Angus Mackay Diaries Volume III (1966-1977)

ANGUS MACKAY DIARY NO. 35

Friday July 22 1966

David rang up last night after his first night, about ten to twelve, from the ‘phone-box outside his digs. (The digs are about ¼ of an hours walk, on the way to Walton-on-the-Naze.) He was absolutely miserable. I have never heard him so depressed. As far as we could tell, there was nothing tangible for him to be depressed about, except that he’d felt ‘wooden’, ‘spastic’, ‘the whole company got the laughs’. I’d say this last had something to do with it, as he’d thought himself rather good and better than the others. An audience soon tells one, and the leading girl, whom he hadn’t thought much of ‘came up fantastically.’ That would throw him technically, too. But principally it’s, of course, that it’s all much harder than he expected.

As Peter Hoar said he gave a very good period performance, and he’s playing the murderer, not the detective’s assistant, in the next play. I don’t think they’ve lost faith in him yet! (Also, ‘Jane’ is almost certainly by far the better part of the two – Cinderella usually is – and she probably got a lot of the laughs and the praise.)

I hope he’ll pick himself up quickly and get on. This will be the testing time, as he has obviously a tendency to give in unless everything is easy for him. So there he is miserable in digs all by himself, about his acting, just as I wanted him to be. I hadn’t reckoned on how it would upset me. I couldn’t go to sleep for thinking about him and had to take a sleeping-pill. (And all day in the studio today!) I feel so responsible for him, as he is only where he is because of me. Am I encouraging him beyond his talents or even inclinations for my own satisfaction? I honestly think he is very talented. But of course my affection for him is the worst. My heart ached for him last night. I know so well what that feeling is like, when there is no escape from blaming yourself.

And now I have to see it tomorrow and say something wise and comforting and RIGHT, that will actually help him. And all without showing that what I would idiotically, like to do, is pick him up and carry him back home where he need not be hurt or miserable again!!

The hardest thing is to judge him in the whole play.

Saturday July 23 1966

He was better than I dared to hope. He really has got it. Of course it’s all a bit hit and miss, but it’s there. The audience loved him. The whole thing wasn’t bad. I nearly burst with pride, when the director said ‘He’s the best young man we’ve had at Frinton for years. A natural’.

If only D. could have been here too.

Sunday July 24 1966

After being worried I might talk in the dressing-room, he saw I would behave quite nicely, and indeed was quite agreeable when I was asked to the after-the-show party! Seriously he was adorable all day and suggested he meet me at 10.15 this morning. Very nice, on his only sleeping in morning. He saw me off, after I’d given him some quite good notes.

He seems to take us even more for granted as parents now. He really loves us.

D. burst into tears when I told her what Joan Shore said about him.

Of course he still has a long way to go, but I really thought ‘He might be a star’. He’s mad about Sally Ducrow now, the one he thought nothing of at first.

Thursday August 4 1966

Last night had Roger Lloyd-Pack to dinner. Was an ASM with David at Coventry. A calm, intelligent, amiable boy, far more amenable than David! We may be able to help him a little, and I believe he enjoyed his evening. I cannot however pretend that part of the reason for asking him was to understand David better. As they were rather friendly at Coventry.

Roger’s opinions absolutely chime with mine. David found him interesting and stimulating. Yet David disagrees with most of what I say.

D. is quite right. I must grow up if I am to be a father in any but a sentimental sense to him. I must be there to be provoked, there to be sure of myself, there to be reacted against, this last something he has never had. He is provoking because he loves argument, the investigation of his own ideas and opinions in which he has almost no confidence. And more provoking to me than to anyone, because finally he can more confidently count on me than on anyone else. As witness his saying that the ideas about Shakespeare, he wouldn’t say to anyone else. He has to test all these ideas out because he can’t find himself. (I mean his is terribly, at the moment, all talk and no do.)

I sometimes feel desolate about him that he is quite cold and without feeling, just idly interested in argument, and fact grubbing and then remember his family, and how he once said to me they had forced him to become ‘independent’ i.e. not caring for anybody. His emotional life has been very narrow, and he has often been hurt. If, for instance, I said to him now, ‘I find after all, we have nothing in common, the experiment hasn’t worked, out you go’, he would say he didn’t mind, right, pick himself up and go straight on. But really it would inflict a wound that would leave him quite cynical for life.

What I must do is, first, certainly, not lose my temper. (My only comfort is that sometimes he makes D. lose hers) second, and more important, put him first, so that I can calmly wonder what insecurity he is parading now, rather than what emotional need of mine he is not satisfying.

He depends on me more than I even imagine.

I must remember that he is testing me and himself all the time. This is all the more important now that he is bound to embark on a real affair any minute now. If she were the wrong girl, our influence and stability would be even more vital. He comes of bad stock, feckless and lazy. His mother was right when she said that he was like his father. It depends on me to bring out the wonderful best that’s there. I don’t think he can possibly do it alone.

Even his lively inquiring mind is a snare to his laziness and lack of concentration, since it is easier to have an argument than actually to do something.

I must think of what I can do for him not what he can do for me. And this includes not simply giving him things, treats, theatres, and so on, since his acceptance of them is something he gives me!

(Even Roger L-P said his (David’s) powers of concentration were not of the greatest. He must learn to work. What shall I say if it turns out that, like Miss Brodie, I have encouraged him unrealistically?)

Wednesday August 10 1966

If only D. were here, too, to talk it over with!

Well, he may do it alone. He was better than before, and is on absolutely the right lines. All he needs is time and experience to bring sureness, and I honestly don’t know where he might get to. Except that general note, I really can scarcely think of anything to say to him tomorrow. Some passages couldn’t have been better.

Tomorrow night he’s playing a character part, with an accent and a beard! Help. I went and sat in on lunch with him and Sally and Sybil Eubank. Sally is a very sweet girl, and they’re apparently always together. They had a rehearsal in the afternoon, after which I was supposed to be taking him out to dinner, or high tea. Much too early for me, but I wanted one quiet talk alone. Still I was rather relieved when Joan and Sam Hoar asked me out, and when I told David this, he jumped at the opportunity to eat in the theatre kitchen with Sally, with food bought by themselves. I said ‘Why didn’t you say?’ He said ‘Well, I didn’t want you to have dinner all by yourself.’ Ah! I must remind him tomorrow of my last letter. He, and D. and I have now got far enough to say to each other, there’s no need to be in my pocket all the time on these occasions. We’re together for life, as it were, and from that basis confidence can come.

He was the only one playing the right weight for the play, and the only one with any real taste.

Thursday August 11 1966

Met David at 11 at the theatre, went for coffee (where we were interrupted by Annette ? with whom I did 3 plays ten years ago in Hull!) Then walked along the cliffs, sat on a seat for a bit, and then went back to the theatre, where he gave me a large pile of dirty washing, and then I took him and Sally Ducrow out to lunch at my hotel. She is a bright attractive and intelligent girl, and I enjoyed her company very much.

Our couple of hours talk was quite marvellous. He really must be able to read my mind, he says so exactly what I want to hear. (I hope it’s all true!) He couldn’t speak quickly enough to pour out to me his irritation with the leading-girl, - quite justified – and with Joan and Sam Hoar – also quite justified and with the unprofessionalism of the whole set-up. What thrilled me was his saying all this, seeing that it was not what it ought to be and wanting it to be better, just for the principle of it, and saying how thick they all were in not getting themselves into positions on stage, for instance, where they could be properly seen. He is like us, he is aware of everyone else (to the limit of his youthful knowledge and experience) and sees them in relation to himself. What a doubtful gift!

He is leaping ahead with this season. I had to praise him, but he must continue to work. I think what touches me most is the way it all pours out of him the moment we meet. He loves us. He said ‘Well, you are my guest sort of’ referring to yesterday.

12.45

The whole thing was pretty tatty, with far too many fluffs and dries, but he was all right, a real characterization, and a reasonable foreign accent. I dashed round after and told him about his beard, which was a bit wrong, and said I’d be in the pub, and wanted a quiet word on our way home. To my surprise he left with me, for a really private word. He craves our standards. And we had a good go over the play. I’m not stern enough with him. I’m too fond of him, and spoil him.

Saturday August 13 1966

Last night I rang David to tell him to send his income-tax papers to me.

Tonight he rang me here at the cottage to tell me briskly that Elaine would be on her way to Frinton tomorrow, and could only get to Clacton by 9.0 p.m. So why didn’t she stay the night at Manchuria Rd., and would I tell D. to leave the key out? ‘She could have my bed’, he said. The utter trust he puts in us. Oh! It’s marvellous, if maddening!

I’ve discussed his relationship with Sally Ducrow, with D. exhaustively. They go everywhere together, have lunch together every day, but ‘I’m not in love with her’ he says, nor is he. Yet.

Also there’s still her London University boyfriend, Neal, Neil? ‘It makes me feel a bit of a sod, because she’s writing ‘cooling off letters to him.’ And then he says she isn’t in love with him, David, either. When I said ‘I think she’s sweet and very attractive’, he said ‘So do I.’ He also said ‘She has a fantastic body.’ And again, ‘We’re both very rational about it. Specially me. No emotion, you see’, and laughed at me!

So, I would say they had slept together, perhaps twice and she is rationally getting fonder of David. And David will rationally get less fond of her as the season gets nearer its end.

Or, just possibly, he may be examining every step of the relationship so reasonably that he may fall in love without meaning to. She’s a nice girl, and very calm and bright.

But finally, not his sort, I think. But very good for now.

His absolute trust in me is wonderful. I am not frightened by it. I am equal to it.

I wrote him a good letter today, telling him to work hard and set an example. That this part, though feeble in itself, would give him chance to express that brightness of mind which was one of his chief assets.

I try to tell him in words that he can take, how important he is to me. After D., who is me, he is my whole life. He is my most precious achievement.

No, I do not look on him as a possession. His confidence in me has made me a different person. D. gave me a new life as a disciple. He gave me a new life as a teacher. Silly and wrong. But a bit of truth somewhere when I’m not drunk.

Monday August 22 1966

On Saturday I went to see ‘This Thing Called Love’, my only opportunity because of my new television part. At Frinton, I mean!

He was pretty bad, and if I hadn’t seen him in the other parts I might have thought ‘Crikey.’

However, I had, and I see so clearly that in his panic at such a long play-carrying part, he fell back on all his faults, became stiff, self-conscious and a bit nasty. We had only about 10 minutes talk, but he poured out a good deal. He is all duty to me for the moment, as it should be (‘I’m not excusing myself, but so and so did dry’ etc etc.) Much as I would like that to continue, I know I must push him away to become a real actor.

Which he will. Saturday August 27 1966

At the cottage, alone.

She’s not coming tomorrow, as I’ve got to come back.

I couldn’t write about the 14th.

How is it that we love each other so much, and yet can go through these scenes? Because we do love each other, completely.

If only she wanted to make love!

Thursday September 8 1966

Last cottage weekend lovely. She did want to. I will stop hating her for not wanting to. I know I will.

She tells me David rang up to say how wonderful he’d felt the night before, the Friday of ‘Past Imperfect’. He’d really felt like an actor, had held the audience, and come near doing all he’d intended to do with the part. All very well and very nice to hear, but still no answer to a lot of important questions not to mention no word about let alone any thanks for doing his income tax, a real chore. Now it isn’t just that I find this hurtful personally, feeling as if I’m working in a vacuum for him (like a French peasant before the Revolution) but he must be shown the value of things, - gratitude and his taking trouble and having thought for others, for instance, as well as money and so on. The problem for me is how to show him how much and how unusually much, I do for him, without simply insisting on my own magnanimity. Yet shown he must be or I shall spoil him.

I wrote him a fair snorter, and go an abject letter back by return. The poor little thing also rang up this morning at 1.0, his letter having arrived by the early post, to ask if I’d got it, and if it was all right. He’d answered everything, and done his job letters, this last of course the most important of all.

We chatted a bit and he told me there’d been little emotional crises going on, tears and tantrums. ‘Wendy and Geoffrey think they’re psychologically interesting.’ He said.

Isn’t it extraordinary that such crises develop in the last week of any season, however short.

He says he’ll still be seeing Sally in London. Good. Though he must get a job again very soon, as I do not want him to get into a London Univ. set much.

You never know what influences can be brought to bear. Actors must simply concentrate on the theatre. I don’t want him suddenly to feel envious of an archaeological expedition going off to Brazil or something.

I suppose that means I shall see much less of him. Ah well, I must put up with that mustn’t I? Ah well.

Tuesday September 13

He came home on Sunday at 3.0, and we all three had a lovely day of chats. He said he was quite glad to sit down quietly with the Sunday papers, which he hadn’t done since he left! He is pleased with the result of the season on him, I think, and D. noticed his improved accent. It’s mainly his diction that has improved, I think, the result of speaking to be heard every night for eight weeks.

The big news today is that he’s got a job!! Already. At Bexhill starting Thursday week. Play ‘Anastasia’, so he’ll have a nice small part to look around in. He is a lucky boy. And it’s so near the cottage. Lovely. Though I must say I wish he’d been home just a bit longer. No, I mustn’t say that.

He’s gone off in bright sunshine, to the Labour Exchange, then to the Bank, wearing new trousers he bought yesterday, and with a new job in his pocket, to meet Sally for a day in London. Isn’t that perfect for a day at 20?

Dear little chap.

Saturday September 17 1966

At cottage, alone.

Mummy, Daddy and Lalla staying with us, is getting us both down. Although we are doing well, (D. especially) our patience is gradually wearing thin, and we shall only just last till they go on October 15.

Otherwise it has been a most interesting week. David brought Sally back to dinner on Tuesday night, which I gave them in his room, throwing things on a tray and getting him to come down and fetch them from two floors up, but serving them a three-course meal all the same, and a bottle of white wine thrown in; I felt quite proud that I’d done this without disturbing M, D and L’s dinner in the dining-room. Or disturbing M, D and L themselves. Though of course they must have thought it all a bit odd, poor loves. Little do they know how odd!! From two points of view. One, that it is hideously ironic that David shouldn’t be able to use his kitchen and bedroom freely, as we promised him, although it’s been empty most of this year; Sally should really be able to stay with him all this week. Two that of course the children made love while the dinner was being got ready. Sally went off back to Cambridge that night, and came back to London to stay with friends in Gunnersbury on Thursday. On Wed. afternoon I took William Squire’s boy, Nicholas, aged 15, to the zoo. A nice calm composed boy, rather young for his age. Very keen on cars and cameras. Not my sort, really. In the evening I took David to see ‘Little Malcolm and his Struggle Against the Eunuchs’, done by the National Youth Theatre at the Royal Court. I was just as impressed by the play as I was earlier this year, when done professionally. David showed signs of thinking it didn’t say anything much. I was moved to say it was the best first play I’d seen since the war, because so many of its scenes come off. Just that.

On Thursday I spent the day with M Daddy and L., and in the evening went to pick up D. after the show to go out to supper with Peter Wood. David and Sally were in her dressing- room. How sweet. He’d brought her there to meet D. They went to the tube, we went off to P.W.’s and had a most interesting time. Poor man, poor man. What brains, what fun and what immaturity, all combined. He thinks of leaving the theatre because he wants to be uncluttered in his creative statements – or something. I just wished I’d been an eighth as successful as he. He said at one point ‘Angus was a unique personality at Cambridge’ and then couldn’t think of anything I was unique for!

David and Sally had done everything that day by the way, including going to Quip, the Design Centre, a ‘Television Show’ of some kind to be guinea pigs, which they were too late for, but got half a guinea for their pains all the same, ‘A Bout de Souffle’ and ‘Incident at Owl Creek’ at Hampstead Everyman (didn’t pay on the tube!!) and having lunch? At a marvellous little place in that passage off St. Martin’s Lane.

We didn’t get in from Peter W’s till 4. I had to get up at 9, to be sure that David would ring Bexhill. Richard Digby-Day, about to take over Bournemouth Rep. on a big Arts Council grant had asked him to play Lorenzo, and wanted to have a definite answer. We had to catch Richard Burnett before he went to rehearsal at ten. When it came to the point, David didn’t want to push his luck by asking a favour so soon. A pity, as I think R.B. would have been flattered to let him off. – And I needn’t have got up, when I was feeling ghastly. However it is very early days to expect David to see any of that.

D. has been having terrible trouble with her leg again, and had to go to Mr. Hopewell Ash on Wed. and Friday morning. She is very tired just now, and no wonder I feel guilty. David and I had a date to meet Roger L.P. and Sally for a lunchtime drink. David was rather depressed on the way. I said was he depressed? He said, ‘Well, I’m not exactly brimming over.

I wonder. Sally goes away to France at the end of the week, while David goes to Bexhill on Thursday, so separation is in the air. But I think it’s more that he saw that Friday morning, further involvement looming ahead. He at once wonders why he isn’t more hopelessly in love, and why he’s going on with it. Well, that’s a stage to go through. Let’s see.

Last night he brought her back again, and again they had dinner in his room. I was touched that, on going to his kitchen-dining-room, (for the moment, Daddy’s bedroom) to get a couple of extra plates, I heard that unmistakable creak-creak from upstairs. Some twenty minutes later, I called him to get their dinner and down he came flushed pink with satisfaction.

I’m very proud of all three of us. And Sally. Only she has yet to prove herself.

This morning I told him that he could have his dinner like that without either of us.

I said to him, ‘My parents are my parents, and honoured guests certainly, but this is your house. Remember that!’

Friday September 30 1966

Have had no chance to write till now. We had a lovely weekend at the cottage, the two of us, lovely.

When I got back, I was most intrigued to see if our little menage had got on all right together. Lalla had irritatingly thought David wanted more than we had provided for him. In fact, he just wanted to come down, get food and go back to Sally!

However, from both points of view, all was well.

On the Tuesday, I took Sally and David to ‘Royal Hunt of the Sun’. They had spent the afternoon here, and we had an adorable evening. Sally is interesting. She is so amenable and easy, it’s almost worrying. I enjoyed the play very much, a really stunning theatrical affair, and the play not half a bad effort in a very difficult kind. I was especially pleased that David kept referring to me, not only with his comments on the play, which he had seen and been thrilled by before, but about everything. He was obviously intent on showing her what I was like, not, of course, for myself alone, but as an appendage, ‘Look, I have this to offer you.’ (Not just that, of course).

When we came out, virtually the whole Frinton company who had been to see Brodie, were waiting to take us off for coffee. Needless to say, I didn’t go, but thought I would offer a gracious hand to each and ask them how they’d enjoyed the show. The first one was Carol, the 21 year old SM, who said, ‘I didn’t get anything out of it at all.’ Had she hit me over the head with a brick, I couldn’t have been more surprised. It corpsed me so much I had hurriedly to excuse myself and erupted into D’s dressing-room really quite hysterical, to find Jenny Laird and Karen Fernald there. Both pathetic in their different ways.

The next day Sally came to lunch, which went off very well. M, D and L had gone to ‘Arsenic and Old Lace’. Very well, except that I found out no more about what she’s actually like. As D. said, ‘You’d think she’d be more interested in you and me and my d- room, if she’s really interested in David.’ But beautifully easy and intelligent. Brought up among undergraduates, you see.

The next day, Sep. 22, David went off to Bexhill on the 3.45 train from Victoria. Sally was meeting him at the station so they could have that last little bit together. Aah! He packed his trunk in the morning, very busy, D. gave him a special lunch, real chop when we were all having omelettes. I gave him £5 to start the season off, the taxi came, he said goodbye to Daddy, kissed Lalla and Mummy, (who’d also given him a £1!) and rolled away, waving, with both of us in tears. D. said, as we went in, ‘It’s envy’. Well, it was, but also it was, at least with me, a yearning for him to be here, and he was going there. When someone is as near to you as that, it is awful when they go away, even for a short time.

They next day I had dinner with Richard Digby Day in the Grill and Cheese. (3 waiters etc. came up to say how they’d enjoyed my TV progs!) We had a very good clear talk. I offered myself as reader of plays and father figure. He is a good clear-headed very hard-working boy, with real discrimination. If only David were more like him in single-mindedness. Richard is an excellent judge of a play.

The next day off to the cottage, and on the bus at Battle David!! I haven’t been so delighted for years. I am so pleased to see him it makes me go more ironic than ever. Oh dear. However, we had a very good talk after dinner, during which he said, among other things, he had thought of writing us both a letter saying what all we’d done had meant to him, and perhaps what we meant to him. For all my love of sentiment, that made me shy! I told him much to his embarrassment, I’m sure, that the day I saw his children playing round this garden, I should just give up and shoot myself. And yet you know, there is a certain truth in it. For all my selfishness, I, like Mummy, am most myself when those I love are all characteristically there.

He also said, by the way, that he must have been maddening about acting last year. Well, he was! But isn’t it miraculous he sees it?

I think the Sunday was one of the most truly happy days I’ve ever had. D. picked blackberries in the afternoon, and David helped her, after having put new blades on the rotary mower for me. We didn’t talk much really, till dinner. If someone really loves the cottage, it shows. And he does. A good thing, as it’ll be his one day. I heard his lines in the evening for ‘Anastasia’. He rattled through them like a pro. I said that he’d always said he wouldn’t learn parrot fashion. ‘Ah that was before I’d done any acting’, he said!

He caught the 8.40 bus Monday morning, having previously washed his hair, and had a complete washdown, although not up till 7.50. (The washdown, parts and all, very necessary, as he’d tossed himself off twice over the weekend and the sheets.)

The 28 of Sept. was memorable for my first riding-lesson. I was surprised at how unfrightened I was, even when she made me trot towards the end of the hour. Is this usual? I just mounted once, and never came off again for an hour and a half. I enjoyed it, and wasn’t stiff at all afterwards except for a bruise on the right buttock very low down.

Today, the 30th, I had lunch with Jenny Huddleston, the assistant from ‘Quick Before They Catch Us’ and she was very sympathetic and there. She thought I ought to change my agent. Um!

Afterwards met D. to buy her some clothes. Actually got some this time, a good brown skirt, and a beautifully tailored Irish tweed top-coat in large but misted black and white check. Like a rather small chess-board seen through a slight fog. Alas the long coats don’t seem to have caught on. I don’t need any greater shame than not being able to give her beautiful clothes, and plenty of them.

Saturday October 8 1966

At cottage alone.

11.45 p.m. waiting for D.

Definitely not my day today. Forgot the cottage key and had to climb in through the loo window. The milk hadn’t come, so had to get some from Cummins. Put it down in its jug v. carefully on the path, while packing groceries in wheel-basket, found it had tipped over – most of it. It also rained all day, so couldn’t mow the lawn. Only bright spot, bought birch broom and swept lawn a bit!

This week has been TORTURE with M, D and L round my neck. It’s the evenings without D. She is marvellous. I wish I were more like her.

Tuesday I went to Mr Wilson about the company. He said at one point he was torn between two stools. We went on to lunch with Mary L. and I stayed to dinner. Dear twisted soul. Very lovable. How she clings to the past.

Wednesday for my second riding-lesson. Trotting more or less all the time without stirrups!! I was a bit frightened, but did it. Shall I be able to go on? I do fancy myself at it still, like mad.

Oh last weekend. David arrived here about 11.30. Isn’t it lovely that he wants to come? Though I suppose it’s mainly boredom and there being no one sympathetic in the company. Still I don’t care. He was here. He came down with me to meet D. and she kissed him and said ‘Cold noney’ (nose) as it might be me!

Again he was adorable. Like a little boy trotting backwards and forwards doing a job for a minute or two, and then wanting me to come and see what he’d done. One way and another he did a bit. While I was weeding one of the two beds by the house, (which he was supposed to have done the week before) he stood by and talked a bit about Sally and himself. (He told me, by the way, that a French letter burst once. Gosh. Also sometimes he does it for an hour – the second time. A young man of 20 about to go on for an hour the 2nd time. Come! If it was me, that would have to be the 4th time.) Seriously, he revealed to me his anxiety that she would be exposed to all the fascination of a whole university-full of intellectuals. And that he was thinking of quietly reading gradually for an extra-university degree in English!

I was much moved (but did not, I think, show it) that he should tell me this, as I am sure such a vulnerable little scheme has been told to no one else. His sudden feeling of inadequacy is perhaps the first stirrings of real love. (Is Sally cleverer than he? Surely not.) He rang up on Friday – yesterday, to say he was cast in the next play in virtually a walk-on. He had been a bit down at the weekend, but nothing to what he was now.

It wasn’t just the part. I said ‘Wait till Sally comes back, (today) you’ll feel differently.’ ‘I hope so’, he said. It’s a new stage he’s got to, a painful bit, of growing up. There’s nobody - stimulating at Bexhill (his favourite word – also used for those who react to him!) It’s his fourth season, and acting is a job. And he’s not being startling. There’s nothing new happening, specially not the plays and he’s slumped. In addition, he’s coming more and more face to face with himself, because it’s harder to find casual reasons to avoid that confrontation. He’s realising that consolidation has a place as well as stimulation, but it’s harder work.

He sees more and more our point as a result.

What must it be like really to have a son. If I had brought him up from a baby, I would be even worse than I am.

The awful thing is that I cannot stop wishing that he were my son. I even look for likenesses.

Sunday October 9 1966

11.30 p.m.

Just to register. A most successful day. She is easy, quick, intelligent, attractive with a sense of humour. But not the girl for him. We have discussed it at length, in case it’s our ‘parental’ jealousy. I don’t think so. She is admirable as she is, but not special and would quench his specialness.

She seems fairly uninterested in his career, his accent, his acting. It’s just his being hers that matters. For the moment. For all her niceness and politeness.

Tuesday October 11 1966

12.15 a.m.

David rang at 7 just before I came in and again at 10.30 or so.

He has seen a copy of the next play with pencilled-in names on the cast list, not including his, with the ASM playing the juvenile. The character man who showed him it, suggested that Richard Burnett might be going to send him to Eastbourne, as he can’t give him notice now without paying him for what would be two empty weeks, as the next play but one is ‘Blithe Spirit’.

Poor boy, he said he was very down when he first phoned but has accepted it now. He said that he just phoned straight away when he heard, but I wasn’t in. Then he thought he wouldn’t phone later, but thought he’d better in case I was worried. In case! We have just talked it out exhaustively from every angle.

I cannot believe they’d sack him without having given him a note! Without giving him more of a chance than two parts. Well, if they don’t like him, they can do the other thing and he goes elsewhere.

Thursday October 13 1966

Thank goodness he rang at lunch time, paid for the call, too – crikey – to say he is being lent to Eastbourne for 2 plays, ‘Alibi’, and one other.

Oh, what a relief. I don’t know what we’d have done if he’d been sacked, as neither of us ever have. I must go and see him soon, and get the smell of the set-up.

He murmured that one of the parts might be the detective. If so, that’s promotion!

Detective are hell. Always leading. Think of those two children at the cottage this week. Ah!

Sunday October 23 1966

Their visit to the cottage was a great success, even tho’ it seems to have rained most of the time, and he wrote the most practical and thoughtful letter on the Monday after, even telling us what was and wasn’t in the larder. Rather vaguely, certainly, but a year ago he wouldn’t even have written!

The big event of the week was Mummy, Daddy and Lalla leaving. We both went so flop, we were quite ill. D. even went to the lengths of a bad cold. Tuesday we spent with Prim. I stayed to dinner and we got properly up to date. I then joined D. in the dressing-room as Gerard was seeing the show. Lovely to see him. He asked me to go to a play at the Horseshoe Wharf Club on the Thursday, which I did. Very interesting, with Tom Driberg and others! A revue-play on the history of the police-force, by a policeman. Not much merit as it stands, except in one or two of the ideas. But I bet someone will make a lot of money out of something like it before we’re much older.

David had said he would let us know about Eastbourne, but of course he didn’t. Said he would be coming up to London this w/e and of course didn’t let us know he was going to Sally’s. Still we had assumed it. Called in at D.’s dressing-room last night with Sally and friend, and rang tonight. Very sweet on both occasions as usual. All the same, I confess to a grave disquiet about him as an actor. I always feel that if I didn’t ask him about his part and the producer and the other actors, he would never mention them himself. For instance, he had forgotten (or never knew!) that Wed. was his matinee day, and said to D. what a marvellous place Eastbourne was, because it was so easy to get up for the w/e. ‘When you’re playing’, she reminded him. And he came to! He is stimulated by what stimulates him, as we all are, but alas it isn’t enough his job. A w/e up in London with Sally seems to wipe his part of the Co. out of his mind entirely.

I’ll wait, tho’. As she says, wait. Oh dear, it is a temptation to wag the finger, and make him right. But that’s so selfish, really, because I would be tampering with the mainsprings of his action. That is to say, if he’s not to be an actor, we’ll discover it sooner by leaving him to fail by inaction rather than injections of stimulants from me. Because really he never seems to move forward as an actor unless prodded by me. As far as I can see, Sally isn’t even interested in his acting, except in a vague external way, and of course has no vision of the theatre, poor lamb. I wonder if they’ve even spoken of his part this w/e. He probably doesn’t think it ‘worth it’, yet he could almost steal the play with this part. Oh dear me, dear me. Why is he so LIMP?

We had, by the way, a thank-you letter from Sally for the cott. w/e, so empty and nothing and correct that D. laughed and said, ‘Really, one might have made it up.’

What will I say to him, if I think eventually, as I’m beginning to, that he’s no actor?

Wednesday October 26 1966

On my way to see David. I’ve looked at the part carefully, and it’s a good little part with opportunities. Remember that!

Monday October 31 1966

With Edna staying, although it has been lovely to have her, and sustaining in my out-of-work depression, I haven’t had a chance to write.

The visit was slightly marred by David mistaking the time of my train. I arrived on the 12.11. He looked in at the pub where we’d arranged to meet at 12.20 when he, broke of course, found me not there, and went off to the station to meet me. Sweet, but mistaken, as I’d said on the telephone when I was arriving. A whole hour of his company wasted. However, he’ll learn.

We went off from the pub where I’d been sitting watching three of the Co, all over thirty! Oh dear, what depressing types.

He suggested the London Steak House, and off we went. He asked how I was, a new departure, and gave me such news as he had. Poor chap, it must be a bit grim, idling away the afternoons, in a town where you have no digs.

I reminded him that Sally must get a cap. He said she was going to! Um. I said as you got more involved it became easier to get careless, and carried away. ‘Yes’, he said, with feeling. He’d hardly finished his chops before he had to go off for the half. (I made him go, actually.)

The theatre is very pretty and good, and could be even prettier. It’s decorated in colours that are too pale for it. The play was pretty hopelessly crippled by the leading man – the Alastair Sim part – not having a comic bone in his body. The girls – guess what – were the best, and therefore started to get laughs, only to be ground into the floor by others not knowing how to play this sort of play.

David wasn’t too good, terribly stiff and self-conscious, and suddenly darting to the mantelpiece to look at some miniatures, when he should casually have noticed them. No, he wasn’t good, but he knows it, (and this encourages me) because he doesn’t feel right. There are no signs of sticking to his own stupid way, so as to get by, which results in a carapace of hack tricks. He lets himself know when he’s wrong.

I said a good deal. Hope it was helpful and right. Oh dear. We had a pot of tea after the show at a café near the station. He was very sweet and kept saying ‘I’m going to be great tonight.’ I went through the part with him and pointed out that he needed to ‘cut across’ the lines by smiling during a contradiction, and that sort of thing, otherwise it was flat and ‘reppy’. He leaps at such notes.

He came to see me off, and I said I might come and see ‘Alibi’ and stay the night, as I’d said in my letter. ‘Yes, do’, he said. ‘Oh well, Sally generally comes on Friday, and stays over the w/e’ he said, ‘but no, I’ll put her off till Sat. Come on Friday.’ I was amazed. He hadn’t mentioned her before. I said, ‘Good gracious me. I wouldn’t dream of it.’ ‘Oh well, yes’ he said. ‘No’, I said. How interesting. He was so us-wards, I would say he’s again gone through a stage with her. But whether it’s further in, or jibbing away, I have no means of telling.

He shook hands most warmly as the train moved off. I sat feeling very deprived, for a few minutes. He is a very precious possession?

Sunday October 30 1966

David rang about 6.30 tonight, from a ‘phone box outside whatever bit of London University Sally was rehearsing in. Golly, what a stupid syllabus she seems to have! Lectures galore, set books galore, she might as well be at school. He was just waiting around for her. Quite right. But you know, he won’t do that for long.

Friday November 4 1966

At the cottage, alone.

I have been so depressed lately, about having no work, that it is really a relief to be quite alone, and give way to it or not, as my mind takes me.

Rang David last night to tell him about Harrogate letter. He answered the stage-door telephone luckily. Richard Burnett had told him he was good. Well, that’s something.

Also he is playing Frank Crutchley, the murderer, in ‘Busman’s Honeymoon’, and he has been told his name is on the cast list for the panto. as Genie of the Lamp! Tee-hee! He was in good spirits, and wants to come home for the w/e – with or without Sally, I couldn’t gather. Again, interestingly, I couldn’t tell whether it was duty to us or boredom with her or what! I must go on not asking tho’ and it’ll all come out in the end.

D. rang to say she was all right, and had rung everyone to see what parts were about. I won’t say for good luck’s sake.

She is good. She feels my pain as if it were her own.

Tuesday November 8 1966

Still no work. And £200 of bills!

David rang up about 12.0 on Sunday saying he’d like to come round with Sally at about six (when she finished her amateur rehearsal) ‘for a few hours’. ‘So you’ll want dinner?’ D. said, ‘Oh’ he said, ‘Well – I hadn’t thought about that’. So they came to dinner and we had a perfectly adorable evening. We found Sally far sweeter and warmer and more human than we had before, not so withdrawn and cool. She is a dear. I can’t say I didn’t sometimes wish her away, but then that was my fault and selfishness, not hers. I think he is a lucky boy to have her. I am much amused to find that like Roger L-P, she has far more exactly our opinions than David has - yet! Little bastard.

A lovely evening though all too short, and it was a bit agony to see them walking away at 11.0, away from the rooms we’ve made his home for him. Still, that’s just selfish parents again. He had to get up at 6.0, to motor back to Bexhill, with someone or other.

Last night Anna Massey took over in D’s play. Rather worryingly, there were empty seats for the first time, and a dud house. She was good, and will be very good, ‘But won’t have Vanessa’s mad radiance, which probably accounted for the play’s startling popularity. Met backstage afterwards, Alex McCowen, a dry little stick, and Vivian Matalon who directed the Coward plays. A very warm soul. Wish I could work with him.

David rang up tonight to say could I arrange the Harrogate interview for Monday, not Tuesday as he didn’t think he could afford to come up for the weekend, and again on Tuesday? No, because she’s not seeing people on the Monday. I told him the house would be empty. He said he’s see. He also told me the car he was in, was coming down a hill near Uckfield, and its brakes went. Thanks God it was near the bottom. As it was, it crashed into a lorry, and the front was completely smashed to pieces. They left the car in a field and he had to take a train from Uckfield to Lewes from Lewes to E’bourne, and from E’bourne to Bexhill, arriving about 25 mins late. The whole thing made me go cold.

Wednesday November 16 1966

On my way to Bexhill.

Last Friday I also went to Bexhill, and stayed the night with David. His digs are very nice and clean, good gas-fire, water boiling hot. Admittedly they are nearly on a railway siding, but I didn’t notice any noise, and during the day, he says he finds it depressingly quiet! We had a good talk before the show over a meal. He was in two minds whether to go up on Sunday as he’d have such a short time there, and anyway, he was spending Tuesday with Sally as he was having an interview with the Harrogate woman at Spotlight. We went to a fish restaurant, and had some reasonable fish and some very sweet white wine. He seemed in fairly good spirits, and was really good in the play, too young, of course, but big and loud and clear and not nearly so self-conscious as before.

Afterwards I met Richard Burnett, J.B. Priestley type face, quite nice but utterly pedestrian, which is why Bexhill has stayed where it has. Christopher Lloyd-Pack, Roger’s bro, is an absolute creep!

The company and standard are of course, pretty frightful, but not harmfully so. Indeed two old pros, Mary Gauntless, about 60, and Oliver Fisher, 55 or so, gave skilful enough performances, not of fine quality, but effective. David has the fine quality and can learn the effectiveness from them. I am pleased that he finds them the only two he can talk to.

When we got home, we talked avidly and long about the show and Co.

As he grows older and more experienced he sees more and more the truth of all we’ve told him. It’s wonderful to watch him.

When we got on to Sally, I could see that he wanted me to draw him out and help him by defining his state for him. Of course he’s in love with her. Thank goodness we know at last. He said it killed him to be away from her, and so on and so on. I couldn’t tell what she felt much, except that she says she loves him. Anyway, it was a splendid frank talk, and I went off to the cottage, getting a lift all the way from Bexhill front, from a man who’d seen me in the Swan. I was very pleased with him as a man and as an actor.

On Tuesday morning we walked in to the house about eleven, Sally being tied up with lectures. He seemed a bit over-excited which I put down to three late nights, and a lot of travelling, and making love, I dare say.

He rang up after his interview, cock-a-hoop because it had gone well. He then spent the afternoon with Sally. What was my surprise to get a call straight after the show; he told me that Richard P. had offered him to stay on indefinitely and given him a £1 raise. Then, his voice starting to quiver, ‘About Sally’, he said, ‘as I’ve told you so much I might as well tell you the lot. (Goodness knows what I was expecting here). I don’t know what to do. When I said goodbye to her at Victoria, I burst out crying. I’m crying now. I can’t bear to be away from her. I’m going round the bend. I can’t listen to anyone, or attend to anything’. Then ‘Two years, I can’t be away for two years, and only see her once a week’, and then really sobbed. I was amazed, I never expected this sort of reaction from David of all calm undemonstrative people. Unawakened you see, till now. I tried to calm him, though I was upset myself. He said, ‘If anything goes wrong, you will come down, won’t you?’ Who could resist the utter complimentary trust of that?

I wouldn’t have gone tho’, if he hadn’t rung this morning at 9.45 before we were up, saying could I come for a few days! So here I am. Poor little boy, poor dear little boy.

Thursday November 17 1966

It’s four, and I’m sitting in his digs waiting for the matinee of ‘Pride and P’ to finish.

He met me at the station, saying he’d been walking about since eight o’clock. He looked very subdued. He said, ‘I’m not the same person any more. I’m not the David Gilmore you and D. know, or Sally or anyone.’ He couldn’t help beginning to talk before we even got to the digs. Once we were there, I thought we’d better talk straight away, in case he was still upset. In case! We hadn’t got very far before his voice got out of control, and suddenly there was calm, detached cheeky David, sobbing in real despair, actually howling in abandoned agony, to the point of worrying me about the man next door. I had brought down some extra handkerchiefs with me, half as a joke; they were all needed, and soaked. Between his sobs, which I comforted as best I could – wishing all the time that D. was there, as it’s easier for a woman to comfort a man – I gathered what state he was in, and what a change had taken place in him.

Despite our many talks about him being worryingly cold and detached for his age, I have always believed he had deep and powerful feelings. Love has now stirred them with terrific effect. He stammered out that my saying last Friday, as I did, comparatively casually, ‘You’re in love with her, aren’t you?’ had released the feelings that had been mounting up over the weeks. I had defined with middle-aged prescience, his state to himself, and his defences and fears and prudence and self-questionings were swept away in one great wave of love. I sat through an hour and a half of a cycle of despair, and hope, both irrational, and odd little bouts of clear reason. How strange feelings are! His main horror was losing her, of course, that she wouldn’t understand the vast letter he wrote her on Tuesday night, and finished, crying, in the early hours of Wed. morning, or wouldn’t read it carefully, or would think it just another outpouring letter, ‘like one of Inger’s’, he said, torturing himself. ‘She must understand – she must’ was what he kept saying, again and again, and what roused him to the deepest bouts of suffering, was this, and the thought of only seeing once a week for the next two years. In the rational moments, he would say, ‘What am I worrying about? She says she’ll marry me, she loves me, I know she loves me, everything’s fantastic.’ And then in a few minutes he would be crying again, because he couldn’t bear that she wasn’t there.

But there was also a third cause for his distress. This sudden emotional turmoil, had opened his eyes to a whole life of which he had had no understanding before. In lots of ways, he has suddenly, bewilderingly to himself, grown up. He is a different person. The phenomenon of human affection and warmth, in all its forms, has suddenly been revealed to him as the miracle of love that it is. He asked me how old D. was when she had her unhappy love-affair (with Bill R.). I said ‘29’. He thought for a bit, and then burst into tears again saying, ‘No. I can’t bear it, I can’t, even the thought that Sally might be alone, without me, having an uphappy affair at 29.’ Funny? Not a bit, if one’s listening to him. His imagination leaped about, his extraordinary revelation of happiness creating its own terrible counterpart of unhappiness. His whole self is in a state of hyper-sensitivity, allowing him suddenly to apprehend the wonder and the horror of the world, in a way that he has never before. In the middle of his tears, he said to me, ‘I never understood. I didn’t know. When I first came to live with you, I must have been unbearable, how could you put up with me; if ever I was impossible, crude or unbearable, forgive me now.’ Oh! Goodness, that moved me. He said it had made him see how much he needed us, and how much he loved us.

At the same time as my heart was ‘wrung’, I was deeply pleased as well to see him turning into a man as I watched. He has for the first time, allowed, (or been unable to prevent) an experience to go right through him, and sees everything differently as a result. He now sees why I cry at plays. (I’ll never be embarrassed again!) He understands about war. He sees ‘people’ so much more tenderly because of the gush of tenderness through him.

‘With her I can do anything. I can be a fantastic actor(!), I can write, anything. But if I, if anything went wrong – no, it can’t, oh, Angus, it can’t.’ He called me Angus so many times in his anguish. He said, more times than I can count, ‘Oh, I don’t know what I would have done if you hadn’t come down. I just don’t know.

Eventually he calmed down enough, poor little chap, for us to go out and eat, which he badly needed to do. He kept up quite well, though obviously it was an effort. I could not have believed anyone could have changed so much.

Tuesday November 22 1966

Things have happened so thickly that I don’t seem to have had time to go on – till now. After our dinner, then, we walked round for, I should think, another hour and a half, until it was about ten. (At dinner I’d told him what engagements I’d cancelled to come to him; he was agonised. I was glad, saying, ‘I thought you’d prefer guilt to unhappiness!) Along the completely deserted prom we went to my surprise always arm-in-arm, and often hand in hand, poor little boy, he needed the warmth he’s never had. While he talked his way round his terrible little circle, sometimes coming on tears, sometimes on joy. I had to fight down all the time a pleasure at being drawn so closely into his confidence. It is at once awful and wonderful to be trusted.

From it all emerged the idea that because I had precipitated his love for her in him I could do the same for her. A very dangerous idea. However, he would not hear of me refusing. ‘Whatever you’re doing, you must cancel it, and take her to lunch before the weekend’, he said, imperiously and utterly uncharacteristically. Then followed some hours of instructions, one pageful written down, also instructions such as ‘don’t use your boisterous manner, I mean, it’s marvellous, but be gentle with her’, and also ‘Yes, wear this brown velvet jacket, she’ll like that, I wore it when we went to Hampton Court’.

He wanted me to ‘sell’ him to her, so desperate was he. If his letters and his protestations and his body, don’t take effect, poor lamb, how can I succeed? Of course, I said I would, many many times, because otherwise he’d never have got through the full day ahead of DR mat, and evening, because he wouldn’t have slept a wink. All the same, I tried to point out that I couldn’t plead his case for him. If I got far enough with her during the lunch, I could say ‘You do love him, don’t you?’ on her behalf, but not on his. Any real girl would be outraged if I did.

After his matinee, the first performance of ‘Pride and Prejudice’, we wandered about for half an hour, trying to think of somewhere to eat, finally coming back to the Pavilion to telephone Sally to arrange our lunch. He didn’t speak; just wandered around the passages. She came to the telephone saying ‘Hello’ all excited to a personal call from Bexhill. (Excited, but not hungry, that’s the gulf between them.) We arranged the lunch eagerly, she was free anytime, by which I guessed that she loves him but it isn’t life and death to her. I found him upstairs, went to pee, he paced up and down up and down in the loo. I think what came over him then was simple agony at not having spoken to her, when she was available. I just got him away from the lights when the tears came again. He said ‘I can’t go on like this for two years. Will it get any better? I can’t.’ Ah, dear.

I made him go and have something to eat, and though he threatened that he thought he could drink a milk shake, he did get down a plate of liver and bacon, at the same cheap ‘caff’ where he’d had stewed beef at lunchtime. So at least I did make him eat. Than we walked round some more; all the time I felt he was getting a bit calmer, tho’ he was of course, even with his brains and rationality, going round and round and round the problem. (By the way, he writes to her, of course, every day. His Thursday letter he made me walk all the way to the General to post as he doesn’t trust pillar boxes, ‘I don’t think they’re ever emptied’, said with a laugh, but he went to the General. Poor lamb.) Finally he went in, and I saw the show. He wasn’t too good, so we spent a very good patch in his room discussing his performance. His love has made him so much more responsive to my acting notes as well. There was a very funny bit just before we went to bed, of me showing him period movement with us both in our underwear, as that’s the only way you can really see what the legs are doing. His stride is a bit long, which upsets his body weight. His figure is definitely good, so his walk is worth getting right. He went all through what I was to say to Sally again, and added bits to the list as he had in the caff. I gradually drew him to see the impossibility of pleading his case quite as he’d suggested, with the result that on the Friday morning, he just said, ‘Go ahead and do your best’, as it were. I kept saying ‘Don’t you know I’d do anything to make you happy’ or ‘I haven’t done badly in my advice to you’, and then something rude and funny in case he felt like laughing that time. And, of course, always with the knowledge that she doesn’t, and probably never will, love him as he loves her.

I forgot to say, that on Thursday morning, I woke up early, as I usually do. He, however, had woken earlier, and was obviously upset again. Soon he was crying again. Soon, he was radiant then crying. He said ‘Oh, let’s have some coffee’ about 8.0. And lay there and let me make it! He’d wanted me to stay till Friday morning, so as to be there when he opened her answer to his huge assertion of love. Thanks God there was one, a letter, I mean. She simply remarked, ‘I read your letter and let it wash over me.’ The rest was chat. Now, that isn’t unfeeling, just inadequate when someone lays their life at your feet. I didn’t say anything except comfort, and expressed nothing but love.

He came to the station to see me off. I said, ‘You’re the best friend I’ve ever had.’ He said, ‘Same here.’

I felt like a wet rag in the train, but had to perk up, for lunch at Berty’s with D. and Mary Lynn. Quite fun. Back to house in afternoon to get ready for Andrew Crawford and Pat Allingham coming to supper, after show. D. very sleepy and a bit tired. Oh, I wish she could have gone to help David. Oh.

About six – no, it must have been sevenish, David rang to say everything was marvellous, there was a phrase not in her letter, but in the children’s story they are writing in instalments together, that, taken with something he’d put in his letter, made it all all right. Oh, poor love, the hypersensitive eye of love seeing what it wants to see.

At 11.0, when Andrew and boy-friend were here, David rang again, absolutely cock-a-hoop, to say he’d spoken to Sally, everything was marvellous, just enjoy your lunch with her etc. etc.

He said again, ‘The more you can both see of her, the better.’

So, with a hangover, I took her to lunch. She’s a dear. Everything I’ve said already. She loves him, she marvels at his sudden plunge into passion, she does everything but plunge in with him. And that won’t do, unless she does one day. We got on well, we found great sympathies in pacifism, and stupid actors, we chose the same food, she likes drink, she sees his trouble, but poor lamb, she can’t yet feel it. She’s too young, even compared to him. She’s in her second year at London University; he’s in his third year of work. She wants the gay years of people dropping in and out, and etc. etc. In fact, her feelings aren’t as strong as his.

All the same she loves him very much, as I told him when he rang at a quarter past five. Couldn’t wait till the evening. The news transported him with delight, so that I was sick that I’d said it. He nearly cried with delight. There was some idea of Sally coming down to see the show, and of course she didn’t. But the S.D. telephone was out of order, so I had to ring her, and then him. However he went to bed ecstatically happy, to get up at 6.0 and go to her. So I was content.

Sunday was a gorgeous day for us. We lay in bed until about 12.0, had a leisurely lunch, a leisurely afternoon, during which David rang up to say that he and Sally would like to come this evening, and at about 5.0, we went off to ‘Camber’s Ladies’ at the National Film Theatre; fascinatingly, as it starred Gertrude Lawrence and Gerald du Maurier. I was quite unsurprised by du Maurier, but very impressed. His voice was exactly as I should have expected. His precision, of movement, timing and business are dazzling, and his delivery is still very modern, so that one can vividly see the impression he must have made in the early 1900s. She was so much plainer than photos lead you to think, or than she would seem from the front. I didn’t realise her nose had quite that big a bump. But wonderful comedy, and real real shining theatre glamour. There was a moment when she made her entrance in the mus. com. She was in, and smiled ‘radiantly’ that was really electrifying.

When we got back here, the children had been here about an hour. They were very snug, with a good fire. Barbara Streisand on the gramophone, and Dubonnet in their glasses. He’d got some ice in the ice bucket, too. Imagine. We had a perfect evening; in retrospect we seem to have been shouting with laughter all night. He seemed, (and was) in the highest spirits, but such spirits will now always have the swell beneath them of his more deeply stirred nature. Signs of which I noted from time to time. D. liked Sally much more. Well, she came out more, gave more of herself away than before. She’d brought two fire-works she’d saved from a Guy Fawkes party David couldn’t go to, so we had a sparkler in the drawing-room, and a Roman Candle in the garden. They went off in the morning before we were up, without time for a hot cup of tea. Oh!

On Monday I went to have my eyes tested. Very interesting. It’s my left eye. I thought so. Afterwards to Muriel’s, where we talked about David a little. Muriel is better enough to consent to consider coming to lunch.

Today there was a letter from him, written yesterday afternoon, saying ‘I shall try to control my frantic loneliness’ only a few hours after he’d left her. Oh and starting ‘Dearest Angus and Dorothy.’ !! He’ll be saying ‘Darling’ next, and that’ll be the final overthrow of the David we first knew. He rang up tonight at about twenty to seven, almost back where he was last week. His voice was all wobbly, and he was in the depths. No letter from Sally for a start. Silly girl, she could have popped a p.c. in the night post. She doesn’t really know what it means to him, I don’t think, or she couldn’t even risk it.

He said he might ‘phone her tonight, when he’d said that he was ringing up for a chat, and to get some strength. Aah! But he didn’t want to repeat on the ‘phone what he’d said in his letters. ‘I’m writing such impassioned letters’ he said, ‘that it seems like implying she’s insincere or doesn’t read them, if I repeat it all on the ‘phone.’ He got a note in rehearsal for being limp, lacking in life. Her letter not coming. He went walking this afternoon, and counted his paces – 6,000 and something, he said, ‘I can’t stand the thought of staying on here till Nov. of next year, apart from Sally’, he said. ‘This place might be Birkenhead or the Arctic it’s so dreary to me. And Bruce B. and Chris L-P droning and bitching on. Can’t I start writing round somewhere else?’ I had to be very firm and bracing. ‘It is mainly Sally, of course’, I said. ‘But you had a good weekend’, I said. ‘Oh, yes, but no letter.’ ‘Well, she doesn’t quite love you yet as you do her.’ ‘No, and it kills me that we don’t see eye to eye on these things, on everything!’ He knows, really, poor little sod. He thanked me for my letters. In today’s I mentioned Sally’s perhaps coming down for today. ‘She never said anything to me’, he said, but I met every train in case. Every hour, when I could, but she wasn’t on any of them. Oh dear, oh dear.

I said ‘We love you very much’. ‘I love you both very much.’’ ‘Cling to that.’ ‘I do, oh, I do. You don’t know.’

The other day I said something about ‘throwing a cloak of romance’ over something or other. He said ‘Is that a well-known phrase?’ I said, ‘Yes, a cliché really.’ ‘Oh’, he said. ‘Bother’, he said.

Wednesday November 23 1966

Rang him this morning to say I would be out from 8.45 on this evening as having dinner with Richard D-Day, in case he wanted to ring. Much brighter again. Had a lovely phone-call last night, and a lovely letter this morning. Hope it lasts, poor little boy.

Very good talk with Richard. All goes well. What a hard worker. If only David – no.

Friday November 25 1966

In train on way to Bexhill again.

He wrote me on Wed., arrived Thurs. The letter had one sentence of ‘I feel as if I’m in a torture chamber’, and that crossed out.

He rang up yesterday morning, partly to apologise for a self-pitying letter, and partly to tell me what a ghastly day he had yesterday. He said he felt all the time as if before a first night, with a hand gripping and slackening gripping and slackening in his stomach. I said, ‘Why didn’t you ring me up?’ He said, ‘Well, I must try and cope with it alone, mustn’t I? Or I shall never be able to work or do anything.’

We had the usual talk. I said that it wasn’t bad luck or anything like that. It was just life! I can’t wait to talk to him again. He needn’t be afraid of self-pity, he hasn’t had any comfort from anyone to invite it. When I see what state he’s in now, other things being equal, I shall encourage him to have a good cry. And then move on from there.

Went to Sally’s play. Coo! But I enjoyed myself. Very nice young people. Sally sweet, except once when she mentioned David’s father’s drunkenness in front of her flatmate, and a clever boy called John Nixon. I’m sure David would be appalled. As far as I know, he’s never spoken of him to anyone except her and me, not much even to D. She isn’t in love with him as he is with her, and I don’t think ever will be. If he goes on feeling the same about her, he’s going to suffer agonies; she’s loving her rich full life, and David is an extra richness, not the centre figure. She said she was going to telephone him tonight, but obviously hadn’t got the curtain down time burnt on her brain as he would have done. She is a dear sweet intelligent girl, with no idea what David’s going through. A splendid girl for him to have a splendid affaire with, if he hadn’t fallen so badly. The more I see of her, the more convinced I am that marriage ought not to be the end of it. Though God knows, one might do infinitely worse.

Monday December 5 1966

When I got down to Bexhill, at 11.30 this time, so as to have a good long day (no rehearsals by this time) I found him, despite his happiness at the weekend, in much the same state as before. We went to his room, he sat down in misery, we talked for a little, after ten minutes or so, he wanted to go out and walk about because it was easier. I made him stay till lunchtime. He told me what agony he was in, and that he’d more or less made up his mind not to see her or write to her for a year, because it would be less painful and would perhaps bring her to his pitch of feeling. Oh dear, oh dear. Well, I went along with that for a bit, saying he mustn’t propose it if he couldn’t carry it through. And very gradually pointing out the disadvantages of such an idea. He kept saying ‘Can I do it? I must, or I’ll go to pieces all together.’ I said, in effect, that it would be impossible to present such an idea to her without it simply seeming like moral blackmail. (‘I’ll kill myself and then they’ll be sorry.’) All alone down here he had been brooding on it all, and got a bit askew. I could see he was in a very strung-up state, so after a late lunch, I made him sit down again, instead…

ANGUS MACKAY DIARY NO.36

Monday December 5 1966 (cont.) of going out to the launderette, as he'd suggested. I purposely presented the disadvantages of his idea, rather strongly. His misery came nearer and nearer the surface, and finally the tears came. They were, if anything, worse than last time; at one point he said 'I've never been so unhappy.' At many other points, as last time, 'There isn't anyone in the world I could have told but you.' All the morning he'd been hiding from the main source of his agony, that she doesn't feel for him as he does for her, that a lot of his feelings are simply going to waste. I was determined to get him to pull this right to the surface of his mind and face it, so that he could build on reality. I was proved right that it was central, for, with his poor sobs going on, muffled by my shoulder, I said, 'What's killing you is that she doesn't love you as much as you do her - that's what's killing you, which sent him into the bitterest tears of all. Poor little thing.

When he'd recovered, with nothing more to say for the moment, we went to the launderette, wandering round in between each stage of the washing, as he couldn't sit still. We chatted, desultorily but quite happily, about his 21st among other things. I am touched that his myriad wayward bits of information are much reduced, in quantity and ebullience. (What a sentence.)

When we finally looked round for somewhere to eat, we suddenly saw the Cafe Royal, quite ordinary-looking, but unusually good for its type. A very good salad and a real lemon sorbet. David said his Wiener Holstein was delicious. Good; he's been very off his food, and that tempted his appetite. We did not talk much about Sally, more about himself, and us. He was in two dirty sweaters and a leather jacket, and said he must smarten up, and get rid of his leather jacket. 'It doesn't go with me, ' I said and he agreed. He asked me really seriously to teach him all about wine and food, rich restaurants, manners generally. There, and I thought I had been all this time. He was touchingly reminiscent about his time with us, and touchingly grateful. I was very moved, tho' didn't show it, I hope, too much. It was a dream come true. The whole talk was, as it were, a summing-up of the last two years, before we move on, to an enriched relationship, a truly happy family, in a happy home.

