Authors: Alan Bennett
An old lady, Dolly, in bed or possibly lying on the bed in her clothes. There are
three other beds in the room but we do not see them
. (We don't see them also because Thora was too frail to do the piece on television but only on radio.)
I love Tuesdays.
We get our hair done in the morning. We have bilberry tart to our dinner and Mr Pilling comes in the afternoon.
I said to Blanche, âI wouldn't care if every day was a Tuesday. It's grand.'
I didn't use to like the Bible, only Mr Pilling gives it such feeling. Widower. Retired. Had a little gents' outfitters over at Rawdon. Blanche'll put on her lipstick when he comes.
Pause
.
Our Vera came this morning and all. Paid us a state visit. Her and⦠Neville, is it?⦠the feller she's married to now. Member of the boating fraternity. Blazer. Little cap. Weighing anchor at Tadcaster so they thought they could pop in en route.
I said, âHow's my house?'
She said, âWe've put in a conservatory.'
I said, âAm I allowed to die yet?'
She said, âDon't be silly, mother.'
She counts on her fingers
.
It'll be six years now.
End of section. Go to black
.
Bindra's just been round with the air freshener when Mr Pilling arrives. Raincoat always neatly folded. Puts it down on the bed. Holds up the Bible. Lovely fingernails. I complimented him on them once and he said âWell, it's not something I would want broadcasting, Mrs Walker, but I have them manicured. Kelly does them at Salon Snippets and I count it money well spent.' Never looks at you when he's doing it. Just
concentrates on the words of the New Testament.
Down goes the raincoat, up comes the Bible and away we go.
There's four of us in the room and he'll generally kick off with Annie or Lois because they're both confused. Then Blanche, then me. âMy two princesses' is what he calls us.
And this afternoon he's just got started down at the daft end when who should turn up again but our Vera.
I thought, âOh stink.'
I said, âI know why you've come. You're bothered I might peg out. It's that fiddle you did over my house.'
I reckoned to give it to her to save tax, but I had to last another seven years and it must be coming up to the seven now.
She said, âOh, is it? I haven't been counting. Only it's not a fiddle. The Queen Mother did it so it must be all right.'
I said, âYes, only her daughter didn't put her in a home.'
By this time, Mr Pilling's on with Blanche.
I said to Vera, âI'm next, so you'd better be off or he'll be reading the Bible to you.'
That does the trick and she suddenly remembers she's got a stint at Age Concern.
And I said, âThere's no need to keep coming. I'm not going to die out of spite.'
Only she doesn't hear and I see she's watching Mr Pilling.
I said, âMy daughter's going now, Mr Pilling.'
He just nods but doesn't stop reading, then (
she mimes withdrawing
movement
) waves his other hand.
When it's my turn, Mr Pilling says, âA grand-looking woman, your daughter.'
I said, âYou're not alone in that opinion.'
âWhy,' he says, âwho else thinks so?'
I said, âShe does.'
He smiled.
âI'm going to read from St Paul's Epistle to the Ephesians.'
And he pats my leg.
End of section
.
You wouldn't credit it, but on the following Tuesday our Vera's here again.
I thought, âIf you want to see me that badly, why did you put me in a home in the first place?'
Mr Pilling's already reading to Annie, who's banging her tray most of the time but it doesn't bother him, just reads.
Vera enthrones herself by my bed but she's naught to say and I must have dozed off because when I come round she's gone.
I said to Blanche, âDid our Vera go?'
âNo, mother,' she whispers, âI'm here.' And for some reason she's hiding behind the bed.
I said, âWhat are you doing there? Come sit down.'
Meanwhile, Mr Pilling's come over to Blanche.
Our Vera's sat with her back to him and she still hasn't got much to say.
I said, âHow's the navy?'
She said, âWhat?'
I said, âThe round-the-world yachtsman?
Neville
?'
She doesn't say anything and when I look I see it's because she's glued to my washbasin mirror.
I call out to Blanche.
