On my tombstone will be engraved: "One of the untouchables - she drank her own pee"
Published 20 November 1998
Where did they go, our travelling minstrels, our strolling players? It seems impossible today for any new venture to be allowed the grace to blossom organically, through word of mouth rather than hype. Does this mean we have lost our gut reaction to good or bad entertainment? Pondering this, I decided to throw caution to the wind and mount the smallest show on earth. Since I was putting up the money myself I had no choice but to keep it very simple. There'd be no hype whatsoever, for there would be no programme, no credits, no publicity.
So I sat down to write my musical, The Widow Smiles. In August rehearsals began in earnest in my tiny London flat. An old friend, Sally Mates - actress, singer, dog-lover - was gracious enough to join my ride.
My budget was £3,000, so I would have to be producer and director, as well as writer, lyricist, singer, actress, choreographer, dancer, costume designer, set-designer and so on. No doubt some might see it as an ego-trip, yet that was a risk I was well prepared to take: I'm in the delectable position of having nothing left to lose, thanks to the media, who have taken care of my image most satisfactorily. On my tombstone will be engraved: "One of the untouchables - she drank her own pee."
My agent, Ros Chatto, secured the perfect birthplace for The Widow Smiles at my local theatre, an 80-seater space called the Mill, part of the Yvonne Arnaud complex at Guildford. The fact that dogs don't demand salaries prompted me to star my own, whom I call the Higher and Lower Wathas. I dedicated my first novel, Beautiful Mourning (Orion, £16.99) to them. The canine line-up included Hiawatha, my enormous Old English mastiff, two Yorkshire terriers, Batty and Oxton, and Sally Mates' delectable 15-year-old bearded collie known as Samuel Pepys - who stole the show.
The dogs were entirely nonchalant in their attitude towards discipline. They would wander off into the bedroom or kitchen whenever boredom set in - often! I realised too late that I had booked our Guildford slot over Guy Fawkes weekend. Any bang was sure to freak out the Yorkshire terriers. Oddly enough, it was Hiawatha the mastiff, only seven months old but weighing in at 12 stone, who was by far the best-behaved in the flat. He would take up his position centre-stage where he would remain, posing magnificently until he wanted to pee, dump or hump. Due to his youth, I thought it would be wise to postpone his theatrical debut until his adolescence was behind him. His habit of humping me during his favourite songs - standing six feet tall on his hind legs - and failing me, Batty or Sally; or his worse habit, of picking horrendous fights with Oxton (two boys with balls) would not be appreciated on opening night.
The moment he knew that he had been elbowed out of the show his behaviour disintegrated. Not content with fighting Oxton, now he wanted to kill him. In the end we couldn't contain him in the tiny flat, so poor Hiawatha had to return to the country, where the frustrated thespian went berserk, destroying everything in sight - carpets, coats, statues, furniture, books, carvings, my shrine, everything.
It's tricky to put on a musical with no instruments, so Sally introduced me to an old friend of hers, Bruce Ogston. He was willing to accompany a first-time singer - brave chap! I was lucky, for good piano-players are easy to find, but accompanists such as Bruce are rare as gold dust.
We had only one day's rehearsal in the Mill before opening night on 6 November. The Guy Fawkes explosions were deafening, leading Oxton to have an epileptic fit. I was beginning to panic that we would never be able to perform The Widow Smiles. I had set myself such a high mountain to climb - the highest I had ever attempted in this particular incarnation - but perhaps I wouldn't be able to carry on after all. I had to rearrange the set so that it worked for the dogs' comfort: there were many complicated lighting cues and many other difficulties but, in the end, it worked.
Jamie Barber, who runs the Yvonne Arnaud, was specially kind to us. He allowed me to have my animals, my candles and my little band of three amateur helpers, none of whom had ever done anything remotely like theatre. At last my dream was realised - a team working with love towards a worthwhile goal.
I have a hunch that the dogs knew of their theatrical destiny all along. They knew what was required of them in those very first days in the flat, and grew bored because we humans were taking so long to get it together. On the first night they were so perfectly behaved that when I came off stage I wept buckets of gratitude. Perhaps some of those tears were pure relief, for the audiences had gracefully laughed and cried in all the right places. My Guildford mission was accomplished.
Hiawatha is here beside me as I write this. He still wants to kill Oxton. His whole raison d'etre has been badly bruised. I see that now. He, like the Yorkies and Sam, is well aware of his destiny, and it had been denied him. So sorry, Hiawatha - next time, eh?
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