The play, 'But Once a Year' was fairly ghastly but more or less worked. He was better than I've ever seen him, more ease, more variety, smiling more, altogether more of a deliberate performance, with some little technical bits quite nattily done. I was especially pleased because he'd picked himself up, and there he was, being actually better than usual in the middle of his misery. We had a good go through his notes, after the show, and some whisky, and he seemed more tranquil

He was again very down in the morning, tho' this time he made the coffee, after which he popped off to the theatre for her letter. While he was away, I make no bones about it, I read her letter to him, in answer to his cri de coeur last week. Poor little lamb, no wonder it disappointed him. One paragraph, and that not the first or last, was about his letter, and the rest was chat. I'm afraid it's not in her to respond. Tho' perhaps she does more in real life.

We went out for a drink in the theatre-bar before lunch, and I think I was at my best, and said some good things. Not seeing her for a year was no solution. If you really loved someone, what you wanted most was their happiness, even at the cost of your own. What would make her happiest now? for everything to go on as it is, without too much emotion or distress on his side. If you really love her, contain your love. Settle for her lesser feelings. Many successful marriages have been built on that basis. Make your love enough for both of you. Contain hers in yours. think of her. He seemed to understand - no, he did understand, and it relieved him. He said, 'You do give me strength - for a time.' I do help him, I think.

The matinee was a real pleasure. Not only had he remembered all my notes, but he put nearly all of them into practice with marvellous effect. It was the best complete performance I've seen of his so far.

Most encouraging. He actually did bits, they were really done.

I left him, feeling that, although he will be up and down with Sally for a long while yet, we had reached a stage of closeness, an enduring love and friendship, which nothing can break, and will give him strength to face whatever his love for Sally brings.

On Tuesday, the 29th Nov., I took Sally to 'Come Spy With Me', a very feeble show, tho' Danny La Rue is hilariously funny. She came back to stay the night. This was supposed to be a secret from David, but actually he had rung to say that he was getting a lift and would be back about one. He actually arrived just as Sally shut her, or rather his, bedroom door. He had a word with us, and then crept up the stairs to his room. 'Knock' he said. She said 'Come in.' He went in, then 'Oooooh!’ from her, a wild shout, and then - silence. Oh we did have a little weep, standing listening.

Wednesday, they came down to lunch, and went off shopping, and saw the 'My Fair Lady' film, and were in to supper with D. Thursday they came in about 7.30, and got their own dinner - and washed up, as we were going out to supper with Anna Massey. Daniel, her brother, was there, a real charmer. Delightful to me, remembered me going on, in 'Salad Days', and is furious that I'm out of work. Asked me to lunch next week, so we'll see.

They had an early night, as they were to go to the President's Ball at London University Senate House, on the Friday. David came back alone about 4 on the Friday aft. to have a lie- down. He slept for over 2 hours, and then got up to have a snack and dress - in my Edwardian tails and long overcoat. Of course he looked marvellous. I'd got him a white carnation, and gave him a bottle of Champagne to take. I quite thought he would stay at Sally's as the ball didn't finish till 3.0. The next morning however there was his white carnation in a glass in the bath-room. The others in the party had decided to drive to Runnymede. David and Sally, having each other, had decided to come home.

While he was getting ready for the ball, he said two good things. While he was in the bath, I went over the Christmas card list with him and idly slipped in something about he and Sally getting engaged, but not before the New Year. He said, 'Yes, we've talked about it. But I've decided not till the summer. Then if we go through a bad patch, as one, or both of us is sure to do, we can perhaps get over it more easily and flexibly than if we were already tied.' All this said quite calmly and matter-of-factly while drying himself. This is his version of not seeing her for a year, as it were.

While he was having his snack, I said to him that I was pleased they'd stayed here so much, which I never expected. he said, 'Oh of course I want to be here, but anyway, I prefer Sally to be here rather than at her flat. It's more comfortable, and less like a railway-station.’

They stayed for lunch the next day and then went off to the flat, to get ready to entertain her parents to dinner the next day. When he rang on the Sunday, he said he'd been up till 3, while Sally had made curtains, and then heard the girl next door fucking and then hundreds of people coming to breakfast. No wonder Sally always looks tired!

It's no use; we don't really love her. She's intelligent, quick, humorous, but finally cold.

At the bottom of her is a girl who'll put central heating and an all-white bedroom before David.

When he came back home on Sunday night, (because her Ma and Pa were staying the night) he was depressed because he was leaving her for a day to go to Chelters. Actually it was the same old reason. He mustn't marry her.

Sunday December 11 1966

He was very down on Sunday night, partly his physical tiredness rushing over him, with the stimulus of her presence removed.

He went to Cheltenham the next day, to get his 21st presents, a leather hold-all from his mother, a pewter-tankard set in leather from Elaine, and a travelling-clock from Maureen.

Wednesday, his twenty-first birthday, was a lovely day, only slightly spoiled by Sally being there, for us, as we don't know her or feel at ease with her enough. I think I felt it most when we gave him our presents, a selection of small things, the main present being a gold wrist- watch with his name on it. However, since her being there crowned the day for him, there she had to be. And she was very self-effacing. D. alas, had a matinee, so missed a lot of the day. About 6.30, we had champagne cocktails and home-made pate sandwiches in the drawing room, and then taxi'd to the Prince of Wales, to see Frankie Howard, as he'd chosen. Very funny, though I could have done without a lot of the music in between. D. joined us at the Garden afterwards, where again I wished Sally away, as we both admitted to each other afterwards. He thanked us for a lovely day. At any rate I have partly scotched the memory of that dreary day in July '47.

Thursday December 15 1966

Collected my first reading glasses. How like me to start cracking up exactly at 40!

Christmas Day 1966

A quiet day, with just the three of us. he gave us Beatrix Potter's diary. We gave him a knitted shirt, an umbrella and a lot of smaller things, including a toy Batman, his character in the panto. Our first Christmas in our own home, with our own Christmas tree, decorated for him really.

Last night we went to a party at Peter Wood's. Only 'cup' and the kinds of people didn't 'gell' really. Oh all those successful young people sitting in a row! They weren't at all entertaining, but, I am afraid, I envied their money and success.

Thursday December 29 1966

Down to Bexhill to see 'Aladdin'. He was not very good. He must learn to appraise his costumes more carefully to be sure they flatter him. for instance he has very good legs, but the Batman gaiter affairs being too long and too loose, would have made a Hercules look skinny.

Sally came to the show with me, and we went to his new digs afterwards Very pleasant, clean and pretty. But there's something wrong. Is it the same thing? He was irritable all through lunch. On the way to the theatre in the evening, when Sally had run back for her ticket, 'Is everything all right?', he said, 'Yes' in a very doubtful way. And when I said, 'You seemed a bit down at lunch. Was that just nerves? (About S. and me seeing the show.) He said, 'Yes' in a way that implied quite plainly that it wasn't. And then said, 'Goodbye' most affectionately and warmly. There is a rift in the lute of some sort, possibly only temporary. but what? She seems most loving, but of course it may not be enough. I told him of the card from Inger. He saw its full implications. He also said that he 'didn't want to go to Cambridge for that long’ i.e. as long as Sally wanted him to. Also 'I've gone right off Barbra Streisand since 'Funny Girl'. Her voice is all mike.’ I wish he'd said that at the time!

Monday January 2 1967

Sally came to dinner and he gave her her Christmas presents. He was wrapping them up, with my help, in the spare room, and I couldn't help seeing what he'd written; 'From One Baby Only to Another', and huge X X right across two pages of the card. The picture was of babies. His presents were a packet of Maltesers, marked most precious on the outside, a book of Indian Fables, and a fur hood (with a faulty catch!). She put it straight on, and said, 'Do I look nice?' so flushed and pretty.

Thursday January 5 1967

In the end, he goes to Cambridge today, and comes back on Sunday.

Saturday January 28 1967

David very irritating after good talk. Why will he quibble at everything I say?

Saturday February 11 1967

Have now been in Bournemouth for 3 weeks. All goes well, except no houses! I am lonely down here, of course, but David comes to join me in a few weeks, which will be lovely. He came to the show tonight, a great tribute as it meant leaving Sally for the night, just now almost unimaginable. He was, as usual very sweet, but when we were walking by the sea between the shows, I sensed a great wave of depression sweep over him, because he was away from her. Aah. So difficult because at one there is no comfort and I need him, too.

We did talk of her later, and he said he had tried to carry out what I told him. He said if he had had to go away before yesterday, he wouldn't have felt at all the same. 'Yes, she mightn't have gone on loving me. For the first time I feel I've left a bit of myself behind with her, rather than taking her away with me'.

Oh dear. He is still, or again, desperately unhappy. And muddled. I shall have to take a hand soon. She is never going to be on his level, and will cause him endless pain.

Sunday February 12 1967

We went up to London together, he went off to Sally's, I went home. (I don't mind him going to Sally, but I am afraid we both hate him having somewhere else in London where he can eat and sleep. We are silly.) However he came to us in the evening without Sally, as we'd said 'No for once, because Richard D-D was to be there, it was a professional occasion and anyway Richard might take to him more if there were no girl-friend there! Which proved to be the case, as Richard auditioned him in the drawing-room, and told me later he wanted him!! Oh, I was so relieved and excited. If only he can work hard and steadily, something may come of him.

Saturday February 25 1967

Rang David to tell him about Simon in 'Hay Fever'. Terribly apologetic for not having written. A bit quavery. Is he upset again? Poor little boy. It's torture not to be there day by day, so that it can come out gradually and I can help him though I fancy he will go through an uncommunicative phase.

Sunday February 26 1967

D. arrived, and we went to the Palace Court - incredible thirties hotel in perfect preservation, poor service, and indifferent food. Most of these hotels are spoiled by most of the guests no longer knowing what's what.

The Jane Austen programme, devised by Richard, was a great hit. We were delighted. Let's hope we can do it again. D. was very nervous before, at which Richard was idiotically surprised. but she was marvellous in the show. Her Miss Bates monologue was especially wonderful, in its combination of absurdity and simplicity and nobility of character and warmth.

Annabel Leventon and Peter Egan both said it was one of their most special experiences, especially D. reading out Cassandra's letter.

Thursday March 2 1967

David forgot an interview with Arthur Brough. I've never known anyone before who did that. Was much shocked, and told him he was never to be without his diary from now on, and use it. As a penalty!

Saturday March 4 1967

David came down to B'mouth again, to see 'Candida', and was thrilled by it and thought I was marvellous. Oh, it made me very happy that he loved the play, and me in it, so much. Especially as it is one of my favourite plays.

Thursday March 9 1967

Evening alone with Sally, first for a long time. Sweet, cosy, still exactly the same, not altered an iota by his love.

She is utterly ordinary and there. He will be very unhappy.

Friday March 24 1967

I have been much depressed all today. It has suddenly seemed to me intolerable that I am back in rep. earning £30 a week, and in this play, a small part. Most of all, I am away from D., without whom I am only half there. I'm 40, and I'm nothing.

Admittedly David is here, but he is so unresponsive at the moment that he is little comfort. I know he's missing Sally, too, but I do think he might try a bit more. He never seems to notice whether I'm sad or happy. For instance, this evening, when we got in, I was feeling awful. I got him his dinner, and he then went straight down to watch 'La Boheme on television. I had to go out and walk round for a couple of hours before I could get my tears under control. Then he came up to say 'La Boheme' was better than when I'd taken him to Covent Garden! Which you'd think he'd know would depress me.

Still, I ask a lot of a 20 year old, I suppose.

Monday March 27 1967

First night of 'Too Much Johnson'. Sally has come down to stay. Heard him ring 'Semel et Semper', a boarding house, and say 'My wife and I'. First time. Aah.

Sally sweet, funny and intelligent in Royal Bath after. Very me. All her throwaways and smug 'which is nice' about anything connected with her life, are just what David hates. Except in attractive, fair, long-haired girls.

Friday March 31 1967

Sally left at 6.53 a.m. to get to London in time to go with her parents to the Lake District.

While she has been here I haven't seen her since the first time. And although David has the same bits off as me, more or less, he has not spoken to me once, not even to say 'Good night'. He has just seemed to forget that I exist.

Now she's gone, of course, he's spending every second with me. He tells me that Sam Hoar said to Sally, 'Why don't you two start saving instead of making all these telephone calls?' He takes that as evidence that they are being taken seriously by Sally's parents.

Of course, I mind selfishly, very much. But I also mind for him. He must be more aware of others let alone me. He shouldn't, by now, want to be alone with S. all the time. As it is, he's in danger of making D and I dislike her, by keeping us apart.

If I didn't know he loved both of us, I wouldn't care.

One of the cast, Peter Macann, was staying at the same boarding-house, and meeting me for the first time, said, 'Now you're related to someone in the Co. Which is it? 'Me', said David.

Sunday April 2 1967

And on top of it all, he's gone off to London to see Elaine. I did think with Sally away, we'd have the day together. It's almost as if he's avoiding me.

Thank God Edna's having dinners with me, otherwise I'd go mad. He never asked what I'd do even.

D. comes on Sat. Eeeh!

Saturday April 18 1967

D. came to show, and like Edna, thought it pretty terrible. M and D very welcoming.

Sunday April 9 1967

David came to lunch with M and D, and was his own sweet self. I am very hard on him. Of course he's bound to be smothered in it all. If only I can put myself on one side.

We went to the Rowes, and he was very young.

Thursday April 13 1967

Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear.

David and I are not speaking. Or rather, I'm not. Thanks God D. is here, or I would be utterly miserable.

Sally came down again on Monday, and they're staying at another guest-house. Again, of course, the mists of love descended on him, and he became blind to anyone else. That's all right, I suppose, except that he never said even 'Good night' after the dress rehearsal, let alone discuss my performance, or indeed his. (He's not very good.) And the day of the first night, he put his foot in it all over the place.

First of all, I asked him most particularly to watch as much of me as he could, at the final dress-rehearsal, his last chance to see it. (I may as well confess here, to get my complete whine in, that I had been depressed that, at the final run-throughs, he was the only one who didn't stay to see my last scene, every time. He went off into the other room to do his crossword! He forgot! But managed to remember to watch the whole of the other play, 'The 12-Pount Lark' and tell me it was fabulous, just as I was going on.

Then he looked at Mikal Lambert in her mirror (playing his wife of 20. - her actual age 25) and went away and came back with lines and bags everywhere, saying 'Now we look nearer the same age. I looked a bit young for you before!!! Of course she was really thrown and hurt.

Then I told him about his make-up. He answered snappily that with a brown wash all over, he looked 'too young', for any part he seemed to suggest. And when I argued yet again, he told me that he'd been making-up for three years now, and knew what he was doing.

On top of everything else, and the hurt I felt from last week, and first night nerves - we were between the DR and the first night, - I lost my temper, said that would be the last time I would try to advise him and we haven't spoken since. In addition to everything else, Sally never came round. Everyone else but not her, when, if we are to love her as we wish, she should have second only to D, in rushing round to comfort or congratulate on such a nerve- wracking night. I must, must be more understanding and forgiving. The young are selfish, but surely, didn't he at all know what a challenge and hurdle that part was? He doesn't seem to. It's just dreary old me doing my routine work.

And yet, and yet, if they hadn't happened to come to the Royal Bath, they might have missed us. He didn't make sure where we were. I said 'Hullo' very coldly, and haven't spoken since. Oh dear.

Saturday April 15 1967

Edna came to matinee and we all had tea together, Sally having gone home. (Been ill the last two days, poor darling.) We still aren't speaking, but pretended to, for Edna's sake.

At one point, we sent him up about Sally coming round. I am afraid there was more edge in my voice, but D. was just teasing and reproving in one, and said firmly, 'Oh yes, she should have come round!' sweeping aside all excuses. To our amazement he changed colour and couldn't finish his tea-cake. Really ludicrous. Is Sally's girlish shyness to be put before all else?

Monday April 17 1967

D. went back to London for her 'Mrs Dale' broadcast. David and I were of course thrown together, so had to have our, or rather my!, row out.

Alas, he didn't help matters by saying first - to break the silence - that Sally had been again to the show, and had thought it had all pulled together well, or some other patronising phrase of that kind.

I told him of what had hurt me. He of course had had no idea. 'Had not meant' etc. etc. Well, that's just it. Nobody likes to be ignored.

To my amazement he accused us of unfairness to Sally, and was upset that we criticised her in front of Edna. That's a laugh. Edna never noticed.

Of course I made it up with him, because I cannot bear to be estranged from someone I love as much as I do him and also because my concern is so violent that I can't bear to let him out of my paternal sight.

But he has got his love for Sally, and Sally, out of proportion. She is just a girl to other people, and he must see that as well or he will do her no service. Even the Co. has noticed how they always go off on their own, and laughs at them for it, because it's too extreme.

He must allow us to know Sally, and bring her to the bar of our standards of love and friendship, as we do everyone else, including him. Otherwise, no real relationship will be possible.

And there must be no going white over the tea-cakes.

However, after a bit of stiffness, we did become friends again!

Friday April 27 1967

David rang 9.15 p.m ostensibly to say no, Sally and he wouldn't come here tomorrow night, as he was rehearsing till 6.0. Really to say he felt worse in 'H.F.' than he had this time last week.

(Before I forget, he behaved like a spoilt child the night Bob Whelen came up, leaving supper in the middle for her telephone-call, missing through no fault of ours, and sulking in silence virtually for the rest of the evening, literally making a fool of himself over her.)

Than this time last week, when he'd said to me, 'As long as I feel all right next Friday' etc. I must remember he understates. Poor little lamb. He said at the end, 'Well, what shall I do tonight? Read through everyone else's lines, since she says we're not listening to each other enough, and I think I'm worse at that than anyone?' 'Don't think about it till tomorrow', I said. 'Just get a good night's sleep, eh?' he said.

And I was so unhappy myself.

Oh, without her, I should die.

Sunday April 30 1967

Tonight we did our J. Austen at Ranger's House, Blackheath. A great success. Packed. Latecomers allowed in after the first 'number'. Led by David and Sally. Oh, his poor little face. Shame, guilt, and forgive me, altogether.

To Michael Aldridge's after. Maggie Courtenay. Wow.

Tuesday May 2 1967

1st night 'Hay Fever'. David rang at about 12.45 or 1.0, just when I'd thought he wouldn't, to say the play hadn't gone badly and Richard had said of him, 'More than all right'. Also, he'd had a sauna and massage (about £1) between the D.R. and the show. Aah! he is an actor. And he tried to ring last night, but couldn't get us. Very depressed after technical. Aah! He does love us.

Sunday May 7 1967

David and Sally coming to dinner after pictures. He rang up at 8.30 to say they'd just come out, and met two friends for a drink, and we'd better eat. We were both disappointed. I was cross and hurt as well! I'd so looked forward to a long slow dinner and talk.

D. pointed out how we'd hated having to come in for meals with parents etc. So I was very mild, and David was adorably filially casual.

Said 'Pelleas and Melisande' was more his sort of play than 'Hay Fever'. Hm.

Thursday May 11 1967

Saw 'Hay Fever'. Pretty bad. Set poor. Clothes poor, though Helen Weir and man not too bad. H.W. by far the best.

Pat Kneale looked awful, and was much too under-projected and pointed. Not nearly grand enough. Whole thing too slight.

David thoroughly ill-at-ease. If only he'd played it like 'But Once a Year' he'd have been perfect. But of course his blasted imagination tells him that they're quite different people and therefore stops him doing anything so simple. D. said he might never play light comedy. I've seen him do it.

Thursday May 18 1967

David rang at 12 ish, just as we got in from Prim. Said he'd been ringing for a long time. He's been offered the 'Dream' as well as 'Cyrano' in the Park, so will be fully occupied during rehearsals of 'Cyrano'. What a relief!

Makes it quite a possible job. Dear little thing. Understudying in 'Dream'.

Tuesday May 23 1967

Sally came for dinner, with John Nickson, a friend from the University, a bright quick little man. She was quite different, so warm and coming forward and with us. It's David who's made her shy of us, and vice versa, it must be. Very understandable. I wonder if he knows we've really disliked her at times. It was a most successful evening. We must love her or be miserable.

But I still think he shouldn't marry her.

Tho' I expect he will.

Sunday May 28 1967

David home for good! They arrived about 6.0. Adorable sweet ideal evening. Talked of last Tuesday's discovery firmly to them both. It made Sally a bit pink. I don't care. I spoke to David about it, when he was in the bath, with the water running, and even then he shushed me in case Sally should hear! That's exactly what he's been doing. And what mustn't be. We must be able to talk freely or get nowhere.

Talking about 'Dream' rehearsals, he said, ‘I'm walking up and down, you see, with my thistle.’ He's playing a fairy! Never noticed it was funny.

Thought 'The Blow Up' was terrible. I thought they were both a bit pi about it.

Monday June 5 1967

First night of 'Dream' in Park. Production not bad, performances pretty ghastly. Not a line of verse in sight except from Oberon and Puck, both queers incidentally. Lovers awful except Hermia.

David's tiny bit of bus. with Puck he did well, and it got a round! He was all green.

Tuesday June 13 1967

David to lunch alone, as Sally has exams. More thoughtful and down than of late. Talked of Sally for first time for ages. 'If she goes on the stage, she might be an actress like her mother.' (that is to say, only taking a job if it's near home!) 'I never mention it to her one way or another. I don't think she knows what it entails. In any case, it depends what happens to us as a couple.' !!!

Rather withdrawn at first, but then got more talkative and natural.

Well, we have seen him so little lately.

Friday June 16 1967

Overheard from their bedroom, so must have been very loud, 'Don't lie, don't lie', in his quite angry voice.

And then talk for over 1/2 an hour when you'd think they'd be making love

May have been fun?

Saturday June 17 1967 Sunday June 18 1967

Two lovely unclouded days, happy as any could be with D. away. Everything that happened was perfect in itself, except that I kept turning to you and you weren't there.

Sally was adorable all the time, not withdrawn. Helped and cooked more than ever before, and really did something instead of looking as if she was!

They agreed to be here for a start, asked me to go to the pictures with them on the Sat. (not good, - a painstakingly literal version of St Matthew) Sunday afternoon we spent sunbathing in the garden, and doing crosswords and having jokes and desultory silly chat. Then a long slow dinner, got by them, and bed. He came in to say good night, and when I said, 'Now that's what I call happy family life', he took my hand, pressed it and rushed upstairs, where I heard him jump on her as only a very young man could, with her squealing 'David - David, stop - David.... david...... dav......

A very quick violent jolly youthful fuck followed, I imagine.

I would like to think that my summing-up of the day had codified his happiness, which had rushed up in him to expression to her. I think I do lead him more than I think, even with her. Well, she obviously doesn't. He leads her. I lead him. Which is not as it should be.

I must write about this more clearly.

Friday July 23 1967

Back to house. Both rather dashed by David's telling us what fabulous meals Sally had produced, and so cheaply! Um. Better not have said it to D. !!

Sunday July 25 1967

David's sister Maureen to dinner.

Much less interesting than Elaine, and fatter, but still more individuality that most girls.

Sunday July 2 1967

David home for good as Sally has let her room till the autumn. What a relief! How we do hate him going backwards and forwards. And Sally boasting about the meals she gives him.

Tuesday July 4 1967

Heard a real row in the middle of the night after their supper. She in tears or so it seemed. They never raise their voices so it must have been quite bad (Or they were behaving very badly!) Lately it has been very striking how he has assumed ascendancy over her. The balance has swung. We like her more every day, as we get over her shyness and bad manners. She has a lot of humour, is as bright as can be, and sweet, too.

But he still oughtn't to marry her. She's a different type to us.

Wednesday July 5 1967

Jane Austen in Cardiff County Hotel, lovely theatre, stupid audience of children and idiot grown-ups, under auspices of education authority for Youth Fortnight.

Wednesday July 12 1967

First night of 'Cyrano'. A bit flat. And I don't care for the play much without the poetry.

David looked wonderful, wore the clothes very well, spoke up well for the bits he had to do. He's worried about his voice in the battle. He needn't be. Let's wait for his first big part.

Bob Whelan was with us, of course, as he's staying with us. And I am afraid all three of us were a little tried by David and Sally being so very loverlike. She especially clung to him, walking down the road, in the taxi, and at supper. Now I think she was a bit drunk, but it was a bit off-putting as we just wanted to talk about the play and the people at the party. And she had her head on his shoulder at the table. I mean, really, it isn't as if they don't spend more or less every minute of every day together.

Well, I mustn't be crabby, I suppose. When two people are utterly absorbed in one another, I suppose they must be allowed a little foolishness.

But the first thing that night should have been the play. He knew. She isn't a pro, so can't be expected to.

Thursday July 13 1967

To 'Last of Mrs. Cheyney' at Phoenix. Not at all good. George Benson by far the best.

Met Noel C. in foyer. D said 'This is the second first night we've been to this week.' 'Oh', he said, 'What was the other one?' 'Cyrano in the Park' said D. 'Who was run over in the park?' D. explained. 'Oh' he said, 'I thought you said someone had been run over in the Park. Not one of his brighter efforts.

Monday July 17 1967

Jane Austen readings, Purcell Room. Huge success. Full house. Laughter and applause throughout. We were delighted. Let's hope we've not lost money.

Thursday July 20 1967

David rang us at cottage to say that his mother and Ruth Salter were coming for the weekend.

Out of all the w/es in the year they could hardly have chosen a worse one. We shall just get back from the cottage in time to rush round and get food for the weekend. Then we have to dash off the next morning to Winchester for more Jane Austen readings in the Cathedral. Added to which he goes off to Frinton after the show on Sat. so gets out of a lot of the work! Ah well.

Tuesday July 25 1967

Weekend a huge success in every way, even if exhausting. Dora and Ruth were sweet, all went well, but oh that we should have to entertain Dora for the first time without him, and that he, in the morning, should entertain her alone.

Tuesday August 1 1967

David, fixed to play 'Flute' in 'The Dream' at Palmers Green. Whatever it's like it will be splendid experience for him, and thank god stops him from going to act at Frinton.

Friday August 4 1967

He came in to chat when we were in bed last night. I told him very seriously how much we needed him to do household things, and take his full place as the third member of the household, in chores as well as in privileges. He seemed to understand, and we found when we got in the next day, that he'd done everything: washed up, put tonic out, put the drink boxes away, hoovered the dining-room, done the most important thing of all, imagined us coming in tired.

Saturday August 5 1967

Sally rang at 12.0 to say would he go to Frinton instead of her coming here. When he came in and I told him, he was very tetchy indeed. 'Hope she has a good reason.'

'I don't want to go to Frinton tomorrow morning. I want a bit of a lie-in.'

'I hate that place of Bob's, there's no bath, and only an old table-cloth instead of sheets. And the landlord is a religious maniac. It's all grotty and horrible, and a nasty Put-u-up bed with ridges on it. Sally doesn't seem to mind all that, but I do.

What a step forward, to feel it even, let alone say it to me.

Monday August 7 1967

What a day! Very hot. When we arrived at the college, there was nobody to meet us, the man not arriving until 3 mins before we began. The furniture we were to use was carried thro' the audience and the tabs, 2 minutes before we were to go up. Then we did it - to absolutely stony faces. Of course they were all American! and they have so little sense of humour as a rule.

We were calmed down a bit by lunch at the Steak House, where I was obliged to change in the Gents. D. having changed in a loo she happened to find in the College, as they had provided nowhere for us to go or be. Lunch with Mummy, Daddy, Auntie and Uncle. Then rushed back to do a broadcast for Reggie Smith, which we did in one take. he was most complimentary, and we were soothed.

Tuesday August 15 1967

'What Every Woman Knows' went like a bomb. D. superb. I all right but will be better. Jo T., Stephen Croft and Caroline Penney (ah) all adored it, but none of them could take Gemma Jones in the lead. She could be marvellous, but thinks she has to be acting and characterising, and so becomes coy and fussy.

Rang David when we got in, to tell him our news, and to hear his of the first rehearsal of 'The Dream' at Palmers Green. I must first record a telephone conversation I overheard between him and his director (sic) on Saturday. Two others in the 'Cyrano' Co. who are also in the 'Dream', had had their calls, so he rang up.

'Hullo. Could I speak to Ernest Dudley, please? ______

This is David Gilmore speaking. ______

David Gilmore. ______

Flute. ______

No, I understudied Oberon and Theseus.

How I laughed, and how we laughed over the talk tonight, until Dorothy said I'd wake the people in the next room. (We're staying at the Angel, in Guildford High St.)

The first big laugh was they they're using French's Acting Edition! I didn't know such a thing existed, but it does with exhaustively detailed business in a special column down each page - for schools! Ernest Dudley insists on them sticking rigidly to these S.I., but, as he has also chosen to do it in modern dress, a lot of them don't fit. (David, for instance, is wearing a mini-skirt as Thisbe.) The first day seemed to be largely wasted.

Friday August 18 1967 Saturday August 19 1967

David is really boiled up about the 'Dream' but in a good, active positive way, and not in an oh-I-couldn't-care-less way. He is obviously stimulated by the badness and tattiness. He is experiencing the intoxicating feeling of being the best. I must say it does sound incredible. He was up and down all through supper about half a dozen times, doing a bit of business he'd just thought of, showing us a 'trip' as if we'd never heard of it ('you put one foot in front of the other'), miming how dreadful Starveling is, etc. etc.

Bursting with ideas. Let's hope he can drag some of them onto the stage. Apparently there's nobody over 25 in the cast except Charlie Chester. He likes him, and it seems vice versa. He obviously can see that David isn't a fool, and, at worst, is a rival. The mechanicals go off by themselves and think up business, because there's no proper plotting of anything. And he and David arrange everything together.

Tuesday August 22 1967

Last night he went to Frinton and saw 'French Without Tears', Sally playing Diana. A week ago we had a startling talk in which I was able to tell him more of what I thought about Sally, her bad manners and her lack of reality, her vapidity, than I ever had since Bexhill, or ever thought I would again, so overwhelming has his obsession been. It is as if an anaesthetic is wearing off.

His visit to Frinton shows further signs of coming out of the first enchantment. (I am not suggesting that he will ever fall out of love with her, much as I wish he would, but simply that there are signs that he is beginning to see her as she really is.) He, literally of course, saw her in a different light, by seeing in a play and was obviously thunderstruck at 'how exactly like her she was.' Now I, who knew Joan as a much younger woman have always thought her very like, which is why I have never been able to take Sally quite seriously. He was also a bit worried by Sally obviously thinking she was rather good! But that he should be criticising her to us, without telling her, is a marvel. There isn't anything to her. No depth, just attractiveness and a surface intelligence and charm. No depth of feeling, no levels, no passion.

Wednesday August 23 1967

They have had no proper plotting with the 'Dream'. Every day they start from the top, regardless of what needs specially working over, so everything does. There scarcely seems anyone over 25 in the Co., except Charlie Chester. Puck is 15 and has never acted before. Oberon is 17, and 'has a good presence', David says. Um. There's a young chap who's 'studying to be a drama student' (sic), while being a policeman during the day. 'What's he do?' D. said. 'He's a policeman', David said. 'I mean in the play'. 'Oh. Starveling.' !!

So far all is quite awful. Happily Charlie Chester has taken to David, which makes a great difference to his enjoyment of rehearsals. In five minutes chat with me, the girl playing Titania revealed that she was bringing an action against M.G.M. for £1500, had interest in housing and property, and was taking underwriters exams at Lloyds. !!

Ernest Dudley says, 'No. Too vulgar at every bit of bus. they think of tho' he suggests nothing himself.

At the moment he thinks Katja the best of the lovers. Well, she's Sally friend.

But, what is most thrilling, moving and pleasing to us, is that all this chat comes bubbling irresistibly out every night at supper. He is a real actor at last. Partly the passage of time, partly Sally's image releasing its completely clamping hold. So that he doesn't think it sacrilege to think of something else.

Thursday August 24 1967

David to Guildford tonight to see our show. I knew Albert F. was coming, too, and when D. and I walked from station, there he was, leaning against the lock with his and Jane W's son, aged 9? Have only seen him for a minute or two since we were at B'ham together in his first job. Still something nice about him, but no use in picking up the friendship, I think. He's such a big star, it's fairly hopeless. He drove us back to London. David fairly thrilled. Told everyone.

David tells us they were supposed to have final runthrough before dress-rehearsal this afternoon. When they arrived, they were told it was to be lighting rehearsal. Which took place with all exit doors open, men using electric drills to screw down seats, and electric shampooers shampooing carpet. David just said he was going at 4.30, as all seemed chaos, and left to come to us!

Friday August 25 1967

Went today to see Muriel Nelder in the old people's home she's spending the summer in. Oh dear. Still very bright, but oh dear. Still we went.

David tells us that the D.R. this afternoon, petered out half way through, because Ernest Dudley had booked Charlie Chester to open a Garden Party in the district - 'for publicity', so he went! And David still hasn't done his change to Thisbe in strict time. (Much quicker because this is a cut version - as well as everything else.)

The main news of the D.R., however, was that Ernest Dudley actually told David that the business of balloons for breasts (popping one with the dagger) must go, and that he 'must wear a jacket as the hair under your arms is vulgar.' Told him to stand out for both. DR took 3 hours though there is a permanent set (I use the word loosely) as the lighting board is rather old (fancy!) and all the fades and blackouts, take about three minutes. Much excitement over the accusation of vulgarity. He's furious. As well he might be.

Saturday August 26 1967

When we got home at 12.15 ish, he hadn't long been in, and was radiant. 'David Gilmore night' he said. 'My death got a round, and Charlie Chester's didn't.' 'When I fell on him, there was a gasp from the audience until I saved myself at the last moment.' It was his night obviously. His first real unaided success. Even in those surroundings.

It was not arrived at without ructions. He did abandon the balloons, but wouldn't wear a jacket. Ernest D. tackled him about it, and, what with the general frustration and the trials of the dress-rehearsal - among which were having to ask where the interval was - he lost his temper, said 'Yes, I am defying you', stalked out of the theatre in a rage, and bought an antique corner cupboard 6' 6" high, for £13.

Oh, how can Income Tax Inspectors even understand the strains of acting. He might have got drunk. Instead -

How he laughed as he told us!

But oh, how lovely, how satisfying that he's a success.

'All the business that really works, I thought of', he said.

Wednesday August 30 1967

David went off today to his first interview with an agent - and those sharks, Fraser and Dunlop. I was on tenterhooks, in case they should say idiot and unsettling things to him. However, they lived up to every agents' reputation by the man he'd come to see, Peter Dunlop, being on holiday. 'I suppose I should have looked in my diary' said the secretary! He and I had lunch at the Grill and Cheese. (D. wasn't ready, and in any case, oh God, suddenly we couldn't afford it, and if she didn't come, it would be a saving. Which made me feel terrible.) Still, I was glad I went because we had a very good frank conversation again about Sally. Mainly that he doesn't want her to go on the stage, as he sees no future for a marriage between two young actors. He kept saying, 'You see, I'm rather old-fashioned. I see a wife as being at home with the children and getting my meals.' So did Victorian men, but the women didn't! Ah!

He would be prepared to wait till he was 30, rather than marry now and be separated so much that 'it would be no marriage at all.' He kept also saying, 'One's private life must come first.' And was amazed that I kept saying, 'Um!' Well, no really successful actor says that. Real stars give up literally everything, even self-respect. But, as usual, I don't allow enough for his dependence on what I'm like, as well as what I say. He was concerned that I should advocate such 'cynical' views, until I was obliged to point out that two people who cared only for their careers, would hardly have taken a boy of 18 on. D. joined us, and we went to see 'The Whisperers' for which Edith Evans has got an award. She is as superb as her material allows her to be, but the film is a ghastly mess of commonplace overstatement and best- sellerdom.

He left before the end. We stayed out of loyalty to Edith.

Saturday September 1967

Characteristically of Gilmore arrangements, his father and mother arrived for this last night of our Guildford play. Their visit went off well, but we were in the depths. Nothing is to happen to the play, and I have nothing to go to - except back to Bournemouth. It has been a hideous few days.

Thursday lunchtime was made memorable by another good talk, this time by the three of us, during which I said that Sally would never put his career first, and D. said he would come home from a first night to find the house full of friends, if he did get her to stay at home. Surely, surely, he sees now we think her shallow. No, it must be said one day - carefully chosen!

Friday we heard that we might get the Vaudeville, because of the America Hurrah crisis. Cruel as it revived hopes, which of course had to be abandoned again. A long and difficult journey tonight running with the heavy heavy cases full of all our dressing-table things and then the house full of Gilmores. No, they were very sweet and no trouble.

I'd forgotten to put the casserole on. Oh, oh, the last straw.

Monday Sept 4 1967

Now Elaine Gilmore, with friend Vicki, arrives. Gosh. Still, we never see them. To 'Relatively Speaking' tonight. Celia Johnson superb. Michael Hordern bit fidgety and elaborate, but very good. Not depressed because both of them really deserve to be in West End. Richard Briers, too external. Jennifer Hilary pretty bad and unlikely inflections and voice generally.

Very full as word has got round, Celia J. is leaving on 16th.

Play really pretty good. Most ingeniously complicated, yet likely and well managed situation.

Friday September 8 1967

Last night saw Anna Massey in 'The Flip Side' by the Williams. Play very neat, but won't really bear examination. Interesting as the first light comedy I've seen where they actually do illicitly go to bed together, instead of nearly, and then worrying as if they had.

Anna superb (oh dear, I must get off that word), to the point of me now wanting to see her as Viola.

Tonight saw David's play. I think the worst professional production I have ever seen.

The set, three black wings either side with a few pale brown (grass?) shapes on them, a small rostrum at the back, with two chimney like columns finishing in mid-air.

I don't think I can bother to say anything else except that the bower and all that happens in it, were off-stage !!!!

Apart from Charlie Chester's adorable personality (were it not too late and with a bit of production, he could be lovely, so fresh and unminted does he make the lines). David was about the best thing in it. He looked so endearing as the young Flute and so funny as Thisbe, and had, for the first time, got hold for himself of the idea of taking his time, that I was very very pleased.

Wednesday September 13 1967

The cottage.

If it were not for D. - and David - I would be lost for ever.

We have had two heavenly days here, and are now - 11.45 - waiting for David - and Sally, curse her! - to come on the late train.

Tuesday April 2 1968

Big retrospective flash.

The two days we all four spent together were so unsuccessful that it has taken me all this time to write of them.

Perhaps I need only say that we left the cottage a day and a half earlier than we had intended, because she was so - what is the word? – ill-mannered will do. Thoughtless. To start with, they never left each other alone for a second, she was more to blame than he, tho' he was pretty silly too. She sat between his legs the whole of the first afternoon - it didn't help that it rained throughout - that is to say, for nearly three hours during which they were hardly still all the time. At lunch she suddenly massaged his thigh up and down. They stayed in bed very late each day, and although it was our last few days together, they never attempted to get the morning tea or really do anything. Both of them seemed a bit drunk with each other, which can be very charming, but at such close quarters - we could hear every fuck - a little restraint would have been thoughtful, so that we could think of ourselves. His native modesty seemed quite thrown aside. I knocked at the bedroom-door to go to the airing- cupboard to get clean napkins. She said 'come in' and he said, 'No, he can't', plainly because he had an erection. Even more unlike him, the next day he came down to pee, and leaving the loo door open, showed, I think deliberately, a cock, big, fat and still sticky, so unlike him. Other little related incidents. D. went out to pick blackberries. Sally joiner her. David and I walked off up the path thro' the woods. We had got about 150 yds when 'David, David' and Sally came running to join us, and came to him exactly as if I didn't exist. D. thought Sally was frightened to be alone with her, so I should think! That was the only moment he and I were alone, let alone he and I and D. So, while they were down the path, we said to each other 'There's no point in staying here’ and told them we were going.

When we got home, I wrote him a letter explaining and including the sentence of Sally, 'Her crushing rudeness to both of us, and her very considerable deficiencies as a guest, quite literally drove us out of the house.' This was on Saturday, and D. went to Edinburgh on the Sunday. My heart would have sunk at any time, but now! And it was to be for eight weeks. And after losing all those lovely parts. And feeling so alienated from David.

I was now on edge in case they should come back here before I got back to the cottage, where they were supposed to stay till Wednesday. I spent two wretched days - D. was pretty low in Edinburgh - and left on the Wed. in such a nervous state that I expected to meet them at every corner, including the corners of the path to the cottage. What was my surprise to find an answer to my letter under the door, posted in Cheltenham where they were on a day trip from Stratford, where they'd seen four plays! And here was I, skulking from house to cottage, to get out of their way and being about as miserable as I'd ever been. It was worse as I read on. He'd shown Sally my letter. That nearly killed me. That he should betray our friendship as far as possibly involving me in a real conversation with a girl who'd already behaved as crudely as that, nearly finished me. I am ashamed to say that the fact that he was now having such a good time - a visit to Stratford to see the plays which I've always wanted to do, but never felt I could afford! - made it all much worse. I sat crying very bitterly, for a long time. So badly did I feel that I couldn't eat my dinner I drank morosely, and when at midnight Sally's mother rang to ask if she was there, the giving of the precious private cottage number to a near stranger, and a jolly silly one at that, was the last straw. I though at one point I would never stop crying, he seemed to have been so ungrateful and insensitive. And my common sense would not reassert itself - at least, not till the next day.

Working in the garden helped for a bit, until I began to wonder what he'd think when he read my letter again of which D. had thought very well, - and its severe criticisms of Sally. And what he'd think of my second letter, saying don't ring or write. I began to worry in case he'd disobey me, and thus cause fresh pain. And he did. When he got my answer, - on a flying visit to pick up some things for Bournemouth - he rang up, very upset. I was no help. I was too sore. I just said 'Well, common friends do sometimes not get on', or words to that effect. I still won't have it's our fault. The next day I scribbled down 'When David rang up last night any other girl would have taken the phone and said 'Why were you so upset. All that food, Dorothy, you are good. etc. etc.’ She's never taken us on, as we've taken David's family on. She's nothing!

(My notes for my violent letter to him, funny as well as serious. Using all tissues [a real problem at the cottage.]

'D. giving up bed.' 'Feeling, you.' 'Ever think of us?' 'A year we've known her - shy still? Then she must have something wrong with her.' 'Your attitude to B'mouth commuting during rehearsals.' 'How nice if we'd come down, and found grate done.' 'You behaved as is you'd been apart for six months, both doing gruelling rep. seasons, instead of sleeping together almost every night for a year.' 'Everybody thought you ridiculous at Frinton this year, but then so they did us in 'Salad Days'.)

Well, I know, but I was very hurt. On Thursday Sept 28, I went back to London, and the next day interviewed my new agent. Happily I'd been offered a TV in the morning, and that seemed a good omen. However, it was not.

The next day D. came for the w/e from Edinburgh, like a wonderful cooling drink in my hot discontented mouth. David went to Sally's of course, but they called round the next day, to get some things and were here for about ten minutes, so the ice was broken. She was pink, poor thing. We had tea with John Phillips and his wife before doing our Jane A. at Kenwood House. Their son, on his way to Oxford, was batting about packing. I find I eagerly watch real parents for tips. The programme went very well to a full Orangery, and Tim W. took me on and vice versa, afterwards. (I may as well say here that I've been out of work since Jan. 4) To the pictures miserably after D. went back to Edin. and the next day to the cottage. Oh, the ever-lasting sitting alone without work and in misery about something or other. Came back to London to Entertain Bob and Elaine. David rang at about midnight on the Sunday 15th and I scribbled a note, Remember he was warm and sweet and forthcoming and loving after all your cold hatred this week.'

Went to B'mouth to join him on Oct 10th, and saw him play Felix, the waiter, in the full- length N.C. Using his sex-appeal and his smile consciously for the first time. Helen Ryan looked awful, Michael Ellison dreadfully reppy. David tried for the 9.12 on Saturday, as he'd finished a few lines after the opening of Act II, and caught it. All through rehearsals, (depressing again, as it was all anti-naturalistic and static) he was sweet and obviously making up for the cottage. Quite protective, he was, at times! On October 18, I wrote:

'Told me a dream or nightmare he'd had last night. Two, really. First, that his foot was all one huge boil and oozed pus. Second, that a very sexy girl was making love to him in a hotel bedroom, trying to get him to "you know", 'and I can't say I didn't want to, but I tore myself away, and rushed down to my own room and started to throw things into a suitcase. I kept hearing people approaching the room, and kept being frightened I was going to leave something which would show I had been there.'

Can this be the sub-conscious beginning to rebel against the cloying all-overish-ness of their relationship?

Today he bought a bottle of Cyclax Skin Tonic from the Ladies Beauty Salon next door, for the blackheads on his nose. Can you beat it? 9/3 out of a £1 borrowed from me!

On the next day, Thursday, the 14, he read in lunchtime recital. I was quite struck by his progress, especially in a poem by Beddoes. He was almost relaxed. Oh Saturday the 21st I went up to London on my way to do the Jane Austen in Richmond, Yorks. What a trek. It was marvellous to see Dorothy, yet so quick, that I felt we were most together on the stage. What a journey back! A train about 9.0 from Richmond to Euston, then taxi across London, to meet Doreen Andrew at Notting Hill, driving me and David to B'mouth. As it was so near Sally's flat, I felt pretty sure he'd have a good lunch, nice chats and wander out to the car. Not at all. No wonder he kept asking all the way to stop for tea. He'd gone to the Library with Sally, who'd had 'some work to do', to spend the time with her, and had no lunch at all. Did you ever hear such stupid slop from a young actor before a dress-rehearsal? I couldn't help saying that I thought Sally had more sense and more consideration for him. David snapped, when I said that Dorothy would never let me do anything so silly. 'Dorothy's an experienced actress.'

I was very pleased with his performance. He made a real step forward. Of course he looked good - he always does. But at last he has started to stand still, and say it and with his personality, the result is good.

On Monday Oct. 30, heard he'd got Edinburgh! Entirely due to Dorothy of course. D's first night in 'The Ha Ha' went well, tho' I never heard till after, as the stage-door keeper said she was in the front of house and he couldn't leave his post. And oh, how I love hearing the excitement on the 'phone and missed it again.

During the last week of 'The C.P.' we had many long and fairly good talks. He kept making efforts to think about us both, though the talks were diversified by many odd statements i.e. 'You're in love with the theatre. I'm in love with Sally.'! I purposely exposed my own unhappiness over my career. As far as he could in his almost complete self-absorption, he responded We both talked a lot of nonsense, I more on purpose than he! I tried to tell him of the distress it caused both of us, to feel all the issues in a repertory season, all the warring personalities, the recurring despair of it all being right. He said, quite rightly, that it was as much as he could do think about himself. Sometimes he said wise things, but more often he still seemed smug. I was very cross towards the end of the time, when there was a chance of not seeing D. at all for three months, as he would go to Edinburgh two days after D. got back. He actually gave it as a reasonable answer that he was going to be away from Sally for 8 weeks, and therefore couldn't come. As it was, he never stayed a single night before going off to Edin., but did call round 'to get some things' on the Sunday afternoon, and stayed a few hours. The rest of the ten days were spent entirely with Sally. It shows the ridiculously unreal state he was in, that he should have even considered not seeing D. He had after all spent every w/e and a lot more days with Sally already, and written and telephoned every day. To D., as far as I know, he had not written more than once or twice. The disproportion is, simply, ridiculous - and unhealthy.

I forgot to say that large chunks of our talks were taken up with him saying how much more self-sufficient he is than I am, and how he effects improvements in his personality with no outside help or indeed, explanation. Hm!

On November 7, he called round for an hour, Bob Whelan having come to stay the night before, so he was there as well. (He stayed till well after Christmas.) David was on his way to his first agents' interview - with Fraser and Dunlop. Very good introduction, as the man he'd made the appointment with had gone away on holiday without saying. The one little interesting thing during this visit, was that he was banging the table - very unlike him - about Angie, Sally's flatmate, and her irritatingly pernickety cooking habits. It was close to disloyalty to Sally - by his own standards of the time. How he would have hated that flat under other circumstances! Tho' he felt still obliged to defend it. He went off to his interview with Fraser and Dunlop, which was at 3. At 3.14, he rang to say that it was over! Very perfunctory obviously. Good. What idiots these agents are!

D. came home Sunday November 12 and then I was all right. She was so glad to be home it was lovely. She talked mainly of Richard Eyre, the adaptor and director of 'The Ha-Ha'. Only 24, yet great authority and decision. She was most impressed by the way in which he took some notes she gave him about the whole thing. 'Thank you' he said, and walked away.' She wondered whether he was perhaps offended, and found the net day he'd done everything she'd said.

David came round on the Monday and much to our surprise, stayed four hours; better than nothing. Described Marcel Marceau, and imitated him leaning on imaginary mantelpiece, unexpectedly well, with the sort of exact physical control I wish he would show on stage. Rang the next day, and when he got to Edinburgh. (Come to think of it, I suppose the cottage debacle was too recent for Sally to come for more than a meal.) Also rang the following night, thrilled to bits with Edinburgh. Asked us to bring to Glasgow, 2 stiff collars, towels, 1 make-up towel, a scarf, and the paperback of 'The Ha-Ha'.

We travelled up to Glasgow on the midnight sleeper; a little berth for two with dozens of concealed shelves and water-carafes and basins and loos folded into the wall, and other toys. We had taken, for emergencies, in case we were separated, a half bottle of whisky each, and a half-bottle of gin…

ANGUS MACKAY DIARY NO. 36A

Tuesday April 2 1968

(Flashback cont.) each, these last filled with water. All four were empty by the morning, which must have slightly surprised the emptier of the waste bins.

The hotel, brand new, and would-be smart, was cold, and the bar remained firmly shut, as it was Sunday. I really wonder we could get a drink as residents. The food was poor, and poorly served. But we had a pleasant weekend. David came at 11.0! and was adorable throughout. No sally, you see. Michael Meacham was politeness itself and the audience quick, or as quick as they could be in the cramping conditions of theatre in the round. It is so difficult to make any point crisply under such cabaret-like conditions. David sat with a girl from Edinburgh Co., and Marian Drummond. Well!

The whole day he couldn't have been more devoted and real.

The next day we made the nightmare journey to Cheltenham. 9.0 from Glasgow, V. comfortable, lunch, to Crewe, 1/2 hrs wait, to B'ham, hrs. wait as train was late, into Cheltenham by 6.30. Show at 7.30. Darling Margaret Davies had a double room and sandwiches ready, and - rare as she is - was not there herself to worry us. We just did it, baths and all. Ian and Helen greeted us a little hysterically, and all went well.

Next weekend, we did the prog. at the ballet school at Camberley. Odd, but very successful An intelligent parson, a schoolgirl audience, an amateur dressing-room, and a creeping away, on a cold train afterwards!

The next day off to Salisbury, where all was warmth personified. That dear little warm box of a stage. And Reggie and Noreen and the whisky of it all. Then off to Bury St Edmund's. Exquisite theatre, almost more beautiful than the Bristol Royal. Hotel not so beautiful. For business men only. Theatre only newly open, but flowers from the management on first night, and small but most appreciative houses - We felt special.

On Sunday Dec. 3, I noted:

'David rang up about 3.50 from Edinburgh, rather down. Series of misunderstandings about the weekend with Sally! Well, that's something. Even normally, I would be glad that they'd had a bit of a difference. It's about time. The weekend she's spending up there, I suppose. ‘I think, it's cleared up now', he said. The newness of Edinburgh has worn off. Show goes well. Quartet still a great success. Choreographer wants him to SMILE. he's driving her mad! Would it be all right if he asked Clive Perry about being in 'Othello', and 'Love's Labours Lost' after B'mouth? Certainly. ‘But I'm not sure whether he likes me, as I was running round the back of the dress circle quite quietly, as I though, and he said 'shush' with an angry expression.’ ! Aaah!

How little impression people seem to make on him! "No, there's no one I dislike." He seems to like the choreographer best. The quartet is with Brian Stanyon, Martin heller, and ?

So much for his self-sufficiency talk at B'mouth. It obviously isn't cleared up with Sally quite, or he wouldn't have rung as in depression, he'd have rung her. He felt lonely, estranged and puzzled.

'Volpone' he rather liked. And 'To Sir With Love'. "Slush, but I enjoyed it." First time he's come off his high horse and said that!

His voice went quiet and thin, talking of Sally."

On December 5, Jeremy and Mikel Rowe were coming to stay, but only Mikel turned up, as Jeremy's father had that day been sentenced to 18 months for fraud in the City. I'll describe them more later. Special.

On David's b'day Dec. 7, Edna arrived, and stayed in with D., as they'd both seen it, while Bob and I went to the first night of 'Dear Octopus'. Very interesting. The different parts, the different acting styles. And the critics didn't even notice the differences.

Between now and Christmas, my time and attention were mostly occupied by a TV, 'Portrait of a Lady' directed by Jimmy Cellan-Jones. Ah, what a dear man! Almost makes me enjoy it. I did enjoy meeting Suzanne Neve, a dear sweet pretty girl. And especially Edward Fox. A dear. I suppose I may not like him finally, but this dialogue pleased me

Me: Fox? Now is that the word Fox used as a name, or a corruption of something else?

Edward: Well, my father's from Yorkshire, where the name's quite common, tho' actually he's a Jew.

Me: Ugh! Why didn't you tell me? And I suppose your mother's a negress.

Edward: No, but she is a Roman Catholic.

Because of Suzanne, Edward and one or two other actors, and mainly Jimmy, who creates an atmosphere in which I can do my best, and not feel that a part of a few lines is unimportant.

On Dec. 21, David came back from Edinburgh, where Sally had spent the last few days with him. She went off to Camb. two nights later, after her parents had taken them to the National 'Tartuffe'. D. went off to Birmingham. On the Sunday David and Bob went off together to Cheltenham, to their respective parents. I was alone the next three nights. And very dreary it was, too. (Not helped by hearing from David's mother months later, that he'd gone out 'specially to 'phone Sally, and could have cheered me up no end by 'phoning me, reversed charges and all, but no.) he'd suggested we all keep our presents till Wednesday, when we'd all be back. It turned out he was going to 'The Relapse' in the afternoon and 'Othello' in the evening with Sally. They got back at 11.45. He at once announced importantly that he was very very tired. And quite perfunctorily suggested we open our presents 'some other time'. We said mildly we'd stayed up specially. So we did open them, tho' even then he said to Sally, 'No, open yours upstairs', which really awful piece of rudeness, even she was obliged to rebuke!!

A couple of nights later they went off to Cambridge, and I was relieved to see them go. I got back from my rehearsal the next day to find he'd phoned to say he'd forgotten to tell us that Elaine and her friend Vicky were arriving tomorrow. Oh dear. Thank goodness the next day he did ring to wish us a Happy New Year.

On January 2, when David got back with Sally, we all went to 'Heartbreak House' at the Lyric. Alas D. felt ill when she arrived, and went straight home. I was worried about her, and didn't enjoy the production much either, so I came out in the second interval. She was all right really, one day 'flu. She was well enough the next day to go down to Brighton to have lunch with Malk, and consult a fortune-teller, this last to help her with her new part. Guess what - a fortune teller. The interview was a bit pathetic really, as she was so puzzled as to why D. had come. She also made a lot of very poor guesses, the most hilarious being, 'Your husband's a bit of an oyster! She got a bit of an idea how to hold the crystal, and that was about it.

The next day David went off back to B'mouth, to rehearse Laertes. And we settled down again! On Saturday January 6, the day after I'd finished in 'Portrait of a Lady', Edward Fox asked us to his flat in a funny cobbled yard off Marylebone High St? to see the first episode. We privately thought it pretty terrible. He thought it slow. I need hardly say the whole thing has been greeted as a triumph of high art. The main pathos of TV is that it's all so slight and feeble. To me, the serial was simply like a few ill-understood snippets from the book used as illustrations to advertisements. It is very odd to me that people seem to find the physical events of a novel the enthralling part of it. Remove Henry J's tone of mind, and the novel becomes any novel. Edward took us out to a very expensive meal, at a little Spanish place. He's a dear. Laughs a lot at me - that's the main thing! Later we went back to his flat, and his girlfriend came up from Guildford, where she's working. Funny little thing, with huge eyes. Very straight forward. Nervy. Sat and chatted till late, then they ran us home! As she lives in Putney.

Bob left us on Monday Jan 8, as D. started rehearsals on the 10, and she couldn't cope with him being here. He'd been with us since November 6, so we'd done our duty by him!

On Tuesday Jan 10, we gave Tim Williamson, my new agent, lunch. Very amiable, but hasn't got me anything up to now. (April 2.) The next day D. started rehearsals. Bought a green linen handbag in the Peter Jones sale, and was wearing a big black velvet hat we'd bought the day before. Rehearsing in the Duke of York's barracks. Liked Angela Scoular and had lunch with her in the Salad Bar at P.J. Liked everyone really except Liz Frazer, 'bone stupid'. So far, so good. John Dexter plotted 'Black Comedy' for them. Very sensible. She thought him personally loathsome, but an excellent director.

