headed off from Radio One in torrential rain and made slow progress on the M4, getting completely drenched as the car had no hood. Normally if it came on to rain, I’d pull over and shelter until it stopped. But I knew Penelope Betjeman was a stickler for punctuality so I simply carried on, got there some ten minutes after the appointed time and appeared on the doorstep looking like the proverbial drowned rat. Ignoring my condition, she informed me in no uncertain terms that I was late and stomped off into the house, leaving me dripping and having to find my own way to the table. The Betjemans’ daughter, Candida, and assorted grandchildren were there and things soon eased. I think they’d all had a telling-off about something. I gradually dried off, ate
a hearty lunch and played the demos. They seemed to get a seal of approval. One of the demos was of ‘Hunter Trials’, and Penelope told me that John had gone along to a gymkhana in which their son, Paul, was riding and was inspired to write the poem. As she pointed out, they weren’t hunter trials at all and he completely misused and deliberately muddled the equine terms used in the poem.
Prior to the release of ‘Myfanwy’, the
Mail on Sunday
was keen to do a piece about my collaborating with the late Poet Laureate and asked Lady Betjeman if she minded doing a photograph. It transpired that she didn’t mind, so off we trooped to her fairly remote house at Cusop in the Black Mountains. There was deep snow that day, so the newspaper hired a 4x4 to get to the property. It was a long hike and we struggled through some pretty deep drifts to get there. She opened the door, looked at the photographer and pointed to the camera. ‘I don’t know what you think you’re going to do with that thing,’ she said and did her stomping off thing. The photographer and journalist were crestfallen, but I was used to the stomping and reassured them. We were all dreaming of a hot meal after the long and arduous journey. We got bread and jam. It did come with tea, though, from an enormous enamel pot that would have served all the Women’s Institute meetings in a 10-mile radius. The photographer was seriously concerned that he wasn’t going to get his picture and on top of that, he was keen to shoot outside. He skirted round it a little, knowing that the temperature was below freezing and Penelope Betjeman was well into her seventies. She became impatient with his equivocating and let him have both barrels. She may not have actually pinned him against the wall, but she did so verbally. He was informed, in no uncertain terms, that she’d been up since seven, had saddled her horse, and ridden out some 14 miles in heavy snow and 14 miles back. She wasn’t to be trifled with. The photographer ceased trifling and we trooped outside, sat on a log pile and did a few bracing snaps. In a full-page spread in the
Mail on Sunday
Penelope rather decently commented, ‘I think it all sounds marvellous, marvellous. It should be very good.
Great fun.’ Exactly. The paper was equally generous in calling me ‘an authority on Betjeman’s life’ (hardly, compared to many of the folk in the Betjeman Society who keep the flame alive) and talking up the variety of genres: ‘Latin through rock & roll to Irish Folk.’ The large photo of us sitting on the snowy pile of logs was wackily captioned, ‘Ode Couple … Read and Lady Betjeman’.
Penelope and I corresponded over the next few months, she sending me little notes and copies of odd poems that John had written, including one about the King Alfred tea rooms at Wantage, which she ran at one time. The last communication I received was just before she set off for her beloved Himalayas (or Him-
ar
-lee-ers as she pronounced them). Her father had been Commander-in-Chief in India, hence her love of the region. She sent a note asking me to join her and Osbert Lancaster for lunch on her return. She never returned, and so we lost another great character from a disappearing generation. At the twenty-fifth AGM of the Betjeman Society I was surprised and intrigued by a comment in the speech of Betjeman’s biographer Bevis Hillier. He made mention of the fact that Lady Betjeman had been ‘rather in love with me’. Life is full of surprises.
Another formidable lady with whom I had to deal in connection with John Betjeman was Lady Elizabeth Cavendish, sister of the Duke of Devonshire and a very close friend of JB’s. I was initially introduced to her at a meeting with Betjeman’s literary executors, which also included Henry Anglesey, who was the godson of George V, and the architectural historian Mark Girouard. The four of us sat around discussing the possible release of an album and even a stage musical. They gave no quarter; it felt like a courtroom and I came away feeling that their response was going to be negative. While I thought Henry Anglesey encouraging and charming, Mark Girouard appeared inflexible and defensive of Betjeman’s works. I was certain that one shouldn’t attempt to canonise a man who was essentially a poet of the people, but who was I to know? All three literary executors had been personal friends and were acting in the manner they considered
in the best interests of the estate. They needed clarity on my intended musical and to that end I was invited to Elizabeth Cavendish’s house to explain my intentions. We drank a glass of wine or two and chatted amiably, although my eyes kept being drawn to Betjeman’s battered old bear, Archibald Ormsby-Gore, who was scrutinising me from his perch on the window sill. Either I didn’t explain myself too well, Lady Cavendish failed to grasp my intentions or Archie was distracting us, but she asked me to come back again the following week.