âOur Vera can see you in the mirror, Blanche. Give her a wave, Mr Pilling. There you are, Vera, he's waving.'
Vera looks right mad.
âFunny name, Blanche, for somebody that age. What's his name?'
I said, âArthur.' Only we never call him that. We're not on such familiar terms.
Mr Pilling comes over in a bit and says âI'm afraid, Mrs Walker, I'm going to have to curtail my visit. Rain wasn't forecast and I foolishly ventured out without my umbrella.'
He folds his scarf, puts his little gloves on. â
A
bientôt
. Don't the daffodils look a picture?'
When he's gone, Vera says, âPresumably they're all confused except you.'
I said, âWho?'
She said, âThe other women.'
I said, âBlanche isn't confused. They took her on a trip to Harewood House.'
Vera said, âWhat's she doing blonde? At her age? Does she dye it?'
I said, âWell, they dye it for her.'
She said, âYes, but she must give them the green light. A name like Blanche. Anybody'd know they were on an easy wicket. No wonder he gets his hands under the bedclothes. He knows he's assured of a warm welcome.'
She takes both my hands.
âOh, mother, mother. You've had such a narrow escape.'
I said, âHave I?'
End of section
.
Lovely ears this lad had. He kept asking me these questions and blushing, and his ears blushed as well. I've never seen that before.
He said did I know what the word âtraumatised' meant, and had a list of things I might feel.
Did I feel: annoyed
angry
injured
assaulted
damaged
polluted
violated?
I said, âNo.'
He said, âWhat then?'
So I told him.
He wasn't the police. I don't think it's got that far. I think he's just a lad from the solicitors.
It's all our Vera.
She said to me, âOh, mother. To think, mother, if you'd been that bit younger he might have tried it on with you.'
I said, âYes, I'm lucky.'
She said, âLittle glasses, raincoat. The Bible was just a smokescreen. He was an animal.
âAnyway, it's over.
âYou won't be wanting to stay here, I can understand that. And I don't blame you. I don't want you living in a place where they turn a blind eye to sexual molestation.
âWe'll find you somewhere else. I've heard very good reports of a place over at Cawood.'
I said, âCawood? There's nothing at Cawood. I get few enough visitors as it is. Nobody's going to pole over to Cawood.'
She said, âWe would, mother, and that's all you want.'
I said, âYou mean it's handy for the boat?'
She said, âWell, we can't let you stay here. And once we've put in the claim for compensation, they won't let you.'
I said, âHow do you mean, compensation?'
She said, âMother, the home has a duty of care. He was interfering with people. Fortunately, not you; you're too old. But your friend, Blanche, and the other two⦠I saw him.'
I said, âSo what's going to happen to Mr Pilling?'
She said, âWell, for obvious reasons the home isn't anxious to prosecute, but he'll never show his face again here, I can tell you.'
She said, âShall you want counselling?'
I said, âYes, I bloody well do want counselling.
If
he stops.'
She said, âWhat?'
I said, âI used to look forward to his visits. I lived for Tuesdays. We all did.'
She said, âMother, you disgust me.'
I said, âNot as much as you disgust me. And always have, you po-faced article. Not to put too fine a point on it, I like having the tops of my legs stroked, even at my age, and so does Blanche and if there's a gentleman like Mr Pilling willing to undertake the task and derive
pleasure from it then I prefer to think of that not as something disgusting but as God moving in his mysterious way.
âThat or else he deserves the Duke of Edinburgh's Award.'
And I said, âI'm not moving from this home. It's not ideal but it's better than the last dump you put me in.
âI shall tell them it was all done of my own free will. We were consenting adults.
âSo you can kiss goodbye to your flaming compensation.'
Bindra comes in with the air freshener.
I said âBindra. I think Mrs Turnbull wants a tissue.'
End of section
.
It's lovely Blanche and me having our own room.
We've got a TV that we can switch off and we don't have Radio 1 blaring out all the time, or Lois banging her tray. We've each got one of these cassette things and we can have the window open if we want.