On Sunday the 14, David came in the afternoon with Sally, at 3.0, and left with us on our way to Prim's.

On Tuesday January 16, Edward F. and Jean Muir came here. She was very late, having lost the way. But it was an adorable evening. We had good talk. Young people do seem to listen to me, it's strange. I drank well, not all that much whisky, and got up at 3.0 the next day. I felt so bad. I suppose it's another way middle age is showing. I certainly get a hangover for less!

D. brought Bobby Flemyng back for a drink after rehearsal. I was just out of my bath in a towel, so got my white towel robe out of my make-up case and wore that. He is very talkative, rather effeminate, and very nervy. I know I talk a lot, but not in that compulsive way.

On Tuesday January 23, David rang at about 11.40 or so, to tell us about the first night of 'Hamlet' and I scribbled:

"1st night of 'Hamlet'. Rang at 11.40 or so, rather flat, because it had ran 4 hours, and Peter Egan was very depressed before and after. Of course because they were obviously woefully under-rehearsed. (Well, we'd heard that Peter had said, 'Either we rehearse on Sunday or we open on Wednesday' and then we heard that the Gertrude had been in London for the weekend. I'm glad to say, at least David did the fight.) He felt he'd not done too badly, especially in the first scene, where he felt he'd been too heavy, too light, but last night was just right. Still worried about his breathing. I'm sure it's just a question of relaxation in the part, not the larynx. Applause quite solid at the final curtain. Great rows with NATKE stage- staff because of length.

Said it felt like dress-rehearsal.!"

On D's b’day, Jan 26, we went to see 'Wise Child', and thoroughly enjoyed Alex Guinness. Isn't it odd nowadays. This is just a thriller - with overtones, or undertones, according to how you look at it - but basically in importance, a thriller.

Oh, we met there not only Len Rossiter and Gillian Raine - I thought he had changed for the worse - but also Angie, Sally's flatmate and John Nixon and A.N. Other. The next day I went off to see 'Hamlet'. D. of course not being able to come, alas. Happily able to combine it with staying with M and D. Peter Egan's 'Hamlet' simply knocked me flat. I have seen nothing so moving and thrilling in such a young man since Richard Burton. It was such a relief to hear every speech come out as you expect to hear it, without surprises! (The sort of surprises I mean are the sort which are the result of having no ear.) The idea of the production was good, the execution indifferent. David wasn't half had. The first scene being nearer light comedy, (and cut, which doesn't help him) was poor. But later on he held his own with Peter E. and tore off a strip or two of passion without incoherence. He still contorts his face too much, and looks sneery instead of scornful, but I was pleased. Parts of it were really well-spoken. He took a real step forward. I took Sally and him out to supper, and the cafe produced the end of a bottle of wine I'd ordered when we did 'The Cocktail Party'. Of course it was vinegar! Sally was, as always, mild and agreed with me fervently on all the acting points. It was one of those evenings when I wondered what on earth I had against her! The next day I went back to London, while he went off to do a Shelley recital, (with others!) at Christchurch Priory. The following Thursday he played the Miller in a reading of 'The Miller's Tale' and Richard D-Day said it was the best thing he'd done. Um!

On Friday February 2, I went to see 'The Bells' and found myself sitting next to Malk! And afterwards there was Jo! So, although the play was awful, the evening was a great success.

On Sunday 4th D. went off to Brighton for the opening, disgracefully on Monday, although a double bill especially demands a couple of dress-rehearsals. I was feeling rather down, but David was coming for the weekend, or had said he was. He didn't, and then rang as bright as a cricket, after I'd gone to sleep. Of course I minded him not coming, but I minded much more my Sunday being ruined by not knowing he wasn't coming. It's not only the waiting every minute not knowing, but also in the end being alone just when you don't want to be, when you could have invited someone else.

The next day D opened at Brighton, and though all went well considering, she still feels very under-rehearsed, with a lot to do to the plays. Oh, what a sadness, not to be ready after four weeks, when one of the plays has been done before, and is therefore a known quantity. She seemed all right, but then her natural habit is to seem all right, which doesn't stop her suffering underneath.

David opened the next night in 'A Severed Head' as 'Alexander'. Must be absurd! Poor boy. On the 7, Ju. and I went to see 'Far From the Madding Crowd', and a bit to eat, after. Film most enjoyable, though in lots of ways not very good. Julie Christie hasn't the soul for Bathshaba, and therefore not the voice or stance. The scenery and some of the general life of the book are admirable, such as only a film could do. But the general effect is like TV, a lack of concentration. You feel as if nothing has happened to you.

On Friday 9th, I saw D's pays. She is perfectly finished in both. I doubt if anyone could be better in either. But the first is not a success really. When I say that she didn't move even me, I say it all. Ian McK. is good, but a bit stagey. They whole thing is interesting, but doesn't come off deeply, rather than any tinkering suggestions one might make. If you ask me, it's the result of Peter Wood, a non-creator interfering with Peter Shaffer, and both of them losing their eye for the queer bits which they have loved writing - too much. Black Comedy rouses the loudest laughter I have almost ever heard in a theatre, and ought to carry it to success. At Brighton it was certainly packed. The whole evening is very good value for money. Afterwards Binkie came in for a drink. Well, he's many cuts above Geoffrey Russell. He really has a bit of judgement. No telegram, no flowers.

I started off for the cottage next day on the afternoon bus, and had to get off after a couple of stops (and I'd paid all the way to the cottage!) because I felt sick. Sat in the pictures for a little while, then got the next bus, and behold! it broke down. Twice. Nobody seemed to know how to put its headlamps right - that's why we stopped - and as they are run on a series of fuses like a house, it did seem odd. I finally got to Heathfield at 9.0, instead of 6.30, and rang up the taxi we last had at least five years ago and he remembered me. Most dignifiedly, he said that since Heathfield station closed, his business had gone right down, 'and do you know, sir, it began with my great grandfather's pony and trap when the station was first opened?' And he's a man of 60?

Did a good bit in the garden on the Sunday. D. rang at 7. and seemed all right, though obviously very tired - her way out. David rang at 9, quite unmoved and determined to be ordinary. My long letter, during the week, telling him why he had been wrong, did not seem to have impinged - or at least he never mentioned it.

I knew that D was going to London after the show on the next Monday for a re-recording of the opening. I knew this would be a strain, but was not prepared to be rung up dramatically by Peter W. on Tuesday, saying that D. was very tired and had asked for me. Of course I took the car there, knowing it must be fairly urgent, or she would never have let Peter, of all people, give such an intimate message. I arrived at the end of rehearsal, about 5.30, and there she was, crying in her dressing-room. She had been thoroughly worn down by simple overwork, and a broken night (Peter had refused a promised place in his car because of his dog!) but mainly by the endless picking at the show. It is a very long and difficult part for her, - never off, - especially the opening, in duologue with a tape-recorder. This of course had to be changed to live voice over, which was the reason for the journey to London. Less sleep, more rehearsing. So she had started to cry, and couldn't stop. And had said she wanted me. So there I was, and there I stayed till her time there was over. I saw the plays again. She was very good. by the end of the week she was rested, just by having someone to _relax with, and do things for her, ordering late suppers and so on!

Forgot to say that on Thursday 15, David read in a 'Nonsense' programme at Bounemouth. When I don't mention him at a weekend, that's because he went to Sally's, and just rang. On Feb 26, the Monday after we got back, I met him at Cecil Gee's in Shaftesbury Avenue, to look for a dinner-jacket for him. Partly because he must have one, partly because he has to wear it in 'The Misanthrope' when he plays Philinte. We found one at once, but it wasn't good enough, so I made him buy a good one, £49. It's very well fitting, and makes the very best of his slenderness. We had a sweet afternoon - he was most amenable, and sensible as ever, when he really talks to me, by ourselves - I mean, without Sally.

On Wednesday, February 21, D's plays opened. It was a most successful warm hearted first night - 'White Liars' was cheered heartily - and there was a stream of visitors afterwards. She was quite magnificent in 'WL', carrying it off by drive alone. They were with her from the start, and she really got there. At this point I must say that the whole evening never quite got there with the audience, but D. did. And it has, I'm sure, made all the difference to her status. (Quite absurd, because she wasn't any better than she's always been, but there was a more obvious opportunity to notice her merit.)

The next day the notices were pretty good, a bit cool for 'Black Comedy' in places, and for the play of 'W.L.' but good selling notices. That same day, the 22nd, David did a lunch-time reading of Betjeman

On Saturday 24, he and Sally came to the show and stayed the weekend. On Feb 29, I noted:

'David and Sally came to D's show on Saturday and stayed over Sunday. He was - well, they both were - sweet all through in their now well-known insensitive style.

On tasting his omelette he said, 'Now that I only have one of these every eight weeks or so, it's quite a delicacy!' It didn't seem to occur to him that it was tactless to underline the fact that he sees us so seldom. She heard his lines - well, that's all right. I must accept that, but it's a pity he didn't ask me for help. And yet is it? He must do it alone, in the end, and certainly I've never heard her give him bad advice - about acting. On Wed. morning, 21st, he rang up, for my evening shirts for 'The Misanthrope', which I'd purposely let him forget to take with him at the weekend, - first time I'd ever done that. He said, after reversing the charges, "Hullo". I said, "I'm posting them this morning" for they were already packed. He screamed with laughter, and I rang off. For the laugh, really. A few minutes later he rang, using his own money (!), to ask whether I was cross. When he found I was not, he proceeded to order his braces, and cummerbund ('Do people still wear them?' He's had it all of 2 years!) and to say he hadn't asked me for all this at the weekend because he didn't want to disturb me so early on Monday morning.

Killing! His apology and his wants, so utterly trusting both so simple, rebuke me for my selfish foisting on to him and his simple problems, my own nasty difficulties. He is devoted to us, which doesn't stop him hurting me deeply. He doesn't know, poor little sod. And I must just help him.

Poor D's voice got very bad this week, or at least she felt very bad. The effect on her performance actually was much more the result of her spirits than her larynx. She even bought a throat-spray, and something called 'Melba mixture'. Can you believe it?

The weekend of March 2, there was a small crisis. In my own defence I must say that a number of pieces of thoughtlessness and neglect had been mounting up, and this was somehow the last straw.

He suddenly told us that his mother and sister, Maureen, were coming up to bring some of his things, - almost the last of them - as his mother was moving house. I said to him on the 'phone, that, as they were arriving well before lunch, he'd better come straight here for once, instead of going straight to Sally's, to be sure of seeing them. To this he agreed. Oh, and another motif running thro' the last few weeks, had been that he must go and see Mummy and Daddy, as he'd been back in B'mouth 2 months. The previous w/e we'd had a calm grown-up chat, and he'd said that he was very sorry he hadn't, and yes, he always did enjoy it when he got there, and yes, he would. Dora and Maureen arrived with really quite a lot of stuff, a cupboard, a couple of table lamps, a pile of books, a barometer, all of which I lugged upstairs. Of course they stayed to lunch, of course we suggested they go to D's play and stay the night, and of course they said yes. You can't let someone of Dora's age, 56, drive to Cheltenham and back in a day. During lunch I found that Dora was cross with David for not answering her letters, about what she should bring up, and what throw away. By four, when they'd gone to the theatre, I was raging that he hadn't come, and I'd had to clean two rooms and make up two beds, so that when he rang about five, as gay as a cricket, a real rage burst on his head. He was amazed that they were still there, and kept saying, 'Now let me think what I can do?' When I found out that he'd spent the time with them looking as if he couldn't wait to get back to Sally (quite natural to want to but not to show it), and that, on Dora saying what would happen if he got Sally into trouble, he said sharply, that he could just marry her at once, (this in reference to Maureen's being illicitly pregnant!) I was even more furious. And when he rang later on that night, I was so angry on finding that yet again he hadn't been to see M and D, after I'd had to go to all that trouble over his mother, that I told him not to come over the next day. Oh dear, I was upset.

On Tuesday March 5, he opened in 'The Misanthrope', and I thought that he wouldn't ring after the show, as he might be thoroughly browned off with me. Not at all - he was on the 'phone at 10.15, the moment the curtain was down, saying 'I thought you might like to know how it went.' Well, apparently. Jimmie Bolam and his girlfriend had come to dinner after the show, and we had a very pleasant time, though I am not over-keen on her. Both are not what you might call absorbed in D's and my problems! I didn't think I drank all that much but was so hung over, I had to stay in bed till 3.0 the next day!

On Thursday 7th I went to see 'Here We Go Round the Mulberry Bush', same director as 'Nothing But the Best'. Could have been lovely, story of a boy of 18 wondering why he can't get off. But nobody has said that it's the boy who's wrong. Flat high voice, unsubtle, quite sweet personality but without any depths at all. With that careful direction David would have been streets better.

On Sunday March 10, he came up to London in the morning, went to Sally's, came over to us at 6.0, and left on 10.34 for B'mouth. For the first time he didn't come overnight or go early morning. At one point Sally mentioned the name 'Lindsey Franklin' scornfully, and, as I thought, comically.

On Wednesday March 13, we went to the matinee of 'The Italian Girl' and thoroughly enjoyed it. Fairly outrageous but well acted. Timothy West superb. Jane Wenham and Richard Pasco very good, and even Elizabeth Sellers well enough cast to account for her absurdities.

On Friday March 15 I went down to B'mouth to see David in 'The Misanthrope'. (Forgot to say on the previous Saturday, the evening performance had been at Bryanston School - imagine Richard giving up the Saturday evening for a jaunt like that - and had been, rather oddly, ecstatic about it, its buildings, its curriculum, its pupils, everything.) As for his 'Philante', I was amazed. He'd taken not one step forward, but three. It's a very good part for him, because it's quiet and considering. But he was so relaxed and smooth. To think that I should live to see David leaning back in the corner of a sofa, suavely lighting a cigarette while delivering a light easy long speech in rhyming couplets lightly and easily! He and Peter Egan, Alison Fiske (Celimene), David and Lindsay Franklin (Eliante) up to Dodo's, Dodo was giving a party because Peter E. was going and because I had come down for the night. Lovely. She'd asked Michael Ellison and his wife, and that silly little accountant girl who lives upstairs. The moment I arrived, Dodo pushed me into the main armchair and said 'Now - sparkle.' I don’t suppose many people would believe that that makes me very shy, and so I go off like a cracker. Did so. It all developed into a very amusing literary (sic) argument, mainly between Peter E. and me. Oh. I must first record that I had five minutes alone with David in his room - what used to be Richard's, very different now - while he changed his shirt. This should have impressed me more, as I was already a little surprised that Lindsey was there at all. However, I simply told him I thought him good, and the party went off like a bomb. Sally rang up at 11.45 as usual. But I was at my smartest at the party, and David sat drinking it in and seemed very proud of me and waiting on me, and I had a lovely evening. Went home about one, or one-thirty. Lalla had gone off to Ebber Vale for a wedding, and part of my reason for coming had been to break up the week she was away at bit. Cooked the lunch, and went off at teatime to meet Edna in the Club-room. (Again forgot to say that when I arrived at the theatre the night before, and met him in the Clubroom, he really bounded up, looking delighted to see me. Elsa, the funny little thing who serves there, said that he'd been beside himself at the thought of my coming. Hm!) Edna not quite so well, stiff ankle, and using a stick again. But we had a lovely talk, though don't seem able to persuade her to come up before September. Money? David arrived after his matinee, and we had a sweet little get-together, took Edna to her 'bus, and David said, 'Isn't she wonderful?' and off we went for a walk by the sea, up the old West Cliff slope by the Savoy, and along and down the first zig-zag, and along by the sea. First we discussed the show in detail, of course, went through the Co. one by one. I'd thought the Celimene very good, though still a bit raw, everyone well-cast, no one really bad, except James Urwin. 'What did you think of the Eliante?' he said. 'All right, but a bit feeble to the point of being funny at times', I said. At tea I'd remarked on her white dress being a bit limp and not well cut, and he displayed oddly complete knowledge of how it was put together, and how often it had been cleaned. 'I've given her a few notes' he said, grinning at himself. 'It's her first part ever, you know.' She looked interesting from the front, a curious sloping 15th C. face. Close to, rather plain, big long nose, protruding teeth, but beautiful eyes and figure, and certainly attractive. We went on to talk of him and I told him he had now finished his simple apprenticeship, and now could go ahead and ACT. He has now mastered all the basic technical difficulties, and can begin to build up a technique. He said something nice about it all being due to me. I said that it was both of us together, but I certainly did feel proud sitting out front as proud as if he was my own. We had got to the Pavilion by this time, and the moment we'd stopped talking about the play, I'd thought, ah, he's got something to tell me, because silences kept falling and he kept sighing and drawing his breath in quickly, always a sign. 'What's happening at the weekend?' I said, 'Only for the catering'. Partly not to let too long a silence fall, which makes it harder to tell something, partly hoping it was about Sally. 'Oh' he said, 'I shall come up on Sunday morning.' He gave me a quick glance. 'It's such a bore getting that over-night train.' 'Yes, of course', I said. 'Oh - oh!' I thought. And, 'Well, we've got to have this out, it's 6.15 and he'll have to be in by 7.10', I thought. 'Do you want something to eat?' He did, so we went to a quiet corner in the Empire Grill. I said 'How is Sally?' thinking we'd start as soon as we could. There was a lot of indrawn breathing, and he looked rueful, upset, shy all at once. 'She's rather upset at the moment.' 'Are you unhappy?' I said, still thinking it might be that she'd gone off him, 'Do you want to tell me - don't if you don't want to?' 'Yes, I do want to. It's just that - well, I fancy Lindsey - a lot. And I made the mistake of telling Sally I did.' 'Oh dear.' I said. 'Yes, that was silly, still, if that's as far as it's gone she'll soon get over it, won't she?' 'But that isn't as far as it's gone' he said.

(First of all, here's what I scribbled that night at Mummy's: 'David told me that he'd been sleeping with Lindsey Franklin for the last fortnight or so, off and on. He's only told Sally, so far, he fancies her. What a change! And he told Sally the weekend I blew him up! Ah, I'm sorry I did, but it was inevitable, not being enough in his confidence. Poor little sod, he feels a real shit. All his ideals of himself have crashed in pieces. He says he still likes Sally just as much in all sorts of other ways. Hm. My first feeling was of surprise. He had seemed oh so set on Sally. And yet he's known ever since 'Hamlet' rehearsals that he'd sleep with Lindsey if the opportunity occurred. My second was, I'm afraid, of great joy. that he'd told me, that was very precious to me. And that he was at last perhaps, seeing Sally as she really is. We walked for 20 minutes, after the show, in the pouring rain - I can see myself now giving him my notes with my glasses and the paper sopping - while I did my best to say sensible and comforting things. He needed comfort. The only sentence I really remember saying is, "You don't owe Sally anything except an honest withdrawal." I must be very careful how I advise him, so as to be sure to rid him of Sally. I know she's wrong for him. This girl seems very pleasant. Not so pretty but more real. I will protect him and see he is happy. I will. Rang D. and can't wait to talk it all over. I love him more than myself!

That catches most of it, from the talk in the Grill to the wandering about after. There were various little things that should have told me before. When we talked after buying his D.J. for instance, he said how perverted Michael Winder was, asked him to go to bed with him, and when David said 'No', he said, 'Well, bring Lindsey as well, I wouldn't mind the three of us altogether.' And at the time, I only sub-consciously thought that David must have shown some interest in her. Then again he came home with Sally for the weekend of Feb 25 because he was going off her by then, and the cottage fiasco no longer mattered. And it was that night that Sally said 'As attractive as Lindsey Franklin, perhaps' in a very acid tone, a name we had then never heard, at which David, who was clearing away, looked rather silly - not guilty, as he actually was, but silly. As far as I know, he only slept with Sally once after he first slept with Lindsey, not too bad really. But of course it cost him a lot of guilt, and sometimes he had to leave Lindsey because he couldn't face the guilt of sleeping with her. Though any time he spent with Sally must have been worse than usual in such situations because of her absurd whimsy smugness.

On the Sunday he went up fairly early to see Sally and came back before night to see Lindsey! thus avoiding sleeping with Sally. I went up after lunch, and travelled with Peter Egan. A delightful free-ranging ill-educated young man of terrific charm and I think, talent. We had amusing talk, only marred for me by his telling me that he thinks David should leave us and set up home for himself, mentally as well as physically. Of course he must some day, but not yet, surely.

On Saturday March 23, he rang up at 11.30 from Sally's, where he spent the night. Help! The next day he came alone to leave a lot of things, blissful, advance of coming home for good, and went off to Norwich the next day. On March 36, we went to lunch with David Monico in his new flat up in Pucini Park. Very pleasant basement tho' garden flat, nicely got up, tho' I think you'd know it was a queer's flat. His flat-mate, Hugh Walters, is waspish, superficial and crude. The next night we were taken out to supper by Jimmie Bolam!! and there was his girlfriend's mother, who was a great friend of D's at her orphanage. They had indeed written a panto together at the age of 14? the reunion was a complete failure. She seemed to be half there, a little dreamy, only inclined to say 'Yes' to any reminiscence. She could not follow any allusion, or double meaning. She wasn't even ashamed of having been at the orphanage, which would have made an evening of it. She seemed comfortable in a smug cloud. Dreadful man with her, who said the play had a homosexual undercurrent. As it had a raving queer in it, what could one say?

(Found a scribble from March 23: - 'David rang 11.35. Got to London about 9.0 ish - not playing the Coward tonight - rehearsing Misanthrope yesterday, and today until 4.30 ish. Full of conversation. Coming tomorrow all afternoon to pack and re-pack, and then go back to film with Sally in evening. Got digs in Norwich where you can drink till 3.0 a.m.! Last night up late at Dodo's with hideous Alan Weston and Charmian discussing Judaism etc. Had about six whiskies. Oh, to get him finally away from that flat!! Even if only to another. But why do I doubt him and his good loving sense? And he'd read the Times Review today tho' up so late. Dear little thing. But what about Lindsey?

The weekend of the 31 May, he spent at Cambridge, as Sally and her parents had come over to see the play at Norwich. I had advised him not to go in the circumstances, but he said it was a long-standing arrangement and he'd have to. So he did. He rang at 10.55 last night, April 1, to say when he'd be home, and then again at 11.35 to tell me to be sure to book for the dentist.

Saturday June 8 1968

Further big flash-back.

He arrived home at last, and with the excitement, for us, that he would be here for the whole summer. He told us that he'd told Sally he'd slept with Lindsey, but had pretended to her that it was only during the Norwich week. Very understandable. She was very upset, but taking it very well. He said they'd agreed 'to go back to square one', and just meet twice a week or so as friends, and see what happened. The next night, Thursday, he was to go to a Webber- Douglas matinee with her and her parents, who were casting for Frinton. He kept falling into depressions - he obviously felt ashamed. I said, 'Don't be too unhappy.' 'Oh', he said, 'I shall be all right - whatever happens, I shall be all right. Because I shall have one of them.' Later in the evening - we had talked of nothing else, of course - except Norwich, a bit - after a drink had emboldened me, I suddenly heard myself saying all we'd felt and thought about Sally including the final horror, that she is like her mother, and has something missing, for all her charm and intelligence. He received it all amazingly. If only we had said it before! When I said the next day that I hoped he didn't think we'd been unfair to Sally, he said that if we had, it was his fault, for he was responsible for her behaviour towards us. (Not true, but a nice thought!) Sally rang up about 11.0, and no sooner had he come down from talking to her than Lindsey rang!

Next day he went off to the matinee - in the evening - he rang us at 11.0 to say take Lindsey's number when she phoned and say he'd ring back. I said 'Are you going to the flat?' 'No', he said, rather shortly, 'I don't expect to be in much after 12.0. Obviously he couldn't go there, but still it was striking as only the second night he'd spent away from Sally when he could have been with her, in 18 months.

Whether it was the result of my outburst about her, making it clear that she was not our, including him, sort, or D's advice or what, he has not seen or spoken to her again. She has come to see D. twice for advice, and comfort, and D. says she has been marvellous. I don't think she has much capacity for feeling myself. Or rather, her feelings are so repressed as to be almost non-existent. It's very pleasing, the way he won't hear a word against her, but he must have gone off her for some reason, and you're not going to tell me it isn't for the same reasons I have against her.

April 12. Threw away his lucky string of safety-pins.

The next week or so were, on the surface, very happy, with David at home and free to go to plays and films, which we did, often. he was in a very 'us' mood, joining in the household at long last properly. But all was hideously clouded over for me by having been out of work since Jan 4. His upsets and coming home had distracted me, but when it all flooded back it came on me more intensely and awfully than ever before. It had happened to me so many times before, and that it should happen again, suddenly seemed intolerable. Everything became too much for me, the slightest opposition or disappointment set me crying. When he got back home on April 22, after a hitchhike w/e at B'mouth, I asked him to help me by staying with me in the evenings. It had suddenly become more than I could stand to say goodbye to D. and spend another evening obscurely in the house as I have, it now seems to me, most evenings since we moved in, in 1961. I had heard the week before from my agent, that the job in the Park that Richard had offered me, and that I had accepted because there was nothing else ('you're depressed because you want a job you don't want', said David, when I came down from the telephone after accepting it) had fallen through because they'd offered me only £5 more than David. This seemed the last tantalising straw. So I explained my state of mind, and indeed betrayed it, since I cried in front of him for the first time. I said I was turning to him for comfort as he had to me at Bexhill. He was extremely sympathetic.

So what was my hurt astonishment the next night, when I took him to the Phoenix to see 'The Canterbury Tales', to hear him mutter to me, that instead of coming to the cottage with me on the Thursday (and I had to go to the cottage for the garden though I was dreading it without D., and only David coming made it tolerable) he had fixed to go out to dinner with Bob and someone else. It nearly killed me! I could not get over his 'betrayal', as it seemed to me in the state I was in. So upset was I the next day, that he saw it and came. I am afraid he was profoundly bored at the cottage, tho' he concealed it most beautifully. I cried a lot and he held my hand and did his best to be comforting. Looking back even from this distance, it's now funny that part of his comfort consisted in telling me that he must leave home and set up for himself. Of course on top of everything else, that upset me frightfully and I said a lot of cruel things. he said he'd felt for the last few months (apart from the obvious fact that one day, certainly within the next five years, at the utmost, he must leave home as any young man must) that I asked more affection from him than he could give, and that I could come to hate him if it went on. He said he'd been so surprised at my hurt at his carelessnesses, and that he wouldn't have been upset, so why was I? Aah, the youth of it. He would soon notice if I were as careless. I said I couldn't love him less, I would have to love him more, and set him freer. Oh, he was upset that he'd said it all at this wrong moment. Of course, in my 'state' about all the other things, I maundered on for hours. He faithfully sat up with me, and, in the intervals of saying that he wasn't as fond of me as I was of him, gave me more loving attention than anyone except D. ever has. And for such a boy! The result was that he left me on the Sunday morning in as tranquil a frame of mind as I possibly could be under the circumstances. For all his announcement about leaving in six months, or a year at most (which he took back when we got home, saying it wouldn't be all that immediate) we had actually reached a new understanding in which he felt much freer. (But you know, now I am inclined to think that he has an idea yet how badly he behaved because of Sally.) He said at one point that he would come to me 'before anyone else' with a problem or a piece of good news. Well, I call that love myself! As he left the cottage, I said (he'd stayed overnight and caught the 7.59, so had to get up at the crack, and David can make no greater sacrifice!) 'I do try to be a good father to you.' 'You are, really.' he said.

D. arrived later in the day, and I'd cleaned both bedrooms, washed up, cleaned the sitting- room, and got the lunch. Felt all the better for it. Once she was there, everything seemed all right for a bit.

On Tuesday April 30, I went to the dentist - first time for 2 years - and again had nothing to be done. Nor had David except possibly his broken front tooth to be re-done. D. must go to him for her falsies.

On Friday May 3, Edward Fox asked us out to supper again, and came to D’s show first, with Jean. They were supposed to be moving into a maisonette in Maida Vale to start living together property. While Edward was seeing Ian McKellen, Jean suddenly burst into tears and said Edward had had an affair with one of her friends after he'd asked her to go to Maida Vale. On which happy note Edward came back and we went out for a happy party! I must say that D and I are better at that sort of thing than most. They've made it up since, anyway.

David went off to Cheltenham to pick up his last few things before his mother moves. The following night Lindsey came to stay for the first time. It was decidedly odd seeing a girl with long fair hair who wasn't Sally. D. called her 'Sally' at one point. Help. She is so much nicer than Sally, warmer and of course an actress. Bob and Elaine were also here, so we felt like a couple of brothel-keepers. The next day David started rehearsals, was home again by 4.0. Gosh, how little people work now.

On the 8th I went down to B’mouth for the day, ostensibly to plant potatoes really to cheer Daddy up. He was quite all right, for his age, by the time I left. If only Mummy and Lalla wouldn't play in to him all the time.

On the Saturday I wanted to go to the pictures as it was D's last night and I was a little stirred up. He had booked for us to see 'Hero Stratus', at the new ICA. Gosh. It was very avant- garde, the programme said. In fact, the programme said that 'entirely new acting techniques had been invented for it! Imagine. It seemed to me to be just the usual acting, according to talent, only slower because, a lot of it being improvised, there were the usual uneasy pauses while the actors tried to think of what to say next. Isn't it funny that nobody ever improvises rapid witty backchat? However several of the actors were quite good, the story-line perfectly coherent, tho' the synopsis sternly forbade us to follow it only, or we'd miss the point of the whole film. But he is obviously a very talented man, and I hope, very young. David and I had an animated argument, during which he actually announced that improvisation was 'bound' to be truer than prepared dialogue, etc, etc. Since then, he's come round to my view that the film was fascinating but flawed! I also found out that the only time he's ever cried tears in cinema or theatre, was at 'Brief Encounter'.

D's last night was saddish, but inevitable and therefore less moving than a more sudden withdrawal. She feels unsatisfied, but I am sure it has made a great difference to her status. The offers she's had in the last few days are certainly most interesting. A play with Gielgud and a film with Ned Sherrin. As long as she works, that's the main thing.

On the Sunday David went off to B’mouth, of course, and missed the last train, got in at 4.0 a.m. That Monday we had D's ASM, Daphne Newton's daughter, Bron, to dinner, and she stayed the night. A dear forthright girl, with whom we had a delightfully silly argument about attractiveness, David as usual taking the opposite side to me, and surprisingly predicting that girls now choose men for physical features that attract them - 'Why you?' I said, 'Why puny old you then?' It was a good talk, of a silly sort. We all went to bed fond of one another.

On Wednesday May 15, we went to the first night of Frank Marcus' 'Mrs. Mouse, Are You Within?' at the Duke of York's. John Warner had asked us. He was very good. Barbara Leigh-Hunt was most irritating, a number of other parts were wrongly played (and badly) and I shall wait to read the play before judging it.

On Friday May 17, it was the third anniversary of David's coming to live with us. So I took D. and him to see 'Half a Sixpence'. The day was quite altered by being offered two, one a film and one a TV, but still two money-earning jobs! The film one meant I had to go for an interview in Addison Rd., in the afternoon, with Joseph Losey. It's an Elizabeth Taylor film. And there she was. It was an extraordinary house, done up in the richest Art Nouveau style, with a huge garden for London - big enough for 4 tennis courts, at least. I got the job, and will say at once that so far, it has spread to 4 days, instead of 1, at £50 p.d. I can't be bothered to write anything else about it. The film, 'Half a Sixpence' was lovely. We all three thoroughly enjoyed it, and it was the first uncloudedly happy evening I'd spent for months. I hope the supply of work doesn't fail again for a bit, or I shall become utterly impossible to live with. As it was I was very down the next day.

On Sunday May 19, Lindsey came for the day, which they spent more or less with us, except for a flushed half hour just before lunch. And really it was a lovely day, seeing just enough of each other, and enjoying every minute. She’s a nice girl. A little colourless perhaps, but after Sally - !

Bob Whelan had moved into a flat with four or five others in Long Acre, and David, who still longs, quite rightly, for a lot of chat and to meet a lot of different types, and ‘to rub a few corners off', spent a lot of time there. I must say nothing could be less pleasant to me than 'others' flooding in and out of the room where I was eating. However, youth to youth, and I'm glad he's got somewhere to go. After all, he never had a university or a training college, or a drama school or anything. Talking of that, since he got back from Bournemouth, partly from Lindsey's inspiration (she's just come down from Manchester where she read English) and partly from his own bent, he's set himself a programme of reading, and is going to do an 'essay' for her every week. Hm, that lasted through one essay and notes for another. But the reading has gone on, and he is now reading much more avidly than ever before, quite differently, in fact. He's continuing with 'The History of Western Philosophy' bit by bit. Has read in the last month 'Therese Raquin', 'The Secret Agent', 'King Lear', started the Henry Irving biography, read Aristotle's Poetics, and Horace's 'Ars Poetica’, a lot of poetry, and a good deal of criticism. The one essay completed, by the way, was on 'Lycides'. He made notes on Marvell's 'Coy Mistress', but never wrote the essay. I said to him one day, that Lindsey was good for him from the literary point of view. He said, 'Well, of course, you set the tone.' I said, 'We once told you we would have to be your university. Well, we're the dons, and Lindsey etc. are the undergraduates.' He went to Bob's flat three days running, and scene-shifted at the 'Boy Friend' one night for some pocket-money. He was at Bob's so often, the third day he took half-a-dozen eggs to make up for all the meals he'd had. When I said he'd better be careful as it was so easy to sponge without meaning to, he said he thought Bob was trying to pay us back by feeding him. Sweet.

On Wednesday May 29, Bob went off for his season in Sidmouth. We were quite envious, all those lovely parts. David had a coffee with Angie, or rather lunch, as it turned out to be. We were a bit chary of him going, in case anything unsettling came of it. However, the only query was whether he should send Sally a card for her exams beginning the next week. We said very firmly, 'No, it's too soon'. He argued, said he would but didn't! Frinton will be quite soon enough.

The next day, May 30, D. went to the doctor for a prescription for new glasses. While she is out of work, she's getting new glasses, new teeth, going to the physiotherapist and her chiropodist. When she got back from Dr. Esquivel's, just at the corner of the road, she said, 'You know, it's she herself who makes all the appointments late, she loves a chat.' 'But probably only with us', said David, 'I mean, she must look on us as an oasis.' Imagine him saying a superior (sic) thing like that even a year ago. And perhaps this is the place to say how much he's changed in the last few months. Partly leaving Sally, who was cramping his growth badly. I mean, he has shown how he's changed much more since leaving her, though it was that growth that was partly responsible for him leaving her. (He still has to get it clear. He described himself at Edinburgh as 'consuming his own emotion, until it was all burnt away.' He, really, was forcing himself to go on with his feelings at the same pitch, so that it seemed to him as if he was destroying them. In fact they were already dead.) His vocabulary, his concentration on acting, his warmth, his whole capacity for joining in, his thought for others, all have expanded and altered, almost out of recognition. His vocabulary is almost laughably ours.

In the evening, we went to see 'Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are Dead'. We were not much impressed. A revue-sketch with fashionable trimmings, expanded into three acts, and indifferently acted, it has been much over-estimated.

The next day I had to speak to David about money. He owes me £53 - that's perfectly all right - but while saying to me, about theatre seats, that he doesn't like having expensive seats when he's broke, or in any way living above his income, still doesn't hesitate to ring Lindsey every night, and expect to travel to see her every weekend. Now that is all right, too, up to a point, though we never spoke every night on the 'phone or anything like it, and we were in love. The only thing I don't like is him saying he likes to live within his income. In fact, he never goes without anything he really wants, tho' he often says he wants to suffer like all his friends. Well, perhaps we had better remove the temptation! He must just be careful to get what he says and does, more into alignment. Next day he rang from Bournemouth, on the grounds that it was cheaper for him to go there than Lindsey come here. Hm! He saw her in her first real part and said she was very good, 'better than I would have been!’

We, on the other hand, went to the National to see 'The Three Sisters'. I thought it much the best thing I'd seen at the National, and D., who had never been to the National and hadn't seen the play since the famous Queens' production in 1938. Joan Plowright was superb; Louise Purnell at any rate a better actress than Claire Bloom ever was, Ken Mackintosh well cast and good, John Stride very good as Andrey, but did not develop enough in the last act. Paul Curran an excellent Chebutykin, Robert Stephens decidedly good as Vershinin - I don't know people mean, he's no good - set most imaginative and production pretty good. Jeanne Watts decidedly overparted as Olga, with the result that the part seems completely diminished. We did cry a lot. D. said it was her favourite play after 'Twelfth Night'. It is wonderful. I think it's his best.

David got back to London in the early afternoon, and went to the Park for his dress-rehearsal. At the photo call, he and Susan Tebbs (Anne Page) were asked to stroll through the Park together in costume.

On Tuesday June 4, he opened as Fenton. It was a shockingly small house, only about 100: the production wasn't too bad, but the casting was inadequate. Ruth Dunning was embarrassingly dull as Mistress P., and Doreen was scarcely better as Ford. Falstaff (Jimmy Cossins) has something about him, but it wasn't the right something. The comics were - well, all right. Best performance, by far, was William Russell's Ford. Superb voice and bearing, trod beautifully exact line between farce and tragedy. Love to see him in other parts. In straight farce or tragedy, he might be a disappointment. He may need a strong flavour to a part to get one himself. David was good, very good, but will be better, when his a little more deliberate and less tentative. Plays in profile too much. But speaks well and looks superb. Little Susan Tebbs does sweetly as Anne, and makes a perfect pair with David, as she's blonde. He was rather dispirited afterwards, partly because he knew he had not quite done his best, partly because two of his best speeches were almost completely drowned by passing 'planes.

We had to leave about 11.30, as I was filming at 7.30 the next morning. I can't be bothered describing the filming. The next evening Wed., we had Richard Eyre, the adaptor and director of 'The Ha-Ha', and Angela Pleasance, who plays the lead, to dinner. She's a strange odd-looking little thing, but with an intensity and attractive in an off-beat way! I liked him enormously; very intelligent, very literary, very verbal very theatrical. We had a satisfying evening. David came in about 11.30, been rained off about 9.30, though we'd had no rain at all. I was glad he'd got in while Richard was still here, as it can't do any harm for Richard to be reminded of him. And me!! Oh yes, he's got that special creative something, a bit blinkered with it, about him.

(Up to date at last)

Monday June 10 1968

Christine rang up yesterday, said she was between flats, could she stay for a week or so? I said a week. So she arrived tonight, very thin, which improves her appearance considerably, and exactly the same coarse-fibred misfit as ever. Poor child, what chance has she ever had?

I was very amused that David asked D. whether I'd be away for the night for my two days' filming on Thursday and Friday. 'Alone in the house with a young woman I've had before' he said, and frowned in that way he does. It would be a bit of a pity to mess about again all this time later. It would be a bit messy. Later he said to her, 'Christine's got rather a square jaw, hasn't she?' a little disparagingly.

Tuesday June 11 1968

D. off to Birmingham till Friday.

This morning at lunch, he was telling us that Peter Egan had come round after the show, and sent his love to us. David had obviously gone off him a bit, as he said he was being a bit pompous, and show-off. 'When I asked if he'd got up to Liverpool to see Alison', he said, 'Peter looked grave and said 'problems - problems.' 'And' said David, ‘he gets hold of certain words and phrases and uses them to death. Last night everything was 'total', including the character of Proteus.’ Ah, I hope P.E. isn't of the sort who goes serious with success. David is heaven the way he observes people now in a way he never use to.

D. got off after lunch. I carried her case to the tube. She was looking very sweet, I thought, in that pale blue cotton hat she bought at Guildford. She was worrying lest she looked like mutton dressed as lamb. If only I can earn enough for her to buy a lot of clothes. That's what she needs at this difficult moment of her sex-life. Perhaps at last I will. I do hate it when she's away, - I sometimes get a twinge of panic, at the housekeeping?, at the loneliness? at the thought I might never see her again? at this is what it will be like if she dies before me? Horrid.

After the show David cock-a-hoop because Richard D-Day had told him he was good, and promised to take him to Canada perhaps in the autumn, and promised to do all he could to get David the understudy of Proteus, and perhaps go on for a matinee. A lot of 'perhaps'. And a more solid achievement, J.C. Trewin gives him and Susan Tebbs a notice in the B'ham Post! That's thrilling in such tiny parts.

Of course him possibly going to Canada sent a knife straight through my stomach.

Wednesday June 12 1968

Maddening day. Went up to a fitting at Berman's. Lunch, and off to B'ham Post Offices for David's notice. Couldn't find it! then broke one lens of my glasses. Oh!

In the morning David had been bathing while I was shaving. And was very understanding about Canada, saying that he wasn't all that keen himself on being away from 'everyone' as long as six months. He said he'd probably write just as often as Coventry. 'But you wouldn't come' I said, 'Well', he said, 'I only came about twice from Coventry.' 'Oh, no, more than that', I said. 'Well, not nearly as often as you put my food out and got my room ready', he said, with that smile he uses when I'm being sloshy! I said I would put my foot down if the parts weren't good enough. He said he would too, but I remember him saying he wouldn't go to the Park without a really good part. We'll see!

I left about 10.30, for my fitting, leaving them alone in the house for about 1/2 an hour. O.K. you think? Well, he'd just had a bath, he wouldn't spoil that surely. I rather think Christine is going to ask to stay longer.

Ju. rang at about seven, partly for a chat, partly to press the claims of a new appeal by Tom Arnold for the 'Salad Days' tour to come in. Two good points he made, that it would be virtually impossible to get a first-class cast ('We would offer between two or three hundred to the leading lady'!) and that if 'S.D.' is revived now, you can do it in modern dress, whereas in ten or even five years, goodness knows. I just began to think we'd better take the chance to get it on when we could.

D. rang later in the evening, and was her usual maddening telephone self. I put the 'Salad Days' proposition to her, and as it were, she snubbed me. If only she'd say 'I must think about it.’

Thursday June 13

Filming for TV. Maddening day. All children and extras. 7 hours waiting in Chislehurst caves only just warm enough in my overcoat, to do 30 sec. reaction, then train late home.

David had done all the shopping, beautifully. Good. The least he can do.

Friday June 14 1968

Another hellish disorganised day, half freezing in the caves, half baking in the caves cafe. Train held up on way home. Christine and boy-friend all over the sitting-room. However, I sank down with my drink and after my bath, eventually. Had a quiet talk with D. who was also exhausted from her visit to Birmingham.

Mother is more wearing than ever. For example, when D. said she was leaving this morning, Mother said, 'Dorothy leaving? Well, Mollie, you might have told me Dorothy was here.' She went to bed very early, I stayed up for David and cooked his supper, as I won’t see him all next week. We had a long and acrimonious argument about cats, and a sweet talk about Mr. Wilson upstairs. Oh, and he was very cross with me for saying I was a superior person to the woman next door! Little love.

Sunday June 16 1968

David went off at lunchtime, just after, to his matinee. Angie had rung to say Sally was away so that he could go and get various possessions of his still left there. I'm glad to say he reeled them quite firmly! So off he went, and went to Bournemouth on the late train, comes back after the show Monday night, so I won't see him again till Friday. Still, D. may come down to my film location while I'm there, which will mean I won't be without her as well. At the moment I still dread it.

Christine got off this afternoon; she is improved I think. Let's keep fingers crossed.

'Dance of Death' yesterday quite interesting. Olivier very witty, but never moves me. Production nothing extra. Sets so-so. Young people v. bad, shocking for the National. You wouldn't be impressed with them in rep.

Friday June 21 1968

Breakfast in this fairly poor hotel, and then the 9.40, and then home! For all Jimmy's dear nature, of course I have felt unsettled and ill at ease most of the time. No wonder I don't want to go abroad, if a little trip to Kent sets me on edge. The 'high spots' have been driving a motor-boat and a car! The car had to be driven 100 yds down a lane, round a corner, stop on some chalk-marks a few feet from the camera crew. Halfway thro' the takes, the driver of the car told me that it belonged to Henry Cooper, the boxer, and was worth £8000. All the rest of the time seems to have been divided between long hours of waiting and car journeys with my stomach heaving. All the locations were some distance from one another.

Jimmie's straight-forwardness can keep almost anyone within a civilized framework. Even he - and I - had difficulty with John Stride. This National Theatre actor, while quite mild and pleasant most of the time, has a mean childish streak of defensiveness, which causes him to try to find out anyone's weak spot and make wounding remarks till he gets a reaction. In addition, his marriage is in a bad state, and he jeers at his wife in a most unpleasant way. I don't know whether I can go on liking him.

I got home at 11.30, - nobody in! What a let-down!! Walked out to meet D. from the shops. Lovely. We had a good old talk. She is getting ever so gradually depressed by six weeks now, of out of work. David came in for an hour or two, between rehearsal at Kennington and show. Washed his hair. Very actorish about Gemma Jones and her clothes. Very bored with such small parts. Very sweet.

I cannot bring myself to contemplate D. being out of work for long.

S.D. tour is going on. Julian had suggested Cliff Richard for lead!!

Saturday July 22 1968

Dear day. Got up at 10.30, having slept well at last. Called D. and David, who came down muttering 'Can't get a moment's peace for a train of thought without someone yelling.'

Had purposely left Spectator open the night before at an article on 'Love Prigs which I might have written about Sally and him He said, 'Did you read that article on 'Love Prigs'?' 'Yes', I said, And he just looked. I just looked back. And he was glad I forbore!

Off he went to his - I should think - rained off matinee and evening show, and an early trip to B'mouth.

We went to see 'Un Homme et Une Femme'. Lovely film. A real relationship honestly observed, with a happy ending. I don't want more. In the evening, at last finished 'the Ambassadors' which I've been savouring.

Very nearly a great novel. He's certainly a great novelist. As D. confirmed, the scene a faire at the end is a lessening of the whole book. If only he hadn't been queer their sleeping together might have been triumphant, instead of squalid.

Sunday June 23 1968

Another dear day. Gardened a bit. D. irritably mended and washed a lot. Steak for dinner. Quiet happiness all day. Very stormy and unsettled. A lot of rain.

Monday June 24 1968

Dug up dwarf irises for replanting by the new lavender bushes. Sounds marvellous. Means moving them six inches. 2 new lav. bushes.

David rang at one; his train was quicker than he'd thought, despite the rail strike. His rehearsal was at two at Kennington, so I thought I'd have a quick bath. 'What about food?' I said, 'Well, a piece would be very welcome', he said, 'Lunch', I said. 'Yes', he said'. Oh, he is sweet to us. And we to him! After lunch, on his way out, I said, 'A piece of chocolate'. 'An After Eight' he said. 'How about a bit of Lindt?' I said. 'None of that upper-class snob stuff for me' he said.

We went off about 3.15 to see Muriel in hospital. I don't know, she has her self mainly to blame for her loneliness, but that doesn't stop you feeling sorry for her.

On the way to the pictures, went to buy a shopping-list. Neither of us had any money. Luckily we were near Jo, so, amid screams of laughter, got £2. 'Seventeen' the film about a boy's first fuck, very primitif, and I'm not sure it wasn't faux-primitif. David had been back and had someone to tea. Aah!

Tuesday June 25 1968

A dreary pouring day, caught the 9.5 Green Line to my TV rehearsal. Turned out to be the 8.30, half-an-hour late. It took 35 minutes to get to Kennington, and by 10.25 I was still in Whitehall. My rehearsal was at 10.30, I arrived at 10.55, when I'd missed two of my scenes in the reading. Oh dear, just my luck they began on time when they never do in TV. That made me feel grey. Then my part is so small again and so silly and unimportant, and yet I must be grateful. The people treat me well, and seem to think well of me. I must cling to that. But the whole day left me feeling, 'Is it to be like this at best?'

Was brought a bit of the way home, to Notting Hill Gate, just by Sally's flat, as it happened. And a large flat in that house is for sale! Got home about 6.30, D. exhausted from cleaning kitchen. I hope she isn't always going to make a point of being tireder than me! Even when I am working. It did look better. But oh if only I could afford to have it all done over for her! And her clothes. And her teeth. And a char, etc. etc. David had been in most of the day, except for going momentarily to rehearse, only Bernard Bresslow had been so late he'd never got there, so David came home again. He'd forgotten I was rehearsing some more. (I am an idiot and a fool to be hurt by that.) Elaine wants to come Fri. and Sat. Lovely. And his mum. He has auditions for Bristol on Tuesday and Liverpool at the end of the month, also next week, I suppose!

Richard still seems to be keen on his going to Cananda. Oh dear. Still, that's selfish. (He said yesterday that Henry Waters had been asked to play Valentine in 'Love for Love'. Gosh. and not David! Disgraceful. This at Bournemouth)

The guest he had for tea was Peter Egan. Apparently the Baker St. flat he had belonged to a negress! He'd slept with her? with someone, the week after? the night after? his 2 year association with someone was over. At lunch with D. David much concerned over the promiscuity of girls! He is a Victorian. Wants lewd women for now, pure for later. It's all very sweet. What he's really bothered about is Alison Fiske and Ken Ryan sleeping about within months of marriage. I think I must try to bring it up. He's in a real old muddle. Which makes him sound like a prig. Women aren't promiscuous. Men aren't promiscuous. Lindsey sleeps with him. He sleeps with her - and Sally and a good many others, but that's different etc, etc. D. tells me he's heard that Sally slept with LSD Bill a fortnight after David left her. Now that's a blow to his vanity. mainly, whether he knows it or not. Otherwise he'd have told her or me before!

For all my depression I only have to think of D. to feel better. Or David.

Wednesday June 26 1968

Another dull day, waiting round. Thank goodness they're a reasonably nice lot.

Jeremy and Mikel in the evening. Oh they are good people. They do wish to think the best. We had a most talkative and successful evening. David came in at about twenty to 12. Rained off, so had gone to see 'Ulysses'. I was a bit hurt he hadn't come home to see us and the Roses, but D. said that was silly and after a little thought, I agreed with her. He was very dear, if a trifle truculent at first from shyness.

Thursday June 27 1968

Another dull day. If it were not for Jim C-J, it would drive me mad. During the day I said to a young chap in the company who's staying with his sister in Goring-on-Thames, that if he couldn't get home or up to rehearsal in the morning, he could stay here. He rang about 7.30 to say he'd take me up on that offer. So he came. Very polite and easy, so it was no strain. About at 21, to embark on a film with John Huston. Very good-looking, in a filmic way, that is, no nose and no upper lip. but 'still' very pleasant. Oh, if that happened to David.

Friday June 28 1968

To new Stoppard play, 'Real Inspector Hound'. Very funny. Jo perfect. Richard Briers good, but superficial. Laughed a great deal Afterwards to 'La Caparina'? in Romilly St. Bit noisy, but good food and cheap as it goes now. With gin and tonics and a bottle of wine, only £6.16.0 for three.

ANGUS MACKAY DIARY NO. 36B

Sunday June 30 1968

Last night to 'The Ha-Ha' at the Hampstead Theatre Club. Slight, but beautifully written. Alas, Angela Pleasence not plain enough. She is playing it mad, that's the trouble, (and the girl is mad) so that the result is sentimental. Boy excellent. Mrs. Maybury (Betty Woolfe) excellent. Production excellent. Oh, Rosemary McHale excellent. (asked after David Gilmore! Attractive body, rapacious face.)

Richard Eyre took us out to supper after. Interesting, silent at first, then warms. Most intelligent and open-minded. Andgela is a bore, I think.

Today has been lovely. He couldn't get to B'mouth because of the strike. So we've all had a Sunday together. First time for years. It's been boiling hot, and we've been mildly in the garden, a mild dinner, and now to bed. I am so lucky; to look at D. and David lying in the garden with me, I thought this is the summit of happiness.

Lying in bed together this morning was so lovely after the early mornings.

Oh I've been so awful to be unhappy. He came down to say to her in the kitchen that 'Nostromo' would make a good film except that just recording its events wouldn't be enough. Dear thing, he's learnt. Have read D's play which is quite brilliantly funny, but will need careful handling. Oh if only it came off!!

Monday July 1 1968

Stiflingly deliciously hot all day. Boring rehearsal. Tony Corlan and I had apples and cheese in little park nearby. Also bought strawberries and a couple of baps and some cream. I dipped the baps in the cream instead of butter. Floor manager collapsed with the heat. Tony Corlan again came and stayed. Still boiling hot at 11.30, must be over 70.

Wednesday July 3 1968

Last night was so exhausted by ten, I just went to bed, and slept till eight. Woke at 1, when D. came to bed. She said David was in and had done well at his audition, and that was all. I'd been irritable with her earlier. Just sat thinking how trying she was! What tiredness can do! Might as well be drunk. This morning got up to find note from D. to say he'd been recalled to see Val May on Tuesday! Marvellous. He must have been better than the others to be told at once. Advised to do 'Proteus' again, but 'something more plebeian - a greater contrast than 'Peter Quilpe'. Can you believe it? Could I have a greater compliment? Well, he has natural 'class' like us. So he'd said to the man that he'd do a bit from 'The Grass is Greener'. Even tho’ man said 'Don't you mean The Corn is Green? Which he did! So I looked through everything for a piece for him to do, before my rehearsal (D. only told me about the confusion of titles tonight) at 10.0. Found a bit of 'Nan', a bit of 'Chips', suggested 'The Corn is Green', and, best of all, a bit of the Ian Holm part in Pinter's 'The Homecoming', which he'd already taken up to bed.

Later D. said how she was enjoying the James novel she's reading ('The Awkward Age') 'Ah' said David, 'The Difficult Years'.

When I got home this afternoon, about 4.0, she was in the garden. On the telephone pad were signs of a job? for someone. Tenents are doing 'Ring Round the Moon', - again. She'd rung everyone to get me into it. Oh, how tantalising, another favourite. I will get into it. How?

Wrote to bank manager. He has been good to us.

David came in at about 12.45. Had a sweet chat with him over his supper. We get closer day by day. He doesn't fight me at all, or only to a healthy degree. He is depressed about his part in '2 Gents'. Richard won't let him use an accent, and as he's a young Victorian gardener, that seems fairly silly. I think he's seeing our point about the open air too.

Thursday July 4 1968

Got up at about 10. David not rehearsing, so we all had the morning together. He is seeing our point about the open-air. I wouldn't like to play a big part. Very thrilled with the way his voice rang round Wyndham's. Think of it, him standing on the stage of Wyndham's spouting a great long loud speech. We had an animated excited discussion about the nature of comedy, ending in him coming down later to tell me I was right.

Last night D. and I had a memorable laugh, in bed, as often. She had confused two actresses, as often, and, well, it's impossible to reproduce it, but David heard us, (no, you, he said) thro. closed doors. Everything's so lovely at the moment.

Saturday July 6 1968

Last night after the day in the studio, went to Jimmy's for party afterwards.

House more got up in a fairly hit and miss way. Two new rooms built on at the back, hideous but useful. Children asleep in their bunks, adorable in their flushed abandon. Did not enjoy myself very much, except for private chats with Jimmy and Maggie. When I said to Frank Middlemass, 'May I ask you a rude and impertinent question?' he said, firmly, 'Certainly you may.' I had a mini-cab ordered for 1.30, and tho' it was late, I had a sure reason for going. They are an unusual couple in giving large parties but remaining themselves. I got to bed about three.

D. had left me note about food, and saying 'David has got his car', meaning he'd hired a car to go to B'mouth because of the rail-strike. I heard her wake him this morning, and say it was 10.30. She later described him saying '10.30' in 'Blow wind and crack your cheeks' tones, followed by a savage 'Shit!' I thought he was late for rehearsal and felt depressed. But it was only the garage closed at 11.0. He went off, and by 12.0 we thought something had gone wrong. He arrived back, raging, because they don't hire cars to actors, because of the insurance being so high, anyone connected with the entertainment industry being a very bad risk. Why? It's prejudice. I don't believe actors are any worse than hideous business men. They're certainly less emotional. He had a bath. Played some Sibelius very loud and felt better. That girl from Brockenhurst is going down, so he'll get that far.

He is so much more responsive to our lives than he has ever been. Well, he's growing up.

Calm quiet lovely day. Rather tired. Went to the library. Lay in the sun with D. Dinner and reading and bed.

I am lucky. Two little tales of him. Thinks B'mouth may do 'Fanny's First Play' 'Have we got it?' 'Yes' said D. 'Who's it by? Oh, yes, Gearge Bernard Shaw', as he hurried into the hall.

He rang the Park re his journey, got a girl from the wardrobe, so that I heard as well as travel arrangements, 'Are they?..... Well, I dropped them.....In the mud outside the dressing- room....Yes, it's only mud.'

Sunday July 7 1968

Beautiful quiet day. Too dull, and even wet, to lie in the garden.

Prim to dinner in the evening.

