Spike: An Intimate Memoir. Norma Farnes

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СКАЧАТЬ silly,’ said Johnny. ‘It’s a Soviet peasant’s lunch.’

      Just as Pam had promised, I was soon brushing shoulders with many household names, who always had a joke for the girl from Thornaby. Tommy Cooper, a naturally funny man who was unsure of his talent and could never understand why people laughed at him, often called to see Eric and they would have a whisky or three while they discussed ‘the business’.

      The Goon Show was no longer running but the Goons were still friendly. Peter Sellers often called from Hollywood to chat things over with Spike. Pete and Spike had an extraordinary and lasting relationship, even though Pete was often disloyal. Over the years similar acts of treachery – and with Pete, it really was treachery – from others meant they were damned to oblivion but Spike always forgave Pete with a shrug, saying ‘That’s how he is.’ Anyone else would have ‘died yesterday’, as Spike put it.

      The most cheerful and refreshingly normal of the three was Harry Secombe, who popped in now and again. Fame had not gone to his head and his diminutive Welsh wife Myra made sure it never did. He once told me that after a rapturous reception at a Royal Command Variety Show at the London Palladium he returned to his wife on a high. Then he described in great detail, several times in fact, his performance as the star of the show and the applause he won, reinforcing the tale with a bit of business. ‘Right, Harry,’ said Myra drily, ‘now you’re finished go and bring the coal in.’ He loved her for bringing him back to earth.

      Harry was a caring man and always placatory when there was trouble between Spike and Pete. While the other two were not made of the stuff of faithful husbands, Harry always went home to Myra as quickly as possible after a performance. In his day he could drink whisky with the best of them, Eric, Tommy and the incorrigible toper Jimmy Edwards, but later swore off it for the sake of his health and Myra. As a result he was blessed with the sort of happy family life denied to Spike and Pete; on the other hand, without being unkind, he did not carry the burden of their unique gifts.

      Frankie Howerd often dropped in to see Eric. I can still see his hunched figure, in suits that never seemed to fit. He was a man in doubt of his talent, insecure and lonely, always wondering how long it would be before the phone stopped ringing once more. It had happened before in the early Sixties when comics like him were thought to be as outdated as the old eight-reel films, but he was born again when he appeared with Peter Cook at The Establishment Club and demonstrated that, as an old trouper, he was a master of satire; next to Frankie the Footlights crowd could look like amateurs.

      Sometimes Frankie seemed desperate to be reassured of his popularity. One evening, long after we first met, I was dining with a friend at Spike’s favourite restaurant, the Trattoo, off High Street Kensington, and noticed Frankie shuffle in. He looked around to see if he could recognize anyone, then spotted me and, with that wonderful wide-mouthed smile, sidled over. Leaning forwards so nobody else could hear, he whispered, ‘Can I join you?’

      If Spike had been with me Frank would have darted out of sight as quickly as possible because he was always on tenterhooks about what Spike might say and in awe of his inspirational wit. Frankie’s humour was crafted, rehearsed, and his apparent spontaneity honed to perfection. That evening – and there was nothing unusual about this – he thought he was once again washed-up. In that hoarse whisper of his, with genuine bafflement, he said, ‘The worrying thing is, you see, I don’t know why people find me funny. I have nightmares about it.’

      My companion, a fan, was quite astonished and his enthusiasm reassured Frank, who became expansive and happy. By the time we were about to part he was a different man. ‘Do you know,’ he said quietly, looking over his shoulder like the music-hall comic he was, ‘you’ve made me feel so much better.’ He felt in his inside pocket. For a moment I thought he was going to offer to settle the bill but I did not hold my breath. I knew his reputation. ‘Next time,’ he beamed, ‘you must let me pay.’

      This was, of course, years later, but quite early on I would find myself leaving the office only to rejoin the gang at the Trattoo of an evening, chatting and listening to Spike’s friend Alan Clare, the talented jazz player, on the piano. Though I did not know it at the time, these days marked the beginning of some of the most important friendships of my life. After Jack Clarke I had sworn never to get romantically involved with anyone I worked with and perhaps this is what made things last.

      Meanwhile, Diana and I had become close friends and carried on living together while other girls came and went. One of them was New Yorker Camille Marchetta, who was a lot of laughs, tough and hugely ambitious. She worked for an agent whose clients included film stars and famous writers. She also had an idea she could write, ‘Better than some of the clients.’ We all have our dreams, I thought. Well, she was brave enough to pack in a good job and return to New York to do it. And write she did. Her television series ran and ran and made her famous. Dallas was its name.

      As the months passed the Number Nine blend of business and play came to seem more and more natural to me. Spike had recently been a sensation on the stage in his improvised play, Son of Oblomov, and was now being courted by impresarios to take it to Broadway; Barbra Streisand was just one of the people who pleaded with him. I believe he would have been a huge success and become a worldwide star if he had agreed, but he did not like Americans so that was the end of that.

      In the autumn he presented me with a list of five hundred names for his Christmas cards. ‘I’m going to draw my own for about two hundred of them,’ he said. Ridiculous, I thought. He cannot possibly mean it.

      ‘Get on to the Times Drawing Office in Maddox Street and tell them to put two hundred sheets of their best quality white cardboard paper in a taxi. I need it in the next hour. Then ring Sandfords and tell them to send me a dozen black calligraphy pens in another taxi.’

      ‘How are we going to pay for them?’ Silly me. I did not realize that the Times Drawing Office knew him of old.

      ‘Just do it. Pay the taxi when they are delivered and get David to send me the bill. I’ve got to get on with them before somebody interrupts me. Some bastard is bound to spoil it.’

      The cardboard was delivered later that morning. By the time I left the office he had drawn two hundred cards.

      Spike could also be mean and nasty, particularly to the people he loved most. Spike’s wife Paddy was nearly twenty years younger than him, and scatty and undisciplined in contrast to his fanatical sense of organization about everyday things. While we had already spoken many times on the phone my first clear memory of meeting her brought about perhaps the worst moment I had yet experienced with Spike.

      Paddy was doing her Christmas shopping in the West End and ran out of money, so she came to the office to get some from Spike. She was tall, nearly six foot in high heels, and very elegant. Spike was at the Mermaid Theatre. I told her not to worry, she could have whatever was in the petty cash box. Forty-five pounds would do, she said. When Spike returned a few hours later I said Paddy had called in and mentioned the money I had given her. He went berserk.

      ‘What on earth possessed you to give away my money?’

      ‘She’s your wife and needed it to get home.’

      He went into a tirade. ‘That’s no reason to give away my money. Would you give my money to a tramp in the street?’

      ‘No. I leave that to you.’

      That infuriated him because it was true. We had a resident tramp in Bayswater and when Spike went out for doughnuts and cakes (another Milligan obsession) he would always give him a few quid.

      ‘You gave away my money,’ he raged. ‘I can do what I like with СКАЧАТЬ