This time she had a friend with her who was introduced to me simply as Peter. Asked to explain how one goes about writing a musical, I proceeded with great aplomb. Apart from juvenile attempts and the heavily plagiaristic comic opera at college, in truth this was my first real crack at a real stage musical. Being a polite and well-brought-up chap, I didn’t simply direct my explanation of how to write a musical to Elizabeth, but also to her friend Peter. I even read the opening pages of the script, which began with Betjeman going through customs at the Pearly Gates. ‘Anything to declare?’ asked St Peter. I used an actual line of Betjeman’s as the response, which he’d spoken during his last interview. On being asked if he had any regrets, he responded that he hadn’t had enough sex. A great line, I thought, so I used it as his reply to St Peter … and, crassly, read it out loud to Elizabeth, not thinking about the close friendship between herself and Betjeman. I still squirm when I think of it… After talking about the art of writing a musical play for an hour I sat back, feeling that I’d acquitted myself rather well. Not smug, but satisfied. Not for long, though. Elizabeth Cavendish turned to her friend and asked demurely, ‘Was it like that, Peter, when you wrote
Amadeus
?’ I’d spent an hour telling one of our greatest playwrights, Peter Schaffer, how to write. I had the grace to blush.
The executors were not keen on the proposed title for the musical,
Teddy Bear to the Nation
. Elizabeth Cavendish wrote to me, ‘It is only fair to you to say that in no way will the Literary Executors of John Betjeman allow the suggested title, so by the time we meet
can you have thought of a different and more suitable one. This is
not
something we will be persuaded about.’ Eventually, but only after much deliberation on the part of the executors, I had an agreement. This was good news. The downside was that the musical looked like a ‘no go’ area. I wonder why? The album would eventually be released on various small labels, but has seemed to have found a comfortable home with Angel Air. In the view of everybody involved, it still hasn’t realised its full potential.
Meetings with Betjeman’s publisher, John (Jock) Murray, were always fascinating as the Murray family, from 1768 on, had published such luminaries as Jane Austen, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, Charles Darwin and Lord Byron. Sherry and cheese biscuits were always on the agenda and of course another glimpse of Byron’s shirt, which was on display. Signed to John Murray (each generation bore the same name), Byron had an instant bestseller when
Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage
was published. In true pop star fashion, he announced, ‘I awoke one morning and found myself famous.’ We discussed Andrew Lloyd Webber’s interest in staging my intended musical at his Sydmonton Festival, but even with Andrew’s enthusiasm it didn’t happen, for some reason now lost in a hundred historic conversations. The tabloids made much of a completely untrue story (nothing new there) that Andrew had been secretly teaching me how to become a ‘superstar composer’. Risible. I can just imagine him peering at me over a glass of 1997 Romanée-Conti in his kitchen and shyly asking, ‘I say, would you like to become a superstar composer?’ The headline was ‘Mike’s Phantom Aide’. The press appeared to be moving me from Lord Reith to Lord Wraith.
In another genre, I was asked to play guitar on a song that the Duke of Kent’s daughter, Lady Helen Taylor, was recording, called ‘Single Girl’, which led to us being erroneously linked by some of the gossip columns. Lady Olga Maitland’s column majored on it at one point. With a marginally folksy feel in the style of Marianne Faithfull as I recall, it was recorded at a studio in Great Marlborough Street, a
yard or two from the one-time London abode of Percy Bysshe Shelley. In the end there were questions asked about the release of a single by a member of the royal family and the producer did the decent thing and handed over the tapes. Something must have escaped, though, somewhere along the line, as in 2000 it emerged as one of Ibiza’s ‘hottest tracks of the season’, according to
The Times
. The track was much changed from the original (essential, I’d say) but the newspaper admitted, ‘Lady Helen’s clipped tones are quite audible on the new version, which is the work of producers, Royal I.’
I did put a musical on stage in 1988, but it wasn’t Betjeman related. I had also been working on a Rupert Brooke musical, over whose title I was still dithering. The papers got wind of it and one of them fired a not unexpected opening salvo. ‘Read fancies himself as a poet, although his literary output has thus far been confined to
The Guinness Book of British Hit Singles
, a work not known for its lyrical and aesthetic qualities.’ I considered drawing their attention to my two poetry books,
The Aldermoor Poems
and
Elizabethan Dragonflies
, and the various poems in the Poets England series, but why bother?