No, I am too sleepy to enter into it all. We love her very much. And there are interesting things to say about her sometime.

Tuesday July 9 1968

Bit sad tonight. Had written to Patrick Garland, director of D's play, and read for him and author yesterday. Did well. D. heard today they're considering - no, trying to get - Michael Aldridge for the part. I always find that I have hoped more than I thought, and always tell myself this will be the last time I will. Fate certainly has decided to tantalise me.

David got in after his rehearsal about four, just as I was off to my audition yesterday. He looked very handsome, as his hair looks very like Irvings in 1966, just now. He'd seen the dress-rehearsal of 'Relatively Speaking' last night, with Pamela Lane in the Celia Johnson part. And she's said to him she's always meant to have us back, but circumstances had got in the way.

After my reading, (which I would have described in detail had it been successful) I joined D. at Edward Fox's. His new flat or rather maisonette, as it has 6 rooms, k and two b, is rather lovely, in Maida Avenue, overlooking the canal. Just us, and he got the dinner, everything as neat as a new pin. He is a dear sweet man. Seems slow and stupid and even weak in manner, and then surprises you by his humour and strength and definiteness. We had as nice an evening as we've had for years. D. even asked him to some to dinner with Edna! David still up when we got in, nice chat, mostly me, and quotes from new Stoppard, 'the Real Inspector Hound'. He is still depressed about '2 Gents'. Very pleased to hear he's doing a Shakespeare Recital at Southampton with Peter Egan and Gemma Jones.

He went nervously off to his audition with Val May. As he didn't ring, I daresay nothing exciting happened.

And it certainly didn't to me. Darling D. has been very good, as there I am, spoiling her pleasure again.

Wednesday July 10 1968

We went to bed rather early last night, but were not asleep when he burst in, all glowing, having bought a record of Elgar’s ‘Cello Concerto, played by Jacqueline du Pre. And he put it on there and then. Ah, the sweet dear enthusiasm. It’s all books and music now. Well, he really is growing up, and is finding it easier simply to consult his natural tastes.

This morning Lindsey rang before we were up, but alas, just after he left the house, to ask whether it was worth coming up, to see his matinee as arranged, as the weather was so bad. Well, it wasn’t all that bad here, and the forecast was good, so I said firmly that she must come.

Rang David at the Park. Told him. He said off his own bat, ‘Sorry about that part’ and was really sympathetic. And thanked D. specially for the lovely supper. Now neither of these things would he have remembered to say even a year ago. Lovely.

Went out about 1.15 to have my knee seen to, and to get new shade for my desk-lamp. No luck with the shade and anyway it came on to rain, so that I couldn’t face going off to Oxford St. especially as I had no mac or umbrella.

D. has heard really definitely about her play, billing, salary and all! £90 p.w. and £100 when production costs are paid off. My little disappointment has stopped it impinging properly. But it will come through to me later how lovely it is. Gielgud and a good part. Oh, I am so selfish.

David rained off, halfway through the matinee, (poor Lindsey) and came home in torrential rain about 6.30. So had lovely home evening.

One or two tinily marring things, but cannot be bothered to describe them.

She is different since she knew she’s got the job. It gives one a glow and a generosity. I get frightened that without any luck, I shall become less than myself.

Thursday July 11 1968

Letter from bank, overdraft very big. Why cannot I earn any money to speak of? £200 or so to come from TV. And now will be out of work again.

We are going to be in a bad way.

Saturday July 13 1968

Still in agony over money. I – it’s all my fault for not earning more.

11.20 p.m.

David bought a sort of 1850’s coat, black with a velvet collar. And has just rung up to say Lindsey missed first train and won’t be in till 12.15. And to say he’s bought an orangy-pinky shirt with a stand up collar and a pair of black trousers to go with it. Poor lamb, it’s lovely, but it’s as it were, a suit and I don’t see him bothering to put it on much.

Sunday July 14 1968

Dear day. Up at 11.0. Lindsey had missed her train – oh, no, said that. Called them at 11.30, they got their tea about 12.0. Lunch at 2. Sat in the garden and helped David with his reading for Southampton. He is slow still about inflections. She is very sensible, not sloppy, like Sally. Firmer. D. Wrote to Bob Fenn, asking for an advance of £300. I cannot even borrow for her.

She is so good, and never complains of what a failure I have been. The ‘planes are so loud and frequent again, being the summer. I always wake before 6.0.

They got home from his run-through about 12.15. He seems happier about it.

Monday July 15 1968

My 42nd birthday.

D. gave me ‘The Lost Girl’ and a strip of photos of herself taken in one of those automatic passport photo booths. I don’t know when I have been so touched. Those photos were somehow so alien to her, and yet such an expression of love.

John Carroll rang up to ask us to do the Jane Austen at the National Portrait Gallery in November, as part of a new scheme to create interest in the Gallery. It may be on TV too, which is something.

Rupert Marsh rang up to ask me to understudy John Gielgud, so that’s the end of that dream.

David bounded out of bed at ten, when he’d asked to be called, saying he’d meant to get the tea this morning. Later, after they’d obviously been making love, said he’d meant to get the lunch. Aah. Later still he (or she) was in the bath, going through his first scene in the ‘2 Gents’, and I felt a spasm of irritation that she should be giving him advice when she has no experience and he’s never asked either of us. Silly, of course, as to ask your own age group is more to feel you’ve done it yourself. In any case, I must just let him go.

A lovely evening. Went to the National Film Theatre to see Marion Davies in ‘Show People’. A delightful comic performance, and a touchingly naive film, especially to pros.

Tuesday July 16 1968

Dear little boy came in at 12.50 p.m., with my present, an umbrella! Much more than he should have afforded. Oh, the bursting in and the pointing out of the merits of it in case I should miss any, and he’d brought some flowers for D. He said he’d wanted to make a record singing ‘Happy Birthday to You’, and had gone up to Waterloo on his way home. That was very touching.

Beastly day waiting to see if D. could borrow £300 from Bob Fenn – he’s on holiday, or from Peter Green.

Yes, from this last. So we’re saved for the moment, but things are still serious, very. Unless we get work.

This afternoon went up to meet Daddy at his surgeon’s. He seems very well to me. We walked all the way from Endell St to a tea-shop in St. Martin’s Lane, sat for ¾ of an hour or so – now one has to help oneself to coffee from the urn – and then walked all the way to Waterloo, across W. Bridge, he bought a box of chocolates and a paper in which he was immersed almost before I’d said goodbye and left him to his 20 mins wait in the queue. I don’t think there can be much wrong with him to do all that at 79 without any apparent difficulty.

Wrote to the bank manager, so that’s done – for the moment.

Dreadful dark day, and this evening was grim. 57 degrees, very low for July. Darker and darker it got, the rain started and became relentlessly, steadily, heavy. They never did the dress-rehearsal, just sat and said it in the tent -_again. Oh, the horror of the open-air! He had made the record this time at Charing X. He played it us. It’s quite hilarious. After a long pause at the end, David says, through a smile, you can tell, ‘The thing won’t turn off!’ Aah, it’s sweet!

I heard his lines for Proteus’ understudy over his supper. (Delicious steak and kidney.) He has a real ear, always threw himself if he put an extra word in. ‘I couldn’t bear not knowing it for tomorrow’, he said – Good boy. How he’s changed.

Wednesday July 17 1968

6.0. Just off to his first night. D. at dentist. He had a very handsome, black silk handkerchief for a first night present, to go with a certain new coat. Also a hilariously incomprehensible letter from his Mother about coming up to see the play. And later a ‘phone call from Angie, saying she was off to Frinton tomorrow, and could he collect his things and Sally wanted her two geraniums back. Bloody hell, those plants would be dead months ago if I, with no thanks from her, hadn’t watered them from October to March. Really. I think it’s all a ploy to see him. But, on his first night! Anyway, in the end he’s taking one geranium to the Park, where Angie and John Nixon are bringing the other things. But to ring on his first night and perhaps upset him.

Really. Oh we’re well out of that crew.

Looks as if it’s clearing up. D. has just rung to say she’s at Muriel’s after the dentist. Brave girl.

Monday July 22 1968

First night a great success, very chilly but dry, and quite the best thing I’ve seen in the Park yet. Peter E. a bit subdued by the fucking Open Air, but still excellent. Gemma marvellous! Celia Bannerman as clear as a bell. John Quentin looks like a raving maniac, but speaks clearly and intelligibly, and is acceptable by the end. So with the four lovers clear and musical, and Bernard Bresslaw genuinely funny as Launce, the evening was bound to be enjoyable. And it was. What a light young play! And those absurd delightful outlaws! And all those knots untied in a flash, at the outrage of all common sense!

David was very good in his two small parts. Very. What wretched things they are to be good in. In the second one as the Outlaw, he looked exactly like a Victorian Shakespearean actor. We all came home together, - what a change from last year – and had a good get-together about the play. It may just have saved Richard’s West End bacon at the last minute.

The next day Jo came to lunch, got immediately tight on a half-glass of Campari, and was a joy till tea-time. Caroline Blakiston sounds absolute humourless hell. Said of the play Frank Middlemass is to be in at Hampstead, ‘It’s a beautiful play’, with all that undiluted seriousness of which only a person who has never seen a joke is capable. We talked of Ian and Helen. Oh, what a life they much be enduring in that awful house in Cheltenham!

Jo went off to her play, and we went off to the Barringtons’ We were dreading the chat about the cottage in case they too overtly told us how to look after it. Not at all, they were adorable. Presented us with a bottle of whisky each, and propose to pay a lot of bills as well. And want to go back. Keeping the key. The woman at Brooklands has put in four new bathrooms, and the restaurant is to be haute cuisine. Fancy. Played us a record of the Players Club New York dinner in honour of the Lunts. Speeches by the President, Marc Connelly, Peter Ustinov, Ralph Richardson and John Gielgud. Connelly said of the Lunts, ‘They do not worry us when they come on, as we know they have done our worrying for us’. Ustinov was fluently witty and clever and mock-humble. Richardson was odd, of course, but suddenly wildly evocatively moving describing them in the ‘Shrew’. Dear Gielgud was plain, straightforward, and so feeling and true, he made me cry and cry.

David was still up when we got in and gazed at us with all the cruel superiority of the sober youth!

The next day we had a sudden little argument at lunch about Bob W. not seeming to mind being separated from Elaine D. Hm. I had to remind him that he has been exceptionally lucky to be able to meet his girl-friends so regularly and have somewhere to entertain them. I don’t like that tone to come in to his voice of ‘Nothing must come between me and my weekends’ meaning literally nothing, his career, us, his mother, nothing. And it had its sequel. On Saturday we were sitting quietly after dinner’ he’d left after lunch for his matinee, and said ‘See you Monday evening, since he was doing a reading in Southampton, a very good Shakespeare prog. With Gemma and Peter. He’d gone in his new frock coat, which he’d said he’d wear for the reading. The telephone rang to say Michael W. had rung him to say he and Peter must wear suits. Could I bring it to the Park? I could have a drink, and go on the tube with him to Waterloo. Well, anything for the show and him. But he was too annoyed with Michael W about the sudden request for suits. Certainly Michael shouldn’t have left it so late, but then neither should he. He ought to have asked himself in plenty of time. (After all, they’ve always worn suits before!) And he said to Michael, ‘The only way I can get it is by asking Angus to bring it here, and he may refuse!’ Well, of course, I never would. And it wasn’t the only way. He had all Sunday! If we hadn’t been at home he’d have had to miss a night with Lindsey. (I can see his face now if I said it to him, lip curling with contempt and selfishness at the very idea!) Neither of us have ever hesitated at such a choice. It’s no choice.

Getting the show right (never to be put right if it’s wrong tonight) is first! (If it were a matter of giving up a few years with Lindsey, that might justify his rather horrid attitude. I’m fairly sure Lindsey wouldn’t agree with him.) Must remember not to mention it to him again, as I think all my remarks went home, and he was terribly sweet in his trustingness. And buying me a drink rather off-handedly, so as not to be too closely associated with me, like a boy and his father on a school sports day.

On the Friday before (all those nights I was too tight or too tired or both, to write – I do admire the diarists of old, who wrote literally every night) we had Frank Middlemass and Julian S. To dinner. Frank is tallish, of indeterminate age, very sloping shoulders, small neat hands and feet, forehead and chin both recede, leaving a long nose pointing at you, a mouth that is pursed like a humorous matron’s and two small black beady eyes darting on either side of the nose, which is so like a beak, you’re quite surprised the eyes aren’t turned sideways. He is about the most fluent talker I’ve met. Never pauses for a word. Not a compulsive talker tho’, enjoys your talk quite as much as his own. Told some good rep. Stories. One impossible to reproduce in prose except at novella length, about a seagull which got into a seaside theatre. Then again, a girl arrived at a weekly rep., played a small part one week, a larger part the next. A fan met her in the street and said, ‘You’ll do. We like you. And you’re coming on. You thought of more to say this week.’

Then, again, Mrs. Mauduit pronounced Modeowee, who, when asked if she didn’t like ‘The Flowering Cherry’, a beautifully written play, announced. ‘Oh, I never listen to the words.’ She was a member of the Canterbury Theatregoers, and usually attended the theatre with a mysterious character called the Baroness, who lived in the Close. On one occasion, they went to a Poetry Recital given in the theatre by Peggy Ashcroft and Christopher Hassall. On the way out, Frank said, ‘Well, how did you enjoy it?’ ‘Oh’, said Mrs. Mauduit, ‘I loathed it. I hated it. Mind you, I knew I was going to, and I took some biscuits in my bag in case I got peckish. Well, the Baroness said, they made a noise, and do you know what I had to do? Break each one up into tiny bits, put each one in my mouth, and let it dissolve, - and that’s no way to enjoy a biscuit.’

On Sunday we had Jeremy Rowe for the night. He is a grass widower, and a bit low. It’s just the pleasure of eating a meal he hasn’t cooked himself apart from anything else. Horrific tales of humourlessness over the National ‘Oedipus’. He is an unusually mature boy for his age, but it may be from slight lack of vitality, which may make him querulous in middle age. He says too often that he is depressed.

Friday July 26 1968

On Monday evening D. went off to Brighton for two days filming, possibly four, in ‘Oh What a Lovely War’. Just what she wanted, a change and a rest from housework and cooking. Stayed at the Metropole, ghastly but restful private 6-room. Food poor, service frightful!

(Forgot to say that David came in one day last week to say he’d been offered my part in the ‘Victoria’ play at Guildford. Forgotten it was my part, of course, and I was so immersed in Richard’s awfulness since I hadn’t properly turned it down that I never noticed David’s crossness! Oh well, I can’t start all that again, tho’ D. got quite steamed up about his selfishness tonight, not helping in the house etc. True, he does just go back upstairs and have a bath with the gramophone playing, comes down, has his lunch, and goes back again! I’ll speak to him next week.)

It took me two minutes to leave a message for her on Tuesday, and then it got to her as ‘Mr M. will be in till 11’ instead of out!

On Tuesday rang Ju to thank him for his letter and offer of a frame for his sketch of the cottage. Will have another done for the same price. He’ll never know. Yes, I know, but he owes us a lot of presents. He suddenly asked me to dinner, as Norman Jones ‘couldn’t’. I said ‘Lovely. I’m all dressed for it, as I’ve been up to the West End’, meaning that I had a tie on for once. ‘We’re not going to the Brompton Grill, Angus, you know’, he said, in that loathsome would be funny voice, ‘I’m out of work you know.’ Considering we got £79 from the performing rights last week, so he got £140 and another £100 from SD and F as Air amateurs, that’s funnier than usual. There was a very funny passage about Norman, whom I’ve never thought of since he left his house. If you’d asked me, I’d have said he was married about a year ago. So I opened my mouth after saying ‘Oh, how’s Norman?’ to say how was his marriage going, and J. said ‘seriously’, ‘His divorce comes through in a week’! I screamed, and S. was rather hurt, and said incredulously and rather reproachfully, ‘But it’s two and a half years since N. was married.’ Haven’t you seen him since then?’ ‘No’, I said, ‘Well’, he said sharply, ‘he’s devoted to both of you.’ Poor J. As Jo said, rather novelettishly but very truly, ‘He just hasn’t lived.’ Nor has he emotionally, except on other people. Ah, he was pathetic.

That night I got back to get David’s supper and D’s telephone call. She was very tired, but otherwise in good spirits. Since she’s been home, she’s been depressed about her part in the film. Well, if she’s going to be bad in films, she’s bad. Beastly, horrible medium.

David rang Lindsey, came back after only a minute or two, looking a bit red. She’d hung up, from the sound of it. But oh the difference from Sally days. No pale suffering. A little later the telephone rang again, and I just heard ‘Oh I’m so sorry, I didn’t realise you were so upset about the part’. A usual line from David. Poor child, she was cast for the lead and then it was cancelled. More of Richard’s cruelty. He needn’t have told her till it was settled. (Forgot to say that on first night when I wasn’t there, as a craven excuse for not casting David as Valentine, Richard said to D. he was very worried and disappointed about David that he wasn’t using his energy properly, and that it would be good for him to play a lot of parts, perhaps in a smaller rep!) They talked for ½ an hour! And I suppose he calmed her down. I would say it will lead to a change in their relationship, either away or towards. I would say the latter.

D. rang Wed. night and tried to say about Malk’s play. She does try to talk on the ‘phone nowadays, but it’s no good, it’s not her medium. At least not to me. I hear her talking much better to others. I think it’s because it’s all right for superficial chat for her, but no more.

All the silly extras had clapped Vanessa at the end of her suffragette speech in the film, to suck up. D. went ‘Boo!’ V. Who is of course blind at a foot without her glasses, said ‘Dorothy Reynolds!’ She was a dear to her, just the same.

He came in to say Richard had offered him the part of the young man, a very good part, in ‘The Heiress’, the play that replaces ‘Fanny’. Of course the offer attracts him, because of Lindsey, tho’ it’s not till October, and would mean that, if he were free to accept it, he would have missed a season anywhere.

On Thursday we had a nice morning together, and I walked with him to the tube, on my way to the shops, he to his matinee. On the way I said ‘Forgive me mentioning it, but it’s Frinton’s first night tonight. Had you remembered? No, he hadn’t. He’d meant to get a card yesterday. I suggested my idea of sending a wire from all three of us, pretending it was D’s idea to make it more acceptable to him. And was quite surprised when he accepted it. And suggested himself coming on our wires to Sam and Joan, and Angie and John Nickson.

So after I’d seen him off to his matinee and done the shopping, I had the huge satisfaction of sending – and composing his first (and last?) message to Sally since March. When I think of what we put up with because of her - ! A lot of it nobody’s fault, of course, but still I felt satisfaction.

On Wed. night Elaine Donnelly, Bob Whelan’s girl-friend, arrived to stay indefinitely! Coo. She was brought by a self-possessed young man of 20, called Jerry Longforth? Small, neat, a drummer. Makes enough money for a fortnight and then comes and lives it up in London. Sleeping on the table in Elaine’s flat kitchen. How interesting that this generation seldom seems need to be comfortable to live it up. Perhaps a splendid thing. The only danger is that they still lap up comfort provided by others! However, we got on very well. I am interested that I’m such a success with the young now. I’m still not, with Penelope Horner, the young of a few years ago. I shall probably become a guru eventually. David and Maureen, his elder sister, came in about 11.30, and had their coffee with us. I had to tell him afterwards that he’d been a bit hectoring. He does rather sit down and talk in this vein, ‘What are you all talking about? Ah yes, well I soon put you all right. It goes like this and this and this, and of course you won’t have heard of any of this, but does that put you straight?’ Switch – off. ! He promises to improve!

Thursday night I rang D’s hotel about 7.45. She’d left! Marvellous, and was home about 9.30ish. Exhausted. With bags in ‘bassest’ relief under her eyes. I dread her getting a real film part. She was a bit tight – drinks on train – and got tighter, and by the time the children arrived, she was beaming vaguely and fiddling in the kitchen very slowly. She is a dear. David told me the Persian tour was definitely off and the Guildford play, so that’s two distractions removed.

I felt very depressed today at no work, and more so at David’s not wanting to see ‘Charge of Light Brigade’ which we’d arranged to go to in afternoon, because D. had seen it in Brighton. I don’t blame him at all as he hasn’t had a minute in the house all this week, and an audition for Liverpool Playhouse this afternoon. Instead he suddenly suggested we go to see Godard’s ‘Pierrot Le Fou’ which is on at the Classic on Waterloo Station. He’s seen it twice, ‘but years ago’, he said. Aah, imagine, 18 months ago it was actually, and of course he’s been three different people since then. We loved it. Anna Karina is the lissomest, choicest, artless charmingest girl I’ve seen since I last saw her and Belmondo, is (nearly) just what I’d like to be myself. The chopping of the story into fragments and mixing them is fascinating. Oh, lovely. He went off to his audition in his new tail-coat also looking lovely. I can’t understand how they can resist him. Yes, I can, if he frowns and reads like a wooden amateur, as he does when he’s self-conscious. We went back and spent a dear quiet evening, only marred by me shouting at D. because she said Martin T. was no good. The Jane A. recital is all I’ve got. That’s my only excuse.

He came in about 12.0. Thought he’d done well, better than the first Bristol one. She asked him when he was free, always a sign that they are at any rate, considering him. And he has ‘The Heiress as a bit of a lever, always a good thing.

Saturday July 27 1968

About 9.0, while we were at dinner, Kay Gardner of the Playhouse, Liverpool, rang to offer David a job for the season (or for ‘a while’ as she said.)

Why am I so feeble? I was so happy I cried, and D. had to tell him. Oh. Still he’s got it.

Very funny. Took my temperature, as we’ve got a thermometer because I felt a bit hot and odd, and because, when David was ill three years ago (the only reason we’ve got a thermometer) I always obstinately registered sub-normal at a time when he was up to 104 degrees. Tonight it was about 100 degrees, only I broke the thing on the edge of the basis, shaking it down to normal.

A party at Indian house opposite. I have stayed up in sitting room to be sure to be drunk enough to go to sleep. I’ve been sleeping so badly lately, I expect that’s why I cried so much.

Lovely dinner. Grilled sole. Raspberries.

Today read ‘The Heiress’ from Washington Square the success of 1949, not bad really. And a novel of David Garnett’s, ‘Ulterior Motives’, light, but ah, by a real novelist. Almost so ‘me’ I can’t judge it.

Sunday July 28 1968

I wonder if I have a temperature tonight!

D. brought me my tea in bed, as I felt rocky, but it was mostly hangover. Aah! Lovely. David rang about three, to say he would get £22, and play ‘one of the villains’ in ‘The Lyons Mail’, rehearse Aug 20, open Sept. 12. Only three days out of work. Dear one, he’ll be away, only engaged on a three-week contract, but she ‘hopes he’ll be with us for the season’. Marvellous. He sounded very pleased.

Monday July 29 1968

Perfectly well today. Letter from Lalla saying that Win has gone into hospital. That huskiness they think, may be cancer. It also may be hysterical, because of Ken’s retirement.

Long quiet pleasant day. D. at Hopewell Ash for her leg, me up to picture-framers, and to look for a copy of ‘The Lyons Mail’. No luck.

David in about 11.45. Very tired and a bit tetchy. But really pleased about Liverpool. That and Bristol as cities, he liked the thought of. We had a slightly acrimonious exchange about Malcolm Muggeridge, and a most amicable one about the plays and possible parts. He’d remembered them all – a relief.

Told me he had dinner with Lindsey’s parents last week, at the Savoy in Bournemouth. His sort of class – I thought so!

Tuesday July 30 1968

Got up to call him at 8.30. Then found he’d meant call him at 9. Very nice letter from Liverpool, saying that he’d probably be playing either the ‘weedy’ villain or the young boy. In a p.s., she said about his casting and added, ‘This will give us the chance to get to know you, and if you are not then happy with future proposals, the contract does not tie you down.’

Very sweet. He said over breakfast, ‘Oh, I saw a girl in the tent on Sat. night – very attractive actually – and I went up to her and said ‘Where have I seen you before?’ and she said, ‘I worked in the tent here last year’, and do you know what she’s doing now? First year student at Liverpool University, reading English. So I said to her, ‘I’m going to be at Liverpool Playhouse next season. You must come round.’ I said to him, ‘But you hadn’t even spoken to Kay Gardner by then.’ ‘No’, he said, grinning, ‘I know.’

Wonder if he told Lindsey that!

Long chat with Jo on the ‘phone re Mullinses. Oh dear. Now Ian spent some nights with John Foinguinos. Not for that, but even so fairly shaming.

Sun came out halfway through the afternoon, and we lay out. How completely it changes the day! The distance one is away from the drawing room. And the difference in time. Finished Genet’s ‘The Balcony’. Dreary and predictable. Skipped through in the new Doughty series, a book of my youth. Ian Hay’s ‘A Man’s Man. What rubbish. Bits of quite amusing descriptions, but oh the absurd class prejudice and race prejudice and money prejudice; well, we are better than that. Sometimes he has every ‘Modern English Usage’ chapter heading in one sentence, ‘Elegant Variation’, ‘Polysyllabic Humour’, Meiosis’ etc. etc.

Also a book of Noel’s short stories – dear, unsophisticated Noel, - and a series of TLS articles on ‘Eng. Lit.’ teaching. I’m glad I got done before all the nonsense.

Maureen G. rang up this afternoon re their mother’s b’day present. So when he rang up to say he hadn’t got off early enough from his understudy call to go to the Henry Moore exhibition, I gave him the message. He also said the SD had said to go over Proteus carefully, as he was likely he’d have to do a matinee. Good.

Wednesday July 31 1968

David lateish again, and still tired, no wonder. New boots rather ordinary and a bit clumsy, but didn't say, as they were 7 1/2 guineas. Didn't take kindly to the idea of Michael Ashford finding him digs in L'pool (quite right,) or to making an appt. for Mr Hopewell-Ash now for his cricked back. Funny little thing. I told him what I'd done to find a script of 'The Lyons Mail', and he looked rather amazed and said 'You are going to a lot of trouble.' I told him about my speed of reading. We had an argument about being taught to read faster. I said it was impossible to test yourself as the moment I knew I was being tested, I started to see each word separately, which usually I never did. And I told him I'd found, reading the David Garnett, (thinking about it afterwards, having read it quite unself-consciously) that I'd read 55,000 words in 3 hours, that is 18,000 in an hr. He was impressed, and said I must already do what they tried to teach people. I don't think they could, since, in my case, for instance, it's the result of intense interest, and therefore constant practice. The first can hardly be acquired by instruction. Darling David, as about acting, years ago, still thinks anything can be analysed into its component parts and taught, I sometimes think.

This morning, more responsive because less tired! Card from Sally to all three of us. What a change! A letter from Lindsey for me. Nice. Style a bit jocular and I expect she wished afterwards she'd thought of something more distinguished to put in it, but practical and with the address I wanted.

Rang Ken to see how Win was. Not all that hopeful. D. thinks loss of voice may be hysterical. Let's hope so.

Slept badly, as had to get up to wake David. He had an understudy call, so I had to ring up to cancel his audition at 10.10 with the other Liverpool theatre. Still, I don't mind that, as he'll be there and Alison Fiske will introduce him to Peter James etc etc. So tired, in the afternoon, went to lie down, read two words and slept for 3 hours. Have felt more tired since in that way one does, and depressed with no sign of work again.

Have read 'An Eye for an Eye' by Trollope, and begun 'the Brothers Karamazov.

Thursday August 1 1968

David got in last night about 11.20, again rather tired. He hadn't gone on for Peter Egan. All a hoax on P.E.'s part. Disgraceful really, but no use pointing it out at this stage. Had been to watch Peter from the box, in case he had to go on for him, and talked well of his performance. Said 'Isn't it different when you see someone rehearse something, and then look at them again after you've studied the part yourself? You know, Peter doesn't see the point of everything he's saying, doesn't make the points half the time. And yet he's terribly effective, because his voice and presence and so good. And because he suddenly does something which excites you and stops you noticing he isn't making sense. That sudden smack on the door-post, for instance.' Ah, dear little one, he's come to my criticism of Olivier's method all by himself - the only way. He announced last night that he'd now read both parts of Tamburlaine, Edward II, Faustus and was now halfway through the Jew of Malta. To think that, if it weren't for me, he'd still think science was more important. D. once thought he'd never read as we do. Nor does he quite, - yet. But he will.

D. went off early to her broadcast, out of the house by nine, in pouring rain. This has been the dullest chilliest summer I ever remember. I went back to bed with the TLS and the 'Times' and the 'Listener'. Got David up at 9.45. Ran his bath, made his tea - wish he ever did that for me! Well, he did think of it for my birthday! Chattered all through tea and his bath, while I shaved. He'll see my TV on Sunday. Wish he could be with us. Off to audition for Crewe.

D. got back about 2.0. Cooked her omelette. she lay down, as her leg was bad. About 7.15, Patrick Garland rang up to talk to her about the play. Paul Eddington is playing the part I read for. He spoke to me, and told me I wasn't playing the part. Thought I didn't know! I said they had told me, and that they'd offered me John G's understudy. 'And are you doing it?' he said, although he'd prefaced his original talk by saying they wouldn't dream of offering me the understudy. I'm afraid the whole thing plunged me into the depths again. For all the old reasons. Depressing D. in the middle of her lovely job, for one.

Why am I such a failure, so that we have to keep talking about it?

Friday August 2 1968

Didn't tell David of my depression, as he's had enough of it, at any length. D. went off to her broadcast, David went off to his audition, this one for Chester. the one for Crewe was at Spotlight and in a bigger room than he's been to before, so it was better. Rang at about 1.45 to say 'What shall we do?' since I suggested we spent the afternoon together, as we were both at a loose end. So we went to the sauna bath in the Strand. It is a bit full of queers, but otherwise I do enjoy it. Before we were under the shower, he was pouring out about his audition. He'd been so relaxed and full of himself. (Well, it is easier when you don't really want the job!) Done his bits. Been given a bit of the Caretaker' to prepare and a bit of 'L B in A' to do unseen. Then the man said, 'Have you a block about improvisation?' 'Don't know' said D., 'never done any'. 'Well, give me an imitation of Jimmie Urwin coming crossly back to his dressing room'. That was luck, as J. Urwin was at B'mouth with David, and had been interviewed just before him. Still, he only said about three sentences. The next was a headmaster on speech day being interviewed by TV and he was obviously rather bucked at himself with this one, and got a couple of laughs. I was envious, as simply being told about it, made me feel quite sick with embarrassment. We had a good old hammer and tongs about it, and I tried to stay mild and un-down right (tho' of course I know improvisation on any scale is quite pointless) as my opposition always pushes him towards whatever it is. But he is not silly as he used to be.

(It is quite impossible for either of us to imagine being helped in a difficult scene - as he described happening - by playing another scene in your own words between the same(?) two characters. For one thing, I can't see one having enough rehearsal time to be able to spare for such an elaboration, even supposing it to be of any help.) He said to me that if one had a block about a scene, it could help. And it is true that every time one says 'I think he's the sort of man who' about a part, one is improvising. And every time one puts, say, a Restoration exclamation alongside its modern equivalent to get the right pronunciation, but all the same it is dangerous to be tempted away from the text of the play itself. Really that sauna is very very queer indeed. David of course gets a lot of glances, and after, in the rest-room, I saw a man go down the line of bunks, feeling inside each one, tossing himself off the while, finally climbing into one of them, from which loud creaking presently came, and the curtains being convulsively stirred. I said to David, 'Well, they may be consenting adults, but it's certainly not in private.'

We walked then to the picture-framers for my two framed play-bills - they look very good - and picked up D. at Broadcasting House. The others had all gone! So David said 'Let's go to the Indian Tea Centre'. Lovely. Although in Oxford and very near the rush-hour, it was airy and spacious, and not all that full. David ate heartily, finishing off my sandwiches. Then produced a packet of 'Hamlet' cigars, his lips a little stiff from self-consciousness, and smoked one. And then paid for the tea! We had a sweet quiet gentle talk, and walked with him as far as the Classic, Baker St. He said if he was rained off, he would perhaps bring Derek Paget back to dinner, that nice don friend of Lindsey's. In the event he rang to say they had been rained off, but they'd gone to a party with a friend of Bronson's, which turned out to be 10 girls and 50 men, of whom most were queer, dancing together etc. he got to bed about two, I think.

Monday August 5 1968

D. didn't have to go to her TV after all, on Saturday, so we all had lunch together (Elaine D. as well.) Very funny argument about Oxford and Cambridge, apropos of some remarks of Derek Paget's last night. He was at York, and from what he's heard from friends at O&C, he's glad he was. They found Oxford's regulations restricting and humiliating and the social life a distraction and indeed traumatic sometimes to the point of upset. Well, I can imagine that a suburban boy, used to the almost complete freedom of nowadays, and not having been to a public-school, might find any rules tiresome. But surely it's only having to be in which is very easy to get round, and does at least ensure a certain amount of peace at nights. As for the social life, I'm afraid it is traumatic to be faced with higher standards. I 'm afraid that inverted snobbery does come into it. I pursued David into the street where he took back most of it, and said that it wasn't his view of O&C, or necessarily Derek's. Only reported speech. he was nearly late for his matinee - they rang up for him! Sunday was quiet and very pleasant. (I've changed my mind again about Elaine Donnelly - I think she's remarkable, great tenacity and good sense.) Until the evening, that is, when we went to Jo Tewson's to watch my 'Detective' programme. D. said I was very good. I could hardly bear to watch. And was of course in the depths by the end of the feeble ridiculous affair, knowing I would get nothing out of it. I couldn't speak for the rest of the night, and was glad little Elaine was there to distract us. D. was v. sweet and gentle with me.

Today has been a pretty bestial day. Up at 7.15 to get D. off to her TV. I went back to bed for a bit, then up and washed up, and got myself to Broadcasting House to have a drink with Reggie Smith, one of the leading producers there. He didn't come! So I went off and had a drink and a sandwich, and spent an hour or two in Dillon's. I'd forgotten what an excellent scholarly shop it is.

When I got back about 3.30, D. had obviously been in to lunch and was snoozing in bed! She was very tired, still, but perked up after Jeremy arrived. There is something so good and sunny about Jeremy, it makes me feel better about my whole life that he and Mikel like me. He stayed till about 11.30, and met David on the way to the tube. Good. I don't like David to be absent from so many family dinners. David very sweet. Had a lovely w/e, was very kind about my TV, and even kinder when I suddenly found I was pouring out my depression. Cleverly got me talking about the future, which went on through his bath, and Lindsey. To the point when I was able to say I though it wrong that they ring up for twenty mins every night. It is partly the extravagance, but I wouldn't care tuppence for that if I didn't think it unwise and somehow greedy. He agreed and says they've decided to ring once a week while he's in Liverpool. Good. Further hypothetical chat reveals to me that he's very carefully treading water about it all, especially now he's going away, so as not to force anything. He actually said that the Sally thing was over six months before it was abandoned. Didn't I say?! He was so kind and dear. It is important we have these little chats. I give him pointers and pushes that he doesn't always know he's getting! And I think just talking to me helps him to clear his mind. I just don't know what I'd do without him and D.

Lindsey comes up for the day tomorrow.

Wednesday August 7 1968

A heavenly day. David rained off in the evening, and was home for dinner. Lovely quiet dear talk with both. I am lucky. I must never complain about anything again. Can anyone have had such a wonderful wife? Or such a dear son?

Yesterday was a good day, too. Up early, of course, for D's rehearsal, but she was back at 12.0, ringing me up out of a sound sleep!

Then half an hour after that, David rang to say Lindsey and he had seen the Matisse exhibition at the Hayward Gallery, and were coming home to lunch. So we had a friendly talk then, and another at tea. She is a relaxed girl, not special in any way, I think, but pleasant and fairly definite. I suspend judgement as David is doing! Exhibition lovely, they said. Wish I got anything except 'Oh, that's pretty' from pictures. In the afternoon, D. lay down, I went off to the library, leaving them washing up, before, I imagine, going up for an afternoon's love-making and record-playing! Lovely. I had to get 'Dombey and Son' from the library, to see what parts there are for me, as TV is doing it. Oh, if only I had some work! I would ask nothing more of life than to come home and spend the evening with D. And sometimes David.

He was rained off both shows today, and of course I'd promised to go and see Muriel the very afternoon he was free. D. was having a fitting, a Hopewell-Ash session and the hairdresser's. Still, he had his hair done in the afternoon at Sweeney's, a fairly new place in Beauchamp Place. Good, all ready for Liverpool. It has maddened me that he hasn't been able to find a decent place for his long hair. Too absurd. He raved about it. Though he raved more when he came in at 8.0ish, about the weather, partly because it had wetted his beautiful 'set'. Oh, how we laughed when he went off upstairs to change! He had burst in so furiously as one only can to one's nearest and dearest, because only to them dare one let off steam quite thoughtlessly. I think it's one of the most intimate things he's ever done!

And, as I said, lovely gentle intimate evening. Aah!

Thursday August 8 1968

Up at 8.15, to get D. off to her rehearsal at 10.30. She didn't get up in spite of repeated calls. Poor dove, she had rather a disturbed night, and was wandering around at one point about 5.30, not knowing where she was.

In the end she had to take a taxi. Then got David up, and went out shopping. Came back to find him starting the lunch, which we ate about 12.20, during which a call came that he'd been rained off yet again. So we relaxed, and had our coffee in comfort. We didn't say much, and he went off upstairs to read. I think I am at last releasing any obsessive hold over him, and reaching a harbour of certainty. I am at last stopping feeling I must mould and watch and admonish and change every minute. No, I haven't been as bad as that (and it's been mutual, tho' he doesn't yet think so!) but we have got a long way nearer taking each other quietly for granted.

I cannot describe the feeling it gives me to sit and read happily while he plays pop music in his rooms. I suppose by now, I could honestly describe it as paternal. I don't think I'm selfish any more. D. rang about two to say she was on her way home. Idiot hours! Got back about 3.30, when she had lunch! Lay down, and another good quiet evening. He went off to his show reluctantly. How sweet it is the way we tease each other, the three of us! I know it's sentimental of me, but the intimacy the teasing represents, is so moving and intensely valuable to me, that I find it impossible not to indulge myself by writing it down.

Heard her lines tonight. She is worried - a bit - by this part, but only because it's on TV. What a stupid, witless, meaningless, incomplete, disjointed, illiterate medium TV is!

It's 11.35, and Elaine not in yet. 2 hours later than she's ever yet been.

Friday August 9 1968

She did not come in till nearly two, but was up as bright as a bee at 7.30. Youth, youth. Away for the weekend. David got in 11.30. Had a good talk over his supper - liver creole and raspberries. Talking of our (D's and mine) quiet evening, he said that Derek Paget had said that you could tell a good relationship by its silences. I said that was true, but you got beyond even that in marriage to, of course, telepathy, but also, how to put it, deliberate needling interruption of the silences! I remarked that he and I had got well on in the silence world, as indeed we have a real friendship now, that quite surprises me when I look back. I also remarked that the 'silences' thing is more of a mark of how far two men or two women have got than a couple in a sexual relationship. How it arose, I don't know, but he remarked that one always, surely, made friends of those who have the qualities you admire and covet!

Got D. up at 7.15 again. Pouring with rain again, and continued without a pause till well after lunch. Worst August I ever remember. D. had done the meat for a rice dish; David and I cooked the rice, a bit too much, but I daresay it'll come in. A dear morning and talk over lunch. He said that not taking his A-levels and going on to the University was a big mistake, and taking science even bigger. I cried 'Do you think I don't know that? Haven't I been trying to make it up to you ever since?' I must talk it over with him again to make him confident that we can be his university.

D. got in about 2.30, and so we sat and watched her lunch. She lay down on the sofa, David went upstairs to go on reading 'The History of Western Philosophy', and I went off to the butcher's to get some beef. I had just remembered that Richard D-Day who came to dinner didn't like lamb! While I was out, Alan Vaughan-Williams, David's director at Liverpool, rang up, rather frantic, apparently, as Kay Gardner had gone off on holiday, leaving him without a proper cast-list and him never having seen any of the actors she's engaged. He shouldn't have said anything derogatory about her to David. Hope he hasn't said all that to everyone he rang up! But the lovely thing is, he's rehearsing a fortnight in London! Another fortnight at home!!

Richard arrived very ebullient and warm and friendly as usual. What a strange mixture. Bored us to sobs all about Michael, as if it were this time last year. How odd people are who don't seem to want emotional difficulties removed! If you point out to them a course of action which will solve things, they repeat the problem. Talked interestingly (taken with a pinch of salt) about David. If he didn't know him, he'd have thought he was being lazy. 'No energy production.' I pointed out the difficulty of small parts because of not having played enough large ones. Richard agreed, but said he'd been disappointed that David had allied himself with the lower drearier people, and so was thought of with them, instead of with the upper reaches of the Co., James, Gemma and Doreen, all of whom he was on an equal level with, because of us, among other things.

I think this is the moment to say to him that when he goes to L'pool, he must not consort with the ASMs and small parters, or he will be thought of as such. But it'll be difficult.

Saturday August 10 1968

It was, a bit. But the talk finished with him saying he'd dropped Branson! So it succeeded, I think. Of course he did say that he wouldn't dream of talking to anyone for any reason except liking them and vice versa, etc. etc. But all was well, really. I think we really are beginning to understand one another. We talked till 2.30 a.m., he giving his idea of what the theatre should do, big contemp. themes in wonderfully colourful verse and productions.

There can't be many boys like him. Off to Stratford tomorrow, he is, to stay with Lindsey's godmother, Mrs. Waldron. A party tonight near Sadler's Wells! Help, his taxi.

Depressed about work all today.

D. endlessly loving.

Monday August 12 1968

He rang up about 7.0 for Lindsey's Stratford no. again. And never came home! Poor lamb, I hope he had a good night. Otherwise, quite sensible as S.W. is so much nearer Paddington. Once he got to the party, it would be 12.0, and then it's almost quicker, whatever happens to go straight from there to Padd. Sunday only bitten into by going to see Win. at Charing X Hospital. Perfectly normal and like herself, if a bit thin, sitting in an armchair by the bed, except for her voice being a difficult whisper, and her breathing like a bad asthmatic. Ate a big supper, chicken and rice pudding and plums. but despite her brightness, there is an air or being trapped.

John Sichel rang today and wants me to play the Prince in 'R&J' recording that D. plays the Nurse in. Awkward with Edna here, - still, we'll manage. He said he'd asked for me three times this year, and great things are happening to him, and he really does want to work with me. Hm. We'll see. Still it gets me out of the house.

She came back tonight from the studio like a 'zombie'. Didn't know whether she wanted a drink or a bit of food or to stay up or go to bed. Ah, well, that's the hellish effect of a false medium.

But I've got a purpose and a job for the next few days at least.

Wednesday August 14 1968

He came in full of it all, beautiful house, beautiful furniture. She very eccentric. I'm not sure he liked her all that much. Those masterful women never appeal to our sort in the end. Obviously very rich. Pity if he married Lindsey and came in for it all. I think it would harm him. Pity because Lindsey wouldn't be a bad match at all. The poetry reading was obviously a bit of a disaster.

Adrienne Cam' a bit tight. Fantastic stories about tourists walking into the house, and expecting to be shown round. I could sit and listen while he comes running back to me with his experiences, all night. First reading of 'R & J' good. John Sichel is big, coarse, ambitious, but roughly good and kind. Cast decidedly good. Juliet - Linda Gardner most touching and breathes it beautifully. Romeo - a bit too bright too long, but good ear and real passion. Dear Edward in it! And David Mon. who is a bit lowering nowadays. After fairly long day yesterday, went to TV centre in the evening, after tea with David, argument about Jane Austen again, but oh so slight and graceful. He resists us less and less and less.

Everyone at Centre raving about D. Pathetic. They’re all pathetic in this most diminished of media. What awful things ordinary people like when left to themselves, as TV glories in doing! They can’t even feel the special spirit of a special actor working on them, as on the stage, to raise a bit of rubbish to the stars!

We got a bit tight. James Grant delicious company. Took up with avidity my tale of Frank Muir discovering, in an emergency, how good it was to have both faces is ‘shot’ for a comic line!

When we got home, Elaine D. announced that she was going off to S.M. a show at Worcester, and go on with it to the Edinburgh Festival! And off she went tonight! Quite a relief, as the house would be too full, with Edna coming today. But our supper, got by David, was heavenly. How we all laughed – and how funny D and David were and how lapped round we were in each other’s love! I don’t think anyone could be happier than I am, when I see D. and David laughing together!

Today has been quite a strain. Up at 8.0 to go to rehearsal at 10.30, at Fitzroy Sq., D’s and David’s tea ready just before I left. Ordered taxi for 1.45 from here. Got back later than I expected, David had done my omelette, and just had time to eat it, when the taxi came. Train dead on time. Edna radiant. Taxi swished us home. Lovely talk. Had to leave at 4.15 for further rehearsal at five. Charing X train, jumped in, and sat there between stations, coming in to Clapham Common at 4.55! We hear from David there’s been a subsidence in the tunnel between Oval and Stockwell. Ghastly. I must have been in the train behind, as it happened about 4.30. To get back, I had to take 137 bus, and walk across the common. Poor D. who left ½ hr before me, was almost as long getting home. So we were both tired, as we had to turn to, and bustle round for Edna. Lovely evening with her, in perfect form. How she laughed at D. and the calendar, saying ‘An Iron Age woman couldn’t have worked that out.’

David got in about 12.0, having been shuttled on to a bus at Kennington. I said ‘Come in to see Edna’, ‘Oh if I’m going to be seen, I’d better do my hair.’ She kissed him open-armed, most warmly. Ah, good friends.

Thursday August 15 1968

Exhausting day again. (Forgot to note that David said his status at Stratford was v. much that of someone who might never be asked again. Good. Someone’s got some sense.)

Left house at 10.30, D. having gone at 9.15. David apparently looked after Edna ‘beautifully’. Cup of coffee mid-morning, cooked lunch, washed up!!

I was so touched that he got up at _9.0, uncalled! to cope with this difficult day.

Darling Edward F. drove us home. What a relief at the end of a tiring day.

Lovely laughing evening with Edna. As ever.

To bed, to bed, even before David comes in.

Exhausted.

Monday August 19 1968

Recording went off well, with me finished on Friday, and D on Saturday.

On Friday we had a most successful dinner for Edward and Jean. They are obviously on much better terms again, and really it was just one delight and laugh after another. David got in about 11.45, and I personally felt damped by him, because he seemed to me to be too serious for the tone we were in. However, it’s dreadfully difficult coming in to the middle of an evening, with everyone a little tight, perhaps, and certainly by 2.30 when it finished, we were all as merry as we’d been before. D. said I was quite wrong about him, and of course I know I’m hyper-sensitive about him, and want him to be perfect and everyone to think he’s perfect, poor little sod!

And the next morning, poor little sod indeed. He got a letter and his contract from Liverpool, offering him neither of the two parts mentioned, but a servant with 2 lines. He rang Kay Gardiner, at once, who said she would have cast him differently, but had to allow the director, who wasn’t at the auditions, a free hand. I cannot believe she would have written that letter naming those parts, and offering £22 p.w., if she hadn’t thought more of him, than a two-line servant. So I suppose it’s worth him going and seeing. But it’ll probably result in him doing B’mouth and being out till Christmas.

He was very down for a bit. But as always at such moments appears at his best, not emoting or moaning or saying anything useless. I was furious that a rep. should be run so sloppily. I cannot believe that they can have 8 or 9 young men with more talent, let alone better-looking than D. And I am deeply dispirited yet again that he will be prevented all too probably, from concentrated work in a season.

A lovely quiet day yesterday. Today visited the Matisse exhibition at the new Hayward Gallery with Edna. Perfect gallery. Luscious exhibition. My favourites were a marvellous 'blue' open window from the Hermitage, and 'Laurette with a Coffee Cup'. Gorgeous.

Oh, I do hope he isn't finally disappointed.

Tuesday August 20 1968

Up at 7.30 for interview at 10.0 for a part in 'Dixon of Dock Green'. Got it! Villain - he'd seen me in 'Detective'. Can you beat it? David went off at same time for first rehearsal. Rang later to say they are all 27 and 30, so his casting is not such a snub. I think he ended the rehearsal less depressed than when he began. Which is something. Forgot to say he came in on Monday night with the news that Richard had offered him Marchbanks for a Welsh National Theatre Co. tour, 12 weeks. However the casting isn't finally in R's hand so we can't count on that. Though it would be good for him. I was depressed for a few minutes that R. hadn't asked me to be in it. Tho' I don't really want to be! He had actually told David not to tell us!

Jo to lunch. 'What a darling she is' Edna said, when she left, never having met her before. And she is. True blue straight, and so funny and so vital. Can be beautiful or ugly. Like Duse, beauty is just one of her effects along with many others.

Wednesday August 21 1968

Last night we all four went to 'The Relapse'. Lovely production and pretty good acting, except from the Lovelesses. Emrys James and Michael Jayston especially good, and Tony Robin, only wants a bit more practice at such things to be first-rate.

Edna thoroughly enjoyed it and so did we, tho' D was too hot and rather irritable as a result afterwards. David had seen it before but was most interested to compare. He was oh, at his most adorable all evening, teasing, considerate, devoted, utterly us-turned all evening. Said good night to Edna, saying 'Hope it's not long before I see you again'. And to me, 'Well I look to you for ratification of my opinion of 'Relapse'. If you'd said it was terrible, I'd have had to think again.' I don't know when I've enjoyed an evening so much.

Monday August 26 1968

At the cottage, waiting for D. to come back from the preliminary reading of 'Forty Years On'.

On Thursday night, after a stupid three-handed argument about acting - stupid only because I once again drew up the arguments for instinctive as against thoughtful acting - . The night before, David went off to B'mouth for a long weekend, as he wasn't called again till Monday. After dinner, during which our talk had suddenly turned sour, again because of me, D. suddenly burst out, and said things I still cannot bear to think of, that I wasn't an actor. That I must be humble, that I had never worked, no that's all. All all deserved.

Since then she has taken them all back. And said she only meant I must still be a beautiful actor. And we have spent three peaceful sunny days here. She has been oppressed by the sameness of the housekeeping, and the endless strain of planning meals and cleaning. And of course lately more so, by the strain of the approaching play. I do not at all mean to say that there is no sting of truth left in what she said. She might more truthfully though, have said that I spend my line in comfortable self-reproach.

David telephoned on Sunday to see how we were, and tonight to say Alan V-W had asked him to read for Hector Malone tomorrow, as he'd said to A V-W that tomorrow was the last possible day he could leave it before he told Richard about 'The Heiress'.

ANGUS MACKAY DIARY NO. 37

Saturday August 31 1968

A brief pause before I get David and Lindsey's (and my) lunches. D. is away in B'ham till tonight.

The reading went wellish, but she is a bit troubled - not least that her part isn't all that good. Also that the director may not have the grip and overall view to weld the whole thing into a hit. Distrusts Paul Eddington, may have to avoid Nora Nicholson, liked Alan Bennett at first blush. John G. adorable, of course. In the interval, when they had drinks in a nice room next door, she said to him, 'I'll only say this once, but it's been a life-long ambition to work with you.' 'Oh', he said, 'but I've always admired you ever since 'Salad Days', and changed the subject hurriedly. Aah! The time at the cottage was in the end beautiful - and beautiful weather. She was low, again felt oppressed by cleaning the cottage. I just hope rehearsals will give her a lift, and the month's tour the necessary change. We must get a char when she gets home again. We got back on Wednesday night for my 'Dixon of Dock Green' filming on Thursday. David was in, very sweet, and had done a bit about the dinner. Had to ring Alan V-W, who had to ring Kay Gardner, and he got it. The reading had been on the stairs as he told us. He rang twice at the cottage. Oh the difference. So oh what a relief. That he is at least playing and rehearsing for one play anyway, and not going back to Bournemouth, to no audiences and one part a month. He was pleased, too, and not a word or a glance about giving up of the month with Lindsey. Also good. He may find it a good thing to be apart. If he hadn't got this part, he'd never have got anything else there, I'm sure.

The next day I filmed. Said two lines, and sat for four hours in charabanc while the pop music of the BBC played non-stop and ff. Oh! I was tired when I got home. Had to stop him getting supper immediately, before I had sat down or had a drink or anything. D. had gone to B'ham by then. The poor darling. But poorer Mollie. What is the answer with old people, except ceaseless individual sympathy? I could do much more.

On Friday Lindsey arrive, and as David was rehearsing all day, we had lunch and a good talk all the afternoon. There is something so cosy in talking to her, she laughs easily, and while not superlatively intelligent, picks up most things quickly. She seems actually interested in us, and how David responds to us! She realises that we are an integral part of his life, the integral part, and that understanding of him cannot be achieved without understanding us. David came in exhausted from standing all through a trial scene for nearly six hours without speaking. Directors are silly. D. rang up about 6.0. Mother now asks 'Where's Mollie?' with Mollie actually in the room. and when D. was left with Mother while Mol went to the shops, Mother took her for Mollie, so when D. said she was going back to London tomorrow, M. panicked, saying 'Well, where shall I live? And who with?' Oh dear, how distressing.

We went to see 'Real Inspector Hound' and the children much enjoyed the evening, while seeing the faults. Drinks after with Ronnie Barker and Jo. Very funny man, told them David's story of what the policeman said to the man with 3 heads, 'Hello, hello, hello.' He had an Irish whisky in the pub and was saucy all the way home in the taxi. He was so rude (sic) to me that Lindsey was worried, I think. She's a much more conventional girl - as usual - than he thinks. But I love that now, because at last he is catching on to how rude to be! Oh, how we shall miss him! Even though we'll both bless the ease of less work and catering as we're both working, especially poor D. What can I do to make it lighter for her? I dread that month she's away.

Oh, how I love that boy! Our relationship is very precious to me.

Wednesday September 4 1968

D's first day was very tiring, but v. promising. She's already made a few suggestions, and they've been taken. About the opening chorus, for instance, so that they'll enter just before it finishes, rather than them stand there through a whole chorus. John is full of vitality, bubbling over with ideas, some of them very odd! But he sounds all one would wish him, courteous, (‘he helped me on with my coat, hope he didn't notice the creases') and quite unmoved by others making suggestions, takes them just as we might. The parody of 'Man Born to be King' has gone, a pity as I thought it was one of the funniest bits.' Alan Bennett said, 'Pity, as I've just thought of another line, "Speak of the devil here comes Jesus..."

On Saturday I nearly died of fatigue. We'd been up lateish after the theatre the night before, arguing over supper. Lovely. I so love arguing with him now, that it seems another existence when we used to quarrel. Even when I wasn't drunk. He wanted me to cash his salary cheque, as he had almost no money besides. Except in his bank account, which he only opened on Thursday - I think it was. Aah! So I had to get up at 9, to get to the bank before it closed at 11.0, do all the weekend shopping, and for Bank Holiday Monday, get back, do the washing-up for dinner the night before, get lunch for the three of us, and organise the evening. In the end we couldn't get seats for 'Hadrian', so we went down the road to the Classic, Tooting, to see 'The Barretts of Wimpole St.' Oh the fun! They thought Norma Shearer marvellous and Charles Laughton cloth. It was rather poor in a lot of ways. D. was back when we got in! So we had a lovely chat over her supper. She went to bed, and we went on! Up about 11.45, when I'd told David to get the tea, but of course he got up after us, but did do the lunch. They spent the rest of the day till dinner, in his sitting-room playing records and talking. We were in the drawing-room, D. telling me of poor Mother and Mollie, writing letters and reading. We had a sweet dinner, only more and more overshadowed by him going away. He said he'd come down and say a proper goodbye before I went for my filming at 7.45. But I knew he'd probably oversleep, which, poor lamb, he did, and came down very crestfallen at about 20 past eight to ask how long I'd been gone. Well I was a bit disappointed, but only in life, not in him. So off he went with Maureen in her car, getting there about 7.30. By the time I got home from my day on Finchley Central station, by about 4, I was really exhausted, having scarcely slept at all. Couldn't wait for him to ring, which he did at 11.10, so D. spoke and all was well, he was there and the digs were all right.

But oh I do miss him and him running to me with news of the day or who he's met or what he's just read. It's the small day to day life that's so difficult to give up when you love someone. I know how much he loves both of us now, and that he's ours for his whole life. But I still miss his day to day friendship badly.

I must just be grateful for him at all.

Thursday September 12 1968

Wednesday 4th was a dreary day filming on Finchley Central tube station. A scene with Norman Jones. After all this time. He's improved by success, more confident, less embarrassing. The following Friday we were to the cottage as D. was not needed on Saturday morning or Friday aft. as it happened, and she arrived about fifteen minutes after me having taken the train before me! The weather was perfect, I got more done than I have for ages, because at last I'm beginning to get it planted up. We stayed till Monday, she going off on Sunday night, but having to come back ignominiously for dinner after all, having waited 3/4 of an hour for a bus cancelled the day before! It was a lovely three days.