The home were so grateful I didn't want any compensation, they put us in here at a discount. Vera still wanted to shift me somewhere else but the rate was so reasonable Neville wouldn't hear of it. So boat or no boat, he turns out to have more sense than she does.
Mr Pilling still comes over on Tuesdays and sometimes Thursdays as well, or Arthur as we now call him. We can't wean him off the religion but as I said to Blanche, without the Bible in one hand he doesn't seem to be able to function with the other.
We're on the Epistle of Timothy at the moment.
It's all very ⦠âcivilised' would I think be the word. And we've got a nice outlook. You can see the planes coming in to Leeds and Bradford airport and there's a view of the reservoir and sometimes I kid myself it's the sea.
I look out of the window on an evening, watching the last of the sun and I know it's daft, but sometimes I'll wave at it. (She waves.) Bye-bye, sun. See you tomorrow.
End
.
1911â2003
One of Thora's many merits as an actress â and I shall call her that rather than the currently more correct actor because Thora would have called herself an actress and not thought it demeaning to do so â one of Thora's many merits as an actress was that she was scrupulous about the text. Always word perfect, she knew if she'd said an âand' when you'd written a âbut' and almost shamed you by the respect she accorded to the words you had written and her anxiety to reproduce them perfectly.
It's ironic, then, that her first memorable performance for me should have been to some extent improvised. This was in John Schlesinger's 1962 film of Stan Barstow's
A Kind of Loving
, in which she played the sour-faced Mrs Rothwell, straitlaced, house-proud and watchful mother of the beautiful Ingrid. Woken late one night, she comes downstairs to find Alan Bates's Vic drunk and snogging the matchless Ingrid in the parlour. Bates is about to apologise when he is abruptly and copiously sick behind the sofa.
Thora's reaction to this, as written, was âYou filthy, disgusting pig', a line tailor-made to her talents. However, it had to cover a good deal of action, Bates, for instance, throwing up at least twice, and so Schlesinger told her to improvise ⦠not a technique Thora had ever had any occasion to acquire; her job was to say the words not make them up. Still she did her best and having a basic text, âYou filthy disgusting pig', she proceeded to play variations on it.
âYou pig,' glaring at the cowering Bates.
âYou're filthy, you. Disgusting.'
Then, forcing herself to look at the sick behind the sofa:
âYou ⦠you're a pig.'
Schlesinger, with what in every sense was gay abandon, kept the camera rolling until Thora had given every possible variation of the four words the script had allowed her, her frustration both at her own lack of invention and the sadism of the director transmuted into a memorable performance on the screen.
Lear grieving over the corpse of Cordelia was not more grief-stricken than Mrs Rothwell over her polluted parlour.
Long before this, of course, she had become a favourite on television, in films and in the theatre and all her life she never stopped working. On the Yorkshire novelist Winifred Holtby's gravestone there is the inscription:
God give me work
Till my life shall end
And life
Till my work is done.
Few lives can have seen that prayer so fully answered as Thora's, who played her first part on the stage of the Royalty Theatre, Morecambe at two months old and who was still working ninety-one years later in Studio 5 at Portland Place a few months before she died.
Until she was quite late on in life the parts she played were generally comic and so were underrated and it was only in late middle age when she began to play the occasional serious role that her talent was properly acknowledged. There are not many artists who reach a peak in their seventies and eighties but Thora did. She lived long enough to be taken seriously.
She never took herself seriously, though no one was more dedicated to the job in hand, coached in her words by Scotty, her devoted husband, and after he died by Jan, their daughter, her family's devotion not the least element in Thora's success.
And she knew she was loved and it delighted her, people calling out to
her in the street knowing they'd always get a smile or a wave. It's a sort of appreciation that can be dangerous to an artist, but loved though she was, whether her fans would approve of her in a part came quite low down on her list.
Doris, the part she played in
A Cream Cracker Under the Settee
, is not a particularly nice woman, narrow, censorious, preferring concrete in the garden to grass and disliking trees because they drop leaves everywhere. As in the course of rehearsal the harsh nature of this woman began to come home Thora took me on one side.