My neighbours in Holmbury St Mary, Richard and Linda Jackson, who ran Hurtwood House School, offered their wonderful theatre space for a week, so with Hugh Wooldridge directing, we were away. Having assembled a fine cast from the school, headed by imported actor Michael Dore, we were rolling. Well, sort of. The school wasn’t draconian, but it did not achieve its fantastic results by standing any nonsense or rule-breaking. It was ‘one strike and you’re out’. So on a couple of occasions we found a cast member no longer a member of the cast … or the school. I must point out that expulsion by the headmaster isn’t the norm in musical theatre. With regard to the audience, we operated on a ‘pay what you like at the end of the show’ basis and despite that got a sackful of money, which I dumped on the desk of the very grateful and completely surprised PHAB centre in the village. After the final show we had a farewell bash, where I got ceremoniously thrown in the swimming pool fully clothed. Indecent behaviour,
you’ll agree. I had been particularly attached to that green pullover with its country motif. The following morning it would have been a tight fit on an Mbuti pygmy, or indeed any pygmy.
Within a year, producer extraordinaire Bill Kenwright picked up the show and decided to stage it at the Thorndike Theatre in Leatherhead, although he wasn’t especially keen on the title we’d used at Hurtwood,
The Most Beautiful Man in England
. It’s a hell of a thing to live up to if you’re playing the lead, out there each night, gingerly treading the boards dreading some wag shouting, ‘I’ve seen more beautiful men in gurning contests.’ I was on the phone to Bill from the end of a platform at Kings Cross station when we finally agreed on calling the show
Young Apollo
, thus creating a vague link, in case it should ever come up in some obscure quiz, between Queen Boadicea (or Boudicca as they now call her), allegedly buried under one of the platforms, Harry Potter and Rupert Brooke. Hugh Wooldridge directed again and organised a superb set that drew applause in its own right.
Alex Hanson played Brooke, and stayed with me at The Aldermoor for some of the run. Over a glass of something with a fancy label one evening, he suddenly looked quizzical. ‘Wasn’t Brooke blond? I’m very dark, won’t that look odd?’
I smiled. That slow, knowing smile that I fancied would look good on the silver screen. It probably just looked ridiculous, but I smiled it nevertheless. ‘You’re dark at the moment, but it won’t last.’
Realisation dawned. ‘Oh no,’ I believe were the actual words that came from his mouth. I nodded slowly. Again very filmic, I thought. Within two days he was blond, his head shining like the Eddystone lighthouse on a foggy night, and full of disbelief that he’d been well and truly bleached.
Now when I was doing amateur dramatics, the prompt stood to the side of the stage and if you forgot your lines, you’d sidle as unobtrusively as possible towards them, hoping they’d spot your dilemma and whisper the words audibly enough for you to pick up. It was a
covert operation. Not so with the Alex Hansons of this world. On the dress run, with full audience, when he dried, he screamed ‘LINE!’ like an elephant protecting her young from a pride of lions. I jumped. I’m sure several in the front row were thrown into the second row with the force of it. It was all over in a flash and the musical moved on. No whispering, no edging towards the side, Alex took it full on. ‘Crikey,’ I thought at the time. ‘Bravo,’ I thought afterwards. Another incident wasn’t quite so well received. We’re still with the dress run and a full house, but Clive, our musical director, was desperate not to miss England v. Poland and took it upon himself to listen to the match on headphones, while playing keyboards and directing the music. No one would know, so where’s the harm? There was no harm at all … until Gary Lineker found the net after twenty-four minutes. During a quiet and particularly moving moment in an early scene, Clive’s voice (and we all shout louder with headphones on) rang around the auditorium, ‘England have scored!’ I don’t recall any of the cast or the audience yelling back ‘Oh, jolly good’ or anything similar. Maybe some in the back rows went away thinking it was a particularly avant-garde moment in the show and I was the new theatrical Messiah. Actually there were messianic writers already present in the shape of Tim Rice and Andrew Lloyd Webber, who both turned up to give their support. Andrew even brought a bunch of flowers. Bill Kenwright’s plan to move it to the Mermaid never materialised, even though I was convinced by his tears during one performance. ‘That’s it,’ I thought, ‘he’s visibly moved … the West End (well close enough for me) beckons.’ I later learned that Bill is always emotional at his musicals. The West End actually wouldn’t beckon until the new millennium, and without
Young Apollo
. While I laid down most of the demo tracks for the musical, the duet ‘Too Young for Love’ was beautifully demoed by Michael Ball and the young actress who had played Myfanwy in the David Essex video, Rachel Roberts.