Her rehearsals went well till this week, when she considers they must start working in detail. She is still very suspicious of the set, ('no clean exits or entrances', said John G., 'and no upstage entrance, and I do hate that.') and of the second act. Her own part seems to be getting less good. Oh dear. Though I'm sure she'll be very funny, if ever she's given an eighth of an inch. Truth will out. As for John G., he is all we could either of us hope, warm, generous, realistic, (his gaffes being so often simply a statement of the truth). He took her out to lunch on Tuesday, and, while discussing gout, said 'Oh, yes, people do have it'. Larry's always been troubled with it in one leg. Such a bore for him as he's so keen on dancing well, and leaping about a lot and all that sort of thing.' Again, on 'Oedipus', which doesn't seem to have been the horrific experience to him we thought it might have been, he said, 'Oh, no, no sense of humour at all, and does Yoga, but very gifted, I'd work for him again. Not for Bill Gaskill or Charles Morowitz but I'd work for P.B. again!

Sweet muddle. He decided he'd play the butler in the (I think, ill-judged) 'Importance' parody, a part which is simply a feed for the Lady Bracknell part, played by Alan Bennett, again a mistake, though I expect most people will find it a scream. The next day he was heard to say that he didn't think any of his lines were funny. Alan eventually gave him one of his, and John said, 'Oh, yes, that's very funny.' 'Oh, said Alan, I suppose you only think them funny if you say them.' And when I asked D. how John G. reacted to that, she said, 'He didn't.' I keep imploring her to say as much as possible; she is nearly always right about basic things.

Yesterday we took Nora Nicholson and Alan Bennett to lunch at Beaty's. Nora N., a sweet fairly stupid but bright and humorous, little woman, with a face like an unconfident mouse. Most warm and fairly entertaining. Alan Bennett, tall, gangling, body meaningless, rather fine features if he ever let them compose in to a mask. He laughs very easily, is very quick and listens to what you say and answers.

Afterwards we went out to buy her some shoes. £7.19.6 for shoes which a year ago were £5.5.0. Frightening. I couldn't find what I wanted in my size.

David's first night tonight - well, the civic pre-view, then tomorrow the theatre-preview, when the Redgraves and us and everyone who's ever acted there, have been asked. Then another on Sat., the public's first night on Tuesday. What idiocy it all is! Spent £250000 on the building, and then haven't got a star for a play that much needs one. And the whole standard of the acting leaves a good deal to be desired, I'd say. But of course you need discernment for that, and it's a matter of opinion, whereas bricks and mortar aren't. To our amazement, he rang us at the cottage from B'mouth. Got a lift from the leading-man(!) to Richmond, and, knowing we were at the cottage thought how silly to wait all evening alone for Lindsey, and went. I do understand, but after such a final farewell, I wouldn't have. A teeny bit vulgar. He doesn't admit it, but it's mainly the fuck to keep him faithful*. Beautiful letter from him today. Aah! (* I mean, he loves being with any attractive girl, and I think it would have been better for their relationship if he hadn't gone.)

Friday September 13 1968

The dreariness of TV rehearsals. The discussion of one unimportant change in an in any case unimprovable script.

Wednesday September 18 1968

On Friday David rang at about six-ish to say he was coming for the weekend. A bit extravagant, I told him, but of course I'm so glad to see him, it's difficult to be firm, even if he'd listen! All the same, I do wish he'd stay in a place for more than a week together, and go through a real change. I may be wrong. Anyway, Lindsey arrived about 11, and Elaine Donnelly, and she and I, sat up chatting as Bob was also arriving in the small hours. I got in most of what I wanted to say to Lindsey about not grabbing time together. It is difficult. I hardly know whether I am right, yet my instinct is against such constant meetings. But then we did!

Otherwise, it was a lovely weekend. He arrived about four, full of news and new books and programmes and newspapers. The weekend was without incident, except for the rain. During our long wait up, there was one of the longest and most violent thunder-storms I ever remember, on top of it having rained heavily and continuously since lunch on Saturday. Floods everywhere, worst in living memory, Tonbridge under four feet of water, for instance. Trains all stopped, and mail.

We had a mild sweet domestic day, both of us rather tired. Lindsey went back in the afternoon of Monday. Bob having only come for the day, looking very fit and happy. Milk- chocolate coloured shirt, black trousers with city braid on, pale oatmeal corduroy shoes.

We got back from rehearsal to find that David hadn't gone back as he said he might to attend the first meeting of the theatregoers. We had a funny argument about violence after dinner on Monday. I was being a bit naughty and provocative rather as he often is with me. My only real intention was to be quite sure he didn't find the violence of L'pool rather fascinating. Of course he wouldn't be a normal young man if he didn't, because to youth violence, however tender and imaginative you may be, is all part of life bursting around you, and to stamp it out would be life-denying, even if you could. He was cross when I said I didn't believe that three separate people in the Co. had been beaten up. In another mood he would have done just the same. Just because they told him themselves, means - obviously - nothing, since he's only known them for a fortnight, and when you think how nearly everyone dramatises and embroiders, and most of all, when you think how violence interests and excites everyone, more than anything, as the papers prove, it is almost certain that at least one of them is telling a story. He said 'Well, I believed you when you said all those things at Cheltenham.' (Pause while we see the holes in that one.) Later he said about me having and liking violent feelings, and I think with reference to anti-social feelings, 'Well you've got Dorothy and me - ! Aah. While I'm on him, I must record a little talk with D. Edna, David and I, in the taxi on the way back from 'The Relapse'. We said we'd enjoyed it very much, and David, having seen it before said, 'Good', in a rather proprietorial voice. I said, 'David's a real theatregoer. When he's seen something he's liked, he feels it's his!’ And David said, 'Well I like to have you ratify my opinion, otherwise I might have to change it.'

Since he went back on Tuesday morning, we've had a wonderful week of WORK!. Even though mine's TV (I'm now writing in the TV studio, on recording day, Friday 20th)

Jack Warner told me three stories in quick succession in the studio.

1. Why does the negro wear white gloves in the pictures? So that he'll know when his choc-ice is finished.

2. One negro met another carrying a bible. - Where are you off to? - To that new brothel on Main St. - How come the Bible? - If it's as good as they say, I may stay over Sunday.

3. Three cockneys sitting in a maternity hospital waiting-room. The sister brings in a black baby, which the first two hotly repudiate. The third says, 'Yes, that'll be mine, my old woman burns everything.'

Boring day of elaborate triviality. Five run-throughs. 1 1/2 hours notes from the producer, to the chagrin of the director. Civil service acting.

Friday September 27 1968

At the cottage, alone.

To pick up.

Last week was more hectic than it might otherwise have been because poor D. tripped on the escalator on Monday, and fell, more or less skinning both shins, and wrenching or bruising the muscles just above the ankle badly enough for the whole foot to swell. I went cold with horror at what might have happened. Characteristically, she'd gone on to rehearsal, not done anything about it till lunch-time, when she stuck a bit of elastoplast on! She made so light of it to me, that I never thought to order a taxi, but as we were walking off together - in the still heavy rain - by the time we got as far as the pillar-box, she was weeping with pain. Of course such things are always worse the next day. I could have spat that I hadn't thought to order a taxi, when, just as we got to the corner of Nightingale Walk, along an unoccupied one came. Incredible, and in the rain. So we took it, and I took it on to Lancaster Gate. That day she was bad enough to go to Charing X Hospital, without telling anyone in the Co., of course. They bound her up properly, reassured her that it wasn't serious, and gave her an anti-tetanus injection. By Saturday, it was much better, and on Sunday she took the bandages off, and all seems well.

On the Tuesday, the 17th, that is, I'd gone with nice Brenda Cowling to Malk's. prod. Second public dress-rehearsal, 'A Boston Story' from James' first novel, 'Watch and Ward'. Let us not think of James? I thought the little girl pretty good, star stuff there, Patrick Mower good, Tony Britton maddening and Dinah Sheridan ridiculous. When I got home, I said to D, ‘Well, Malk's done well with it in a lot of ways, but it'll be torn to shred by the critics. If it survives that, it might easily run, as it's Daddy Long Legs really'.

They always take you by surprise. Raves! Irving Wardle, no less, said 'At last some red blood in the lymphatic West end'. Red blood! That suburban ill-acted little magazine story! Well, I'm very glad for Malk.

On the Wed. night Norman Jones came to dinner. Just the same, or nearly. I still feel that immediate disbelief of anything he says. He seems to like us and be grateful. But it's no use, we can't like him.

On the Saturday 21st the Barringtons came to dinner. We had the usual jolly evening, marred by Michael's jealousy and bitterness, which this time burst out at Malk of all people and poor darling Ros Burne. One or two half-truths were embedded in it all, but it was really because they were going to make some money and he wasn't. As naked as that. Like Mummy!

Sunday was again beautiful. Nothing happened whatever. And her leg was better. We were slightly disturbed to hear that Elaine D. was coming back for a wardrobe call, after only two days with Bob at Sidmouth. Still, her coming enabled me to come here, as she was there to do a bit of shopping.

Oh, forgot to say that David rang rather unsatisfactorily just as were going in to dinner with the Barringtons, so wasn't able to talk long enough. He was a little bit down about the weekend, and not rehearsing till Tuesday. Still, it won't do him any harm. Harvey Ashby is playing John Tanner. Cripes! Bought Bronson's wedding present, a Moulinex mixer, like our coffee-grinder, only bigger. Well, I shall expect a lovely Christmas present. I'm very glad because it was a bit awful, him not going to the wedding.

On Monday we took John Gielgud out to lunch. Deoty's. D. had said '1.15', but they were there already. Isn't it strange how you feel at home with someone from the first glance? I didn't stumble for a word, a look or a glance. Odd. He is so well-looking, pink and unlined, and well-wishing streams from him. Immensely animated, talks quickly and unusually fluently. Never pauses for a date or a play-title. Never talks about anything but the theatre. Hs laughter puffs out before he's finished the sentence. His tactlessness is the result of his pursuit of truth. As with us, I expect stupid people think him malicious when he makes remarks like, 'Bobby Fleming had a good torso but always had huge Renoir legs - quite extraordinary'. But they forget that either side of that witty and I am sure accurate description has been shown real consideration and tenderness for an old friend in trouble. Again, he never mentioned a book he especially liked, without saying to Nora Nicholson, 'I'll give it you,'

I long to see more of him, and just talk endlessly about the theatre, past and present. He told a further line of the famous story about Mrs. Pat in 'Ghosts', the night he put into practice her note about using a Cross-Channel voice for 'Give me the sun', as he opened his mouth, she said, 'I'm so hungry'.

Again, he told a story of how fairly awful Martin-Harvey was. He, (John G.) and Terence Rattigan had prepared a version of 'The Tale of 2 Cities' and got quite a long way, when M-H wrote a frightfully pompous letter, putting a stop to it, because of 'The Only Way'. Later, when the Irving Centenary Matinee came up, (John G. said they asked him to be in it, and offered him Louis XI, and he said he couldn't possibly, now if they offered Charles I....ah!) Martin Harvey didn't answer the request, simply said he would do Oedipus. Never turned up. John G. was signing autographs at the s-door of the New, after the spot left for 'Oedipus' had passed, when a Rolls-Royce with the blinds down drove up, and out got Martin-Harvey in full Oedipus raiment with a dead-white make-up, 'Oh, said the organiser, I'm afraid we went on, we thought you weren't coming. You can walk on in the tableau scene at the end, if you like. Sir J M-H got back into his R-Royce, and was never seen again. The point partly being, that walking on in the last scene was all John G., the reigning actor, was doing. I long to see him again.

The next lunch date in Beaty's was as disastrous as that had been perfect. The guests were Paul Eddington, and of course, I was fully prepared to forgive him for getting the part I wanted, and the director, Patrick Garland, whom I was fully prepared to forgive for not giving it to me! To begin with , the table booked at 2.0, they were 35 minutes late. Nobody's fault, but nasty for me. Paul E. is the image of a thirties prep. school-master; I do see he's perfect casting. His assumption of aufaitness with smart restaurants, however, was unappealing, tho' I liked him for having put on a suit. P.G. arrived, his slightly affected Oxford self. All went well for a time, tho' I cringed a bit at Patrick's superficial malice in considering John G., and worse, his not feeling it to be above his intelligence, which is considerable, to join with Paul in laughing at him, tho' he must know that Paul and he are not at the same angle to John G. Then they started to talk about TV programmes which neither of us had seen, of course, and that was bad enough, when, all at once, Michael Codron, who'd been over the other side of the restaurant with a tall, plump side-whiskered nondescript person, got up and left, and the tall p.s.w.n. person accosted Paul E., who got up and chatted. All right, but what was our horror, when he asked him to join us, D and I had to crush together on our seat to let him in, and then he talked literally without stopping exclusively about himself. I have never come so near having a row in public. Of course the whole meal was ruined. I left them all, feeling hopeless. If such people as Alun Owen, (for that's who it was) and Paul Eddington, can get on, and be very successful, what hope is there for me?

However, that mood went after the drink had worn off, but I was still furious! Even ten years ago, two clods like that would have known more of residual manners.

The next day I came here alone, to do the garden, so that my work of the last month or so, won't be entirely wasted. She's rung up every night. I'm afraid she's depressed by her part not being very good, and feels grey. Well, of course, the awful thing is that, if yr. part isn't good, you seem grey to most people, however good you are. I just can't tell, and I'm not going to start worrying till it opens, and I see it. Just being in it with billing, is a step up. Let's look on it that way for a bit.

David rang on Wed. about 11, having been told by D I was here. Well, at the end of it, I just danced round the room. There was such an abundant flow of love towards us, let me never forget again! He is obviously violently involved suddenly. He's seen that no-one's any better than he is, there are two young men in the next play, the new one, and in the 'Provoked Wife', which is being done, by Alan V-W who seems to like me, and he senses that he is on top, and there's an intoxicating 'anything may happen'. He's been cast in the Saturday morning Melodrama reading doing bits from 'East Lynne', 'Lady Audley's Secret', 'Black Eyed Susan', and 'Sweeney Todd' among others, and he's got some good bits.

The other young man, playing Tavy in 'Man and Superman', sounds fairly wet, I agree - let's hope they don't get outsiders in.

He completely agreed with us that H. Ashby is nothing from the front. Also has discovered that you must tell people what you can play, that it matters what you're like off, sometimes more than on. Our advice not just to cultivate the ASMs bears fruit. Someone called Lynn White is playing Violet. He'd been to see the R. Shakespeare at the R. Court, doing 'The Merchant'. He thought it no good, 'utterly without inspiration'. Someone he described as a non-actor, oh, so many phrases of mine he used, I lost count. That's what thrilled me as much as anything, I think. One of the girls is leaving a flat in his road. (He thought her poor in 'The Lyons Mail' and is surprised she's so good as Ann.

- Well, it's a better part. cf D.) She's lonely. It's a big bed-sit, with cooking etcs. And it would do to put up Mum or Lindsey, or you in that order! Also said couldn't I come on the Friday before I go to D. on the Sat! And 'D. opens on Tuesday'. Gracious the memory. (sic) The talk finished with him seeing Alison F walking past outside, and saying, 'Wait a minute, I'll walk home with you.' She's at the other theatre, rep. I mean. And of course, Geoff H. is with the Royal Shakes. So it's all lovely theatre and acting. Dear little love.

Wednesday October 2 1968

So she opened in Manchester last night at the Palace, and all went well mechanically, thank goodness. So that no one can take any refuge in those sort of difficulties. Otherwise the first half went splendidly. John G's first speech a laugh every half line, and the second sagged exactly where she said it would, at the Buchan burlesque, of course, and the dying falls, including the Chamberlain trial. She was in good spirits, I was very happy to find, so I thought she's probably gone well. She said she was much depressed at the afternoon dress- rehearsal, because a dozen or so members of the theatre 69 group were in, and laughed consumedly at John G. and Alan B. and nothing else. She said to Toby R., after, 'I feel so grey and dull'. 'Oh no', said Toby, 'you mustn't feel that. John was just saying how good you were, "never puts a food wrong".' There! And in the evening she got all her laughs, and can now build up the thin ones. I am afraid actors are a very poor guide to situations and 'ordinary' laughs and reactions. So I was left pleased. And I think she is for the moment.

She'd sent me a photo of her making-up John G., and I almost think the scribble on the back 'John Gielgud and Dorothy Reynolds' moved me as much as the photo. Also a more fascinating letter, all about his time at the National. (Q.V.)

I started my rehearsals for my TV play on Monday. Nigel Green argues about moves and character all through the plotting. Coo, the waste of time! For the rest, the part is good, and some of the actors are nice. But it's no good, I find it almost impossible to take doing a TV seriously. I shall have to do more work on this one, though, as it's quite a long part.

David hasn't written or rung since Wed. Ah well, I expect Lindsey came for the weekend. And he sent D. a wire, good boy.

Thursday October 3 1968

Forgot to record that on Sunday night, D. arrived half-an-hour late on the train, which was supposed to get in at 7.7. She, John G., and Nora N., waited ten mins for a porter, twenty minutes for a taxi, and when she got to the hotel, she found they stop serving dinner at eight! She went out to a steak-house, where there was no rump steak, no rolls or bread of any kind, and an onion salad was just a tomato and a large onion sliced up together. Oh and they don't serve breakfast in your room!

She rang up while I was in my bath yesterday, to say that David and Lindsey had been to the matinee! and Lindsey, who'd just arrived, had to go back on Sat. David would be free on Sunday, so would I come up and we'd have the day together. Lovely! They'd liked the show very much, didn't seem to be worried much by any of the longuers, and raved about John G. She took them to meet him! She said also, 'David's a real actor now, he talked most of the time about the boy playing Tavy who shares a dressing-room with him.

So Lindsey wasn't there at the w/e. I wish he'd rung or written.

Thursday, October 10, 1968

Last Thursday I had a terrible night for some reason and, as I had a fitting on Friday morning, and a long rehearsal, I started the weekend tired. Caught the 7.0 to Manchester with the greatest of ease, and had dinner on it. Tasteless lemon sole, but two 1/4 bottles of Pouilly Fuisse helped it down. Got to the hotel, rather crumby-looking place, but very cheerful, willing servants, which is a change from the south. Walked to the theatre in my new clothes, mid-blue coat, pale buff cords, blue shirt, blue tie. There is something impressive about Manchester's vitality and confidence but I would never be at home in the north. The Palace looks like a 30s cinema, all cream and black tiles. Inside, typical Stoll Moss Empires. D's room, No 3, is a very nice size, freshly decorated and carpeted. It was difficult to tell what spirits she was in, as she was a bit tight! She talked a great deal about the play, most of it meaningless for me till I've seen it, tho' I recognised the familiar note of pre-London tension. She didn't for instance, ask after my rehearsals!

The next day we got up late, about 10.30 brought coffee – triumph – and after lunch I went out to get D. some chemists' things, especially Dentesive. As boots, the only chemist open, don't stock it, it would have been rather fruitless, had I not found a lovely little cluster of stalls selling 78 records at 1/. at which I got at least six worth £1 each. I also went to both Shaw's second-hand shops, and found, at last, A.B. Walkley's 'Still More Prejudice', a first edition of C.E. Montague's 'Dramatic Values', a Green Room Book, 1907, and J.R. Ackerley's 'Prisoners of War'.

D. went off to show - I was cross I hadn't found her things - and I lay down as I was by now jolly hot and tired, walking round Manchester on a Saturday. Got myself to the theatre 25 mins early on purpose. Quite young element in the audience, promisingly. Not over-full, but would be a most respectable house in the Apollo, where they're going. Found a curious lack of tension in myself, and that's not surprising, as that's what there is in the show.

First, D's part has now had various bits cut, till it is scarcely worth her playing, tho' she does it all nearly perfectly. (One or two tiny notes, and one or two inaudibilities, in that huge theatre.)

Second, and most important, the production is lacking in point, in shape, and in tension, resulting in inaudibility, lack of projection, such primitive mistakes as the eye not being directed to the right place, at the right time. There is nothing much to be done about it, except the extreme step of getting another director in. Brighton will certainly tell.

Third, partly as a result of the lack of tension, John G. keeps fluffing and twice really dried, and unless he drives through, the whole thing loses impetus and shape regardless of what anyone else does.

Fourth, Alan Bennett is not versatile enough nor has breadth enough for the part and the place he has in the show.

I was most disappointed that all the wealth of verbal ingenuity goes for so little for lack of theatrical expertise.

I tempered my opinion slightly to poor darling D., and even more to John G., who took us out to supper at the Midland. (Dreadful people all the other guests were, on whom the cuisine and service, it is no use blinking the fact, are really wasted.) Curiously, the audience had been a great deal more indulgent than I was, and that is the only thing that gives me hope for any sort of run. John G. was again adorable, but alas he is muddle-headed, and his famous changing-his-mind fault was oh so in evidence. At one point he said 'We mustn't be so destructive, or there'll be nothing left', and at another, 'Patrick and Alan are a couple of amateurs'. The balance we try to strike eludes him. However the sunny good-nature and grace of the man are always apparent, in such small ways as his remarking about my clothes 'You're looking very dressy', in such a way as to give the light remark a special smiling value. We tried our best to lead him to what we considered the best alterations in the show, but I'm afraid didn't make much progress. He talked a lot of Ellen T., Gordon and Edy Craig etc. I said how touching his description of his last meeting with E.T. 'Ah', he said, 'yes, I took a lot of trouble with that'. I'm not too sure that he's very perceptive about people.

The next day we were again up at 10.30. I got the Sunday papers from the station nearly next door. D. with the pressure off for the first time, felt much tireder 'as if my legs have been taken off, and put back on again the wrong way round', and suddenly had a bitter little weep. Well, of _course. I can't really conceal all I think. We sat in the lounge, and about 12.45, he bounded in with some flowers for her. He was in tearing spirits, drunk with confident success. He'd brought with him the script of the new play, in which he'd been given one of the plum parts. !! I was so thrilled and pleased and relieved that it was like a knot untied. At any rate, he's all right for a bit. We talked all thro' lunch, he and I went out for an hour or two's walk in the afternoon when he never stopped talking, nor did he all through drinks and dinner. He caught the 9.38 back to L'pool.

I can't remember the order, but here are a few notes of what we said. The 'M&S' rehearsals seem to be all right, the Tavy boy goes after 'M&S'.! So that gets rid of one source of irritation and competition. The other chap in the d-room Malcolm Terris, he likes very much, 'a real actor, just what I think an actor should be'. Also has a Sarah Bernhardt quote over his place, which is on the right side - it it's the right quote. Characteristically, D. can't remember it. Malcolm T. also has an Alvis that he's willing to sell for £25. I could tell that David is going to succumb. Alas! Still he must see it fall to pieces by himself! He said, 'It's fabulous, huge', and he's run about everywhere in it for the last month'. I said, 'Has he got a girl friend?' 'Yes, he had ,but it all broke up, now he goes to St. Anne's? to see his mother every weekend, because she's rather ill.' during this last bit, his voice went uncertain, partly because he knows our views on mother-ridden young men, and partly because he felt himself it was a bit suspect.

During lunch and the first rush, we heard that he's staying in the room he started in. The possible new one is big and well-furnished, but he thinks he might be lonely! How odd! Because it's bigger? No, because in the house he's in at the moment, there are others from the Co., the designer, John Page, for instance, who asked him to dinner one of the Sunday evenings he was Lindsey-less. To think he once said he was more self-sufficient that I! The room is very damp obviously. He cleaned it thoroughly last Sunday week, partly for Lindsey, partly anyway. Hundreds of damp marks on the ceiling - 'roof is to be done next week', - floor 1/2 inch deep in water after a rain-storm, 'but I've bought a plastic bowl now'. His clothes feel a bit damp unless he turns the gas-fire on. Still there's a gas-ring, and for the first time, he's sitting in his digs, reading and having a cup of coffee, and feeling cosy. Not for the hour upon hour, we both gloried in, but at least for 1/4 of an hour at night! Boiling hot water, thank goodness. As for his reading, he brought with him the Penguin Blake. Obviously really loving him. He actually quoted to us, freshly, 'To see a World in a Grain of Sand' as a discovery of his own, as it was! I told him at once it was a famous much-quoted passage, in case he should make a fool of himself elsewhere.

He described the 'Melodrama' programme he'd read in, for schools on Sept 28. He read the husband in 'East Lyme', the young man in 'Lady Audley's Secret', William in 'Black Eye'd Susan', and a small part in 'Sweeney Todd', all these being extracts, of course. He was obviously excited by the breadth of these plays, and not at all, or not enough of their absurdity.

When we were out on our walk, he touched on 'Man and Superman' rehearsals, and obviously felt very confident. he said he felt quite sure he was using his voice property, quite relaxed and loose, and also, - and this pleased me very much - seemed to have caught on to the importance - in Shaw in particular and generally - of acting on the line, thought and inflection in one. I've always done that instinctively so perhaps I've not helped him. The only worrying thing is that term 'use of the voice' 'using my voice well'. Any separation of that sort disturbs me, and that, combined with Alan V-W's note to lighten it a bit, or words to that effect - 'and I know if I did, my voice would become grating and forced' - leads me to think worryingly of his lack of capacity for light comedy. Let's wait till I see it. Think of 'The Misanthrope'. I was so elated and touched at once, when I laughed at him for his finding out of lots of things I'd already told him years ago, and he said, 'When I think of some of the things I said to you-'.

Later, after a nasty dinner, tho' we all enjoyed it, he and D. had a discussion about death. Both said, at their different ages, they'd never seen anyone die or dead - nor have I. Then she started on that line of - 'if you really accepted death, you'd commit suicide now', and he said - no, it's no use, I can't remember, because I couldn't listen, not from repugnance, but from the sort of disinterest that stops me thinking about cross-words. It's truly beyond my will to make myself. To have them both there, with me, talking and lovingly laughing together, is enough. I can't think at the same time. They enjoyed the discussion, and therefore so did I. There was a funny delightful bit where he was describing the discotheques he goes to in the evenings, sort of youthful cheap night clubs. 'Very dark, Dorothy, and the noise from the groups is so loud it's like a - you almost feel you could touch it, and after you come out, your ears are singing for hours. I'd had a drink or two, and what with the noise and the dark, well, it's like a psychedelic experience.' Yes, well, being a bit drunk is, wherever you are. How simple he still is, thank goodness. A change has taken place in his and Lindsey's relationship, whether to or from, I don't know. He described their fighting in bed, - a single bed - and how cross they get. He also said that the best meal they had in Liverpool was rather marred by a quarrel, and laughed! He also said 'Yes, come, even if Lindsey's here', when I was trying to work out when to see 2 shows over a weekend. Certainly a new stage, and the quarrels are very healthy. I certainly don't want to lose her yet, if ever. It's only her money that at all puts me off.

By the way, she's been to D's show, 'The Lyons Mail, 'The Secretary Bird' at the Royal court, and 'A Day in the Life of Joe Egg' at the Everyman. This last she thought by far the best standard. This is the theatre where they do improvisations and exercises all the morning, and rehearse afternoon and evening. Yes, but then perhaps the play made more impact on her than the others, as it well might!

I walked with him to the station, and he said goodbye in really heartfelt tones, and said it had been 'super'. Do you know, I think he really thought so?

I came back, and we said goodnight and went to our separate rooms, and I left in the early morning before she was awake. Aah. Perhaps it's as well not to be there. She cries more, I think. Her letters so far have been still very down. How could they not be?

I can't bear to think of it, or the new knots in my stomach because of it.

Friday October 11 1968

A good day's rehearsal, if any TV rehearsal can be good.

Got back about 5.0, and cleaned both David's rooms and his stairs. Ironed our bedroom net curtains. That only leaves our stairs, rush-round bathroom and loo, and drawing-room, before D. comes on Sunday.

David rang about 7.40 to say he was coming for weekend. Lovely!! Lindsey arrives Sat. night, he drives down! He's bought that Alvis! Well, I knew he would. O, let him be careful. Says insurance is only £48. Has to pay balance after deposit in 30 days. Well, car was £25 probably and deposit, I suppose at least £5. So that cleans out his savings. And then there's petrol. Oh dear. Still it's better than nasty stocks and shares!! And his Teach Yourself investments. Seems to be happier at 'M&S' and couldn't talk about the new one, because of eaves-droppers.

D's sad little letter today says she can only become more tranquil by admitting her part is poor. Well, it is, but oh! it's hard. What can I get her really delicious for dinner?

And lunch?

To have both of them! Oh!

Thursday October 17 1968

In my very comfortable dressing-room at ATV. Haven't been used since about 12.0, and I've got the fourth biggest part. Well.

The week-end was again a great, though rather more hectic, success. Lindsey arrived on Saturday in time to go to 'Hotel in Amsterdam' with me and Bob and Elaine. I'd been very busy all day, done the stairs, swept the front, done the drawing-room, and shopping. Emmanuels' and drinks order, before Bob and Elaine got up at 12.0! Hm.

Had great difficulty getting an extra seat for the play, but glad I did. Thoroughly enjoyed it. Best thing O's done, because a lesser thing. All good parts, and v. funny. "Present Laughter' really. Scofield superbly wryly funny. Audience most inattentive and fidgety and lacking in tension. A lot of foreigners and Americans so incomprehension may account for it. Taxi's there and back, and was .v proud, delicious dinner all ready in oven and table laid. Flowers in dining-room, drawing-r and our room, yellow and bronze spray chrysanths. Heard David arrive at 5.45, poor little sod. He rang at about 12.30 to say he'd got as far as Knutsford, which is really only a few miles from M'chester, and he's started at 11.0! So I thought he'd be late. Lindsey and I had another good little chat. I like her more every time, she's so sympathetic and warm. I told her he hadn't written or rung for 10 days, and that it was disproportionate, and that I was ashamed of telling her! But it was she who said 'Well, he's sure of you, he's not of me, nor I of him, so we have to keep ringing to keep it going', or words to that effect. Meaning their relationship is still being built. 'He's always talking about you', she said. Well I know very well really, it's just, now, I so love hearing from him. I never doubt him now basically.

Up to 9.30, and did the drawing-room a bit more, and thoroughly did our room, remaking the bed, changing sheets, I mean, and then scrubbed hall. Bob and Elaine did their own lunch, as she was leaving house at 3.15, and we were aiming for lunch at 2.15. D. arrived looking a bit worn, about 2.0, but in much better, really very good spirits. I called David and L. about 1.30 with a tray of tea, and they actually came down in time! Very happy lunch, discussing among other things, whether we'd appear naked in a play (vide 'Hair' and 'Fortune in Men's Eyes'.) and all agreeing we wouldn't.

David had come down with the tea-tray, and chatted a bit about the car. £35 insurance £48 to be paid inside a month. Road tax, to be paid next month, £25, (tho' he doesn't seem to know that, I found out today). So it looks to me as if poor old Dad's going to be paying up! And it only does 20 miles to the gallon, so the journey of 201 miles there and back, takes twice as long as the train and costs all but the same! He's being very sweet and funny about it. He's succumbed to a toy. Well, as I say, better than money-grubbing. It's a big old thing, black with a sort of expensive look about it, 1948. A blind for the back window, you can pull up by a little ring about the driver's head; the string is threaded through little wooden rings, like a pre-war Rolls-Royce, and the woodwork and leather, though needing polishing, are all of good quality. He took Lindsey and me for a drive round while D. had a lie-down. Very sweet, when I could forget that he might kill himself, and it was one more car making the roads a misery. Elaine went, leaving poor Bob rather down, of course. The rest of the day was just pure pleasure. David told us about his muck-up on the first night of 'M&S'. Well, not exactly that, but the pressure of the first night suddenly made him see that his performance was superficial, and he didn't know why he was doing any of the things he'd arranged to do, couldn't put them together, thoughts not linking. Felt wooden again. I was slightly concerned that he should put the 'woodenness' presumably of body and movement, right externally as well as internally. As I wrote him the next day, awkwardness of movement won't come right by feeling right, any more than a voice will. He saw that all right ages ago!

We all went to be fairly early, as they had to catch the 8.30 at Waterloo for Lindsey, and then he was driving back to Liverpool. Gosh. D. and I sat in bed talking for a bit. She is a little more hopeful about it all, but I don't know. Thank God she's more tranquil. It's Patrick that should go, who else? I tried to read a bit of David's play, Act I is pretty bad, the dialogue is fairly absurd. The situation may grip later, if not, gosh!

It's certainly a very good part, very good build-up before he comes on. And then a long duologue. Popped to the window in the morning to watch them go, he in his old blue poloneck and sports-coat, Lindsey smiling faintly when he wasn't looking, in a pretty yellow dress. I wonder why one remembers some little pictures, not others. Lindsey smiling as she got in, and he getting out again to wipe the wind-screen, I shall always be able to see.

D. left on the 11.0 the next morning. It was strange to have her at morning tea for a sudden flash. I hope Brighton isn't too frightful. She went out to supper with John G. after the show, so got Peter Green to ring me. That in itself told me that it had gone much better. It had, all the laughs came, it was full, and almost best, the sags were more, not less, obvious. 'The Breed' still a flop. She rang herself the next morning, very cheerful, a spot for her and John in Act II under consideration, a duet if he'll consent to sing, a recitation if not. Well, so I should think, but I'm afraid it's no use now thinking of it in terms of a big personal success for her. Bugger it!

Since then, David rang on Tuesday night, terribly sweet, would have rung the night before, but by the time he got in from 'Don Juan in Hell' it was too late. He stopped for half-an-hour for breakfast, and three-quarters of an hour for lunch, and didn't get there till 3.!! He joined the R.AC., 3 guineas over lunch. Oh dear. He can't afford these things. He's quite decided, what's more, not to drive down for weekends in it any more, it's too expensive and tiring. Little pet, I could have told him that. He'd enjoyed 'D J in Hell', theatre packed!, and he'd brought the house down by asking in the rather abortive discussion afterwards whether they would take a vote on who would go to Hell or Heaven, Mendrea’s or Don Juan's? And only 5 voted for Heaven. He thought that was 'fascinating'. I would be more interested if it had been a secret vote! I told him about meeting Sally's friend, John Nickson, in the road and having news of Sally that she was doing lots of interviews and auditions, and that Angie had applied for two front-of-house jobs! He told me that Angie had written him, and Sally had put a line in it, because they'd seen his name in the Stage.

That morning I'd seen Bill and John Roderick in the 'Kardomah' in the King's Rd., and they were most warm in their good wishes to D., both looking very trim and spruce. So I was able to give both news of former lovers! Hope none of mine turn up now.

Her letters since then have been fairly depressing, especially Tuesday's (Q.V.) Oh dear, let her not be upset again. It looks as if she's not going to get her spot, and another of the Claridge scenes has been cut. We must just keep calm.

Still interminably waiting (Friday) in this fucking studio.

Had to give Bob a telling-off, for slackness. He's been a dear about it.

Saturday October 19 1968

In train on the way to Liverpool to see David in 'M & S'.

Thursday was maddening as the theatre could never be. After my first scene at 10.30, I did my second, at the beginning of Act II, at about 12.0. My next scene was a reaction shot at the end of Act II. I waited for that, by request till 8.0. I sat down to do it, there was no camera there, and our time in the studio was over. I had waited for nothing, and we never really had a dress run of that for me, complicated and busy, - I have 4 big duologues - third Act.

However, John Sichel etc. praised me very highly, and said I stole it. Well, I hope so. How odd to think that I appear on TV twice tonight, and in a big part next Friday. I suppose that's how you get other parts.

Got in about 9.30. rang D. and - a sensible compromise - will go to Brighton in the afternoon - I could do with a sleep-in. Edna was in the d-room, and sent a message saying contrary to my warnings, she'd enjoyed it very much indeed. Well, I'm glad; it's a relief and perhaps a good omen. She seemed all right. I could kill Patrick. And Alan. For ignorance and arrogance.

David rang about 11.0 expecting me. I will endeavour to be there at the station.

He's selling the car! 'It's a great big bore', he said. I wonder exactly why. He put an advert in the paper, and two men answered. He sees them this morning! And I'm bringing him his RAC membership. How quickly his craze is over! Or at least I suppose so. He sounded bit odd. Didn't want me to bring his record-player. Partly his rough digs. Partly no big material objects to tie him down. I wonder.

On tram on way back. Drunk.

______

He was good and very kind.

Ah no, I'll write tomorrow.

Saturday October 26 1968

Back in Brighton after a week at the cottage with Bob W. Very profitable. He did a lot of painting, and re-dug the ditch at the bottom of the path. And I did the rose-bed at last, that has been a jungle ever since I came back from Cheltenham. A wonderful feeling. Oh dear, I did get tight one way and another on that night back from Liverpool. But in order.

He was at the station to meet me, altho' the train was a little late. Looked a bit pale, but that's his cold, I think. Outside the station, apart from a lot of office-blocks going up, there is a huge Greek temple, neo of course. It certainly has a commanding position, and you could be proud of it if you lived in Liverpool. Not otherwise. We walked a very short distance, and were at the R. Court, where the Amateur Operatic were on, with 'Cocktail P' next week, Alec G. and all. Then another corner and the old Playhouse. The new building by its side, is a huge cylinder on end, and of course has no aesthetic qualities. The final effect is not helped at the moment because a huge modern block is going up right next to it, and there is scaffolding next to it. Inside I liked it very much. We went straight up to the restaurant, circular, with tables between the spokes of a wheel as it were, and a curtain round two-thirds of your table so that you feel you're private. Of course you're not, so there'll be plenty of brick-dropping. Saw Kay Gardner and Michael Ashford, and had a word with them at once. She seemed all right, proey, anyway. Said David was 'charming and so intelligent, a slow worker, but gets there'. Hm. He had 'fillet steak brochette'. Said it was delicious. 'I'll have it again when you're paying'. It was 12/6. I thought the restaurant good, like a good Steak Bar as far as I tested it.

He's put an advert in the paper for the car, asking £50, 'then I’ve got something to come down from.' He seemed quite pleased about the new play; the director had said one of his scenes was 'perfect'. 'M & S' was - 'oh, I don't know,' He seemed abstracted, not inattentive, but as if he had something on his mind. Indeed, at one point, I actually said was there anything wrong? and he said there wasn't, but I think there is. It may be good or bad, but there was something hovering. I read his D's letters, and he was a bit touched, I do believe. I wish Patrick Garland was drowned a thousand miles deep, or had stayed in TV, much the same thing. We went out, with two and a half hours in hand. He was in, as I say, a restless mood, and said he was going to buy a record. 'I know I shouldn't', and no, he shouldn't, as it's Lindsey's b'day on Saturday, (today, actually) and D's first night next week, and he's v. worried in case he has to pay the insurance on the car, even after he's sold it. (Well, of course, he will!) I was glad to hear he'd put £12 in the bank of his £22. As I'd just bought D. the new Michael Innes, as a little celebration of my TV success (sic), I said I'd buy him his record. He was pleased, gets the self indulgence, without the expense! Bought the Mystery Tour of The Beatles. And wants their others. Very easy presents. Then we went down to the docks. Well, yes, they are fun, for a walk, but their only charm for him really is that they are so near. Which certainly is one. The docks in London would mean a special trip. He pointed out the English cathedral beyond which he lives. It looks miles away, and he lives on the other side of it. Twenty minutes it takes to walk. Gosh. Still, he has stayed in for three hours and read. Also gosh. At last. We walked for about half an hour, him pointing out all the things of interest, the Victorian ecstasy expressing itself in eruptions of cast-iron, studded with millions of unnecessary rivets. 'And look at that narrow opening to that dock. See how the boats have scraped in, it's so narrow.' I can't catch that note of all the world opening out to a young mind, that he so frequently strikes. As we turned back to go to the theatre, he said, it now being past the half, (he not on till Act II). 'Do you know I always feel nervous being out after the half, even when I'm allowed to be?' Can you believe it? We went into the theatre, after he'd bought a paper to show me his advertisement in it, in the street. Nasty narrow passages, no good quality anywhere, but I suppose people prefer modern d-rooms. I don't. However, he likes the showers etc, so I didn't say.

Theatre looks a bit odd. Main colour purple, all the Egyptesque decorations picked out in white. And there's a lot of it, so blackouts a bit difficult. Decoratively it's all right, but still with a crimson curtain and rather shabby reddish seats, the main effect is - odd.

Show was v. poor, even the first set was quite wrong and tatty-looking, though the other two were just all right, but showed very little imagination. The clothes were wrong, and badly worn in almost every particular. Harvey Ashby as Tanner had hair, like Pantaloon, just carries the play by a lot of second-rate tricks. 'Anne' is played by an amateur whom I would never have encouraged to take it up professionally. Best perf. is from Malcolm Terris as Malone. Even he wore his own fair hair, tho' David told me he rubbed a stick of 20 into it. Why no wig?

David's clothes weren't too bad. His Norfolk suit, tho' a bit crumpled and ill-fitting in the jacket, was at least the right material, and he had a tie on, and not a silk cravat, with tweed suits, like the others, but not a stiff cuff in the place. His perf. was a great deal better than I'd expected. The self-consciousness which still hampers him into stiffness, wore off after the first few lines, and his little scene with Violet was well done. The Act III scene was also good, marred only by a slight over weighting of the anger for the weight of the play. In a very poor production, I thought he'd done well, and it might be quite promising for further parts. There is a quality in him that audiences love.

I had to leave slightly before the end, as there were no trains to London from Liverpool between 7.25 and 10.35!? I left him a little note telling him he was 'very good', and not to worry any more. I was thrilled to hear the next day how that had relaxed him. The journey was rather odd. Changed at Crewe, had a drink on first train, another at Crewe in very pleasant bar, and was told that second train to London had a restaurant car! So started a rather nasty dinner at 9.10! Arrived in London rather tight, and had a drink or two more with Bob, and Lindsey, who had arrived by then. Very elevated I was, and very scathing about 'M & S'. After a little I passionately wanted to talk to Lindsey alone, as I know she did, so that we could fight over David! And would Bob go? No, and what's more, sat and read my 'Plays and Players', as well. He is odd, the way he stumps.

I was a bit hungover the next morning, but still managed to get lunch and enjoy a long chat with David giving him his notes, while Lindsey and Bob washed up. I told him of the self- conscious way he screws up his eyes and raises his face, when he first walks on. 'The lights are so bright', he murmured. The only other real note was to play the Act III scene remembering it's going to have a happy ending. I think he understands this last. The only thing that still deeply worries me about him onstage, is his apparent lack of vitality.

So, off I went to Brighton, and lo! felt so frightful on the train that I had to tell the young man opposite me I was going to be sick so that he could turn his little girl's head away from the traumatic spectacle. He said, 'There's a toilet down the end', to which I went, and wasn't sick! I'd bitten my cheek raw, trying not to be. The train was half an hour late because of Sunday repairs, and I'd also purposely missed one, hoping to feel better. So when I get there at 6.30ish, D. was on the 'phone home, asking where I was.

Ah, she did look tired and worn. She'd been sick all night on Thursday, and squitters. And thought 'At last, I'm going to be off.' but she wasn't. The show still is a thorn in her side. And I wonder who would believe that it is not simply because her part is now less good than at first?

ANGUS MACKAY DIARY NO. 38

Nov. 17. 68. Aug. 21. 73.

Sunday November 17 1868

In Liverpool to see David in two plays. I'll only sketch in the last few wonderful weeks.

We came quietly up on Sunday morning, to find David already there, and Lindsey arrived, and it was another memorably happy weekend. He sold the car the previous Tuesday. He talked of it as if it had been a millstone for months instead of days. He had to push it down the street to get the battery charged enough to make the self-starter work, or crank it forever. He was doing this last when one of the buyers turned up and looked and walked away without a word! The man who did buy it, was a 50 year old University lecturer, a collector obviously. He got in, so did David, who slammed the door and a bit of the panelling fell into his lap! Happily, the man was looking the other way, so David put it quickly under the seat. He asked £50 and got £45. As he didn't have to pay the insurance, he was just in pocket, with his savings intact. He and Lindsey are certainly closer. But then so are he and D. and I. A sudden step forward has taken him into new areas of both relationships, of which more later.

The next day Bob left. I was glad to be rid of the responsibility of meals and so on, and also of his dead weight so often. I'll try to keep a bit of an eye on him. The hectic preparations for the first night began. I'd found a little miniature of Ellen Terry in the Imogen picture, in a pretty oval frame with a velvet back. No glass. So we both dashed to Mann’s and then to Goslett's on various occasions, and it was done in time. Then there were all the appurtenances of the dressing-room, cloths, glasses, vases, divan-cover, etc. etc. D. wanted me to drop in to see a new dress, so, after a drink and a sandwich with Rupert Marsh, who said there was little or no advance, I went and did so. Noel C. was in the front row of the circle, as he was flying out the next day, so couldn't come to first night. Apparently told John G. best thing he'd seen for 20 years, which we think helped John considerably. Began to feel a bit sick, decided to walk to Waterloo, but felt so worse and worse that I finally walked all the way home, having violent squitters in a public loo in Stockwell, and being sick twice in the street. Stayed in bed the next day to be sure, for the first night, tho I really felt all right. David opened in his new play 'Lap of the Gods', and rang up in a flat sort of mood, saying it had gone off all right, and he was absolutely relaxed, didn't feel nervous at all. Not a good sign, and the notices the next day included the dread words, 'inert' and 'languid' or some such. Not about him, but I expect there was no tension in the house, and, now that I've seen it, none in the play, and not much in the production. However, he seemed to feel he'd done what he meant to do.

Next day I hurriedly bought D's present, two nighties, - she's had the same one for five years or so - David's and Edna's presents, casseroles, and went to the theatre to find her room full of presents and flowers, the new Craig book from John - alas, as I bought it the other day - and a pretty John Cavanagh scarf, a cup and saucer from Alan, a bottle of nothing wine from Patrick, the knife sharpener from Jo - ah - a telegram from David, 'I'll be thinking of you' and one from Noel 'Dearest Dorothy, you gave a marvellous or superb or something performance', and one from John Perry! She was already rather nervous. Aah. I went off home to bath and change. I'd ordered my taxi for 6.30 so as to take her two big vases and the big white jug before the show. To my mounting horror, the taxi didn't come till 6.55. (must record that David's was also late at the w/e that I'd bought as a treat, and he missed the train, and was 20 late for the dress-rehearsal, though happily they began late, so all was well). The traffic was almost the worst I've ever known, which is saying something, so that at 7.15 we were absolutely stuck in Piccadilly by St James' Church. I paid him off, and ran in my dinner jacket, clutching my bag of vases and my big white jug, looking as if I were going to take part in some middle-aged rag round Eros. I did get there in plenty of time. I left the poor darling to her misery, and went round to order my interval drinks, and found myself doing so between Emlyn Williams and John Merivale. It was very much that sort of audience, Vanessa etc there. Well, it went like a bomb from the word go chiefly because John was so on top. His entrance round seemed to go on forever, and his applause at the end was solid cheers. The notices were nothing less than ecstatic, last Wed. They took £1600 in advance alone, D's notices were, absurdly rather better than they'd been for 'White Liars' or at least she seemed to be mentioned more, when her part is so much less good. Frank Marcus said she was under employed, which pleased us. The box-office was so besieged that Toby Rowland had to help, so we think we can relax till after Christmas.

Our visitors included Mander and Mitchenson, Michael something from Edinburgh, Glen and Henry, and Peter Green and Geoffrey Underwood. Henry (Reed) was looking awful, with a pregnant stomach, behaving worse. I had to siphon him off into a corner to hear about his nervous breakdown, not a suitable subject for a first-night dressing-room. Then one of the handsomer boys came in, and Henry was all over him, and was heard to say loudly that the boys were the best thing in the show.

Eventually we got rid of them all. We were feeling happy, mainly because of John. I was first round, and we flew into one another's arms, sobbing with pleasure at his reception. We ordered a taxi, a funny little affair, which wouldn't start. I said perhaps it needed some petrol so, after a certain amount of protest, and us being pushed onto the pavement out of the way of the traffic, he went off to get some, leaving us sitting in our finery, with presents and flowers everywhere. We did laugh.

David and Lindsey came for the weekend again. Again a heavenly w/e. He got a bit tight at dinner, and said a lot of silly things which nearly riled me, but not quite. Next morning he said at breakfast, 'Did I talk a lot of rubbish?' Well, yes, but adorable rubbish. We were teasing him in front of Lindsey purposely, about what he was like when we first knew him. He kept shrieking with laughter, and hiding his face under the sofa cushions. 'Did you ever envisage me changing?' he said. (One night later in the week, D. said in bed, 'Why didn't I think to say "yes, we do".’) In a chat with Lindsey, she said how he loved coming home, he purred with satisfaction when he was here. I think it's true. He left about 12.0, she stayed for a quick lunch. We are further with her now than Sally ever got.

The 'Avengers' offer fell through because of the Nat. P. Gallery Jane Austen, but happily a film offer turned up. Less happily they wanted me to go for an interview on Thursday 7th. The plants for the cottage had come, and simply had to go in sometime that week. I'd decided to go down on Tuesday till Friday, to put them in, and do a bit of painting as well. I'd done the ordering and everything, and there the food would be, mouldering on the path. Altogether Thursday was a very inconvenient day. The call was for 12.0 but at 10 just as I was setting out to leave my cottage things at Charing X, before struggling to Pinewood, I got a phone call, putting it off till 3.30. This was even more infuriating. Still I had lunch with D., left, tubed to Uxbridge then 10/- taxi to Pinewood, and back, for a 1 minute interview during which everyone seemed to assume I would play the part, so why did I have to go? Waited 1/2 an hour for a taxi to get back to Uxbridge station, eventually caught the 6.40, and got to the cottage about nine. Frozen fish all right, as it happened. Next day all a little damp and misty, and soil damper than I'd like, but after putting the Christmas roses in the bed by the woodshed, always a bit less sodden than the rest, I did manage to get everything in, with the help of the peat which had arrived at the Cummings. I carried one of the enormous sacks up through the fields. It nearly killed me, but it was worth it, to put that good friable moist but not too moist stuff round the roots, and feel they might survive this time. The holly-bush at the corner has more berries on then I've ever seen before. I do hope that doesn't mean another terrific winter. Got back feeling rather exhausted, and so was most grateful for quiet weekend. David went to Stratford, as Lindsey has now left Bournemouth. Much as we love him it is also lovely to have a lingering middle-aged weekend sometimes.

The Saturday was memorable. D. came in rather late, after 12, looking a bit emotional. She said, 'John came rushing up to me when I was talking to Paul Eddington bother it, and pushed a tissue-paper wrapped parcel at me. "I thought you might like to have this" he said.' She unwrapped it, and it was a framed drawing of Ellen Terry, back view, by Pamela Colman Smith, who illustrated Ellen Terry’s Russian Ballet book. It had written on it, 'Kitty, from Nell. Portia catching a train in the U.S.A.' He must have taken it off the wall, to give it to D. And I suppose 'Kitty' is his mother, as I've never heard of her calling her sister anything but Kate. How wonderfully generous! And of course especially touching to both of us on every level. I did shed tears certainly. He can't have done that for many people, or even he would have few E.T. relics left now.

We spent most of Sunday afternoon rehearsing the Jane prog. I'd timed all the items, and of course Richard hadn't cut nearly enough. When we read thro' it properly, I'm proud to say it was exactly 40 mins. Lovely thinking I was going to do something live again. Lovely quiet evening.

David rang on Tuesday night to chat, and said he'd been to see 'Godot' the night before. 'Wonderful play', and it seemed the performance had been good, too, which remembering the acting standard here, only proves how actor proof 'Godot' is. I forgot to record that Lindsey is going to find a teaching job up here, and stay for the month or so before Christmas, so at least that's got him out of those awful digs, which is something, as he said the other weekend. He'd gone looking and seen lots of awful places. Play had been bad and so had he, and the 'Provoked Wife' was terribly behind. Alan V-W. was hopeless. 'I'm writing to you', he said, and sure enough the next day we got a long beautiful letter, full of the sort of theatrical underlinings that he swore he'd never go in for. 'ghastly', 'thrilling' 'I pray I'm kept on', 'desperately behind.' Oh. the Gielgud story had touched him very strongly. It was that that was 'thrilling', 'he must like you both very much'. It would be nice to think so. On Wed. 13th, Richard D-Day went to see D's show, and came back to stay the night. He'd said all the right things about the play, and was at his best and sweetest. And of course I still love working with him. He made an excellent suggestion for our second one, - Virginia and Leonard Woolf'. You see? David rang again that night to say he'd found a flat, top-floor, 6 gns 3 big rooms, one small one, in a nice house. He'd obviously taken it, and Lindsey hasn't got her job or anything. And it turns out that for the moment she can only stay till the day I do! Oh well, he got over the car all right! He was still much concerned over 'The P.W.', and tried to persuade me not to see it till later. This worried me slightly as I wondered whether it was partly a desire to be alone with Lindsey, and whether I shouldn't let them. I said, 'Well, I was looking forward to being alone with Lindsey. I want to get to know her without you there.' 'Well', he said, 'I want to get to know her without you there.' Do you know we haven't been alone together really since Norwich?; but he said it absolutely without animos. I said, 'Well, you know, you could be alone more at the house. We don't expect you to spend so much time with us, tho' it's lovely when you do.' 'Oh no', he said, 'I come to see you as well.' Never said that with Sally. He said that Malcolm T. had said 'For Christ's sake don't let Angus come to the first night'. That's how behind it is. But my goodness I'm glad I did.

The J.A. day was a great success. We waited nervously for the taxi, which I'd ordered at 11.30 to be absolutely safe, and so of course we got there at 12.0, and went to the Garrick pub for 1/2 an hour. The back door of the National Portrait Gal. with about 20 used milk-bottles outside, was opened by a Civil Service Messenger, who said, 'Mr Westbrook and Miss Ney?', having got one ahead of himself on the poster. I wonder if he'll ask them if they're Sybil Thorndike. We were taken upstairs and shown the gallery, very long and thin with a small platform placed where there is a wider bit. Very small, and of course very easy to mask each other from the long thin bits. We had in fact to play in a complete half-circle. We were taken down to the Board Room, a heavy Victorian affair, hung with portraits too bad or too good? to be upstairs. Dr Strong, the Keeper, presently hurried in, a man of perhaps 30, with long black hair, glasses, a dark suit and a bright orange shirt. He seems pleasant enough, but curiously uncomprehending of words, in that way one so often finds visual people are. We were both nervous, and I am always surprised at how visibly nervous D. is, on these occasions, far more so than in the theatre. We made our entrance by a lift which opens onto the widest part. We had to ask a lot of students to move, who were sitting all over the floor - the place was packed, with people standing two or more rows deep down the very distant ends of the long part. The front row consisted of Alan B., John G., Sybil T. and Lewis Casson! And the whole thing was a triumphant success, endless laughter, lots of rounds, and a very good reception at the end. Dr. S. said afterwards, they'd never had applause during any of the other programmes! D. of course, had to go straight off to her matinee, but I went to the little reception afterwards, an unsatisfactory little affair, white wine and sandwiches, spoils your lunch, and keeps you till it's too late to have one anyway. However, I met Sybil and Lewis, and that made up for it all. She was in a headscarf and as bright as a bee, he isn't gaga at all, just deaf - and 94. She does her Ellen terry, and its reminiscences! Must come. and Lewis told me he appeared at her Jubilee in 1906! After ten minutes chat, she poked him and said, 'Come on Lewis or I shall be late for my Indians.' A relic of one of their world tours. She had a remarkable face, like an old weathered bust of the most noble goddess you can imagine, a dear. Which is what she called me. I got away about 2.30, after meeting nice John Westbrook and wife, and that idiot Barbara Leigh-Hunt. No sense of humour whatever, and after 1 sentence about us, was off on her latest TV part. Felt rather flat just wandering away with my little case to go home and wash up, after such an intoxicating taste of fame - and the laughs - I could and do, get drunk on them.

David rang again about 6.30 to say he had taken the flat, and would I bring everything to stock it, blankets, sheets, pillows and the entire contents of his kitchen! 'Did I mind?' 'Oh no', I said, 'I'm tired after the reading, and shall be tireder tomorrow after my film, but I don't mind packing your trunk for 3 hours'. 'Oh, and my record-player, and as many records as you can manage. If you have to choose, bring the classical ones.' Aah!

Actually, I must record that his first words were 'How did it go?' of the reading. When I think that, when we got back from the Purcell Room that time, his first words were, 'I've got a lift to Frinton', when we were so elevated by having filled a London concert hall. It just shows how he's grown up. 'Bring enough of everything for Sunday dinner for 3.' Meaning me, very sweet. 'Kay Gardner's leaving' he said. That depressed me a bit, because she seemed to have taken to him. The casting for 'Under Milk Wood' has gone up, and he's playing Mog Edwards, and Cherry Owen, with a question-mark against this last. Good.