âYou couldn't give me a line somewhere, love, that would show that even if I'm not nice now, I may have been once upon a time?'
I didn't manage to think of one, partly because I didn't really want to, and there are many performers in that situation who would, as it were, have tipped the audience the wink off their own bat, softening a line, perhaps, or giving the occasional sad smile. Thora didn't. If harsh was what you'd written that was the way she'd play it.
And she won your heart as a writer because, unusually in our profession, she trusted the words more than she did the director.
She was never difficult with directors but there'd been so many of them that she'd long since ceased to bother to learn their names, referring to them all to their faces by the generic name âMr de Grunwald', presumably after Anatole de Grunwald, with whom she'd worked in her early days in films.
Her expectations of a director were not high. She was once singing to me the praises of a director with whom she'd worked on television, saying how she'd had this difficult scene to play on location:
âAnd you could tell he was a good director, love, because he put me against the most beautiful lamppost you've ever seen.'
It's not a notion of directing that would commend itself to Peter Brook.
And she got better as she got older and in ways that her father, always her sternest critic, would have approved. She got simpler and, given the chance, relied less on her familiar tricks, letting her own personality show through and steering closer to herself as the best acting demands.
At the finish she sometimes found it hard to tell the difference, taking the frail and immobilised creatures whom she played both in my plays and in Deric Longden's
Lost for Words
as versions of herself; she was acting out her own demise. They were on the last lap and so was she.
Peter Cook and Dudley Moore used to be able to make the band laugh. Thora could make the cameraman cry and the whole crew sometimes and when she finished the scene in
Waiting for the Telegram
in which she recalled the departure of her First War sweetheart it was a minute or two in the studio before anybody trusted themselves to speak. Then it was Thora:
âI think I got one of the words wrong. Will you be wanting to go again?'
Most of the time between takes would be filled with Thora talking about the past, her only rival in relentless reminiscence in my experience being John Gielgud. But whereas the stuff of Gielgud's recollections was theatre in the West End, Larry and Gertie and Noël, Thora's memories were of poky gas-lit dressing-rooms in the provinces, playing to a rowdy second house on a Saturday night, the meanness of some of the comedians she'd worked with and the backstage antics of the Crazy Gang and the punishing routine of three performances daily at the height of the Blackpool season.
For all her success on television and in films, it was this now vanished world that had been her foundation and her home. It was only in the last few months of her life that she ceased to manage on her own and had to be taken into care, at which point she had a choice ⦠between Denville Hall, the home for retired actors, and Brinsley House, the Variety Artists' Home at Twickenham. That she opted for the latter shows, I think, that for all the awards she had won and the acclaim her acting had been accorded she was still at heart the local lass who could do a turn before the front cloth at the Winter Gardens, Morecambe, or a number like âI'm so silly when the moon comes out' from
Our Miss
Gibbs
, which she did there when she was sixteen and hadn't forgotten the words when she sang it in a BBC studio only a few months before she died.
She was blessed at the finish in that her decline was both short and
painless, though even in this she could not help but be funny. Still living on her own in her mews flat, she would sometimes become confused and on one occasion telephoned her daughter Jan, complaining bitterly.
âI'm in the studio, love. I'm doing this film with John Wayne only he's gone out and left me and everybody else has gone out and I'm stuck here on my own.'
Jan said, âMum, you're not in the studio, you're in the flat in the mews.'
She said, âI am not. I'm in the studio with John Wayne and the beggar's gone out and left me.'
Jan said, âMum. You're in the flat. Now look out of the window, is that the mews?'
Pause.
âWell, it looks like the mews ⦠but they can do wonders with scenery nowadays.'
Thora only once played in Shakespeare, the Nurse in
Romeo and Juliet
. And she could never have thought to play Cleopatra. But Charmian's lament for the dead Cleopatra is a proper epitaph for this droll-faced northern girl, who in the course of a long and happy life took her place among the best that we have.
âNow boast thee, death. In thy possession lies a lass unparallel'd.'