Behind the Laughter. Sherrie Hewson

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СКАЧАТЬ Gave me a boost and they didn’t care!’

      I bet they damn well did, but were much too scared to tell on the old lech. That reminds me of a voice doctor, whom we all visited when we were students. A small man, he had a unique way of healing your voice so quickly you didn’t have to miss a show. He was a miracle worker – and he knew it. The first time I went to see him was on my own. I was waiting to go into his office when the lady behind the desk asked, ‘Haven’t you got anyone with you?’ ‘No,’ I said. At this, her brow wrinkled and she mouthed, ‘Oh, dear!’ But before I could question her, out he popped.

      ‘Hello, my dear, come in,’ he told me, extremely dapper in his grey suit, black tie and highly polished shoes. I told him my throat was sore and that my glands felt swollen. ‘Right,’ he said, ‘let’s have a look.’ He pulled up a stool and sat directly in front of me. ‘Open wide,’ he instructed. He shone a light into my mouth. ‘OK, you need a mouthwash and I’m going to spray your throat with this.’ He reached over for a small aerosol can. ‘Close your eyes, we don’t want it getting anywhere else, do we?’ he continued. The next moment his hands were all over me, up my sweater, nearly down my trousers. I opened my eyes and leapt up.

      ‘Pay on your way out,’ he told me. Stunned and completely shocked, I wasn’t sure if it had happened or not. As I passed the receptionist, she could see my face. ‘Bring someone with you next time,’ she said, smiling sympathetically. From then on I took Mum with me: she thought he was a sweetheart but I knew what he really was.

      Back on the Z Cars set, I was becoming completely fed up with my fellow cast member’s obsession with pinching my behind. Fortunately I was a lot younger and faster than he was, so he never did catch me. If I’d complained, it would have been me who wasn’t hired again, not him. But it seemed no one had any sympathy for my plight, even though they could all see what was happening – they all thought it was funny.

      In those days not only would some of the chaps pursue us girls onset but the ‘casting couch’, as it was called, was also commonplace. It meant that sexual favours would be expected in return for a job. One of the times when I found myself subject to the unwelcome attentions of a potential employer was when a highly successful director came to talk to us at RADA. Afterwards I was delighted when he invited me to go for a meal with him.

      Anyway, there we were, this mega-famous director and little me, driving towards the King’s Road, Chelsea, which was considered to be the place to go. This was at the tail end of the Swinging Sixties, the anything-goes time, when the miniskirt and thigh-length boots were all the rage and the King’s Road was the parading ground for the coolest people ever. It was such an exciting place to be, with the music of the day playing everywhere: Mungo Jerry’s ‘In the Summertime’, Smokey Robinson’s ‘Tears of a Clown’ and Freda Payne’s ‘Band of Gold’.

      The director steered me into a restaurant, which was all scrubbed tables and candles in Mateus Rosé bottles. He made it clear this was his treat and he did all the ordering, which was fine by me: one, I had no money, and two, this was a proper big-time director and I didn’t want to look foolish. When our food arrived, it looked like a pile of shrivelled bones covered in brown sauce. Not far off the truth, it was spare ribs, but I’d never seen them before. Also, I had no idea that the little white bowl placed next to me and containing water and lemon was for rinsing my hands in after I’d eaten them.

      Anyway, I thought I’d better have a go and stuck my fork in. Rather too enthusiastically, it turned out, as it became jammed in one of the bones and slid along the plate, knocking against the others. It was like a game of skittles except all the ribs shot up into the air before landing in my lap and sliding over my knees onto the floor. Said director looked slightly miffed and muttered something uncomplimentary as he shuffled me in my sauce-stained clothes out of the restaurant.

      I hadn’t planned on ending the meal by leaving prematurely, with my skirt and knees covered in sticky brown sauce and my face the colour of a tomato, but there was worse to come. He had offered to drive me home but as we walked down the street, he pointed up towards a window. ‘That’s my flat,’ he told me. ‘I can’t take you home in that state. Come in and clean yourself up.’

      This seemed like a good idea – I was just so innocent. Inside, he sat me down in his very smart lounge and asked if I would like a drink. I didn’t drink alcohol in those days, so I told him that I would love a glass of lemonade or Coke.

      ‘Really?’ he said. ‘I’ve got something you’ll like better than that. The bathroom, by the way, is upstairs and you’ll find a dressing-gown in there if you want to take off those stained clothes.’

      I should have made an excuse and left at that moment. Instead I meekly accepted a glass of lemonade. When I asked why it tasted so funny, he told me that it contained ‘a bit of Pernod’. I didn’t know what that was, but it tasted quite nice and so I had a second glass, after which I started to feel a bit strange.

      ‘I’d better go home,’ I hiccupped.

      ‘I can’t take you home in this state,’ he said, ‘but don’t worry – you can spend the night here on my very comfy sofa.’

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