I went to bed very early, about 10, and had an alarm call for 6.0. The taxi-firm seemed to think it would take 1 1/2 hours to get there. Irritatingly enough, it didn't, and if he'd not lost his way three or four times, it would have been an hour. I was cross from the start, as I'd been called for 8.30 'in case they wanted me' and of course they didn't, and I wasn't used till 12.30. Got there, very nice dressing-room in star dressing-room corridor, so I was able to snooze and read and write in privacy and comfort. My scene was with a man called Robert Horton, whom I've seen once or twice. Quite pleasant in a negative way. Has a young glamorous expression, which fits ill with middle aged wrinkles and bags now approaching. The scene was the usual film mess, with the director explaining as to an idiot child. by 4.30 it was all over, and I rang for a taxi to get me to Uxbridge station. Waited at least half an hour. Got home in the end about eight, absolutely finished. And very cross. Poor David came in for it, because he rang about 9.15 in the middle of packing for him, and delivered a few crisp orders, and I bit his head right off. He rang back later, and we made it up. I am hell, but he never imagines one coming in tired.

Caught the 11.0 next morning to L'pool. D. still in bed. I hated leaving her, but I hardened my heart, and it's a good thing I did, because it was one of the happiest weekends of my life. And if only D. had been there, too, it would have been the happiest, I think.

He and Lindsey met me, although he was still in the middle of a run-through, at 1.45! (Oh, yes, one of the trying things he'd said on the phone was 'Have lunch on the train', so I grudgingly did, as he's said Lindsey would, too, and he'd get a bite before meeting me.) Neither of them had lunched! Anyway, we got a taxi, and all the luggage to his flat, while he went back to his run-through and notes. The flat is very good for what it is, a nice big kitchen with everything one needs, and a bath and basin in an alcove, and a good walk-in larder. A small square unfurnished room, a quite pleasant white-walled sitting-room, and an adequate if rather bleak bedroom. Top floor in a quiet house owned by a Miss Herbison. David arrived about 3.0, and told me she'd said, 'Actors? Oh, I hope you won't be giving any noisy parties', and David said, 'I heard myself saying, "I think I can guarantee that we are quite quiet. It's only the younger element who get up to that sort of thing”.' We had a good exchange of all immediate news while Lindsey did a fry-up for both of them. She can cook, a bit slap-dash, but think of David! I’d brought a trunk full, a big suitcase, his r-player, his records and a string-bag!! He left for his matinee at 4.0ish, and I walked down with him, to settle in my hotel. He took my case in turns! and told me how awful Alan V-W was, as if I needed to know. Lindsey came to the hotel for a drink and a sandwich. First time we'd really been alone together. She is a sensible bright girl, with a good deal of apprehension of others, which gives her considerable delicacy in dealing with me. She can sense already the strength of our feeling for David, and allow for it and accept it. And of course in all sorts of light way, I find we get on like a house on fire. She's not quite as wise as she thinks she is, but that come of being brought up with someone much older but her judgement is pretty good all the same. And of course, she wants to talk about David most of the time, too!!

So we went to the play together. Coo, it was dull, most of the time subsiding into two characters leadenly exchanging items of incomprehensible political information. And David was simply excellent. He's come through. His movement is so relaxed, his whole personality can now shine through. His first entrance for instance, drying his face, tucking in his shirt, rolling up his sleeves, and then the sudden flash of a turn as he senses someone is there, puts the character in a nutshell at once. His casual leaning on the loggia upright was yet a beautiful pose. His lightness of playing in the casual homely bits was like nothing he's ever done before. Tension of the right sort, relaxation of the right sort. I am sure anyone coming from outside would have picked him out at once. Most of the others were marginally less gruesome than they'd been in 'M & S'. Malcolm T. was good, so was Audrey Barr, in a slightly more 'reppy' way.

Afterwards we went up to the theatre restaurant, where he joined us, and I was able to say how good he'd been. He nearly split his face grinning. And I gave him my notes. Not many - just learn to yawn properly! He was very good in the scene where he had to show all the time what he was really feeling, just with his face. He's so avid for my notes. When we were discussing when I could meet Malcolm T., Lindsey said, ‘Why not ask him back here after the first night?' and David said, immediately, 'Oh, no, because Angus'll be giving me his notes.' They saw me to my hotel, and I said I'd have a lazy day and see them for dinner, thinking that would be only tactful, tho' I didn't specially want to spend all day alone in a provincial hotel, especially with David available. They suggested coming for tea, so they did. Then we wandered up to the flat, and had the most perfect evening. I'd brought a bit of drink, and we talked of Alan B's diary of D's rehearsals, and the only mention of her, practically, being 'Has great difficulty in coming to terms with style' of that wretched Breed sketch. rubbish. It was an impossible bit, and she knew it was, and he won't admit it. Why is it cut now then? Very unethical to write about rehearsals. Then David and I talked of Eliot. I'd sent him money to get a Collected Poems, so that he could read 'The Wasteland' in the light of the rediscovery of the manuscript in the TLS. We went through 'Gerontion' with him worrying about the obscurities as well as he might. I interpreted what I could, and he was unexpectedly impressed. Later, after dinner, - pork chops, Lindsey getting a little flustered, as well she might in a strange half-stocked kitchen, and saying 'I will cook you a nice meal one day' and it was nice - we were discussing the play again, and he actually said how good a judge of acting I was, always right. I left them, I suppose, about 1.30 or so, full of warmth and laughs and love. If only D. had been there, too.

The next day he had a technical at eleven which would keep him in the theatre all day, so I asked them to lunch here. He was in a cheekier mood which I realised was directed more against Lindsey. It is of course his way of testing.

Sunday February 13 1972

Robert Atkins died last week, at 85; he'd been a legend with actors for years.

At dinner with James Cairncross last night, we noted down some of the better-known stories. Alas, they lost so much without the heavy voice, rich, weighty confiding, a slight 'off'ness in the vowels, intensely masculine. And the hand, spread at shoulder-level, as if to suggest that something's very much in the balance.

Possibly the best-known story (tho' the whole legend is, I would say, known only to actors, and then only those over 35) concerns his dismissal from Stratford in 1946. At the interview with Sir Archibald Flower - or would it be Sir Fordham by that time? - Robert was asked if he had anything to say. 'Yes', he said, 'Flower's Beer is piss'.

James told me that, when asked in later years if he'd ever said that, he replied 'No, but it is'.

Also well-known, I think, is Robert's appearance judging at R.A.D.A. On the bottom of each report, he wrote 'Can't speak'. (This must be imagined in a deliberate, heavy very distinctly articulate, and yet somehow slurred, "Caan't shpeak'). When Sir Kenneth Barnes said, 'Robert, what do you mean by 'Can't speak', on all the reports?' 'Barnes', said Robert, 'Can't fucking-well speak'.

The others known to me, are all rehearsal stories. First, a pair of inspirational remarks, - to a young man, 'Take down your trousers, and show them you're a man.' Then to a young woman who equally had not put enough sexual fervour into - say - the potion speech - 'Have you never given yourself, girl?'

To, possibly, the same girl, whom I picture as an earnest ASM, he was once driven to say, as he found her squatting in the wings at the Open-Air Theatre with her script between her thighs when she should have been on stage, 'It's no good looking up yer entrance, yer've missed it'. A beautiful but stupid South African girl, playing Helen of Troy in 'Faustus', enraged him by her phlegm. Finally, he said, 'I bring you here at enormous expense from the far Antipidoes, now will you please waggle your boob at Faustus.'

To a young queer who had used that curious downward flop of the hand, which has become the cliché of his kind, he said, 'Do not do that gesture. It is ugly, it is meaningless and it is very suspicious'. Again, one would like to think to the same actor, he said, at the Open-Air, 'Here we are, with God's own scenery, the world's greatest dramatist, and then you fuckingly well come on.' Once he had a boy actor from the Italia Conti school, who arrived with a chaperone. He had to have a break for coffee, a break for lessons, a long lunch break, a break for a rest. Finally R.A. rang Italia Conti. 'Miss Conti, if yer boy is to stay, he's got to stop carrying on like the Archangel fucking Gabriel'.

It seems he was hurt, at one point, to be excluded from the Birthday Service at Stratford, and said to one of the company, 'Can you advance me one cogent reason why I should not have been invited to read the fucking lesson?'

James himself told us that when he was playing Jaques in the '40s at Liverpool Playhouse, under Robert's direction, he changed one word, according to the 'notes in the edition he was using. Robert reacted to the change, said, 'And what text are you using?' James said, 'The Penguin Shakespeare, edited by G. B. Harrison.' Robert took it, looked at it, and said 'Scholarship run mad'.

Someone whose name I can't remember for the moment, bother it, told me how they were playing a pretty big part in the Park. One afternoon, having idled the time away, he got back home, and rang his agent about 5.0, saying 'Any messages?' 'Only from the Park, where you should have been playing Orlando at the matinee. Horror, dash, meet the actors coming off stage, who are all kind. Green with shock and shame and fear, he presented himself to Robert taking off Touchstone's, as it might be, make-up. 'Give yourself a large Scotch - yer've suffered enough.'

Saturday September 16 1972

D. lunched with John Gielgud today. I was rehearsing an episode of 'Dixon of Dock Green' and did not get home till two. She'd left a note saying 'Oh, I am sorry'. I was so glad she could have him to herself, after this depressing time. He is depressed himself because he has no play, or prospect of one. Which, I suppose, is why he's directing 'Private Lives' and then the musical in America. As a result, his theatre judgments are rather more down than usual. 'The Royal Shakespeare's very poor and so is the National. Well, of course they are. 'Larry's dreadful in 'Long Days Journey', and Constance Cumming is excellent, except for a terrible wig, which I told someone about, so I hope something will be done.' Apparently the dialogue in the 'Lost Horizon' musical film he's just finished in Hollywood was awful. When the travellers had arrived, he had to welcome them with 'Come in, come in. I'm sure you will be comfortable with us. We have all our own fresh fruit and vegetables. Like a guest-house commercial.’

There is some play about a Russian general mooted, but it's still only an idea, not even written yet, and anyway he doesn't think he's right for it.

He gave D. a copy of his new book, 'Distinguished Company', beautifully inscribed to both of us. It's a delightfully done slight affair, of the utmost generosity.

He's said 'L'Escargot', but it was shut, so they went to Gennaro's. Not too good.

Monday October 2 1972

Got away quite unexpectedly from my TV rehearsal of an episode of Dora Bryan's show, (ugh!) to the reading of 'Tailor for Ladies' Feydeau farce, my first stage for 4 years. Christopher Denys, the director and adaptor of the play (very well done, not a sag in it) very thin, about 35. Very sharp nose, slightly off accent, says just enough and not too much. Has good judgement. Intelligent. Peter Greene playing demanding lead. v. tall, thin and red hair. Not ideal looks for hero, not ordinary enough. But pace and humour in his acting. Capable, I think, and didn't miss much that you could do in a reading. All the same, might finally be 'ordinary'.

Sally Stephens v. pretty, a little colourless. Also pace. Caroline Doudeswell, snub nose, little-girl good.

Simon Merrick, a bit over-characterised, a bore in real life? the only one I felt wary of.

Dan Meedon, huge, a big deformed-looking. V. ordinary TV type actor, but perfectly acceptable in the part.

Barbara Keogh, met at TV, but not a reading (playing D's part) a bit of a clinger? Needs care.

Prognosis - good. C. Denys seems to mean to work.

Sunday October 8 1972

Have more or less learned Acts I and II. Find that I learn them and can rattle through them, but a few hours later have to relearn them! as I know them only sketchily. Not so much age, as lack of practice.

Few tiny notes C. Denys gave are illogical. But very surface things, which I must not do. Broad lines perfect. Wanted me to waggle my arm loosely, when someone said 'Don't be loose'. Not logical. Oliver Gordon stuff. But so tiny.

Company Manager, Bill Foster, shortish hair, though moustache and sidewhiskers. Broad, medium height, khaki trousers, very polished shoes, (Army family, lower middle class if so) looks 30. So when I mentioned the first Edinburgh Festival, 47, 'before you were born', I didn't mean it. A shock, - he was born in 49 and is only 23!

Simon Merrick said 'You come on the Northern line! Oh it's so filthy, those awful dirty trains. We used to live in Highgate and had to use it' etc. etc.

Aren't people in sensitive? but I don't dislike him.

Sunday November 5 1972

Finished at Billingham. No one came, performance poor, a disappointment, but D. thought I was 'perfect'. And I can act on the stage after all - I was beginning to think I couldn't.

I lost one of her letters, hurrying to the station. Her first letter after being here at Stockton, it told how the ticket-inspector on her train, a negro, said 'Aren't you an actress?' 'Yes' she said. 'I recognised your voice partickly' he said. She added, 'I dropped a tear in my gin'. She also said I was 'Shining, straight and clear' or something like that. It's the only letter of hers I have ever lost.

Tuesday February 5 1973

Went down to Bournemouth after SOS call from Daddy.

Mummy has had a sort of slow motion stroke. She stopped in front of the dining-table, and had to be told where to sit. In the middle of eating tea, she said 'What's this?' Oh dear.

Tuesday Feb 20 1973

On Saturday, coming back from two shows of 'A Private Matter' at Wimbledon, D, a bit drunk, turned in the hall and said, 'I love you more than success.'

And meant it, I think.

Tonight, the second preview, Deborah Kerr's husband, and Alan Jay Lerner of 'My Fair Lady' came round ('I didn't tell them to' said Binkie) to say it was a beautiful performance. So we'll see.

Because it is perfection, but they may not see.

Saturday April 21 1973

D. has written the most exquisitely tactful letter to Lalla, to go with some old clothes we are sending to be made into a raga rug for the cottage.

There is no one like her for delicate consideration of others' sensibilities.

Friday April 27 1973

At the cottage.

Some day soon I must start writing this diary regularly again. I don't know quite why. Perhaps because I dislike time and events and people sliding past so quickly. An impulse to write, without the ability can sometimes be satisfied by a diary.

There are one or two 'Back-logs' to catch up on, notably John Gielgud. Otherwise, I should like to combine garden and theatre diary in one.

Friday April 28 1973

So I will combine them from now on.

Saw an adder, just in front of the well, basking, within two feet of the back door.

Also a female sparrow (if that's what it was) whose under-parts from the middle of the chest, were dark grey. Dug centre of rose-bed. Like stone, as if it had never been dug.! 8.45 p.m. A cuckoo did three perfunctory cuckoos. I think there's a nightingale in the distance.

Sunday April 29 1973

D. brought after her play last night, a letter from Lalla, saying there was 'rather bad news about Daddy', and the Doctor had told only her. On the 'phone tonight, I find that it's the prostate gland thing coming back, and there's nothing to be done. Was it cancer? I forget. I hope it's quick. Oh dear, he has looked for illnesses.

D. worried about not facing Mother's death. 'I hope Mollie will write and say she's gone'. And yet she doesn't feel she at all ought to feel that. She feels she must go thro' her mother's death, and accept the fact of death. It is, I suppose, unusual that she has reached 60 without seeing anyone dead.

I feel, too, that I wish it could all happen when I'm not there. I somehow keep thinking of the embarrassment, but then that's my trivial family. All I shall probably carry away from Daddy's deathbed, is one more embarrassingly shallow observation to add to all the others.

Mummy was pretty confused tonight, but told me 'Daddy had been ill, the doctor hadn't said much, but I thought I ought to tell you.'! when Lalla had written to me secretly.

I wonder if Mummy had her slow stroke purposely, to soften the blow of Daddy's death. She has such a wonderful instinct of self-preservation.

Monday April 30 1973

Pouring in torrents.

Good.

Tuesday May 1 1973

Rang Lalla in elaborate casualness to say I was coming on Thursday. 'I've just got my film schedule and if I don't come then, I can't come for a month'. 'For a month? That is a long time, you must come before that'. Oh dear. What it isn't to be quick on the uptake. Garden here so beautiful. Choisya t. flowers just starting out for the first time. Wallflowers almost over-powering.

Wednesday May 2 1973

House.

'Weedol'ed rose-border. Ground elder and bindweed in fence-bottom from next door!

Thursday May 3 1973

Went to Bournemouth. Lalla told me that the doctor had said that Daddy's condition (cancer of the prostate, whatever that may mean) was bound to deteriorate, in such ways as were affecting him now, and that he would soon come to a change of environment. Hospital? Death? Sparkling company? Who shall say? So much for doctors. A strain.

Friday May 4 1973

Ground elder and bindweed still in robust health. Garden looks heavenly. Can't believe I did it. Wrote to Daddy's doctor.

Saturday May 5 1973

The cottage. Waiting for D after her show. 11.50.

Garden looking beautiful. Stan has repaired greenhouse, numerous panes of glass, various beams and so on, and rose trellis, for £7.00 odd. Sally has left note saying they have a summer job, so she can only come weekends till Sept. Oh.

We do our Mrs Siddons recital at the Ellen Terry Theatre tomorrow - twice. As it has no heating, this is the first event of its year. And it's cold, with a lovely fresh breeze. I doubt we'll have an audience at all. Jane Austen is one thing. The shade of Mrs. S another.

That lamp is smoking again - bother.

Monday May 7 1973

Siddons recital at Ellen Terry, great success. Evening show full. Wonderful laughter and applause.

M. Cambrica nearly out in bay-tree bed.

Sunday May 13 1973

Cottage.

Garden still slow because of the cold drying winds. R. Ascot Brilliant with 16 trusses, beautiful clear crimson, more to come.

Weeded half scent-border path this afternoon and finished mowing. What a time it all takes. Path looks marvellous when done. Birds very noisy tho' not so many as usual visible, because of low temperatures. Only seen one willow-warbler so far.

Ordered book from Alan Hancox in Cheltenham and he said he's half promised it to a University. But he preferred them to go to private collectors, so he'd let me have it. Thought this charming, until I reflected that Universities don't generally die and sell them again.

D. said she saw a large bird - 2 1/2 times the size of a pigeon - fly over the field below the cottage this afternoon. Like a pigeon - a hawk? She is not quite accurate in her judgment of sizes of birds, not being experienced, but pigeons do look a bit like hawks, in flight, to the inexperienced. So it might be a hawk.

Saturday June 9 1973

Cottage alone.

D's play closes tonight. I had a little weep at 9.30, thinking of that perfect performance going forever. But I think she's quite glad - she's got out of it what there is to be got and given what there is to give - in every way.

Mother died on May 13. We didn't know till I got home and found a telegram from Mollie. Tomorrow Mollie sees the cottage for the first time. I must tell a little of the funeral sometime, if I can bother. Enough now to say how good that she's free from all her senile misery - she was 94, knew no one and was unhappy, despite perfect care.

Today at about 7, a cloud of long-tailed tits gathered on the electric wires - about 30 or 40 – XX XX and flying about for some hours.

Sunday June 24 1973

The garden has never looked so beautiful, and I can now plan refinements.

The monkshood must be moved, and might go to the rhodo bed for contrast. Out now and beautiful in a quiet way.

The astilbe in the middle of the dining-room bed must go, as the clematis and hosta and peach-leaved C. are all meeting. Also the salvia - spreading, I see, - could come to the terrace side, and make a medium height mass, with the C. verticillata. This last is doing very well, better than in the s-room bed.

Moving the monkshood, will allow a single spire of Tradescantia to spread and join the main mass of it. Get rid of the Brunnera, and fill in with a bit of white Astilbe to go with the old red one, extending the Astilbe getting swamped by the delphinium.

Is that clear?

Friday July 13 1973

Cottage.

Garden so satisfying. Had to go to London for a commercial - again - and train was late, and I was 15 mins late, but of course none of them noticed.

Now Daddy is dying. He was given 'weeks' to live a fortnight ago. I only hope it's true.

Margaret's pink Phlox is Silver Salmon.

Thursday July 26 1973

Two goldfinches in the London garden! Singing, too. Unmistakable.

Sunday July 29 1973

D. begins her rehearsals for 'The Constant Wife' tomorrow, with Ingrid Bergman and directed by John Gielgud. It would be nice to note down his remarks.

Here are a few from the past.

During the run of '40 Years On' Nora Nicholson took us to the Moulin D'or, once very famous. D. was thanking her in the wings. John overheard, and said 'The Moulin D'or, awfully dreary now. Who on earth took you there? 'I did, John', said Nora, fortunately a friend of 40 years standing. 'Well, it's awfully dreary now', said John, 'If you want to go anywhere round there, L'Escargot is still very good. Do you like snails?' 'Not much', said D., 'they're so rubbery.' 'Well, that's just it, said John, 'When I was a boy, I always used to chew the elastic out of my pants, and they remind me of that.'

A lifetime of blank verse, as in Mrs. Siddons' case, has left its mark on his speech. During rehearsal he once shouted, 'Hence' to a lot of troublesome boys. At dinner one night at his house, I heard him say, 'And it enraged me.' We all laughed and pointed it out. 'Oh, really?' he said. How that brings him before me. 'Oh really?' said quickly, lightly, humbly, impatiently, puzzled, all at once.

He once told me that Herbert Wilcox had come round to see him to suggest getting in cassettes 'on the ground floor'. ‘I've got Margot Fonteyn on Ballet, J.B. Priestley on the past, you on Shakespeare and of course, Anna's got the Bible.’

His delight in weak jokes is quite bottomless and unselfconscious. For he hates them on stage! Once at dinner, he said, of some slightly malicious remark, 'Keep it under your crevette.' We were discussing his second cousin, Hazel Terry, a hopeless drunk, whom he has kept for years. She accepts money from him, and then says terrible things about him behind his back. (This was just after Hy Hazell had choked to death in, at the time, suspicious and much talked of mystery.) 'Really', he said, 'She'll be found dead in a ditch one day - Low Hazel, really.'

The other day D. was recording '40 Years On' for the radio with him. The pretentious young director said 'that was strong, Sir John', and went back in his little box. 'I wonder if he's right' said John, I thought it was a bit sibilant, and went off across the studio, saying, 'Sibilant Thorndike'. On another day, he said, out of a silence, 'Valerie Taylor rang me up to say her husband was dead. I thought it was rather strange - I've only met her once.'

He came to see D. in 'A Private Matter', accepted a drink, and said, all in one breath, 'Oh darling, no wonder you wanted to play this part in London., those two long speeches so moving, I think we'll have fun with 'The constant Wife', we'll do it with tremendous style, Brumble's some lovely clothes for Ingrid, she'll do some lovely clothes for you, it's been a failure twice, I didn't know that.'

I think he has been much depressed lately by having no play. He hasn't really acted since 'Veterans', more than a year ago. I must try and recall that memory of Kate Terry's deathbed? He went to see her, her hair in a little yellow plait, and he was terrified to death. Then there's Annie Esmond leaving him all her money - £10,000 - with which he bought Cowley St.

What a funny sight you could see from my book-room window today! Next-door old Mrs. Barfast sitting in her garden; next door to her, two negroes removing the surface undergrowth from their completely neglected garden, with a coal shovel; next door to that, in a done-up house, a party, with smart people standing round smart garden furniture, with smart drinks, and smart cars outside to go home in. Mrs. B. has lived there 50 years, I'm glad the negroes do anything.

Monday July 30 1973

Off she went, her face rigidly calm with hysterical panic.! Hope there are no surprises.

I felt dreary after she'd gone, but better now. It's after lunch, and Yvonne Printemps is on the gramophone. I found a few notes I made of Julian D'Albie's conversation. He was in the original 'Apple Cart', and saw quite a bit of Shaw. To set his comments in the right context, D. told me that he was always rather chip on the shoulder and rather stupid. With that in mind, one could see Shaw managing him through the remarks J.A. innocently quotes. For instance, 'Oh, don't toupet that Shakespearean forehead.' At another point, J. D'A had put in a phrase!, and Shaw said, 'the bits the actors put in are the best.' I wonder how that ended; if only J. D'A had had the wit to tell me. Shaw told him, 'My wife hates 'Heartbreak House', and Julian D'A finished up by saying, 'He was a dear old gentleman.' He said this rather condescendingly as if that summed him up. Silly vain small man.

He also told me a true tale of Mavis Tempest for he was there. She came off stage with a lighted candle, and because it wasn't the prop man who'd always been there before, threw it alight, at the substitute.

11.45 p.m.

The first day hasn't produced much of interest. Of course now, it was all jockeying for position. Ingrid B. arrived last. How? But quite right. D. looked round at everyone with their pencils and biros, and she had a silver pencil, the one I gave her - and Ingrid had a gold pencil. She also had a dress made of beautiful material, a mock pinafore dress not specially beautiful in style, but the colours, the 'mint rock' of the silk, the brown and white and beige and tan, quite lovely, and sling back shoes, v. like D's old pair! They read the play. - D. tried to cut out 'St Bernard' but John said predictably, 'No, I think it's rather funny', though after she did get it cut, and saw Barbara Ferris nodding in agreement - broke for lunch, when D. saw John and Ingrid and John MacCallum and Bumble going off together. Well, of course. But I wonder if that's why we haven't seen him lately, because he knew he'd have to be a bit remoter for this play. Yes, I expect so, his taste in that way is perfect.

After lunch, they went through the first act 'for inflections', as John deprecatingly said. D. said, 'Mostly wrong.' How interesting. He'd gone over it with a fine tooth comb, and lost his eye already. In addition to which, his purity of approach to language would easily betray him with a slackly written play like this. Colloquially, one often emphasises the 'wrong' word. He often made them emphasise the adjective, where one wouldn't. (A typical feature of his wonderful lyrical style.) But this isn't worth that treatment (cf. his prod. of 'Charley's Aunt' as if it were the 'Importance'.)

'Oh, now, shall we rehearse on Saturdays? We haven't got long. How long have we got?' Stage Director, 'Four weeks, Sir John.' 'Oh yes, we'd better rehearse on Saturdays' D. got rehearsal times changed from 12-5 to 11-4, thus avoiding the rush hour.

Lovely article by Pat Kavanagh in the TLS which I have sent to John.

Tuesday July 31 1973

Today John finished the 'inflections' on Act II, ands started to plot. He didn't seem to have prepared anything! The furniture is in a straight line. There is masking, endless talk about tiny difficulties, Ingrid a bit helpless being without the basic grammar of a stage actress. Does not just do it, and see what happens. 'I expect you've heard I'm like this'.

Helen Christie said at one point, 'Well, couldn't there be a chair down here?' 'Oh, yes, I think, there'll have to be a chair down there.'

She's exhausted!! Well, he directed 'Hamlet' very well in 1935!

Nora is ill, very ill, according to John.

Wednesday August 1 1973

They have finished plotting Act I. In a way. She showed me her script. At one point she has scribbled against a line, rise? rise And that's the story of his plotting.

One or two of the inflections he gave her were good. She might be more cliché with advantage, as it were.

John has rung Nora, and she seems all right.

I must try to report Ingrid's clothes - Yesterday a bright green dress, with 'a herbaceous border on it', a daffodil here and daisy there. Today an apricot linen trouser suit. All with those nasty round necks that suit Ingrid, and Audrey Hepburn and everyone under 25 and nobody else.

An absurd commercial interview where I had to 'eat my brush'. It was for Germany, and that's the idiom instead of 'hat'.

Violent thunderstorm tonight, unusual lightning.

Thursday August 2 1973

Today Ingrid was wearing the trousers of the apricot suit with a...

She is now seeing - D, I mean - the point of John's inflection-giving. He changes an emphasis here as he sees a group of lines, another series of emphases as he sees a while section, and so on to a whole sweep of a scene, and an act.

She kept saying, 'He's so kind' meaning he sees an actor's difficulty and solves it and makes up for it.

He said 'Oh, it's so good for our figures, having no lunch, except that you're so ravenous in the evening, and I don't get my dinner till nine, because Martin has to take the dogs out.' Really. And he said again he'd only done the 'Lost Horizon' film and the American musical directing - it's a huge hit, so he'll get royalties - for money. 'One used not to have to think about it, but now one does.'

D. asked after the new 'Private Lives' cast. 'Well, Jill is good though she doesn't get many laughs as Maggie. But then if Maggie got a laugh, she went on and got it fifteen times, and there was nothing one could do to stop her. But I believe she has a very difficult private life - Robert's off with someone else.'

D. said that I'd seen the photos and at least John Standing is one of the few people to wear a black tie in the right relation to a wing collar, 'The only other one beside me.' I said to D. 'Oh yes, he's a gentleman', said John, implying, it would be nice to think, like me.!

Though I'm not. Very hot still despite the thunderstorm.

Friday August 3 1973

Still trudging away at the accounts. How I loathe thinking about money!

Well, today she sees more and more John's strategy, if that is the word for his wonderful gift. The shaping is unnoticed, but is there. He laughs, delightfully, but not without judgment. For instance, Pauline J. has a silvery laugh she's proud of - rightly, says D. - but after she'd done it, and John had laughed at it, he said, 'I don't think such an audible laugh, there, more of an inward one', because he knew she's brought it in because she was good at it, and not because it was right.

Ingrid is obviously charming. 'I am in a serviced flat in Mount St., but all the service is a woman who comes for an hour a day and washes up. I get my own meals.'

'Isn't there a restaurant?'

'No.'

She seems to have most difficulty with words that begin with 'in'.

They aren't rehearsing tomorrow afternoon. John said, 'Well, I didn't really want to, but I didn't like to say.'

He's gone to our physio-therapist for his stiff neck. D. sent him. Mr. Hopewell-Ash is at Goodwood today! Still, Claire Foot is very good.

I'm tired.

Michael Allinson she compared to Graham Armitage!

Saturday August 4 1973

John was rather irritable today, and his impatience and going on to the next thing and coming back to the first, was more in evidence. How very difficult it is to catch someone like him - or us - in flight! For all the fact that she can't really describe rehearsals at all, I yet have a strong feeling of the shaping of it going on quite confidently. She likes Barbara Ferris. Bought two little Staffordshire houses for £5. First night presents.

Sunday August 5 1973

To Birmingham to cut Mollie's lawn again. I was irritable in the train. I seem less and less able to bear the common people, proles and their messy noisy life, and yet we can't afford first class. Tho' I made her on the way back, because the train was even fuller. Still, I did the lawn properly.

Monday August 6 1973

First of all, Mr. Abbott, from across the road, came across and said a piece of our guttering had come half off. And there it was, at an angle of 25 degrees above the front bay. Agony. Still I got a man in half an hour! and he took it down so there was no more damage. The repair will be £40; if it rains badly before the repair, the bedroom will be ruined. And the whole roof must be done. £600-£700 with second hand Welsh slates, £1000 with new slates. 1st will last 20 years, second 30-40.

John G. did a bit for Helen Christie in Act I and D. said it was thrilling, like 'The School for Scandal' with size, and separation and clarity.

To Mrs. Culver, 'But you can't approve of John, (turning to Martha) having an Open and Flagrant - Intrigue - (turning back to Mrs. C) with - Constance's Greatest Friend?

Size - Clarity - Separation.

Ingrid is always working towards Clarity.

I'm still tired.

He gives inflections all the time, and D. said 'My god I can see the point of it.'

After that bigness of Helen Christie as Barbara, then 'Dorothy, you can take yours right down.' That delicate taste applied to each line, then each line in relation to the one before and after, and so on. It's from Granville Barker through William Poel. Tunes.

Tuesday August 7 1973

To an interview for a documentary film which I do tomorrow and the next day. Saw Olive Dodds who last interviewed me in 1951. From a letter Daddy wrote to J. Arthur Rank.!

The gutter is repaired - what a relief; as I heard the rain thundering down early this morning, I thought that our beautiful bedroom ceiling was certain to be ruined.

She said today that the two things she'll carry away, that make her see him as a great director, are, first, his gradual shaping. 'Yes, I know I'm changing it all again, but things are coming out. That's good.' And his great kindness. ‘That's much better - are you happy with that? I think that's good.'

He asked 'Can't you get me two tongue sandwiches? of the ASM.

Ingrid has learnt most of it.

Wednesday August 8 1973

Torture of a day. A tiny studio, me in an overcoat, learning long complicated speeches about package tours, while the crew waited. In front of them. Two or three pages full of lists of places and prices. D. said she couldn't have done it. Still I did quite well, I think.

John sits smiling most of the time, and laughs always at the funny lines - because he knows he'll get more if he does. John McCallum is stupid. ‘Constance’ says, 'And if he was going to indulge in an intrigue… isn't that the proper phrase, John?'

‘John’, I have not yet made up my mind whether it really is indulgence.

Although he's played the part before in Australia, he said, 'I don't understand that line.' John G. said, 'Well, "indulgence" as opposed to "penance".'

Later, they ran thro' it again, and John McC again said he didn't understand it.

Apart from anything else, the poor creature can't pick up a noun from an adjective. And he thought 'Habeas Corpus' was simply a collection of schoolboy smut.

Well, he'd better go back to Australia and stay there.

Poor Charles Pemberton as 'Mortimer', very nervous (and bad) still, had had an idea to take a cigar out of his breast pocket, make to light it, realise there were ladies present, and put it back. Nervous, and inexperienced, he of course, did it very sketchily, and anyway it's wrong.

John G. said, 'Don't do that. It's an awfully good idea. But don't do it, think it, but don't do it.’

Dear sweet kind right man.

Another hideous advert film day.

Thursday August 9 1973

Called at 9.0 at Bushey, so up at 6.30, slept hardly at all, and off at 7.45. Hideous day. That such a film should attract anyone to go on such hideous holidays....

John G. changed Pauline Jameson's performance today, - and so did she, to her credit, though she hated it. He said, 'She's a woman who means to be pleasant, but is stopped by something. She's got no man, and is eaten up by something inside. She wants to be kind, but - ....she's eaten.'

He went on, 'You see, your voice is so warm and you're playing it with such charm, you might be playing Constance.'

Silly Pauline, as if D. would make that mistake.

John McCallum is a fool - and so is Ingrid, for quite other reasons, perhaps, but the result is the same. They cannot pause.

In the passage when 'John' says, 'I had a long operation. (pause) You know how it is. (pause) You go on cutting. (..)

And the pauses represent him seeing how the lie is going. - he just can't do it.

Ingrid finds it v. difficult, but we are disposed to be more lenient because she's intelligent, and has little or no stage training. And of course, the hellish camera did the timing.

Friday August 10 1973

To cottage alone. My brain is tired, from taking decisions! This weekend will be healing. Also I let her rehearsals weigh on me too much, even to help her. I hear her brain going on working and trailing away, as if it were my own, and am in no state to listen to her words.

Rang to hear her news. John G. had seen the Tony Richardson - Vanessa R. 'Anthony & Cleopatra', and said how extra-ordinary it was that in spite of the modern dress and the stunts. Shakespeare came through. Only thing he didn't like was that everyone smacked everyone else's bottom. Tony R. always has that, I don't know why. Have you see 'The Financial Times?' B.A. Young is such a good critic. They aren't rehearsing tomorrow. He said, 'We're all a bit in the doldrums, I've been picking at it too much. You've got the inflections more or less, I won't pick at it any more, we'll start at the Globe on Monday and go through the play, and I won't pick at it any more.’

Later, I rang again to give her a message about Donald and Joan! She is a bit depressed because she's no longer centre in the first scene, and is playing in right profile, her worst side! But he may change that again and Ingrid had been to John and said she didn't want D. to smoke in some scene or other, because she wanted to, alone. And D. had thought 'Bloody stars' and felt small because Ingrid hadn't come to her.

Well, we'll see. It's all got to be much more depressing before it's finished.

Yes, I must buy some new clothes for Brighton.

Wonderful quiet day here, perfect weather. Garden needs final reorganisation and effort, and then will be as self-supporting as the house.

There was an old bottle of milk in the crate, with the top vanished, and out of the sour cream, the bottom and legs and tail of a mouse, sticking out. I laughed aloud.

Upstairs there was a thrush's? egg in the airing cupboard! where was the thrush?

Saturday August 11 1973

A very hot cloudless day. Too hot to work, and anyway the ground is like iron. I expect the most I'll do is finish mowing the lawn. Sunbathed most of the day.

D. rang up - she's all right. Rhoda is dead, and Ada is in hospital. Well, well. If only Rhoda has left something to Edna, but she won't.

What a day! How lucky we are.

Layered the white hydr.

Sunday August 12 1973

Not quite so hot, as there was fine cloud, but very heavy. More or less finished mowing the lawn, with more sweat than ever.

An ant's nest was swarming on the lawn. Small ants. Even the winged ones, and how strange, a smell of ants from them.

D. rang - dear little thing, she's troubled. Edna rang - Rhoda left no will later than 1959! A frog leapt out of the grass into the pond and I found a half chewed-up frog or toad - with my fingers! - in some old grass under one of the apple trees.

A cow is calling tonight, still at 11.0 p.m. in the field round the garden, and rushing about in between calls. Very tiresome. Mr. Cummings has made his cows neurotic like himself.

12.9 p.m. Cow still calling.

Monday August 13 1973

Very hot still and heavy. John G. described Vanessa's Cleopatra, for ten minutes at a stretch, getting it all in. 'She has this wonderful gift for breaking the verse up, without losing the flow of it.' He is like us, in not condemning or praising outright, necessarily.

She is still a bit frantic. Why? Because she feels one of a crowd, too much. Wait till Brighton before I worry.

Tuesday August 14 1973

Our anniversary. Told Goodyear's to send a small box of flowers to the Globe to rehearsal. They sent a box four feet long, and she had to take a taxi.

In the evening to 'Absurd Person Singular'. Brilliant passages, but finally not quite right. Actors didn't fit together quite. Anna Calder-Marshall nearly killed the 2nd act.

Sheila Hancock as usual superb.

Wednesday August 15 1973

To B'mouth for day, very tiring. Daddy just the same, tho' feels he's better.

John said 'Let's go back to the beginning of Act II' Stage management, 'Shall I just go through the moves we did last time.' John, 'If you insist'.

She said that the opening of Act I wasn't right, and could they do it sometime without the rest of the play pressing behind. 'Of course' said John.

Later, he was saying we 'didn't want to rehearse on Sat. morn, did we?' No, nobody did. 'Oh, but couldn't we do Act I opening then? Why not? I've nothing else to do'.

He's to do "The Tempest" with the National in Jan.

Oh! I hope it will be all right.

Thursday August 16 1973

Today was terribly hot, and tonight, at 12.35 p.m. the thermometer in the hall, always in shade, still shows 75 degrees. At 4.0, the temperature on the roof of the London Weather Centre was 35 degrees centigrade, whatever that may be.

John G. made a little speech saying how good they were all going to be, and how well they'd rehearsed, despite the great heat. 'It's all going to be very stylish'. He's brought a large vacuum flask full of lemon sorbet for anyone to have a spoonful.

Later, he corrected Michael Allinson as Bernard. 'You said "berlieve" - it's "bilieve"! D. went back onstage specially to thank him for the lemon sorbet. 'Was it all right?'

Ingrid said at one point, 'I'm so glad I kept up my theatre over the years - the others are terrified to try.'

By 'the others' she meant Bette Davis, Katherine Hepburn, Joan Crawford etc.

Prim and John Warner came to dinner. Delicious salmon-trout. John I can't stand much longer.

All the same, he told us how his Great Aunt Maud, aged 95, had written to a friend, 'It is impossible for me to answer you letter, as you must understand I am totally deaf' - It was addressed to the wrong person, too.

Friday August 17 1973

Today John G. gave an inflection note to Ingrid, by saying, 'Make it start low and go up and come down again, like a little arch.' Later, he said to her, 'No, don't slump in that chair like that. Sit up, with your elbow on the arm. No, not that elbow, the other - yes, that makes a beautiful picture.'

She keeps repeating, 'He's so kind.'

Still very warm.

D. has just reminded me that, years ago, we were going to dinner with John, we dismissed our taxi before it went into the one-way maze round John. He opened the door to us in fits of laughter, saying ‘Martin (his Central European boy-friend) has just said "Here are two people arriving on feet”.’

Saturday August 18 1973

John rehearsed just the opening. Yes, she's centre. Good.

‘Are you unhappy about anything in the play? You've been very quiet - I think you're awfully good', he said.

I went to see Ada in hospital as Thornton Heath. Thin, big tummy, was sick five times in the hour or so I was there, thick white ribbons of something, the lining of her stomach perhaps? Memory gone more or less.

'I'm no use' she said. 'I'm no ornament.' Her neighbour, Mrs. Smith, an excellent woman, came while I was there, and went up to see another friend of both, aged 97, Florrie.

'Florrie who?' I said.

'Florrie Turner' said Ada sharply. Naturally. What other Florrie is there? Oh dear.

Sunday August 19 1973

To a party - which we never go to - I should say, apart from back-stage parties we've been to less than a dozen in 15 years - at Timothy and Pru West's on North Side, Wandsworth Common. Large house, big garden, about 50 yards square. Two shouting children, how extraordinarily they let children behave now. One or two boring people arrived, we had the car back at 1.0, having got there at 12.15, and were home, dear home, eating our omelettes at 1.35.

The party was to start at 12.0 and go on till 10.0 p.m.

!!

John said to Ingrid, about her first entrance, 'No, close the door during the applause.' Quite straight about laughs and applause. Factual.

As we are.

Monday August 20 1973

Still very very close. Went out to buy some clothes today, very sticky. Felt old, as middle- aged clothes are too dreary and young ones too young.

However, repeated my blazer of two years ago, and got a cheap suit, tweed jacket, herring- bone waistcoat and trousers, that will tide me over, from Simpson's Trend shop, £43.

John said to Ingrid today, 'No, don't droop or be sad at all, the part should be like a ping-pong ball on a fountain of water.'

How perfect as a description of light comedy playing, not too far up or down.

That's why it's so difficult.

He said he'd seen the film of 'Tis Pity She's a Whore'. 'You must see it, the dialogue's awful, none of them can act. It looks so beautiful. And neither of them can walk. When he got up, he walked as I used to.

And the dear got up and walked as he did then, and does now. Except that he's learnt not to let people notice it.

Tuesday August 21 1973

To my first rehearsal. Mildly flattered at being photographed for the TV Times, when I am usually chatting watching the principals. Derek Martinus nice boring actor-that-was, as director. He remembers when we worked together before. I don't. Read it, broke for lunch at 12.35, back at 1.45. Sent away till 11.0 tomorrow. I don't come till pg. 30.! I said to the make-up girl, whose name she told me - and spelt it - is Romagne – ‘I haven't always got a spot on my nose.' 'Haven't you?' she said.

John G. said today that the tempo in the first Act was very good. 'You see, the leisured tempo of those days, was so marked. Everyone had servants. And it showed in the tempo of life. In those days of butlers and all that crap, which we loved so much, there was leisure'. He couldn't bring him-

ANGUS MACKAY DIARY NO. 39

Tuesday August 21 (cont.) self not to recover the 'crap' that was in for the fashion of it. Again, he said to D. 'No, change your tone as she comes towards you; one does, you know, as someone comes across a drawing-room nearer one.’

Wednesday August 22 1973

My rehearsal was the usual mess of uneducated ill-digested discussion of an ill-written sketch.

D. had lunch with John at the pub. He got up, after finishing his pint of iced lager and sandwiches and egg and tomato, and went to the bar, and came back and said, 'They said they'd have some more bangers, but they've run out.'

'No, don't turn too far, Dorothy, this is your best scene, they want to see your face.'

He's putting in all sorts of subtleties, like telling each actor who he should be looking at when. Or anything in the theatre, where at least in the end, you're left alone with the audience.

Thursday August 23 1973

Bought some (very) Oxford bags in hound's tooth check. Too much, I think.

D's dress-parade went off triumphantly for her. The clothes are all right except the pink coat which does not yet fit properly round the collar. 'Pull it forward before you go on' said the man from the National. But I think he only meant for now.

Her first hat, that is, for her first and best scene, was her worry. An exaggerated tricorne, (why, in 1926, even for a dowager?) it went up at the left-had side in a hideously unflattering way, and she was determined to change it. So she stayed on the stage, when John G. and Beatrice Dawson said it was all right, and stayed after they'd cut a pompom off, and stayed after they'd said put it on straight and B.D. had said that made it meaningless. And stayed..... And heard herself saying that it was hard. John said it looked dignified. She said 'I can do dignity, but didn't need the hat to do it for her. And stayed.....

And a voice from the back said, 'I don't think there's anything to be said in the hat's favour.'

John Perry - as it might be Binkie. Perhaps that's where Binkie got it from.

Went to 'Habeas Corpus'. A disappointment. Not nearly as funny as the first script was to read. Some very flat passages, and some trite moralising. Also some very good bits, too, but not a whole. Has been staged too fragmentarily. John Bird feeble. Has not yet decided when to look out front, or indeed whether. Patricia Hayes rather inaudible. Alec a very remarkable moment at the end, just of power of personality.

The extra of a star.

Friday August 24 1973

John aid to D. 'You were brave about the hat. I quite agreed, but didn't like to speak up'. As about the set for '40 Years On'.

Later he took D. on one side, to say, quivering with giggles and apropos of Ingrid's difficulty with English, 'Couldn't you say, instead of 'You take after your poor father', 'You take after your poor Swedish father.'

When asked today at rehearsal, what the mental attitude of my character was, I was so cross at the waste of time of it all, that I launched into a speech to such effect that the girl nearly shed a tear, and the boy said I was very good at improvisation. I finally had to scribble two complete foolscap pages which were to be submitted to the author (sic) to be included in the script.

Silly as it all was, I was quite proud not to be self-conscious.

Saturday August 25 1973

Went to see Ada after the hospital had said she was on the danger list.

'I'll try and come tomorrow.'

'Couldn't you come today?' said the little Chinese-sounding nurse.

I went. A little group of her friends were in the corridor. Mrs Smith, her next door neighbour, that little woman I met whose son is in a mental home, and Mr. and Mrs Venn, the minister she liked and his wife. They had been turned out of the ward because she wanted the nurse, and now the Father was with her. ! I took that to be the Chaplain of the hospital, and a High Church man. Really. With her favourite minister in the passage. How silly.

I was introduced as Mr. Mackay's son, with obvious effect on the Venns. Cancer of the throat, they told me. The Father left, so I went in. Curtains drawn round her bed, she propped up, eyes half closed, looking a bit dry, lips dry, 'looking like death'. I said quietly 'It's Angus', a lot of times, and took her arm. She breathed very hard and with difficulty. Then made a noise like 'Anganhahh! Ang-aaaaah!' and took my arm and rubbed it up and down, and looked out of her half-closed eyes like someone in a nightmare, and I went away and had to leave her in it. I hope she dies tonight.

Sunday August 26 1973

D. to Brighton for dress-rehearsal of 'C.W.'. I went with her, and just as well, as there was a porter, - but only just - at Victoria, and the same at Brighton. And then two long flights of stairs at Malk's flat. My journey home a bit of a nightmare, as there was a fire on the line, so the journey took 2 hours instead of 1.

Rang her later, at 10.40. She was in, finished word rehearsal, and first dress rehearsal. Ingrid splendid at word rehearsal, fluff, fluff, dry-dry at dress rehearsal. Well, of course, she's so experienced.

John's only note to D. Whip the opening along.

Wrong. How can he not see?

All openings are not as good as 'Hamlet'. You have to make them start to listen.

Tuesday August 28 1973

Couldn't write last night. Went to Brighton, got off at about 4.25. Crawford's waiting faithfully, and at Victoria the 4.28 was late, so I was in Brighton by 5.45, and at the theatre after waiting quarter of an hour for a taxi by 6.5, and in my bath by 6.30. Curtain up was 7.45, theatre completely sold out, all the boxes and the gallery. D. had a present of a stuffed woolly animal, a dog sitting down. Its head on its paws, from John. 'I found it in the Lanes', he said, in helpless giggles. He is a baby.

The play went well with the audience, despite Ingrid fluffing and drying badly in the first act quite a number of times, and to a lesser degree, later on. She looks lovely, and in whole passages was excellent if only she can master the part and the language. The applause at the end was very good indeed. I had been bored.

D. was perfect, superb, the success of the evening, and indeed the only real complete success. She had a huge exit round on each of her three exits, and her entrance at the curtain-calls produced a sharp clap of combined violent applause and cheers, that was repeated when she stepped out of the line later on, that was unmistakeably success.

Afterwards, John G. and John Perry came round, and had a drink. Obviously they had not had one anywhere else. John Perry was delightful, light and easy and charming. I backed him up about putting the play back into its original three acts.

It is a dull affair. The clothes were rather awful really, or rather they were awful together.

D's were excellent except the last act coat, badly cut, in the wrong material. Ingrid's were lovely except the last suit, blouse, ugly material.

Pauline J's hats frightful, hideously unbecoming, and as non-20's as they could be.

Today I got a letter from Ada's sister at Lowestoft, and from Alec Guinness.!

Wednesday August 29 1973

Mr. Venn rang me this evening to say that Ada died early this morning. Quite easily, he said. I hope so. I've written to her sister in Petts Wood, and her sister in Lowestoft, and to Doris Kendall - with whom I haven't been in touch since 1940. Also to her next door neighbour Mrs. Smith, an excellent straightforward woman, who let me know she was in hospital.

Bernard Holley says that Maggie Smith wants to marry Kenneth Williams.

Thursday August 30 1973

D. rang tonight, before I could, to say was I coming. Well, I am. Good.

John came round tonight, and said 'An impeccable performance. I haven't any notes. You're a great personal success. I'm so glad!'

Saturday September 1 1973

Brighton.

Last night I went round after the show, and listened to D's marvellous sharp round at the calls.

She's really done it down here anyway. Malk's friend, Edie Downs, came round, well- dressed, jolly, with a real 20s ginny voice. Also Dora Bryan - a sign of D's success. She's a fool and had a ghastly contemptuous daughter, with her, in worst throes of adolescence.

Then came John. He was going back to London, and we had a lovely talk. He settled down and had two glasses of white wine. We talked a lot of the play, and Ingrid's uncertainty, which he can't see how to help, any more than we can. He's disappointed in Barbara Ferris, 'she was so amusing in rehearsal.' I still have to put my finger on it, but it is something to do with not being able to present the surface as well as the underneath - she's so simple. No use in a comedy of manners.

He talked about 'The Tempest' which he does for the National next year. 'Peter Hall's got very funny ideas about the casting. I suggested that boy, Peter Firth, who's so good in Equus for Ariel, but he said 'no, Florizel', I'm in his hands, really.’

Disgraceful.

He said he'd been reading the Graham Robertson letters again and ordered 'Time Was'. (Hasn't he got it? He had it, but got rid of it, I suppose. His house now is smaller than ours, and he only has a few shelves of books.) I said I had a copy by both beds.’ True, He said, ‘He was rather a selfish old man, really, but rather amusing. I went down to lunch with him, with Alan Dent, during the war, and he said we could forget all about the war, as we would be going back to 1894. Which was true. He also said 'The Blakes get less good as you go upstairs.'

John said he'd always meant to try and make an offer for 'Choosing' when Kerrison Preston dies. I hope he can. Curse the Americans.

We were so struck that he spent that half an hour with us. She is the one he feels at home with.

Sunday September 2 1973

House.

Lovely day.

Went to English's for dinner. Gone off terribly. Paper napkins. Main dish served on plate with tomato and potato unasked for, and plate dumped in front of one. Waiter said 'Have you decided foodwise?'

Wine still good, but was probably from what I hope was previous regime. Other customers charming but impossible. She misses me!

Monday September 3 1973

Hideous hotel in Southampton. Terrible lunch. Uncooked plaice and such sweet white wine that I couldn't drink it. Slightly better dinner. Cutlets, real spinach, lemon sorbet, cheese. Nasty but just drinkable wine.

Only in the studio from 3.30 till 6.0, am not called till 1.0 tomorrow, and finish at 6.0.

Wednesday September 5 1973

Studio Day yesterday enlivened by the director leaning _over me to say 'Great, really great' to the two young people, and saying nothing to me at any point.

I was glad to find that, though enough depressed to feel it then and mention it now, it made no difference to my usual pallid Television performance.

Got home about 7.50, and went to dinner at Albert's, the new restaurant on the other side of the common. Against: paper napkins, music playing, escalope Cordon Bleu better though, maitre talked to someone too long.

For: Vichyssoise delicious, really cold, and a very hot night. Veal tender and delicious inside. Pouilly F served well in ice-bucket. Music was Italian. I didn't know one tune that was hackneyed. Coffee excellent. And him talking to the only other people there was a measure of his struggle. He and the cooks are Italian. I walked back home across the Common. Such a restaurant would have been unthinkable even three years ago, and even now may not go. There were eventually three other tables filled. All had beer with their meal.!!

My bill was £4.11.

Thursday September 6 1973

Brighton.

She's very tired; comes of sitting up with Malcolm. I don't think she can sit up any more, not without great care.

Annette M.C. at matinee. Also Marie Lohr in a box, looking very old.

Saw John for a moment, just back for the matinee.

'Hullo, Angus. I'm off to the South of France tomorrow.' And smirked. The dear.

Friday September 7 1973

Brighton.

Took to lunch Griffith James, D's company manager, and Ruth Roberts, Ingrid's 'speech coach'. She was in Hollywood for years, and taught Deborah Kerr to speak American, Ingrid to speak American, and Loratta Young to speak Swedish, or with a Swedish accent. She is a softly-spoken (too softly, difficult to hear sometimes) large pleasant faced woman. Very much herself and calm. Griffith Jones is a good queer. Also calm. Can obviously keep his head in a crisis, as he's often had to do. He described the Sybil Thorndike’s 90th B'day matinee. Just before Margot Fonteyn was to dance the Adagio from 'Swan Lake', to a special slow tape because she can no longer dance it at the right speed, Joyce Grenfell spilt her glass of water in to the tape-recorder, also splashing Celia Johnson's dress. With the performance already in progress, Griff dashed to the Criterion where they were setting-up, and borrowed a tape-recorder, slotted the tape in while Larry O was making the announcement of Margot, and it worked.

He also told us a tale of Eric Portman and Edith Evans filming together, in the car on the way to the studio at about 6.30.

Eric P. 'What did you do yesterday, Edith?' E.E. 'I had Isabel Jeans to lunch. E.P. 'What did you give her?' E.E. 'Well, first we had soup. And then we had a sandwich. E.P. 'A sandwich? That's not much to give a guest for lunch. There's not much goodness in a sandwich'. E.E. the goodness was in the soup.

Ruth R. had a grilled Dover Sole, he had a sirloin steak, D. and I had a whole plaice grilled. They didn't want an aperitif or first course. So we didn't have the second, - we'd had a gin and tonic before they arrived - I ordered a half-bot. of Fleurie for Griff., and a bottle of Meursault for us, - Ruth r. had a Guinness - and then we all had coffee - and the bill was £12.15.

And a strange man at the next table told us a story about Marie Tempest of which I couldn't hear a word. Went to see the play tonight, Ingrid B. streets better, lovely passages. D. perfect as ever. Spent Act II in her d-room.

Sunday September 9 1973

Yesterday afternoon I did some shopping - two shirts - and went to see the film of 'Sleuth'. Very nearly came out in the middle. The very imperfect script has been imperfectly adapted for film, by the author, - possibly the American producers were influenced by the great success of the play on Broadway - and neither of the stars has been told firmly enough that they must think of the real (sic) situation. Difficult, I know, as it is highly artificial to start with. But that makes it all the more important that two simple ignorant crude actors like LO and M.C. (specially this last, with all his working-class crudities still well to the fore) should be reminded again and again to be real.

After her play, we went to a party in Sussex Square. Charles Rennison, an ex-actor now turned antique-dealer, was our host. A nice queer, with a Martin Hensler (John Gielgud's boy-friend) type boy-friend, and three or four not nice queer friends.

Edie Owen was in D's room. She is nice enough, but was talking a lot of rubbish about Ingrid being an amateur, and not able to move. I am always struck by the crudity of these attacks. She also praised D. immoderately. D. said afterwards, 'How can she imagine that I could play those two duologues happily, with an amateur?'

And D. would not even come over so well, if Ingrid were as bad as they say! The others at the party had little good to say of Ingrid. I'm afraid the first night will not be happy.

I talked most of the time to Barbara Ferris and her husband. They are both dears, but so simple it hurts. He has a tiresome schoolboy humour still, poor chap, which reminded me of David and Bob, years ago. Sad.

Today has been a beautiful quiet domestic day. We have been alone all day.

Monday September 10 1973

D's hairdresser down here, Angela, came with her young man. Dears, and wouldn't hear a word against Ingrid.

D. got cheers tonight. Ingrid got louder cheers. Now that's right.

Tuesday September 11 1973

The cottage alone.

The grass has hardly grown at all since I was here, because of the drought, and the pond is the lowest I've ever seen it. Ridiculous. Despite the great heat and lack of rain, the cottage still felt slightly damp, and I had the electric fire on for a while, as well as the oil-lamps. And no windows open.

We gave Annette lunch at the Sheridan. Good. I can't help liking her tho' she is prejudiced and upper-class. I suppose I still want to be! I am unsettled at the moment and on edge, and for a wonder can't decide why. Of course there is the worry of D's first night - she has such a chance of such a success - and the envy of it, and the thought of endless nights alone. Tho' these last I rather like a lot of the time; if only I could be in a play, too. And yet I've got a TV to do at once. Perhaps it's the full moon!

The garden looks surprisingly well, despite the drought. But I must get gradually rid of all the plants that don't look good more or less all the year or at least March to October. For example, Tradescantia collapses here and rots in August, and it's in too obvious a position to do that. Delph. too, but that's easier to hide. C. parthenium must go eventually. It's been flat since July!

Wednesday September 12 1973

The swallows and one or two house-martins are all along the telephone wire, gathering to go away. Some youngish ones still being fed. About fifteen or so altogether. Spotted flycatchers, three, and a cloud of gold-finches. Beautiful sunny day.

Found in one of my book-catalogues a title of the most esoteric, 'Neolithic Dewponds and Cattleways'.

While I was sunbathing just under the telephone wire, the swallow still sat on it, and flew away and came back. The usual crowd of long-tailed tits went round the hedge, and I saw a Comma on the alba rugosa, only the third, I think, in the last ten years. It is a wonderful year for butterflies. Coming here is to step into autumn. In Brighton it was high summer with people in the streets in swimsuits. Here, though very dry, it is not chilly, but you know it's going to be.

Thursday September 13 1973

The cottage. 1.45.

The swallows were here in even larger numbers until about an hour ago. They seem to have gone, but it may not be for good. A strong breeze may have encouraged them to leave. Still young ones being fed, but more adult than young.

7.0. No, they came back, more than ever.

Have heard that I have yet another television play to do, after the one starting a week on Monday, from 5 October to the 18 October. Rang to tell her. She told me Bumble had told her the pink coat was perfect, and the plume on the 'hat' not too long, you've got a thing about it. Now the plume and the style of the coat are a matter of opinion. The coat however is badly cut, and hangs all wrong. I am afraid B. Dawson is far from being a perfectionist.

Friday September 15 1973

Brighton. 1.20 a.m.

The swallows hadn't quite gone - they were still flying low in the big meadow.

Too tired to write about our supper-party tonight, the dear Thomases from the Ellen Terry Museum.

Tuesday September 18 1973

House. 11.25.

Waiting for D. to come back from the charity preview at 8.0. She's late.

Lovely supper with the dear Thomases who run the Ellen Terry Museum. She is a rare creature.

She's in now, and had a fairly good reception from a charity show.

John came round and gave notes. He'd been in a box at the back of the circle, and so for the first time! gave notes on projection, and 'go for the drama'. 'Even you, Dorothy, can give it a little more voice.' To Charles Pemburton, 'No, you needn't do any more - you're all so good, all you have to do it enjoy it.' Standing with a cigarette, ash upwards as it was, getting short, tingling with excitement. Saying all the usual director's words, but bringing them all up to the point with his own enthusiasm. I'm frightened, tho.

Wednesday September 19 1973

5.20.

On twittering tenterhooks trying not to put on my dinner-jacket too soon.

John rang up this morning to give D. a new move!, and said 'It's going to be very good, really, of course she's not a comedian, it would be so much better with Irene or Madge (meaning Vanbrugh and Titheradge) but she's very touching in the moments of feeling, but you see, that last scene and what's the matter with John McCallum, Ralph would have got roars of laughter in that scene. I suppose John is just a faded juvenile, really.' He said again D would have a personal success. I only hope it goes well enough to let her.

Anything can happen. He also told us Nora N. died last night.

Thursday September 20 1973

First night a surprising success. Ingrid quite transformed, fluent, good pace, generally 'up'. Reception splendid, D's cheers exciting. Few people came round, only darling Jeremy and Mikel remain with me. John came and had his silver box, and feel fairly sure he liked it.

I suddenly felt exhausted and only just got through supper.

D's notices marvellous. She and Ingrid only two mentioned in the main. I think she's really done it this time.

John rang this morning. 'No, don't get her out of the bath, it's just to say how pleased I am about her lovely notices, and can she come to a little rehearsal at 7.30 and what was the name of that fresh-faced boy in her room last night - I was so ashamed I couldn't remember his name.' (Jeremy.) 'When does your film begin, John?' ‘On Monday, I think. I haven't heard anything. I don't understand a word of my part. I shall shoot my cuffs a lot.’

Saturday September 22 1973

A lovely notice for her in the 'Scotsman', yesterday, which I bought on the way to Bournemouth. Daddy still holding his own, and up all the time I was there.

Nan Munro came to the show last night and was very complimentary. Said how lovely the clothes were, - D. pointed out their deficiencies, and N.M. agreed.!

Sunday September 23 1973

Splendid notices for her, and very good selling ones for the play, in all the Sundays. Harold Hobson is the sort of notice you dream about - even mentions 'A Private Matter.' If only one thought more of him!

John Perry, now head of H.M. Tennent wrote to me to thank me for my wire, and said 'The play is a great success! Dorothy gives the best high comedy performance I have seen for a very long time!'

Monday September 24 1973

A dreary day rehearsing one good little scene of four pages! Called at 11.0 in the wilds of Twickenham, which takes three-quarters of an hour to get to. Worked for half an hour at the outside, and then sent away till 3.0.!!

Before I went, bought 4 new dining chairs. Victorian mahogany, for £63 at a shop at Clapham Common.

D. says Ingrid now upset at the Sunday notices. Very sweetly she said, 'Why don't they put up Dorothy Reynolds' notices outside instead?' And 'English audiences are so generous. If we'd had notices like this in the States, we'd be off.'

Exactly, but then look at the state of the American theatre. They have little appreciation of acting, only of sensations.

Friday September 28 1973

Bought a radiator for the bedroom for £21.00 on Wed. A new bed for the spare-room on Thursday for £67. Good.

She got me a Dover sole for my dinner tonight. £1.30.! But it was delicious.

I rang my godson's parents to ask what he'd like for his birthday on Monday. He answered, and I said, 'Are Mummy and Daddy busy or can I have a word with them?' He said, 'Neither of them are busy, but I am - very.'

On Monday he's five. Patrick Rowe.

Saturday September 29 1973

John came round to 'D's room. He hadn't been to the show since the first night, and it was again in her room that he settled for a drink. He was so sweet, she said, and said, 'Is Angus here?' as if he expected me to be there every night.

Jeremy Brett came round to say how wonderful she was, 'I felt I must'. So she came back glowing with recognition.

Friday October 5 1973

Cottage.

First day of the TV programme to be done in Cardiff. I have small part of Lord Curzon. Stupefyingly boring. Dear Emrys James (playing Lloyd George - it's all about the Ypres campaign of 1917) asked after my son.

A distinct shock. However, I got over it, and explained in the car on the way home. Or rather to Charing X. Quiet here. I'm glad. I need sleep. She is at Charles Pemberton's for supper, poor little thing. Never mind, she had a good rest today, and more on Sunday.

Saturday October 6 1973

Cottage.

A jay sat and preened himself for twenty minutes on the plain tree. A pair of nut-hatches dashed in and out of the rose trellis and fed under the yew tree, and three or four house- martins or swallows, flew over.

D. rang; still a bit tired. Oh, how irritating, she ordered a mini-cab from our firm, and rang at 6.25 to say it was ten minutes late. At 6.50! she ran over (in her long dress) to Mrs. Cook's, to see if her son would take her, sobbing, of course. She even cried as she told me. Poor little thing, I should never go away.

Pouring!

11.10 p.m.

Planted more fritillary bulbs under apple tree and a few in old rose-bed. Since I planted the first few lots, we have of course had some of the driest springs and summers of the century. About three hours work from quarter to four till dusk.

The cows in the big meadow not Mr. Cummins' and not hysterical! When I went down to get the milk and paraffin, they did not thunder along the hedge beside me - only looked up.

Friday November 9 1973

Cottage.

Planted, on the right hand side of the gate, (coming in) the cutting that Molly Thomas gave me from Ellen Terry's Rosemary at Smallhythe.

Daddy much worse. Oh, let him die soon.

Saturday November 10 1973

Cottage.

Daddy a little improved.

Bother, I wish Lalla wouldn't panic, but I don't wonder at it. I find the thought of he and Lalla struggling together depresses me much, but does not move me.

The Cardiff programme was all right in the end, because we were all the same age and all got on well together. I specially liked Noel Willman, a mildly epicene and intelligent man, (so that I was surprised to hear John G. say later what a vicious tongue he had - this may be resolved by Noel W's frequent references to his being an alcoholic in the past, perhaps that made him nasty - certainly he drank nothing every day when we went to the pub during the Cardiff rehearsals.) He was a very ready laugher, always an endearing trait and one of the first of his remarks endeared him more. He said he took a part in a film, a rather sinister part, entirely because of one line in it, (when even the authorities sensed something odd about the line, and suggested changing, or even cutting it, he said, he'd give up the part if they did.) On a deserted marsh, he had to go up to a girl and say, 'I'm looking for somebody; have you seen anybody?'

Later people were swopping Tyrone Guthrie stories. An otherwise rather heavy man called Reginald Marsh contributed two, I imagine, very typical ones. Some prop man making some very special effect had been reported as having refused to do so. Guthrie erupted into his room and tore a strip off him. The man said he had been wrongly reported and hadn't refused at all. 'Well, let that be a lesson to you', said Guthrie. (However, that was not first-hand, and bears the marks of inaccuracy on it to me.) The other R. March was there. 'Henry VIII' Coronation year, '53, at the rehearsal when Gwen Frangem-Davies first did her speech at her trial as Katherine. She finished and went off in floods - everyone else in floods. Guthrie bounded on stage, saying, 'Very good, the boy with the banner at the back.'

Noel W. had two. At the first night of something at the Lyric, H'Smith when Tennent Prods. had it during the late 40s-50s, (‘as it might be Rodney Ackland's 'The Pink Room' I said, 'Do you know I believe that's just what it was', he said, looking at me rather oddly. Well, he'd said a play that we all wanted to go well, that’s how I guessed. Rodney A. still had a reputation to lose - just - by then.)

He and Guthrie sat and watched laugh after laugh not come. At last there was a faint titter. Guthrie murmured, 'Very nearly highly comical.' (Everyone seemed to think this much funnier than I did.)

Apparently, at their house in Ireland, Tony and Judith G. used to be the in the nude in the lake and Noel W. once saw them walking into the water (both incredibly tall and gaunt) saying, 'Well, wouldn't she be good as the red-haired one - what's her name - in Hedda Gabler?'

Their flat in Lincolns Inn Fields was apparently filthy, and untidy to a degree. 'They were too busy to clean it'. Edith Evans, lunching with them one day, tried the wrong door on the staircase - which happened to be a coal cupboard, opened it, and thought, 'Oh, no, they're not back yet.' (And John G. confirmed that you had to duck under lines of washing.)

Someone, possibly Emrys James, told a John G. story. Of Caspar Wrede coming round with Dilys Hamlett, and John saying, 'How's Dilys?, and Caspar W. saying 'This is Dilys', and John saying 'No I meant Dilys Powell’, looking round rather feebly for the film critic.

(Also confirmed when I told John G. this, for he said 'Where' is that dreary little man now?')

Cardiff itself was fun because the hotel was so nice - the Angel. Restaurant charming, service excellent, food very good, tho' simple. Public rooms also charming with real flowers, cushions books, and the decorations done by Anthony Powell, the stage designer, who for once knows the rules of cornice and panel plaster. A very young man in black coat and stripe trousers came round to ask if all was well, and also as I was paying my bill. 'A very nice hotel', I said, 'Who are you?' 'The Manager' he said - he looked about 25. I said, 'How old are you?' He said 'Twenty-eight'. I said, ‘By fifty you'll be Prime Minister’, and he went charmingly scarlet.

On Sunday October 21, D. was appearing in the Golden Gala for the 50th anniversary of the Oxford Playhouse, an event rather overshadowed by Frank Hanser, the director for the last 15 years, not being there and his current cast of 'The Wolf' at the Apollo Theatre having refused to appear. Some nasty unspecified politics somewhere. D. was down on the programme to do her 'turn' at the end of the first half, (apart from 'Fenella Fielding and band') and John G. at the end of the second.

They sent a chauffeured car to the door, which took her to the stage-door. The programme was huge on art paper, all specially designed, there were thick, gilt-edged invitation cards, huge flower-pieces for all the women and champagne for all the men. And there would have been a car back for her if John G. hadn't offered to drive us back. I came down on a train about 5, and found she was sharing a dressing-room with Janet Suzman and Fenella Fielding. F.F. is big, highly-coloured and a bit mad. Janet S. is, as I thought, direct, humorous, sensible, delightful. But no mystery. I think she must become a comedienne or fade as her looks fade. But what a dear girl. D. sensed something wrong between her and Trevor Nunn. The RSC, I should think! It's all such rubbish, and she must know. F.F. had brought everything that might possibly be necessary in the way of make-up, jewellery etc. whereas D and Janet S. had just brought a bit of make-up. She kept asking them whether she would wear 'this' ('No', they said.) or 'this' ('No') and she did in fact wear a ring of a half-cut piece of quartz bigger than a golf-ball, because I saw it, and held it, myself. Drivean, finally, D. said 'Where are you going to wear the throat-spray?'

Other funny of the night, Michael Mac Liammoir told D. and John G. in the wings, that the Virgin Mary had gone, very worried to see her psychiatrist. When he asked her what was the trouble, she said, ‘I keep thinking I'm Siobhan McKenna' The performance was curious. John Moffatt as the compere was curiously lacking in panache. One must have a bit of XX on these occasions, and he was a bit limp. And his singing of 'Don't put your daughter on the stage Mrs. W.’ was rather embarrassingly amateur. Especially after months in 'Cowardy Custard'. That's one big reason why I didn't go.

The programme opened with an item with Richard Goolden in it, because he'd been in the opening play in 1923. As he'd just been in 'The Merchant' they revived the old Gobbo scene for him, with the result that the very first item was a perfectly strange young actor rushing on and hurling the Young Gobbo soliloquy at us rather indifferently. R.G. was quite funny as Old Gobbo but you cannot begin with a long difficult scene. The second item was Robert Bolt, in a dinner-jacket but unshaven, (perhaps he's growing a beard?) who said he expected we thought he was going to read from his own works, 'but never fear, an author soon learns that he can do it in the bath, but an actor can do it on the stage, so I will read you Max Beerbohm's essay on Acting. Which he proceeded to do in a rapid North Country monotone at, I think, full length. Much more difficult to get over than almost anything he might have chosen.

Sunday November 11 1973

Cottage.

(At this point D. arrived.)

Then John Moffatt announced a 'Playhouse Sandwich', I think. Up went the curtain on Constance Cummings, sitting down, who said, 'I'm going to read three poems on Childhood, and did so. Most unsuitable. Then Valentine Dyall told a surpassingly dreary ghost story, after making a reference to his famous radio character 'A Man in Black', not having realised that everyone's forgotten about it. Then Jane Asher recited 'Twas Brillig' because she'd once been in 'Alice in Wonderland' standing in a spot, looking beautiful, but alas her voice is completely untrained, breathy, nasal, and schoolgirlish, with no power of modulation and therefore no variety or command or inflection. I wonder if she'll wonder why she doesn't get on. Then four huge photos were revealed, of Sybil, Dorothy, Janet Suzman and Dorothy Tutin, with a big one of F.F. on ground level.

Sybil and Dorothy T's were illuminated while a tape, rather inaudible, of them doing the Willow scene was heard. D. said Sybil was marvellous. Then Janet S. was lit up, and came on and read, quite well, the proposal scene from the 'Young Visitors'! Then 'And now a very special Actress' and it was D. (Everyone had been something, 'distinguished' 'legendary'.) She had told me she'd thought of doing the poem she wrote to Nora N. when they both left '40 Years On', and felt it would be right because Nora had been at Oxford for 2 years in '40- '41, or even longer. She came on and announced it stumblingly. 'I have written an occasional poem' and then said, 'This is it', which brought the house down. And the poem made every pro. cry. Miss Bates followed, and though she did not do it as well as she has once or twice done, she did it very well indeed. She can still keep the actual speed up more, not pace, speed. Still, she got the best applause of the evening after John.

Sunday November 18 1973

Three swans on the Mount Pond for the first time for five or six years. There always used to be a pair. Now 13 Canada Geese.

Wednesday November 21 1973

Went to 'Equus' last night, alone. A good little documentary marred by Peter S and empty 'philosophising' comments, but still quite viable. Enlivened by excellently done theatrical touches by John Dexter, and a riveting perf. by Peter Firth, the most exciting theatrical talent I have seen for the last 20 years. Since Richard Burton and Dorothy Tutin, in fact. Let's hope he won't go the way of the first, and have more chances than the second. Most remarkable, so quick and violent and orgasmic and funny and controlled.

And only 23? At most.

Monday November 26 1973

On my walk yesterday, saw a Pochard drake in the mount pond, as last year. I suppose that the number of mallard, doubled at least since the summer, and the swans back, may mean a severe winter.

Certainly it is very cold today - the puddles in the road have not melted all day.

Wednesday November 28 1973

To the National Film Theatre and saw a most painful film of a homosexual mime act. 'The Lindsay Kemp Circus', skill from L.K., but misery all round. And a helpless tedious film of the home life of Bruce Lacey. Oh dear; I came out. The crushing boredom. One might have spent the day with B.L. and family. I suppose the poor deluded audience of today would regard that as a compliment.

Rang Lalla, and was much irritated by crossed lines, with three or four diallings going on. The last time I thought someone was listening, and sniggering at my accent, and just as Lalla was telling me how Daddy was becoming much more restless, a bad sign, the crossed line put a transistor to the mouthpiece their end, and deafened us, so that we had to ring off.

Thursday November 29 1973

When I walked round the pond on the way to the West End, it was frozen and some of the mallard were walking about on the ice, larking, and perhaps feeling odd.

The swans had gone.

Sunday December 2 1973

Pond thickly frozen, a bit of clear water round the island. No sign of the swans, or, I think, the Pochard.

Monday December 3 1973

Completed another three months of the Company's accounts. Of course it partly makes me feel ill because of the income tax and accountants fees we still owe, but I think I would still turn away in disgust, however rich I was, from going back over my expenditure. Calculation is repulsive. Tuesday December 4 1973

To tea with Jeremy and Mikel. How charming they are, and how appealing the children are. Patrick is remarkable. I said 'Rapacious little beast' in fun, when he ticked fourteen or so of the Observer's books that he still wanted. He looked at me most troubled. I wished I hadn't used irony before he could understand it, because, unlike most children (and people!) he caught a worrying glimpse of it. Timothy is a jolly round laughing baby.

Wednesday December 5 1973

To matinee of 'Design for Living' at the Phoenix. Vanessa wonderful as ever.

Funny, touching, graceful hinting at all sorts of dimensions between the lines. Jeremy Brett first class. John Stride very funny and good but a little less to him. Afterwards he was sweet, when I'd expected him to be tiresome. Jeremy Brett, whom I'd never met before, was unable to see or hear me. Vanessa adorable but troubled. 'Are you coming to the meeting?' she said to Jeremy B. 'No, I'm tired.' And she went off looking heartbroken. Why will she dabble in idiotic politics? She would do much more good for the world by being the actress she was meant to be.

Tim Williamson ringing when I got in, £400 from various things, and more to come.

Thursday December 6 1973

I am worried about D's leg. Bought a new overcoat today, £63. Lining £14 extra. Grey herring-bone, broad lapels, tailored. Rang Lalla. Another friend of Daddy's, Sidney Thomas from Doncaster, has died. That's three deaths in the last fortnight for them. Mr Loder, Jack Edycombe, whom I remember before the war, and now this one.

What a year for deaths!

Saturday December 7 1973

To Nora Nicholson's Thanksgiving Mass at that little Catholic church in Maiden Lane. D. wore her lovely red hat. Nora would have liked that.

Christopher Fry read a bit of half-disguised Bible pornography 'My love is like etc etc.' rather dully. Nora chose it, I expect, in her pre-Freud innocent (sic) way. Alan B. read 'Love suffereth long and is kind' etc. in an hideous modern translation, as did the parson his bit. John G. gave a dear little address, quite suitable, though we were all amused at his saying innocently, 'I did not realise until I read her book, what a struggle she had in her early years.' He always seems surprised by no work and no money. It's one of his insensitivities, as, I suppose, he's never suffered from either of them himself. He's always had enough money, and always work, tho' not always exactly the right job that he felt should come now. As during the last two years, until Prospero in the Spring.

Sybil was helped in by her companion and Patricia Casson. She can only walk now very slowly, and is very twisted and bent. D. had said she would cry at the 23rd Psalm, - well. In the front pew, after the first lesson, Sybil was seen to struggle to her feet, then her voice unmarked by any failing, full, round, conquering the echo of the church completely as none of the other speakers had done, more triumphantly audible than the very clergymen themselves who speak in that building every day, rang out with such beauty of phrasing and confident faith, that the whole congregation was spellbound, and many moved to tears.

John G. said after, 'It broke me up completely.'

On her way out, Sybil stopped, kissed D. and said 'Where's Angus?' and kissed me. Imagine her remembering me. James C. was there, his responses a shade in advance and a shade louder, than anyone else, as every Catholic convert should. I was sitting next to Yvonne Mitchell, still with that rather smug 'serious' set to her mouth. Immediately in front of us, the Richardsons arrived, she made up very pale in a silly jockey cap; she genuflected to the ground, and turned into the pew, with an expression of pious egomania that was maddening. He is adorable. His head now nods in old age, in a gesture of assent. This is involuntary, and continuous, except for a moment, when in response to a whisper from his wife, he shook it in dissent before resuming the nod. He looked round for somewhere to put his hat besides his knee, finally deciding on the pew in front of him. As he put it down, a woman came to claim the seat. He removed it just in time.

We went for lunch to L'Escargot, still very good. D. had their onion soup, I had watercress soup. She had grilled sardines. I had lemon sole bonne-femme-ish (Sole was £2.40!)

Coffee and a carafe of white wine - the bill was £6.20. Not bad. Malcolm McDowell two tables away. Talked hard to two middle-aged men - about a film, I suppose. He was the host. Didn't take to what I saw of him, but may be mistaken.

Jo and Harry came in the evening, gave them mushroom and anchovies, pheasant (£1.80) and cheeses. Great success. Looked at Salisbury photos. D is a darling.

11.30 p.m. Have just finished Nora Nicholson's book. Oh dear, the half-truths and fantasies and dishonesties. A little real wit and flashes of interest. But oh dear, what a time-server. Her first headmistress was her best critic. Her little picture of D., for instance, utterly false.

Sunday December 9 1973

The pond had a little ice, very thin, on the sunless side. Only five Canada geese left, and as I watched, they flew away over the Common. Possibly only to the other pond, or for an evening flight. Where are the other eight? Fewer mallard, and the tufted duck all in the part of the water that didn't freeze last time, the nearest to the southern shore of the island.

Monday December 10 1973

To the cottage for day. Planted Pulsatilla Alba just above the old one in scent corner, and healed the Myrtle in next to the Rosemary there. Peony offic. alba-plena in prepared site.

Smilacina racemosa between thorn bush and Bay-tree on septic tank side. Three Corsican Hellebores in cherry-tree bed. One Stokesia between white geranium and big day-lily clump in d-room bed. Three Trilliumn grandiflo. under fragrans. Two Hepatica transsilvanica in new little bit by Hart's Tongue outside kitchen window, and the third in old rose bed, marked H. nobilis and H. angulos. in kitchen-bed, the first opposite the sink window the second in space among bergonias.

I. stylosa in house border.

I am rather puzzled that Hilliers have sent me 3 plants each of H. transsilvanica and H. angulosa, though those are catalogued as synonymous. We'll see.

Tuesday December 11 1973

House.

Planted the twelve yellow tulips among the wall-flowers as forgot them at the cottage.

Norman St. John-Steves came round to see D., sending a v. card to say the Minister of the Arts etc. etc. all fun. Good.

Wednesday December 12 1973

Re-planted (and widened by about a foot) the left-hand border here at the house. Split up both sages, replanted chives, thyme, etc. Potentilla and geranium, Iris XX and dwarf Iris.

Thursday December 13 1973

Why am I so tired? Christmas shopping? The crisis? (Ha, ha.)

I think it's theatre starvation and middle age.

And suddenly not working, after working so long.

Still, I start next week. Good.

Friday December 14 1973

To the Truffant film, 'Day Into Night.' In our first dozen films. Everything going on richly together, with right prevailing. No wonder so many people dislike his films. We shall go again. Tea in the Piccadilly Hotel after - thick china in the lounge smelling of lunch.

11.30 ish. Sudden short power cut. Lights came on again a second or two later. 2 mins later went off again, and are still off, street and all. 12.10 Came on as I wrote.

Saturday December 1973

Cold and windy, very cold indeed but not freezing.

Sunday December 16 1973

The pochard was back, and two of the geese. Odd.

Monday December 17 1973

Now Mikel Rowe has gone into hospital to be sterilised. Why not Jeremy? And to have her Caeserean tidied up.

Saturday December 18 1973

To Broadcasting House. There was Marjorie Westbury, whose voice I have known ever since - 1935?, five foot high, five foot wide, being a baby in one scene, crying and - much more difficult - laughing like a baby of eighteen months, so that hardened actors exchanged incredulous glances.

Met Richard Kay. Was in the play that D's just been offered, seven or eight years ago with Alastiar Sim. A dear man.

Thursday December 20 1973

To B'mouth for day. If only Daddy could die!

Saw Curlew? and some other wader on S'hampton Water from the train.

Yes, definitely Curlew, now I've checked at home. The other smaller birds were possibly Dunlins, but I'm an inexperienced wader watcher.

Joan rang up to ask about B'mouth trains, and to tell me that it exhausted Donald to go to Bournemouth!

Friday December 21 1973

Jeremy R. rang to say he'd taken his temperature and it was 101 degrees. So could I come to dinner tomorrow?

What a mistake to have a thermometer.

Saturday December 22 1973

Went to Jeremy's. Very sweet. Paté and a chicken dish, chateua-neuf du pape gin, whisky. I felt guilty. He gave me his poem to read, - a big affair, over a hundred pages. He'll be all right.

Sunday December 23 1973

A bright day but not cold. Unusual for December. No geese, but Pochard at pond and its duck. Spoke to such a nice man, who had a new Obsever's Book of Birds. We had a very pleasant little talk about birds.

No insurance premium to pay on the house contents, as this is a bonus year.

Investigate Iris. Many odd moist groups.

Monday December 24 1973

Up to the West End but D's ring not ready.

Huge traffic jams in Sloane St. Saw a busload of Chinese-looking soldiers - in uniform - go by, Sikhs? Why?

Sweet young couple in Selfridge's wondering whether to buy a pheasant each. No, I told them, one is more than enough.

Heavenly quiet day, alone, D. not playing.

Tuesday December 25 1973

Heavenly quiet day alone. Got up at 10.45, tea and orange-juice. Dressed, did the grate and washed up. Both confessed we'd like a couple of boiled eggs and toast for lunch. Had them, and listened to the Queen's speech at one o'clock. As always, wept tears at her simplicity and rightness. After all, what is there to say but we must love one another.

Had our presents over the coffee. D. had bought me five! A loofah, two bath mats, a desk scissors and paper knife, - and some gold cuff-links. At last, as I kept saying, I have some gold cuff-links. All the same, we're going to change them for a different design. I do see I'm hell.

She came for a walk with me - bliss. More seagulls than ever swimming on the pond. Why? Pochard still there, and three geese today.

In the evening had salami of wild duck, and some Pommard '69. (How often we had bottles of Pommard '47 at Earl's Court flat without ever thinking of it.) Quite quite delicious.

Rang Edna. She was more or less all right. Rang Lalla. Quite brave, kept up hers and their spirits, and Daddy had had his (Christmas) dinner at the table for the first time since June? and they'd put on funny hats. Mummy kept forgetting it was Christmas, but when told to lay the table, laid 7 places, as if we were all there.

Thursday December 27 1973

To first rehearsal of 'Z Cars', my episode, I mean.

The BBC rehearsal tower, - the Acton Hilton, as it is known - full. Yet so many actors are out of work. Had enjoyable chats. Part, as usual, nothing. Director pleasantly cultivated, thank god.

Saturday December 29 1973

Rehearsal today so boring, he's a fussy director, doing every little scene seven or eight times one after another, if it's only seven or eight lines long. Called tomorrow at 9.30, until 2.0, with the canteen shut. Nonsense. But what upsets me is that I wouldn't care if it was the theatre, because it would be necessary, and this sort of idiocy on television, will muddle the young people, so that they'll be outraged to be asked to do it at all. For the theatre, all overtime or overwork is worth it. Television is always wildly overrehearsed. As long as Equity don't start protesting to get all rehearsals standardised!

I haven't seen D. since Thursday except in bed, really.

Sunday December 30 1973

John G. left his Christmas present at the stage door of the Alberg. A sumptuous Appointments book, with four sections for each day, with six lines in each section. The sections are headed 'Morning', 'lunch', 'Afternoon', 'Evening'. A large book bound in red leather. I must become a dentist at once, so as to use it to the full, but it was very sweet of the dear dear man. And the card was signed from John and Martin.

Monday December 31 1973

John Dunn-Hill, a funny little thing on the programme, told of Michael Mac Liammoir, leafing over Sean Kenny's designs for Cyril Cusack's 'Hamlet' in Dublin. The designs were vague, and, I believe, SK's first.

Michael MacL. said to Cyril Cusack, 'Is he your friend?' 'No', said Cyril. Going on turning them over, he said to the director, 'Is he your friend?' 'No', said the director. 'Well', said Michael MacL., going on turning over, 'he must be somebody's friend'.

All in that dark deep deeply queer voice.

Sunday January 6 1973

Cannot write of TV programmes in the end. Too many impressions, and, I want to get away so much by the end.

Three Pochards on the pond today, and as many Mallard and Tufted Duck as I've ever seen, too many to begin to count. Must also record that on Wednesday, I saw a wren in the garden, first time ever, and a wagtail on the Common again.

Sunday January 13 1974

Still three pochards. And a lot of mallard, more than ever, and seven geese, and, I think, tho' I didn't count, more tufted duck. And two moorhen again.

I must remember that the middle of the mount may hold a lot of secrets.

Wednesday January 15 1974

Went to see the last night of 'Ride across Lake Constance' at the Mayfair on Saturday. A very young play, with word-chopping, and 'philosophy' and an anarchical framework such as has been avant-garde since the beginning of the century. Every member of the cast a name, and talented, which made it much less boring than such plays usually are in performance. But how easy such plays are to act.

Friday January 17 1974

Saw three green-finches in the garden - one of them sat on the wall for about quarter of an hour. Mrs. Barfoot next door told me that her young couple has left her flat, because their firm has given them a maisonette at Croydon. They've been with her a bit over two years, installed an electric waterheater, a new sink-unit, fitted carpets in two rooms, and have left them all behind!

Sunday January 20 1974

Pond still very dirty, full of rubbish on the windward side. Still, it's a big enough affair for the rubbish not to matter to the fish, and the birds seem rather to like it, poking about for tasty bits.

Two Pochard ducks as well as the three drakes. Saw the two wagtails fluttering round the edge again.

Thursday January 24 1974

Molly's letter this morning reveals why she hasn't been to us. While thanking D. for the little parcel of makeup we sent her last week, she writes,

'have only so far tried the lipstick and the Sheer Genius (a foundation) as there has been worry here again, over the two upstairs. Laina has been having treatment in hospital since about October and comes home for long weekends. I haven't told you before as really thought she'd be quite better and I'd say nothing about it. We had a dreadful time, specially at nights the noise was frightening when she suddenly flies into tempers and just throws everything about - breaking things - even windows once and it seems impossible for her to live an ordinary everyday life, also had been taking drugs or drink as she often swayed about, two years ago was in hospital for it, and got much better - then it was in the form of screaming. I always hoped she wouldn't do it when you or Auntie stayed here and was relieved you didn't stay more than 4 or 5 days. Now, today a note was left at door saying Terry is in hospital - haven't heard yet what's the matter but suspect it's an overdose of tabs as at the weekend he was taking pain-killing ones, and it looked (to see him walking about) as if he'd a bad foot, too. the mess upstairs was awful and two cats to look after, but I've cleared most of it up this morning. Must go to post now and will write again soon saying how we go on.'

Mollie nursed their mother until she died last May aged 94, through ghastly complete senility, incontinence, and all sorts of incapacity over ten years. These two young people have been her lodgers over the past three or four years, hardly ever working, lying in bed all day. They could do this financially, mainly because Mollie charges them, I think (I've never been able to get the truth out of her) between £3 and 4 a week, for the top two floors of the house. The right price would be about £12, I would think. I cannot think of anyone else I have ever known who would not utter one word of reproach. But the fact that she has told us is significant.

I wonder if Terry really 'took an overdose' and was taken away in an ambulance? Goodness knows.

Went to see 'Jeremy' a film about young love. The Americans are actually learning tenderness. Flawed, but some very nice little bits in it.

Friday January 25 1974

D's leg very bad. She cried again. Lay down in afternoon, and when I got back, I found she's washed up and done the vegetables and laid he table and left a note saying 'Leg much better after I lay down'. I hope it's true.

Sunday January 27 1974

As many birds as I've ever seen on the pond, about twenty tufted Duck, for instance, and seven Pochard, four drakes and three ducks. How nice if they bred here.

Yesterday D's 61st b'day. Gave her a pair of really good scissors for the dressing room and the new Michael Innes. Her ring still isn't ready.

Last night went to see 'The Wolf' at the Queen's. The part that D. was offered is a feed, and rather an insulting one for her. Judi Dench and Leo McKern quite brilliant in ringing the changes in their rather monotonous duologues. Edward Woodward the supporting actor he's always been, but encouraged by his false stardom to be very confident, so that I found him rather embarrassing. As I found the audience's leaning forward for his every word, and laughing before he even came on. How awful to have an undeserved reputation, for actor and audience alike. Passages of the dialogue brilliantly directed by Frank H. with his keen but limited intelligence. The play bored me, and I left at the second interval. The theatre was full, boxes and all, and the play received fairly rapturously; audience mainly under thirty- five! Apart from the qualities I mention, I think the answer must be that this tiresome generation are at last discovering the mock-heroic - for themselves, as they have had to discover everything, and a great waste of time it has been.

Sally W. and her family to D's play. We opened a bottle of champagne for them. What dear intelligent sensible calm people they are. Old apple-tree at cottage blown down. Good.

Tuesday January 29 1974

Bought a pheasant for £1.60 and a whole smoked sole for 60p at Selfridge's, for Prim and the Lathams coming to dinner.

Changing our laundry again, as this one has pressed my double cuffs on the wrong side. How odd!

Wednesday January 30 1974

At lunch Griffith James rang up to say there'd been a burglary at the theatre, all the rooms upside down, and would D. come in early in case. We were both much upset, thinking of Edna's silver, and all her little precious (to us) things. Even if the burglar didn't take them, he might have broken them. And then there was her actual make-up! Would that all be there? She naturally kept going over and over what she needed for the show, and took a bagful of replacements, kirbygrips, makeup, my orangestick that I've had since 1941, and so on.

She has lost nothing, except a little mother of pearl box, and that may be in the burglar's pocket. It's a strange story. Everything was everywhere. The big bottle of Miss Dior I gave her was in Ingrid's room, two floors down! One of her doilys, for the cottage bedspread, was wrapped up in a towel in the wardrobe. A bottle of whisky and Campari were on the stage, as were a lot of other things. A suit of John McC had gone and a suitcase of Helen C. with a radio in it. Obviously this last to carry things in. And - it was found with the burglar, who was asleep on the roof, at 8.30 this morning. He had drunk most of a bottle of Ingrid's whisky, and, as there was no light anywhere except a pilot-light on the stage, he had obviously brought everything down there to examine it, taken things back if they were no use, but not always to the right room! There were spent matches and cigarette-ash everywhere, and he'd taken all the Dexedrine tablets out of D's two little boxes. (Whether he'd swallowed them, goodness knows.)

It was a tense evening for me. D. rang to tell me all was really well. But then darling Mikel rang. Came round with Jeremy's play, and told me that she'd been offered a wonderful part at the Traverse, 'perfect', told him she wanted to do it, that she could organise her mother to look after the children, and others, and he said, 'But what if I got a full-time job?' and she said, that so stunned her, that he didn't just throw his arms round her, and say 'How marvellous, do it', that she gave up. She's near the end.

Thursday January 31 1974

Dinner for Prim and Ba Lott and Harry Latham. Smoked sole, pheasant, orange Boodles fool. Pouilly. Beaune Chasseur. Meal huge success. Ba Lott is a dear. Harry is only half there because of his past alcoholism. Prim only half there because of her present a-ism.

Friday February 1 1974

This is an amazingly early year. The Clematis montana has one or two leaves on, the fuchsia has leaf-buds breaking, the roses are practically in bud! They'll all regret it. Winter jasmine specially beautiful this year. In a year or two they will be completely supported by the camellia. Lovely. when I think of the ghastly contraption of bamboo-sticks that held up, or rather, allowed to flop about, the winter jasmine when we came here, eleven years ago. Saw, and heard, a great tit in the garden this morning.

Monday February 4 1974

Yesterday Jeremy, Mikel and the children came to tea. I had felt, as I thought, hung over in the morning. Ate lunch, some rather nasty smoked sprats left by Prim, felt worse and during my walk, thought I might be sick, and felt shivery. After I got home, about three-thirty, felt worse, went to my book-room, lay down, telling D. I should not appear, put ear-plugs in and woke up at 8.30!

The tea party was a great success except that Patrick was disappointed that I was ill. And when he wanted to go to the loo, 'I must go very quietly, not to disturb Angus' - aged 5. They ate all the crumpets - eight, I bought, - Jeremy had sent us his play 'The Sorting Out of Simon Payne'. Oh dear, it's no good whatever.

He has the trick of writing dialogue, which sounds like conversation - that's all one can say. Not conversation one's very interested in, I'm afraid.

Only one Pochard drake on the pond, on Sunday.

Wednesday February 6 1974

Last night Bernard Holley and his wife, Jean, came to dinner. He is just as nice as I thought, genuine all through. So is she, but she is so simple - as a large part of him is - that she will hold him back, if he ever soars. She is rather dim. Gave him some old engravings that I didn't want, 'Still More Prejudice', and a copy of the Gertie Lawrence record. Well, he seemed so keen on my cuttings and so on. And people so seldom are.

Jo rang. Talked for half an hour. All well.

Lovely. She is a silly nit. We let her not ring. But finally she did.

Thursday February 7 1974

Went to see 'The Philadelphia Story', a 1940 film. Cary Grant, Katharine Hepburn, James Stuart. Of its kind, perfect. And still too quick for the young audience.

Also Buster Keaton in 'sidewalks of New York'. He's very funny, but I wish he made me laugh more.

Friday February 8 1974

Japanese film at NFT. Highbrow films take merit in slow repetition of the obvious. Why?

Sunday February 10 1974

Rowes and children. A lovely hour and a half, about as long as we can stand of children, not being used to them. Patrick, when someone mentioned 'Pygmalion said 'Higgins', and remembered coming round to see D, a month or two ago, backstage, when he met her in her costume and makeup, fairly unrecognizable - and he's only met her once or twice since - and said 'Yes, we brought you flowers.' He's five.

Played Chopin record in the evening - Cortot and Solomon.

Monday February 11 1974

She was asked tonight to go to America with the play - she and nobody else - next Jan!!

Because they have to apply for the work permit now. Griff James said that Arthur Cantor had said there would be no difficulty about it as I was American! Possible torture, as it's such hell to be engaged far ahead as one never seems to get anything in between. Stars do, but she doesn't yet seem to be a star like that!

Tuesday February 12 1974

Went for a walk round the pond, as I'd missed on Sunday, and D. had gone out early to have her hair done. Rather startlingly, the water-level was so far down, that there was a kind of shore about six or seven feet wide all round! I hope it's a preliminary to clearing out the huge mass of rubbish on the windowed side. Three Pochard drakes, and two ducks still, about twenty tufteds, and the usual Mallard - I saw a pair of these mate.

Still very mild.

Wednesday February 13 1974

Bought a shoulder of lamb for £1.03. Cheaper.

Got a dry throat again.

Still no work.

Thursday February 14 1974.

Still a warm dry throat, and a rotten night as a result.

Went and got the silver hand-mirror, the last piece of the set Edna's given her for the dressing-room. To have it straightened and a new glass, £13.00. Worth it, as it looks new.

Took it to the theatre, and then went to 'The Way We Were', a film. Too long by three quarters of an hour, and other faults as well. Principals very good.

Friday February 15 1974

Rang Lalla. Daddy spoke, for some time - he's that much stronger - about the wickedness of the election, and it's just Heath cursing Wilson and Wilson cursing Heath, etc. etc. through all which I caught a breath of what hell it must be to have all the electioneering shadowed forth on television. How wrong and false it is, to see so much. That's where all the hysteria we sense around us, mainly comes from. TV demands climaxes, and, even worse than the papers, they must be visual ones. The atom bomb? So that the hysteria infects Daddy, dying at 86! But then he was always silly about politics, as most men are.

Wednesday February 20 1974

First day of TV rehearsals of a tiny part in the stupid 'Edward VII' serial.

Lots of nice actors in it. Too many to particularise. Agony. I hate TV, for its here today gone tomorrow feel. A good job financially, as it lasts till April 26 and brings in about £800

Saturday February 23 1974

Last night we took Ingrid B. out to dinner. I went to 'Sadler's Wells to the ballet - second company again - to pass the time. 'The Lady and the Fool', 'Las Hermanas' and 'Les Patineurs' - all enjoyable. How they take their time and point things in the ballet, in a way that is confined to a few experts in the theatre!

And the ballet is not unpopular as a result!!

I went down to fetch Ingrid. She came from behind me, as I knocked at her dressing-room door, in a black trouser suit, with a beautiful pale pale lilac shirt with a tie at the neck. Smiling and cleverly submissive. That's all I really have to say. Such charm is really unforgiveable! Sitting in the restaurant next to me, she looked younger than on the stage. No double chin whatever, slight lines and shadows under the eyes but nothing one could call a bag. Perfect skin, and don't forget I can look under makeup.

She entertained us, as most stars do, (Boundless vitality.) Tells a story with perfect economy. Is self-respecting, strong, sensible, high-principled. I can't fault her. (Of course, she's not cultivated or intelligent - when I said Feuillere had done the C.W.' in 1905, she stared, and said it wasn't written then. It didn't occur to her that I wouldn't make such a very primitive mistake as that, and therefore there must be another meaning in what I said, namely, that I was referring to the period the production was set in as a cultivated person would have.) But, within those limits, she's perfect. I cannot understand how anyone can be critical of her in the way the papers - and ordinary stage chat - are, except out of jealousy.

Sunday February 24 1974

We were both thoroughly upset by entertaining Ingrid. It is not pleasant to realise that someone is not taking you in, or interested in you in any real way - though perfectly polite. I was irritable last night, poor little d. cried over cooking the fish tonight. I can't bear it when she cries. Stars are awful people really.

Pond too full, but clean. No pochard!

Sunday March 3 1974

On my walk yesterday and today, saw Pochard Drake yesterday and duck today. Perhaps they're staying. Plenty of everything else. Clematic montana in full (small) leaf, and rose in bud! One wall-flower out, Camellia in full flood. Peach blossom nearly out.

Monday March 4 1974

Stephen Croft rang up! to offer me seat at first night of John's 'Tempest' tomorrow. Said no, of course. He's been appointed touring Manager of the National. Malk rang up, in London rehearsing Cicely C. in 'Breath of Spring!

Wednesday March 6 1974

To 'Habeas Corpus' again. Jo perfect. Alan B. very good indeed. Maggie C. superb! We missed a great deal not seeing her before. Very thin house - 40? 50?

Bournemouth tomorrow - oh dear.

Thursday March 7 1974

To B'mouth.

Pruned roses, fed them. Mummy completely dumb. Daddy handing plates at tea! Oh, oh.

Thursday March 7 1974

Have been at the cottage alone for a week to do the garden. Today ravishing day. Worked without a coat. Saw a Peacock butterfly. Went indoors for lunch and to open bedroom- window. There, banging against it, was another Peacock. It sat on my finger for a minute or so, with its tongue out straight and stiff, as if it wouldn't bend, tasting the cuticle on each finger. Then, suddenly, flew out of the window, and plunged into a mass of primroses.

Saw John in 'The Tempest' last week. He is sublime. I liked the production. It doesn't work with the audience, but then no Shakespeare does. As opposed to stunts.

Real revelation of the state we're in, is that some critics said it was elaborate, others that it was straight forward. They don't know the possibilities of the plays any more. And the audience is debauched by television and films to a degree never known before. The way to do it would be John's way, plain, simple, perfectly spoken. (I love the way one or two critics refer to 'the music' of the words contemptuously, without ever having heard it, poor things.

Garden in good shape, except for rose-bed. Colony of Cyclamen behind camellia flourishing, let them spread. And get all sorts, coum, ibericum europaeum.

ANGUS MACKAY DIARY NO. 40

March 24. 74 July 20. 75.

Sunday March 24 1974

My elder brother's 50th birthday. Um! Back at the house. Pond now close season for fishermen, and only mallard, Brent geese, moorhen, coot, (marching round with huge branches in their beaks) and tufted ducks left.

Got a lot done at the cottage. Must try and improve lawn a bit - basically. Idea for cyclamen 'grove' behind weeping willow.

Sunday March 31 1974

A pair of Pochard still at pond, - perhaps they will breed here. All gulls gone. Warm spring day.

Sunday April 7 1974

No sign of Pochard. Small numbers of Mallard and Tufted Duck, drakes and ducks, some in pairs. Are they the non-breeding ones?

Roses in bud, two with colour!

Thursday April 25 1974

D. had Peter Howell to her matinee. He brought with him a young actor called Charles Collingwood, who said, 'Your husband? He was the reason I went on the stage. I saw him in 'The Ghost Train’ at Cheltenham and thought he was so marvellous.'

D. told me, and I cried. I've never had anyone say that about me before.

Sunday April 28 1974

House.

1 Madame Butterfly and 2 Madame Louis L.P. out! and have been for a week!

Monday April 29 1974

To cottage for day. Mower works! Mowed most of lawn twice. Hepaticas out after all. Trilliums beginning.

Saw Mr. Griffith in field at the back, teaching his sheep-dog to herd - with his ewes and lambs.

Sunday June 2 1974

House.

House-martins over the pond on the Common. We've been at the cottage off and on, mostly on, since D's play came off.

The garden is becoming quite lovely, and I finally got the rosebed cleared and planned again. Here the garden is nearly perfect. The chrisya occupied nearly the whole of its allotted corner and the Rosa moyessi pushes charmingly through it. And that's only one little perfection.

Sunday September 1 1974

House-martins in larger numbers over the pond, starting to gather for migration, I think. There are now fourteen geese. I also saw a hawk of some kind, over the trees towards the south side, too far to see just what, but I daresay it was a Kestrel.

Friday November 1974

This morning at 9.30 saw a pair of Goldcrest in the garden. I have never seen such a thing in the thirteen years we've been here.

Sunday December 7 1974

To the cottage alone. Heeled in the new roses on the rubbish heap.

Planted various hardy Cyclamin.

C. repandum

3 in old rose-bed - in niche by hepatiaum, and two in lower crack. 3 in group to right of yew, behind triangular stone.

C. orbiculatum to L of birch behind W. willow in middle in front.

C. coum of birch. Erythronium to right of birch.

Friday March 1975

To the cottage, since Tuesday alone. Garden a sodden ruin. Doubt if I shall get the rosebed done this year. It has rained more or less continuously since I came in December, and is still at it.

I was not well in January, and working in February. However, the garden is still beautiful, and I love it very much. Two or three notes. Dorothy's first job was in January, 1936 at the Festival Theatre, Cambridge. It is easy to pinpoint the date, as the Prince of Wales was on her train, going to George V's deathbed at Sandringham.

My father told me, in 1973, the year before he died, that his father's mother, Isabella Paul, 'with black hair and beautiful eyes' was killed by tripping and falling into a ditch, across the fields, in Caithness somewhere.

An old villagers' flower bowl, was fever jew and orange gemm in concentric circles.

Sunday March 9 1975

House.

Two grey-lag geese on the Mount Pond. First time I've seen them there in ten years.

Monday March 10 1975

The Barringtons, having offered to drive me to Farnham to see Jo Tewson in 'The Cherry Orchard' (which I saw by myself the week before last) suggest I get to them at Maida Avenue at two o'clock. (No offer of lunch, tho' they know it will take me an hour to get there.) I had asked them to come back to dinner here afterwards, but no, it'll be late and it's so far. Why don't you come to dinner here, if you don't mind making your own way home afterwards! And they've got the car! They first suggested they picked me up at Richmond. I pointed out it was an hour and a half away. Oh dear!

Tuesday March 11 1975

To visit Roger Storey in St Charles Hospital. Both legs broken in motor accident in November. In public ward, little television set on his bedside table, everything very well run, no trace of hospital crisis visible to my eye, or apparently his. Youth on one side just leaving after a month, breaking leg on his motor-cycle. Young man on other side was knocked down and then hit again by another car, has been in the same ward since just before he was 24 until just after he's 25. Had 19 operations on his right leg. Seems otherwise uninjured and rather plump and cheerful. But I daresay has not always seemed so.

Wednesday March 12 1975

Took our 'carriage clock' and spare room clock to a watchmaker (amateur) recommended by Brian Verrall from which I bought out marble clock for the drawing-room the other day. The 'carriage clock' is only so vaguely in shape. A solid brass body hides a cheap little clock. Jack Gatti's wedding-present 'make it a good one', was £45 odd in 1958, and would be expected to last a lifetime. (£45 is about £100 now.) It was working all right, tho' never very accurate, until I dropped it the other day. It still worked perfectly except that the alarm had slipped, and you couldn't set it. As it needed cleaning, I took it back to Mappin & Webb, where it was bought. They said it would take three months! After three weeks, it was returned, saying 'obsolete, cannot be repaired', and the heads had been removed and were lying loose inside the face, without whatever had held them in place. 'No charge' said the ticket.

Mr. Gates dear little discreet quiet man in next street but two, loves clocks, 'Oh, yes'. Makes wire pictures, coloured wires strung on little nails, for a living.

Friday March 14 1975

Mollie's letter showed that she was still quite bad. 'Must get someone to post this’, and complaining of the cold. D. had a cry over her after lunch, after all, she's alone and poor, despite her obstinacy in not being helped. No, it's not obstinacy, it's extreme shyness and not wanting to be a bother and helplessness. I'm worried.

Started 'Le Rouge et Le Noir' today, and read hundred pages. At first struck by similarity to 'Month in the Country'. Or rather the other way round. Very good.

Saturday March 15 1975

To Farnham again to see 'The Cherry Orchard'. She had toned down what I didn't like and included it in her performance, most important this last. Parts of it, the middle of the first act, the scene with Trofimov in Act III, were perfect. She can do anything, but must be shaped and told. Not like D, who cannot go wrong, but can be ineffectual for one reason or another. Jo can look beautiful if she will, or anything at will. But alas, she is not independent enough.

Rest of performance poor. Open stage, so nursey had to open into garden! And that's just the start.

D. says they were standing at the second house tonight!

Sunday March 16 1975

Postage today went up from 4 1/2 to 7p. That's nearly 1/6 in the old money.

This afternoon we went to the National Film Theatre to see 'The Southerner'. We both saw originally in 1945 or 6. Not together, we hadn't met. As it was either sad or joyful throughout, we cried all the time.

Monday March 17 1975

From the TLS, a novel notice. 'T'. - Pit lives in a rooming-house with a drag-queen stripper, teenage lesbian whores, nymphos, and other stock figures from contemporary fiction!

Although D. had written on Friday to say let us know by return, how you are, Molly hasn't written or phoned. Perhaps she couldn't. All the same, we both expect a letter tomorrow saying not much, nothing definite. She has, of course, no idea of how much she worries us, nor of D's responsibility in the play.

Tuesday March 18 1975

Back safely. M. more or less all right, tho' breathing badly. Was out on Saturday! Could be just bronchitis. Heavy snow showers.

Wednesday March 19 1975

M's letter putting D. off arrived by second post. Posted on Monday. So much for the girl upstairs. Prim to lunch. Apparently perfectly all right. At her best. Brought me 'More First Nights' by J.A. The only book of his dramatic crits. I hadn't got. Most touching.

D. seemed to be about to be in tears once or twice. Or was that my imagination? To Clifton Nurseries for some Hellebores.

Thursday March 20 1975

Bad night. D. to matinee. On my way to the NFT picked up the Ayckbourn Trilogy at French's.

Dorothy Tutin's understudy was there, looking at 'Ardale' which the WEWK management is to put on. Poor girl, no part for her. Said she was give D. my love. Thrilled. Sophistication.

To NFT. Saw 'Seventh Heaven'. Cried more or less continuously. Janet Gaynor true right through.

Friday March 21 1975

Another bad night. D. rather low today too. Bother.

Hellebores arrived from Clifton Nurseries. Planted them.

Rang Edna tonight. She came to the telephone after Nora had answered quite calmly, after a pause and breathless. She had smelt burning, had gone to Nora's sitting-room to find her armchair nearly ablaze from a cigarette she had dropped down the side of it. She had had to drag it out onto the terrace, and throw two buckets and three thermos-flasks of water on it, - and it was still smoking. And with those poor arthritic hands! If only Nora could have another stroke!

Molly's letter really finishes her, for me. She does put Bimbo, her poodle, before everything and everybody. Oh dear, oh dear. D. won't ask her again.

D. told me last night that Oliver Horsbrugh had come round, and said 'Well, we must see about that' when he'd heard I was not working, and Mike Hall and Ann Rogers had 'gone on' about how good I was. Well, it gives one hope. Tonight the Cavenaghs came round. The Motley Books people. Sweet - asked us to stay.

Saturday March 22 1975

Found tonight that one wall in our bedroom was all damp. - the result of our roof having just been replaced at a cost of £1500, new welsh slate, lead everywhere etc.

Nobody is efficient any longer.

Sunday March 23 1975

Felix de W. rang on Friday about the proposed 'SD' revival. Would we ring Julian today?

We did. It turns out Ray Cooney has backed down, for financial reasons, J. said. Hm!

Now Cameron Mackintosh, and Ian Mullins at Farnham. No, no, no! D was very good with him. I joined in, too, to back up. He tried to snub me, poor thing; he is timid and hopeless.

And, of course, actively doesn't want anyone good connected with it, in case they interfere with him simply doing it as it was done before.

Monday March 24 1975

Yes, Ray Cooney's out. Bother and blow! I was looking forward to a bit of money from a West End run. Now no Cameron Mackintosh for the W.E. or I'll know the reason why.

Tuesday March 25 1975

Ian Mullins rang from Farnham. A further complication of the 'S.D.' business is that it was all set to start from Farnham, the new Redgrave theatre, an open stage with no wings, and no flies, so how the set made there (which I suppose it would be, for economy) fit the tour? We also don't want Ian to direct it for the W.E.!!

She talked soothingly to him, as he wants, of course, it all decided in 24 hours so he can get his printing out. He has misgivings about the tour and the scenery, and Cameron's big talk of big names (on a 12 week tour!) but, I daresay, none about his capacity to direct it for the W.E.

While I was out at the Michaelangelo Exhibit - Gosh - she rang Felix, and is worried she said she didn't want Ian. Let's have it out, I say.

Wednesday March 26 1975

Felix rang at 10.0 to say that it was only to be at Farnham, and a short tour, no W.E. 'let Ian surprise us' and then we'll see. Thank goodness.

To lunch with Leslie Halliwell, whom I haven't seen since Cambridge in 1951. Took me to the Japanese Steak House in Dean St. Struck me as businessman's version of Japanese meals. Hot cloth to wipe your face and hands with to start. Although he knew I hadn't had a J. meal before, he did not comment on this. Nor did I. But he should have done. Meal cooked on hot plate sat in centre of table. Chopsticks, to eat cubed steak, chicken, sliced cabbage, green paper. Dig in bowl of meat sauce, allow to drain in bowl of rice, eat. Tepid before you begin. Saki to drink, warm, without colour, tasting very faintly vinous. Orange sorbet, with green tea. Warm tasting v. faintly of tea. Daresay all much better in Japan. But I shall never now like new foreign foods.

Leslie H. is a good man who has done first class work in film reference. I believe his Filmgoers Companion is the standard work. But he is boring. And is the cause of me being boring. Has a mongol child, and is good and interesting about him. But dull. 'Why aren't you a star' he said. 'I thought you were going to be at Cambridge.' 'Yes indeed!

Thursday March 27 1975

To Bournemouth for the day.

Outside Southampton the train stopped. Two girls hurried along the corridor saying to each other, 'Well, I hope our luggage isn't in the half that's left behind!

We sat there for half an hour or so, then started to creep on. The uniformed guard had attempted to release the spare coupling from its brackets in the luggage-van, but, after a struggle, 'Oh dear, oh dear', he said, 'it seems to be stuck.' He said it trivially, (and badly) because he was self-conscious, because three or four passengers were looking on. I suppose someone else found a spare coupling, because, after the half-hour, off we went. The guard came round to say that we must change at Southampton, a connection would be waiting.

We got to S'thampton, very cold, sleet falling. Off we all got, no other train in sight. Lots of people got on, saying 'We're going to Weymouth, and we're told to change at Bournemouth' which they wouldn't ordinarily have to do. The guard and goodness knows who, kept having little conferences in a room on the platform, the announcer kept saying 'This train is for B'mouth, the guard, when questioned, said 'He doesn't know yet the train broke in half'. Eventually we got on the train, and were taken to B'mouth.

Friday March 28 1975

Mummy rather vague yesterday. Thick snow on way down. Planted 3 Azaleas, Clerodendrun, Olearia Haastii, Cistus cyprius, Potentilla Elizabeth and Choisya ternata, that I'd given to Lalla. Quiet day today. Just together, D. had no show.

According to OED, 'grown-up' occurs for the first time in Jane Austen's letters. I'm not surprised.

Saturday March 29 1975

Still cold and wet. Went out walk in the afternoon, partly to do a little shopping, - bread and cheese - and partly to avoid seeing D. set off for the theatre. It's always worse on Saturdays.

Did my cuttings tonight. Stuck in obituaries of Noel and Binkie. Made me feel even lower.

Sunday March 30 1975

Still very cold and raw, and wet, after the snow last week. Wall flowers have come to a standstill again.

Saw the pair of wagtails at the pond for the first time for some months.

Felix de W. rang at 9.30, to say that Howard and Wyndham have no intention of the West End, and that it's to be Farham and the dates in the North. Ju. rang later and talked only to me! Poor tired thing.

Tuesday April 1 1975

Still depressed about no work, and now she says the play may come off. I am always torn between showing her what I really feel and making it more difficult for her to give a carefree perf. The latter now takes precedence.

No work in view.

D. came in so excited that she told me her news at the door, - a thing she never does. Donald has left Joan, and is living with a girl called Ann(e) Chaplin. They came to the show, and came round!

Well! Well!

Good for him.

But we'll see.

Wednesday April 2 1975

D. was very funny, saying 'He came in and said. "A lot's happened", so I guessed and said firmly, "How's Joan?" to bring it on. To NFT last night and tonight, to see two Swedish films. 'Klera Lust' last night, had much charm and some tedium. Tonight's, 'A Swedish Love Story' while I saw the point of underlining the grey awfulness of the grown-ups, could have had at least a quarter more devoted to the enchanting fifteen-year old lovers.

Thursday April 3 1975

Mary Ure died today, after a first night last night at the Comedy. I can see her now sitting on a bar stool in that pub which is now a boutique, on the corner of Lincoln St and King's Rd., being talked to by John Osborne in 1956. I suppose they were courting. D. and I often went in there as it was just behind my room in Draycott Place. That particular early evening, I think we were about the only people in there. I suppose it was sometime in August, between B'ham and Salisbury. How lovely she was in 'Time Remembered'. Not that she was a specially good actress.

Friday April 4 1975

Cameron Mackintosh rang up this morning; as I'd already spoken to Felix and Ju, I was short with him.

Tour now to start from Guildford, possible director John David. My suggestion - found later he's already done 'Beyond the Fringe' for C.M. on tour at the moment. Good. Or goodish. Rang Donald at 5.30. In a flat in Chelsea Cloisters! and buying a flat in Elystan Place. Very shy and abrupt, but fond. Oh dear. I suppose he likes me, and thinks I dropped him because of Joan. Oh dear.

Rang Lalla and told her, at his request. Very sensible about it from the moral point of view, and indeed from every point of view except mine! 'I do hope it'll mean you'll be closer, after all, there are only the two of you' etc. in that slosh voice. Heavens, she was there all thro', watching us have nothing in common.

Sunday April 6 1975

Depressed yesterday, but tried not to show it. Went to Disney film in Streatham, and then to pick up D. at theatre, where Mr. and Mrs. Westwood from the Post Office Stores at Dallington, were seeing the show. Dear little people. Sent D. a monster bottle of whisky.

Today letter. Tried to ring Joyce Ferguson again, no answer, so rang John N's flat and got Neil Dickson, young actor living there while he's in Bali; he's going to be in John G's 'Gay Lord Que'. Lucky dog. Lively and sensible. Just done a season at Sheffield, and doing Pinter's 'Dumb Waiter' at the Young Vic at lunch-time for a fortnight before starting rehearsals. Luckier dog. Told me of doing it at Borstal near Sheffield. All the lights fused - an escape? No, a fuse. But odd, Pinter, Borstal and fuse. It went very well.

Monday April 7 1975

Because I am reading 'The Shavian Playground' by Margery Morgan, a quite interesting, if rather useless book, like most commentaries, I read 'Man and Superman' 'again. Wonderful. And how laid out for the actor - and the voice. Why did Agate hate it so? He didn't understand women, of course, and so kept the conventional view of them even more rigid than usual, I suppose.

Tuesday April 8 1975

Jeremy Rowe came to lunch. Back from Canada, he is so much better, almost himself again, with all his old relish of verbal pleasures and absurdities. I told him how Lalla had said in her letter about Donald, 'Will Joan accept it or try to poison his name?' He said immediately, 'Oh, it's worse than "I've been a blind fool".'

Wednesday April 9 1975

Letter from Donald. Sensation. The first I've had since 195? Doesn't suggest a meeting, thank goodness.

Felt very depressed about work again this afternoon, and thought I'd hidden it, but she must have noticed, because she comforted me when she left for the theatre. I thought I would have decided by this time, to hide or express depression on purpose, but no.

Thursday April 16 1975

To a film, and after D's play, took out to supper, Janet and George Ayers. She is the widow, as it were, of my Uncle Will, Daddy's youngest brother, George Ayers being her second husband, and she his second wife. She is only three years older than me, and was brought up in Thurso. Married my uncle at 17, he was 45. Flew out to Tanganika to marry him in 1940, never having been out of Caithaness before. Told me quite a few interesting things. Her Will might have married Mummy's sister, Mary, 'she was dead set on him after your parents' wedding.' 'Uncle John was always on the scrounge. He was a pilot in the first war, and got in with some county people, and it turned his head. He married a singer called Olga Ironside, and came to my Will on his honeymoon, and said he was broke, so Will gave him money to pay for it.' Uncle J. had 7 children - my cousins. My Aunt Kate had 4 boys and a girl. Uncle Robert had three children, and Uncle Daniel, who may be still alive, had, well he was married twice. Most interesting of all, Daddy had quarrelled with his mother, who at one point said, - she had never liked him 'taking up' Methodism - 'You've only taken up that religion to try to forget the filthy life you led, and the illegitimate daughter you abandoned.' The dislike of Methodism was more dwelt on, at another point in the conversation, and, although I by no means repudiate the illegitimate daughter, - it would account for quite a lot of things, including his disgraceful attitude to Donald and Joan having to get married in '46, - I think the quarrel with his mother may probably be best represented as her saying one day, 'Why do you pause so long before you start your sermon - to make them all look at you, I suppose?' I've always guessed his mother saw through him, and he never liked anyone who did that.

Anna Massey rang up tonight to say she was sorry she hadn't rung back the other night. 'I was in the middle of a very important debate(!) and thought I wouldn't answer the telephone, and then I did', as she only said then two words about how difficult to talk just then, I knew tonight, that she nearly went on, ‘as it was only you, I got rid of you quickly.' She's transparent, but I can't help loving her.

I was enquired for, by Birmingham Rep., for Tom Stoppard's 'Jumpers'. Turned it down this morning, as it were, (they mightn't have confirmed the enquiry.) Feel badly about it, a marvellous part that suits me exactly, but I must have enough money for a possible hotel, and even a first-class hotel is fifth-class in Birmingham.

Friday April 11 1975

To 'A Little Night Music' this afternoon, special actors matinee. Very poor. We were bored. No tunes. Jean Simmons no stage experience.

Maria Aitken good, otherwise a desert. Surely it won't go?

Saturday April 12 1975

Very depressed again last night and today about no work.

Went in this afternoon to new bookshop in alley way by the side of Wyndham's and the Albery. Got Agate's 'Bad Manner', 'Salt and His Circle', pref. by Shaw, and Baring's Puppet Show of Memory, all long desiderata.

Sunday April 13 1975

Mowed lawn for the first time this year, and put down fertiliser.

Dull, but much warmer yesterday and today. Three Madame Louis in beautiful bud.

Tuesday April 15 1975

Barringtons to dinner and all very jolly. D. had prepared most of it. I cooked the fish.! Cucumber soup - cold, delicious. Halibut with shrimp sauce. Peppers and tomatoes hot. Orange Boodles Fool. Cheese-Talleggio, Double Gloucester, Caerphilly and Dolce Latte. Puligny Montrachet '70. Barringtons in much better form than, say, two years ago. 'We feel we need a completely new set of friends, all ours are so depressed and depressing and ill.'! We felt that about them some time ago.

Rang Prim to see how she's got on. The Chesterton Clinic is for arthritis!! She is determined to be ill.

Thursday April 17 1975

To the Phoenix to see the play there, 'Norman, is that you?' Tickets given me by Mike Hall. I was taking Neil Dickson, John N's lodger, because I hadn't been able to think of anyone else, and felt I must take an actor, because of meeting Mike H. and possibly being of use to him. We met at Bianchi's. Nice-looking boy, though a little high-shouldered and shortish. Very straight and very pleasant, good sense of humour for that open-air type. Told me his life-story. Impressive. Has worked hard. Whether he can act is another matter.

The play was so frightful we walked out after the second scene. About a father (Yorkshire, of course, to make it worse) deserted by his wife, comes to stay with his son in London and finds him living with a man. Painful rather than funny.

Met Mike H. very briefly beforehand, said he wasn't staying, though he'd said he'd see me in the interval. The notices had been terrible, the theatre was empty, and I suppose he just couldn't face me in the interval. As it turned out, he wouldn't have had to!

Went to the last two acts of D's play in a box. Boy thrilled. Touching.

Friday April 18 1975

Rained without stopping all day.

To the NFT at 6.30 to see 'Craig's Wife', a 1936 film about a woman who lived only for her house and furniture. Oh, dear, the material perfection just made me envious.

Another week with no work.

An aconite out in the garden - very late.

Sunday April 20 1975

Last night took Prim out for dinner for her 59th birthday, and to 'A Family and a Fortune' at the Apollo. Chaz Victor. Still as it has always been. I remember now why I don't like it. The wine-list is so wildly disproportionate. Nothing under £3.50. Vosne Remanee £6.00. Nuits St. George £5.60. Ridiculous. Food good. Spinach delicious. Prim's trout good.

Play should have been splendid. Production very good. Alec G. perfection, the Ivy atmosphere creeping into the theatre. Except - Margaret Leighton, had completely misconceived Aunt Mattie to the point, despite being too loud, of being so ineffectual that the audience quite obviously wondered why she came on so often. What a pity. She's such a lovely actress, but I suppose she doesn't understand that character parts needn't be characterised. Oh dear.

Beautiful bright spring day. Three different sorts of bumble-bees on the wall-flowers. Four Madame Louise L out and one Mme Butterfly, roses, I mean. On the pond were two families of Mallard. One duck, with three ducklings, very yellow and dark brown. Another duck, with nine, was much darker with no visible Oxford Blue and white wing flashes, and her ducklings were also much darker, their yellow markings hardly visible.

Joan rang up yesterday, just as we started lunch. Did I know what had happened? Had he given any reason for leaving her? (As is you'd need any reason for leaving Joan?!) he was being naughty over the deposit account - he's left me with nothing but me wages! Oh dear and oh dear. Wrote to Donald and gave him the facts. Determined to be remote. D. said I'd not been remote enough, so rewrote it.

Monday April 21 1975

To NFT to see 'Men Women and Sin' to see mainly, Jeanne Eagels. My goodness. A combination of Gladys Cooper's beauty and Judi Dench's charm. Electric.

On Sat., D. said Clifford Williams came round, was very sweet and said he was going to see Roger Clifford today about replacements, as Dotty and Peter E. at one point offered to stay another 3 months, and he thought it was mad to take it off.

Tuesday April 33 1975

How aimless I can feel, when I'm out of work. When D. left for the hairdressers' at three o'clock, I wandered about, and wished I could cry rather than wander. Odd, that one gets no better.

Little Neil Dickson rang up to thank us for our telegram, and made me feel better with his enthusiasm. 'Dumb Waiter' audience of 50 in theatre seating 64.

Wednesday April 23 1975

To Jo and Harry's for lunch. Took them four roses from the garden, in April,! and the first lilies of the valley and two primroses.

Their flat is sweet, and pretty now, and their happiness together helps me.

I enjoyed myself, but when I left D. lying down there, before her evening performance, I felt empty and despairing just the same. The meal was lavish, and their kindness - well.

Thursday April 24 1975

John rang this morning, 'It went marvellously - your flowers were the most beautiful I had, as they always are. Is Dorothy there?' She told him about the Clarence Derwent Award, and he characteristically thought it was for the 'Constant Wife'. He said that Ingrid got an oration, but the play got the bird on Broadway. He had wonderful notices for the Pinter.

Friday April 25 1975

Got a job! Play at Granada, only TV, but obviously a good part, and £400 plus. May. Oh, the relief, I haven't felt it yet.

Rang Lalla, and found Joan had rung her, and had been beastly and rude. Donald had told Joan that Lalla had said it was a pity he hadn't left her (Joan) ten years ago. Joan was very rude, and said that taking all those presents from her all those years and then saying things like that, was incredible for people who called themselves Christians. Considering Donald and Joan have cadged and battered on Daddy and Mummy over the years, and never paid a penny towards their three-week holiday with two children, with them, for years, not to mention Christmases, that was cool. I'm glad to say Lalla was very angry and wrote to Joan, who'd hung up the telephone, and sent her £10 for the material she'd just sent her for Christmas, 'you'd have the material if I hadn't cut it out', and said, 'if you think of anything else you'd like back, just let me know.’

Rang John Nickson, who's back, and in good form, I think. We'll see. He comes to dinner on Monday.

Edward Fox rang, and was very sweet and outgoing, as he isn't always, and asked us to dinner on Wed. after he comes to the play.

Also rang Anna Massey, who was very funny, and volatile and feminine as usual.

Saturday April 26 1975

To NFT to see 'The Single Standard'. Garbo, Nils Asther and John Mack Brown terrible.

Garbo above criticism as usual. 'Emotions chase themselves across her face, like a bad drama exercise, but they are real and work. Roger Clifford, D's management, came round tonight, to say that, if business soared next week, they might transfer. Hm. I just think it's such bad theatre husbandry to let a show die when it's doing so comparatively well. What is doing better? Or is more liked? Business is so bad everywhere.

Sunday April 27 1975

Heavenly quiet laughing day, diversified in the evening by Molly ringing to say she's coming to stay tomorrow. And D. has to fetch her. Gracious.

Monday April 28 1975

D. went to fetch M. She is seriously ill, I think, thin and breathing with difficulty after any movement.

Cancer I would say, of some sort.

Oh dear. Saw a hawk over the common.

Tuesday April 29 1975

She's bad. So thin with deep salt-cellars round the neck and throat going in and out with every breath. I asked when it started, and she was so eager to tell me she began before I'd finished asking.

I am ashamed that my mind rushes ahead to selling her house. It's no use not recording it. But I also record the shame.

Friday May 2 1975

On Wednesday night we went to supper after the show to Ed's. He was at his sweetest, and warmest - what a funny mick he is. And how different the flat is! Paraffin stoves everywhere, home-bottled jars in a shelf on the landing, prams in the hall. The grand piano has a rather nasty dustcover all over it, and all sense of an ordered beautiful room is gone. All is domestic, a bit of a mess, like the war. Pleasant and they are very happy, much more so than we thought. All the same, I regretted the mess a bit. It's too far towards mess. Frightful damp come through in the hall, so that the cornice is supported by struts. Cheese soufflé, salad, chocolate mousse. Just right, except ideally both dishes shouldn't have been based on eggs.

On Thursday I left at about eleven, and met John N. at Colossco, very brown after three months in Bali. Very jolly chats, and trout and salad, then to the Young Vic to see young Neal Dickson in Pinter's 'Dumb Waiter'. Very amusing play pretty well done considering. Needed production. Neil too actually tense. Both missed a few points not unexpectedly. Neil is well-looking from the front, though a bit short and top-heavy. Should do wellish if lucky. Met his brother Ian, now at RADA. At first glance, small pretty features, with such a bloom I thought he had make-up on, fair hair, tight pale blue t-shirt, looked the archetypal queer little dancer. Turned out to be a firm and most masculine young man. How odd the present day is! Surely it won't be good for his career. Features too small for the stage. Nice large girl-friend, who blushed whenever spoken to. That doesn't change! After a short drink in the pub, paid for by me!, John and I went off in his car to get some smoked salmon for dinner from Hamburgers, some courgettes from the Rupert St. market and some Talleggio from Camisa's. To Notting Hill, looked round Peter Eaton's nearly done-up bookshop, all very snazzy with brown carpets and glass balconies with chromium rails. Prices to go with the balconies, and still not in alphabetical order, and any other sort much. To John's flat where we sat and talked and read till it was time to drive here for dinner. Neil came back over tea and we laughed a lot. We both feel so at ease with John N. he seems so fond of us and to understand us, that I really think he may become a fried for life.

Mollie to play in the evening, in a car and a box. Enjoyed it much.

Saturday May 3 1975

Quiet day, Mollie seeming a little better, going upstairs a little more easily, but the breathlessness came on badly in the evening again, and her ankles swelled again.

I went to the shops in the morning. There were three little boys, about two feet high, who'd taken their shoes off to walk in a big pile of grass cuttings. On the way back, they were playing football; one of them kicked the ball, and his shoe went much further than the ball. He and his friends rolled screaming with laughter. An old lady out with her dog, leant on the railings with me and roared. Most invigorating.

John N. had called at the theatre with some smoked salmon! The dear. When D. got home on Thur. she was comically outraged that I hadn't got enough for her to have some, and went on and on. Very funny, and this is part of his very thoughtful thankyou.

Sunday May 4 1975

Quiet but not restful day, with Molly here. Not that she is not quiet, but she's there. I was struck tonight when she and D. were talking about their childhood (or D. was) M. remembers almost nothing interesting. No wonder her life had been dim. She is.

Am reading 'The Present and the Past' for the first time. Masterly.

Monday May 5 1975

The doctor's receptionist rang up to say the appt. was postponed till tomorrow. Oh dear. Molly was perceptibly weaker and lower today. Sat staring most of the day, and went to bed at 7, having got up at 12.30. I took her some hot soup, as she'd rubbed her chest, or gullet, and said she felt she needed something hot. It's such suspense for her of course, but for us, too. Poor creatures.

Tuesday May 6 1975

To radio commercial in morning. Faintly flattered to find that it was with Arthur Lowe and John Le Mesurier. Both very clear in what they have to offer. Arthur Lowe the better artist. Very funny they were, talking away to the two young men who were running it, about the arrogance and lack of humour of such young men on other commercials they'd been on.

Saw in the Telegraph a report of someone killed by bandits in India. Thought how odd it would be if it were anything to do with Christine. And it was. Her man shot dead. She got the children back somehow to England over the weekend, although she herself was wounded, slightly, I suppose. I feel very sorry for her poor little shallow silly self. Nobody deserves that.

Took Molly to the doctor. We waited about half an hour, during which the Indian woman from the Post Office went in, with her husband and an insecurely wrapped bottle of urine, and never stopped talking for twenty minutes. I didn't hear Dr. Janet say a word. Dr J. called me in after, and said 'She's not at all well. I'll arrange for her to see a specialist at the South London tomorrow.' Just as I thought.

When we got back to the house, - she stooped four times on the way there, against the wind and twice coming back - a distance of about fifty yards - she was quite exhausted and a little disturbed. When she'd calmed down, I gave her a liqueur glass of brandy, and she decided to go into the dining-room straight away (thus depriving me of my gin and tonic, poor love.) and had some lettuce, tomato and a lot of cucumber. This almost immediately gave her indigestion, so she had some neutradranus which calmed it enough for her to go to bed. On the stairs, sitting gathering strength to go up, she said, 'Oh, I do upset your evening. I don't want to give Dorothy extra work when she's so good'. And she's said to me in the waiting- room, 'Go and have your dinner'. And meant it. That's the rare side of her.

Neil Dickson will take Jo and Harry's spare gate-leg table going free. Arranged it. Good.

Wednesday May 7 1975

Forgot to say that Neil D. told me he'd passed an Italian restaurant at lunch-time, and Dan Massey and Judi Dench had beckoned him. 'Have a glass of wine', they said, and so he'd had to order something as well, the cheapest thing on the menu, 'aubergines done in some Italian way, 55p', from the starters. He also had coffee, as it was only 15p. He had a pound! Of course he'd forgotten the table d'hote, VAT etc. His bill was £1.50. 'Honestly, I was sweating. I said, would somebody lend me 50p till Friday?' Judi D. said, 'I'll sort this out', and paid it, saying to him when he muttered something outside, 'Oh be a kept man just for a day.' Perfect. Just as I'd imagined her.

Told him not to do anything at once. But give her a lovely bunch of flowers for the first night, and say on the card that you haven't forgotten.

Thursday May 8 1975

To Heartbreak House again last night, with John N., his sister, Joyce Ferguson, and her man, David Martin, a film editor at the BBC. Enjoyed the play even more, and the acting had strengthened and relaxed since the first night.

Back to Joyce's flat for supper. A top-floor maisonette in Cornwell Gardens, beautiful big sitting-room, everything perfect - how lovely it is to have a private income! A separate dining-room, beautiful glasses, mackerel with sauce verte, kidneys in a thick porty sauce, creme caramel and some good cheese. Muscadet and some delicious Burgundy I didn't know!

Joyce not at her best, - I wish she could relax and be her intelligent self, but she wriggles and apologises and self-deprecates, and makes herself a bore as a result. Why? David M. can listen and reply, a rapidly-vanishing art.

Saturday May 10 1975

Wrote last entry in desperation on Thursday, one of the most tiring days I have ever spent. I waited in alone with Molly, - it was D's matinee day - expecting the specialist at every minute from about three until he came at seven-thirty. Molly sat most of the time in her crouched uncomfortable position, staring out of the window. She can't help you at all, ill or well, poor soul. She refused supper, saying she would have it after he'd been, as a treat, with no idea that she would be sent straight to hospital. He came, a pear-shaped red-cheeked middle aged man, with a calm impersonal and authoritative manner, not at all irritating. He carried his bag and large machine in a canvas-case, a cardiometer, I suppose, or some such. I only heard two sentences from upstairs, in a very soothing but still impersonal voice - I was impressed by the distancing technique - 'Surely you're not shy of an old man like me?' and 'Nothing that I'm going to do to you will hurt you in any way whatsoever.' I was touched.

He came down, and said he'd prefer to talk to the closest relative, however, 'Your sister-in- law is very ill. She has a large pleural effusion in the right lung, and advanced heart failure. Her liver is enlarged, and although I couldn't examine her property because she can't lie down and wouldn't undress(!) I think there is possible carcinoma of the junction of the bronchus and the stomach. The pleural effusion may also be carcinomatous.'

I said what was the prospect? He said that if it was just heart, which can cause a lot of other things, that could be alleviated and she could have two or three years of life. If it was lung cancer and so on, a month.

The ambulance arrived ten minutes after he'd 'phoned his report to the hospital, beginning 'Mary Reynolds, 65, non-complainer,' The ambulance-man, a cheerful broken-nosed chap of 25, said, on seeing M. walking down the stairs, as she insisted on doing, 'Is this the young lady we're taking?' and got a smile out of her. Why doesn't someone investigate his background and up-bringing to see why he isn't a juvenile delinquent?

I had been going to take John Nickson to the NFT to see John Barrymore in 'Twentieth Century', - it was a film I'd looked forward to, and John N's first visit to the NFT. After, we were to go to the new restaurant in Battersea Rise, Polly-Anna's Bistro.' (I can hardly believe it, when I think of that dreary road, when we first came here). Of course I had to miss the film, but got Molly settled by eight twenty, and rushed home to telephone Aunty D, and D. at the theatre, and was scuttering across the common and with him by nine. He got me a large gin and t. at once, and ordered another at once, to stand by. Pleasant room, candles, lots of nice young people, in long dresses and shirts open to the waist, and the whole thing just like anywhere, but amazing to me in being just round the corner. I was quite light-headed with strain and exhaustion, and John's warm hospitality and absurd charm were exactly what I needed. He's a thoughtful friend. He came back for a drink, and said he'd arranged everything for Sunday. 'I'll pick you up at 11.30', he said, 'take you to Victoria, see you get your award, drive you to lunch at Notting Hill, with a little cold salmon or something, drive you to the hospital and wait while you see Molly and drive you home.' A real friend. D. is nervous of the award-giving. Strange.

Yesterday we were both finished. And not all that better today. We visited M. yesterday - nice small ward with TV set - kill both of us in a week, but she thinks it's all lovely. She had a large jug full of fluid drawn from the right lung, and is much more comfortable and could lie down to sleep for the first time for months. Today I went to Marks & Sparks in Oxford St., and bought a nightie and a dressing-gown - she'd no spares, - and took a towel and soap and so on, because you're supposed to bring all these in with you. And D. will have to wash her nighties! Imagine. I had a long talk with the doctor, a very dark young what? called Fernandez, very clear and intelligent. It's not lung cancer, anyway - but it is cancer of a sort, chromic lymphatic leukaemia, he thinks, though there are a lot of tests to be done yet. In which case it can be treated, and she could have ten good years. Why pretend that I wasn't depressed at the thought? She is a continual worry to D. as it is.

Sunday May 11 1975

A lovely day, though we were both very tired. She was nervous but looked so sweet and self- conscious walking on for the cheque. Mike Gwilym, the young man who received the other prize, told her it had cost him £12 in his unpaid subscription, to get in to receive his £100.

Two Chileans, visiting from, or free from, Fascist Chile, whom nobody knew or had ever heard of personally received far louder applause and 'a standing ovation' from all those poor stupid people who value causes above persons, and indeed politics above acting. Imagine cheering two unknown Chileans, however pleased you were they'd escaped, more than an actress whom everyone knows who's been struggling and working and improving for 40 years, and at last gets an award. Something wrong.

Monday May 12 1975

Christine and Donald rang up tonight.

Shallow, selfish and emotionally stunted. I am ashamed to be related to them.

Wednesday May 14 1975

Christine reversed the charges, and told me, in her usual sentimental voice, how much her terrible experience had changed her.

Donald told me that Joan, wearing a black wig, had greeted Christine, in a state of shock, drugged and with a bullet in her shin, with a burst of tears, and a full recital of his leaving her. He also incredibly told me, how he and Joan were either side of Christine's bed, and Joan read out to Christine his farewell letter. What a crew!

Nasty letter from accountants saying that expenses overclaimed are even more than they thought, £5000 not £3000. Oh well, I refuse to be depressed.

Molly had had gland removed, but seemed all right.

Walked back home round by the library. How this district is smartening up! Saw four and five swifts circling a good way up.

Sunday May 19 1975

On Thursday I saw 'The Guardsman' at the NFT. The Lunts. I am glad to say they were all I remembered - the darling perfection of high comedy. They gave me hope and a feeling that I must go on.

On Friday I went to B'mouth; another tiresome journey; the tube was shut because someone was under the train at Tooting Bec. It was raining, the last of the rush-hour was standing outside the tube, so the buses, the taxis, the 'phones were all unusable! I took a bus from round the corner where nobody else went, to Clapham C. where I went to the bank to pay for the taxi I thought I'd have to take. When I came out of the bank, the tube was open again, and I thought 'I've just got time to miss my train! Got to Waterloo four minutes to spare, to find the train was late and didn't leave till eleven instead of 10.46.

Yesterday she was low. She was constipated, felt it so much that she had no work in view, and after lunch actually wept, and said 'I feel worn out.' That made me weep in a side-road on the way to the hospital to take a clean nighty to Molly. I won't worry, because I mustn't, and because people like us always feel runs coming off most, in the last week but two. It's a rule.

To M'chester for my TV, and writing in the Midland. All right so far -

Monday May 19 1975

First room they gave me was double and uncomfortably arranged, and with a door not sealed off - light was coming through, let alone noise - from another suite. However, now on third floor, well arranged room, spacious big bathroom, pretty rose-shaded brass lamp on writing- table and am comfortable. At a price. £9 odd a night. Meals extra!

First reading uneventful. The stars are in the Midland, but are both off drink and on diets, for weight! So perhaps I shan't see them. All very nice and boring. Very nearly is a four in hand in this sense, it's the two principals, me next, Frank Duncan trailing after, and the rest bit players.

Wednesday May 21 1975

D's letter enclosed big cuttings from the papers with 'My Agony' by jilted wife' and big pictures of Donald and the girl. Ugh!

Thursday May 22 1975

Donald and that girl appeared in a programme on TV called 'What the Papers Say', in a 'spread' from the Daily Express. It was mostly tho' to ridicule Joan's absurdly unkind description of the girl. The young announcer just said 'Ouch' after she'd been quoted, and that was the end of the programme.

Saturday May 24 1975

Yesterday I went to Chester for the day. What a beautiful place it must once have been. Even now the sudden stretch of country by the riverside from a bridge near the centre of the town, is still lovely. The rest is much diluted with Boots, Tesco and Woolworths, and the people who like them.

The cathedral is built of a curious pinky-dusty-brown stone, and moved me to an immediate tear, but I am afraid I have very little endurance in sight-seeing. I did enjoy walking round it, and glancing at some of the misericord seats - a very difficult angle for a glance - but I couldn’t have honestly spent longer than the quarter of an hour I spent there. I cannot imagine what I would do in Italy, except lie exhausted in my room.

I bought some postcards at a shop with a poster in the window, saying, 'A present may not be necessary... but a card is a must.' The little girl-assistant was on the 'phone to, obviously the proprietress, saying, 'Well, I don't know how many I've even got yet, hang on, I'll look.' She then surveyed all the frightful china and plastic knick-knacks and presents from Chester, picked up a jug no bigger than my thumb, hideously convoluted in water shit-colour, took it to the telephone and said, 'There's only one, and it's got a bird on the side, Miss Hilda.'

Sunday May 24 1975

Dinner in the French restaurant last night. Still good, though the rest of the clients were all common, and all unused to dining in a first-class restaurant. Naturally it won't remain good, if its clients are only to be people who use it for its snob value, as I suppose most of them do. It was painful to see them so ill-at-ease. Some ordered beer. One man was in a jersey.

Rang Lalla and M. Still upset by Donald's affair. Joan had sent all the cuttings to Lalla anonymously.

Monday May 25 1975

Out at 10.30 to post D's letter. Found a vast Sunday School procession going on, with children dressed up as brides, followed by groups of children linked by ribbons, the central one holding a basket of flowers worked in some such motto as 'God's garden' or 'He is Risen', followed by a bugle band followed by etc. One or two of the bands were smart, marched in step, played in tune, and were wearing matching uniforms, the whole had an air of a much- diluted Victorian ceremony, underlined by most of one procession passing between half- finished office-blocks in concrete and yellow tile. I was interested to hear that the Bishop had said it might be the last one of its kind.

Barbara Burrington turned up tonight. We had a drink together. She comes to dinner tomorrow. Bother.

The strike seems still to be on. More bother.

Tuesday May 26 1975

Strike still on. I imagine we'll give up tomorrow. Blast.

Wednesday May 28 1975

Yes, it's off for the moment, but if the strike collapses, we might start again next week. Thus putting us off going to the cottage again. Two letters from D. She shat herself on the way back from seeing Molly, because she'd taken a laxative. Took her an hour to wash everything. Thank god it was Sunday. Poor thing, that means she's still constipated. I'm worried, that she might be ill. I have certainly felt foreboding lately, but I think that is the result of sitting alone in an expensive hotel room with nothing to do.

Went to Belle Vue Zoo and Amusement Park today. Gracious. The squalor. My only pleasure came from one or two of the animals, and a large empty monkey cage, being painted. A card on the wire said 'Humans'.

Friday May 30 1975

To London yesterday and back to Manchester tomorrow. Maddening.

Housemartins round the pond and over it. Curious rafts with grass on them, on the water. Why? I mean, put there on purpose, but why?

Rang Prim tonight. Speech slightly blurred. It would have been useless to cast yourself on her mercy tonight. You had to pick her up.

Saturday May 31 1975

Back in Manchester in the same room. Rang D. She was all right and hadn't cried.

Sunday June 1 1975

Still very chilly. Rehearsed in the afternoon. Director most complimentary.

Heard Minister of Education on television say, 'We must co-operate together'.

Finished 'Present and Past'. Wonderfully good. Must read it again soon.

Monday June 2 1975

Gwen Cherrell met me coming out of the studio and told me that three separate American friends of hers - she named their states - had said D. was the 'only thing' in WEWK and had what they'd come to England to see and hadn't seen elsewhere, - style. Perhaps Americans don't like Dottie?

Wednesday June 4 1975

Last night to the Terraza with Wanda Venthom and Frank Duncan. Just like the London one, and packed, the first full restaurant I have seen since I've been in Manchester.

Thursday June 5 1975

Finished in two hours. Much praised, even by doormen.

Saturday June 7 1975

To London yesterday, delayed by a crash at Nuneaton. D said 'And they dare to strike just after the crash.'

Very hot. Molly no better. D. very tired, but better already today, with me here.

Mowed lawn, and put out sprinkler for the first time. Rather a lot of mildew on Madame Butterfly otherwise all in fine trim. Swifts over the house.

Sunday June 8 1975

How beautifully prosaic the first instalment of Margot F's enconvirs! Both of us found it so recognisable.

Two coots mated noisily on the pond. House-martins.

Mollie to cancer hospital tomorrow.

Wednesday June 11 1975

The new hospital is like a modern hotel. Really very good value for the health service. Rang up tonight, the nurse put me off, would we see the houseman tomorrow? Couldn't tell if that meant better or worse news.

To bank this morning where Mr. Smith was very nice and said we could have what money we wanted. To accountant in afternoon who said that back tax would be about £3000 at the moment!

We must just be grateful to be able to pay it anyhow.

Thursday June 12 1975

To see Mollie. They took three x-rays today, and four little bottles of blood for four different doctors, and vaccinated her.

And we still weren't told what it was, because of course, the results of all that won't be known.

John N. rang up very sweetly tonight, to know what was going on. H starts his job in the box-office at the Cambridge this next week. As he was asked what day he wanted off, and said 'Monday', he starts with a day off.

Very hot, the thermometer in the permanently shady hall, was over 70 degrees.

Saturday June 14 1975

To the West End in the morning to pick up four shirts from Harvie and Hudson's in Jermyn St, that I'd had re-collared and re-cuffed. £18.00, and £4.50 each!! It's not so long since each shirt cost £4.50 new.

Trooping the Colour was going on in the Mall. I saw some tourists in Piccadilly reading the guide to the ceremony - I suppose not realising it was going on a few street away, at that very moment.

Mollie brighter. She'd had some treatment at last. Injections of some sort and deep-ray all over! No effect yet, but I fear it will come. I am to go to B'ham on Monday, to empty the gas-meters for her.

Sunday June 15 1975

The close season for fishing ends tonight. But there was ten or so at it today. As I walked round the pond they were being told to fold up their rods and depart by a park keeper in uniform. They went, in the end, and grudgingly, muttering. How I despise the working classes for their messy fecklessness! Their contempt for acting on principle. There would be nothing of anything left if they had their greedy way.

Monday June 16 1975

Writing to distract myself from feeling sick? on the train to Birmingham. Not exactly sick. Because if I could talk to someone, it would go completely as it did on the train to Chester. I would have thought that proved it was only psychological.

What follows are a few notes about John G. I've been meaning to write up for some time. The train is travelling quite fast, but it is a modern one, and pretty steady. All the same the effort to write clearly will be a help.

There are two John G's, the schoolboy who stopped dead at about fourteen, who loves weak even bad, jokes, can be unkind about people's personal appearance, be disgusted by ordinary physical things, who likes being ‘tossed off in a dark train by someone I never saw’, a trivial person, and the other John, the great artist, detached, devoted, concentrated, always in the end clear-headed, intensely loyal, personal, and good. Happily the second John is present most of the time when we are with them.

It was the second John, who, at a very lavish dinner-party in a private room at L'Eay de France, given by Donald Albery to mark the end of 'The Constant Wife', talked to D. about 'The Tempest', which he was then doing at the Old Vic. It wasn't a success, 'There's a bad performance in each section of the play', of the theatre generally, 'Integrity calls to integrity', though, I think, it was also a delicate compliment to D. of Theatre Workshop, 'Yes, but Joan Littlewood always had bad actors.'

The last time we saw him properly, when we gave him lunch at L'Escargot, in the corner, at the round-table on the right, there was a touch of the other John in 'The difficulty, I told Eddie, is in that expository scene. I hope he didn't think I said suppository.' At which he shot a daring glance at D. He also quoted Paul Dehn as saying, after a stay in the London Clinic entirely stuffed by Korean girls, 'We must be thankful for small nurses.'

I don't think he'll ever like the new country-house.

Also might as well copy in a note from Tuesday October 8 '74.

D. home from theatre to say latest rumour is that H. Pinter has 'run off' with Peggy Ashcroft. Well. Also Frances Cuka told her that years ago he'd made up to a young girl, they had an affair. He said, 'If I leave my wife, will you come and look after me and my twelve year old child?' 'Yes', she said at last, and she never saw him again.

Tuesday June 17 1975

To cottage.

Thunderstorm when we got here. Beds full of weeds, but beautiful. Mowed lawn, and look forward to restoring order.

At 9.20 rang Lalla to find I was interrupting myself on television.

For ten minutes just after this, we listened to a nightingale.

John N. rang at 10.30. How sweet and faithful. His first day in Cambridge box-office went all right, despite his hangover.

Interesting facts on garden I will keep for tomorrow.

Wednesday June 18 1975

Bright red all over, beautiful sun all day. Now I'd like some rain. Garden by no means hopeless. Must concentrate on self-sufficient plants only in future.

For example, bergamot has vanished in the weeds, except for one shoot that was under a bit of hosta. Masterwort mole three good big clumps, and stokesin survival! Nothing to do with neglect, but of interest, half a mahonia has collapsed as it burnt or poisoned, and the newly planted (two years ago) hydrangea Blue and White Ware, are not too happy, and an old (at least 20 years old) Blue Ware in the border is nearly gone. Even the very vigorous red ones either side of the front door have suffered. The long damp mild winter suited them too well, I'd say, and they weren't ready for the nasty cold of May.

Thursday June 19 1975

Not so sunny today, so not so hot. Continued clearing up. Jap Anem doing better at last, after five years-odd.

D. rang the hospital tonight, - the doctor is to see a consultant tomorrow, that is to say, the 'super-specialist' as described at the Bolingbroke, is to see an ultra-super-specialist. Well, it'll be the Queen in the end, I daresay.

To dinner at Brooklands in the evening. Unbelievable as usual. Waited twenty minutes before ordering. Prawn cocktail poached salmon (and braised celery - good in this time of vegetable famine) and a bottle of good Ponilly Fuisse - £5.93. Wine was £2.05, sad, as it discourages people. They should charge more for the food.

D's leg still bad. She was surprisingly wobbly on the way down the path, and indeed fell over on the very narrow bit, happily without hurting herself. But all the way down the path, for the first time, she felt unsurefooted, so that I felt all the time I must be there with an arm. After dinner I said about her leg. She thinks it will get better. It may, but I would like Claire and S H-A to be more positive.

My hands are so sore and large from violent gardening.

Friday June 20 1975

Boiling all day, took thermometer out in the garden at four, and it registered 92 degrees in the sun. Sunbathed for an hour. Quite enough. Getting on well with clearing up. No permanent damage, except to the lawn, for this year, at any rate. Very dry, and very marked with mole- hills. I think dry springs are as damaging as anything.

D. rang hospital as instructed. Sisters and doctors all gone away till after the weekend! She rang after six of course, as it's so much cheaper. It's only to know if her sister may be dying. Why are people so mad about the weekend? John Nickson tomorrow night, I'm afraid he may be very bored after the first excitement.

D into Battle today. Got some vegetables at last. Broadbeans. 20p a pound. Two unusual things today, a bird I had never heard, a moth I had never seen. The bird sang in the big birch tree immensely clear and free with a strange bo-churr, on an upward inflection as it were. When it flew away, a light rump was evident. The moth was medium size, pink and brown, with a curious little hump or horn on its head.

Saturday June 21 1975

John N. to stay. Does not let me down eventually but gives you cause to think the while.

A bit exhausting; we must not have people to stay here, however sweet. We are too old.

Sunday June 22 1975

Day when everything went well, not too hot and not too cold. Delicious lunch, risotto and salad and cheese. Gardening and sun-bathing and D. working in the afternoon. Brooklands for riotous dinner at night. John N. took Ego to bed with him, having read the first two chapters with relish.

Entry last night entirely unfair and governed by D. having a cry after we went to bed, because of her leg (and arms) hurting and Mollie and so on.

John is sweet and a perfect unobtrusive guest.

Monday June 22 1975

John drove me to Wood's Corner where I got a few groceries and drink and two cans of petrol - luxury not having to carry it back the half-mile?

Day slightly overcast, but it was a nice contrast. Gay lunch with us telling all about our friends. They rested - I gardened! Clearing up nearly finished, now gardening can begin.

John drove D. back to London after dinner tonight. And as we were clearing away, she had another good cry. 'I don't want to go back'.

No job and Mollie to cope with, I said to John. True, but 'no job' says so much. Taking up again and again the burden of a fresh start, a full effort as if one were beginning all over again. John has been perfect.

Glow-worm there again in the Siberian iris. Tuesday June 23 1975

Another fine very hot day.

Felt very melancholy and deserted this morning. Why? Since I sometimes feel visitors an interruption to gardening the truth is, as with everything else, I feel the withdrawal of an audience.

That is not to say that I don't go on very well alone, once I've settled for no audience. Better than most, as I look around.

Glow worm there again, still just the one, and apparently on just the same blade of iris, though it is not visible on any blade during the day.

Jobs for tomorrow include the Rhododendron bed, the Hydrangea bed, cutting parts of the hedge, and planting some Marigold seeds. Memo: white geranium in old rose bed needs dividing and repositioning.

Sunday June 29 1975

In Bournemouth, for the first anniversary of Daddy's death - today, by day, tomorrow by date!

As usual, coming here makes me tired, and unable to write. I did all the jobs at the cottage I meant to do, sowing the marigold seeds in the rhodo beds. But I still have to re-furbish the hedge.

On the little table in the drawing-room, when I got back on Wednesday, were about thirty letters. Nothing more frightful than usual, and three book catalogues from which I fancied nothing, - happily. D. had gone to dinner with the Slades, and quite enjoyed it. The next day we came here, on first-class tickets, £21-odd. She didn't resist, to save her leg.

Tuesday July 1 1975

Back in London. The visit to the cemetery went off better than I had hoped. Mummy shed a few tears at sight of the gravestone, which pierced her old vagueness; she soon calmed down, but D. found her crying with her glasses off and the TV turned off later in the day.

Lalla, on the other hand, just tore herself away from Wimbledon on television, as the taxi came to the door!

I feel so glad we went. It gave D. a little holiday from cooking and Lalla likes to talk to me ceaselessly, as if to Daddy. I hardly read a word.

Mummy said at one point, at lunch, 'I've run out of food.'

She has a real little gift for language - utterly unknown to herself, course.

Wednesday July 2 1975

Still tired. To hospital and Moll will be home on Friday. How wonderful. - and I felt glad despite sometimes hoping she'd die.

Sunday July 6 1975

I think she is really no better, and they've sent her out to get worse, saving the bed for someone in more immediate need. They told D. nothing. I have written to the specialist.

Monday July 7 1975

Her breathing again much worse. Rang Marsden and made an appt. for 2.0. Took her there, they x-rayed her again, took her back in, and she's there for at least a couple of nights - longer, I hope.

Saw the specialist after a wait of two and a half hours. (got there at 1.30, Molly's appt. 2.0, seen at 2.40. I saw special. at 4.20.)

He says it is lymphoma. The malignancy is in the lymph glands, not in the blood. The other way round from leukaemia, which starts in the blood and infects the lymphs. (So they say - if anything can be said to start anywhere.) The lung filling up so soon had obviously been a surprise to him, as he'd sent her home for over a fortnight, and he said he'd have had a more hopeful tale to tell if I'd spoken to him on Friday. Now, will have to see. But he did say she could never live alone again. Which depressed both of us into the floor. She went up to the ward about 3.0. I rang D. to bring her things. D came about 5.0.

M. had the 'pump on', and it had removed a huge retort-full of yellow fluid. Quite a pint, if not more. She was in pain for the first time. I do hope they'll keep her in long enough to be sure the lung isn't going to fill up in the usual time.

On the way in to the ward, we saw a door open into a single room, where there was obviously a crisis. A woman was lying on a stretcher, very thin, greenish-white, being embraced by a man, narrow-shouldered with a bald spot, nurses rushing about. I wish I could forget it.

Wednesday July 16 1975

An exhausting week it was, last week. The Tuesday night I took Donald and his girl-friend out to dinner. Since the whole point of it was to get some money out of him for Mummy and L., and he said he hadn't any, the evening was a waste of time. He distinguished himself early on by saying 'Mollie? Oh, yes, she's the one who's a bit -' and tapped his temple. He has never met her, knows nothing of my relationship with her, and has taken his judgement of her from a casually unkind remark of Daddy's twenty years ago - and yet still came out with it unthinkingly crass. How right I have been! The girl is pleasant enough, and must seem heaven after Joan. It can't surely last - they never stop touching each other. Wanda Ventham at restaurant - sweet.

Wed. Mary and Prim came to dinner. Mary annoyed D. greatly by saying her cucumber soup recipe was much too expensive - with half a pound (sic) of cream.' - pitying laugh. In fact top of the milk could be used, and in any case, it is so rude to say something is too expensive. Prim much much better, nearly a stone lighter, and at her best. Which is saying a lot.

On Thursday we went to see 'Travesties' at the Aldwych, as it came off, for good, on Saturday. Very boring indeed, and very badly acted. John Wood very clever, but a supporting actor pretending he's a leading one. No soul. Too many of the others just amateurish.

Saturday went to audition for a musical of Anouilh's 'Becket'! Did not sing in the end, read and thought the whole thing suspicious. Audition badly managed, as I had to wait in a narrow passage with a lot of chorus-girls. First time I had been backstage at Drury Lane.

Monday night we went to John N's for dinner. Just us - dear thing. Love pauses between courses, but those were too long. D. drank too much and sicked it all up when we got home. However, it was a restful evening despite that! He is a dear, and gave me two extra-ordinary books of amateur plays as a little birthday present after midnight, as it was my birthday by then.

Today we went to see Mollie. Much the same, except that she says she's got a cold. Which might mean anything. The beginning of a new reaction to the drugs, pneumonia, a window too wide open or a cold! Oh dear. And D. is tried enough over being out of work.

Thursday July 17 1975

An audition today for a French commercial for an English product, woollen suiting. Was filmed with the dialogue having to be spoken in French! Well. How silly it all is.

Have persuaded her to come to the cottage too. Thanks goodness. Of course she feels guilty about Moll, - in a way. But we said we'd only go twice a week, and she's so down, D. I mean.

Friday July 18 1975

To cottage a.m. Cut grass, beautifully dry, and now can we have some rain? The drought is serious for the farmers.

Mrs. Harris senior has retired, partly owing to pneumonia last Easter, partly to a quarrel with Mrs. Harris junior. They are buying her half of the house, and she is going to live elsewhere in Battle. Well, she is very awkward and grudging. But she's had a hard life, and it's being hard to the end. For our part, I'm sorry we shan't be driven again by that stumpy figure, beret jammed on ratstails of hair. Always gloomy, snubbing, conscientious, meticulous, narrow, and unvarying, who shall say Mrs. Harris wasn't a peasant? In manner and appearance she could have gone straight into a pre-war French village film.

Rain we want.

Saturday July 19 1975

Suddenly tired after lunch, I went up for a rest at two thirty, and woke up at six-thirty.

Blast.

Fine misty rain a lot of today, but too fine.

A good thick shower, I'd like. John N. rang up - he's a good friend.

Sunday July 20 1975

Dull, but warm. Neil Dickson came down for lunch and the afternoon. Great success. He seems keen to do a lot of work for me. Perhaps he's the answer to my longing for someone to help a bit with the cottage. Much more lively and practical than I thought. An active sense of humour. If only we had some work. Her leg is still bad.

ANGUS MACKAY DIARY NO. 41

Monday July 21 1975

Got the two square beds back into shape. Need a tall something in dining-room bed. Perhaps aster frikartii will turn out to be useful. Surely that aconitum will turn up for the other.

Stokesia laevis 'Blue Star' about to flower for first time. Two of the plants have remained as they were put in, with just three or four leaves, tho' apparently healthy. Tomorrow hydrangea bed.

Tuesday July 22 1975

D. went back to London at 10.30. Felt very melancholy for much of the day - absurd really, as I'm only here till Thursday. But we have many problems at the moment, which is probably why. I prayed that she should get a job. She has done nothing wrong - ever, - it isn't fair or right.

Cleared hydrangea bed and various other chores. Didn't feel very well.

Her car came, - the Harris girl had put it down for the wrong day! - and she is to make some sort of appeal to Clare F. about her back and hand.

I wonder if her hand is the crochet? She's only had it since she started that bedspread, and she is bad at relaxing while using her hands. I rang her and felt better.

John N. rang, and cheered me up enough to go to bed cheerful.

Wednesday July 23 1975

Rained this morning and until about half-past two, for which I was very grateful after the drought. Even so, although it had been quite good rain, for about six or seven hrs, it hadn't got down more than a couple of inches.

Did a lot of good work, till seven.

Memos: move old spirean A.M. in hedge by apple-tree to a more open position. Also put some of those old-fashioned Michaelmas daisies in the rhodo bed. The butterflies love them so, I must keep some. Which reminds me that I haven't seen any small tortoiseshells, Peacocks, or Painted Laydys, this year yet, despite the fine weather. It can't be insecticides round here, the long mild wet winter, and dry cold spring have a lot to answer for.

Horrid. I felt quite cheerful all today. Why? Neil D. rang up to say he'd got Manchester. Good.

Friday July 25 1975

To 'No Man's Land' last night. John and Ralph - and Terence Rigby - superb, - Michael Feast less good, missed some comedy. Play fascinating, slight. John a real character perf. Wig, funny clothes etc. very proud of himself. Went round, Bobby Flemyng come up behind us, and was sweet, and in John's room we found Michael Redgrave, who stared as usual like a madman - John said later 'Isn't he looking better?' - I thought he looked terrible, his left arm shrunken and the hand trembling badly tho' held against his side. John said 'Dorothy oh, I'm glad I didn't know you were in front I should have been so nervous.' He got rid of Bobby F - (or rather he went) and Michael R., and we stayed for a drink. He was in his usual effervescent form, full of information. Hated 'Travesties'. 'XX' is such a pity - and seems all Daniel M's fault, tho' more John's for casting him and doing the play at all.

'What a _lot you had to do in the Edward VII' he said.

He told us Larry O. was like a wraith and shrunken with a piping voice. Like Daddy. Same disease. 'The papers have been so dignified'. All the plans announced are probably to make L.O. feel better. He's obviously bad.

I couldn't help contrasting John with all the others, (even Ralph has a head shake) and he's the only one who's never 'kept fit'. !

Dear thing, we're having lunch one matinee day.

Saturday July 26 1975

Shaw's birthday. Very hot, and would have been hotter but for a hazy cloud.

D. went to the hospital - seemed really to want me not to go, so didn't.

No gold injections, as yet. She is to have deep-ray treatment on Monday, and Mary can't visit on Tuesday, as no visitors can stay longer than three minutes, as she'll be radio-active. Horrible.

If it's harmful to be in her presence for three minutes, what about her having the ray, or whatever-it-is on her direct? Still one can't but be relieved that something definite is happening.

Garden here quite beautiful - tobacco plants, huge group of while phlox, hydrangea and potentilla and aconitum etc etc.

Sunday July 27 1975

Very close all day. Forgot, or decided to forget, to say depressing letter from accountant saying the TT want to go back to 1961. Oh well, if only we can sell Moll's house, .... she seems to want to, and will lend us (or give us) all the money without a thought.

Apart from that depression, we are both grey and flat thro' lack of work.

Big marquee on Common, 'Evangelist Albert Chambers declares Jesus Christ is the same yesterday today and forever.'

On consideration I think that Mollie being radioactive, is a joke she misunderstood.

Tuesday July 29 1975

No, she didn't. She is. gold 198 it said on her door, '3 0 mins two feet from the bed.'! Well, will see. She was still all right.

Last night we went to 'Absent Friends' by Alan Ayckbourn at the Garrick. Very good indeed. Wildly funny and extremely touching by turns and at one and the same moment. He's the best playwright of the moment for sure.

Still very hot indeed. Thermometer in hall facing north, where no sun ever comes, says 72 degrees F at 11.45 p.m. I am writing without my shirt on.

Wednesday July 30 1975

11.0 p.m.

Very close and hot all day. Thermometer says 76 degrees F.

Heard that the Paris commercial is fixed, for August 7. She is so leaden with the heat and no job, - I can't bear to think of it.

Thursday July 31 1975

Not quite so hot. Some thunder and rain tonight. Whiting and shrimps for dinner. D. very funny doing the shrimps - furious. Fish always makes her cross. Topping and tailing shrimps always makes her cross, too - well, they are fiddling.

Finished Maurice Baring's 'Puppet show of Memory'. A delightful man, I expect. But parts of the travel descriptions are of a boredom - to me.

Friday August 1 1975

To 'Gay Lord Quex'. Pretty bad. Some terrible performances, Sian Phillips, Dan Massey Hilda Barry, Margaret Ward - all bad in different ways.

But worst of all John G. thinking the play would still go. Oh dear.

Judi Dench lovely against odds, as ever.

Monday August 4 1975

10.40 p.m.

Thermometer 78 degrees. Stifling. Hose going full tilt on hydrangeas.

D. dying of lack of air!

Got a prescription from Dr. Janet for tranquillisers, for the air trip on Thursday. I loathe the whole thought of it.

We went for a walk round the pond at 10.0. She didn't want to come, but anything that distracts her for the moment from thinking about no work seems good to me. Otherwise she exhausts herself.

Tuesday August 5 1975

Not so bad today, a thunderstorm at ten for about half an hour, followed by frightful sun, but also by a lot of cloud.

Went to our bank at Earl's Court to get some francs. Film Co. sent Derrick a letter saying my flight was booked and I must enquire at Heathrow when. Really, how stupid.

Friday August 8 1975

Paris. 3.0 a.m.

Very hot, and have just woken with nasty feeling of being stifled, and as there is a lot of noisy traffic, had had the shutters closed. Write to calm myself. Shall be so glad when tomorrow is over. Have turned on all the lights, and taken my ear-plugs out. But why did I - am I - panicking?

Have just taken one of Dr. Janet's tranquillisers. Let it tranquillise. 5.0 a.m.

Well, it did a bit, and now I wonder if I'm going to be sick! So I'll write a bit more, to distract myself. Alas, the production manager took us out to dinner, and whether he has no taste or was doing it cheap, I don't know - a bit of both, I think, but it was not good. I wonder why I so often feel sick. Well, not exactly sick, but 'chokey' and uneasy. I mean, I know it must be 'nerves' whatever they are, because, on a journey, for instance, I can keep it at bay by talking to someone. Dear diary, in this instance, it can't be because I want it, because nobody could want it less. I will conquer it. I wish I felt it was worth learning French properly. But all I feel is that there are far more than enough interesting people in England to last me my lifetime - likely to be short if I have many more nights like this! - and I cannot see any difference between those who have travelled extensively and those who have not, no differences beyond those already existing, that is, - except possibly that those who have not travelled cannot bore one telling one about places where they have been.

Wednesday August 13 1975

Cottage.

Earth like rock. Rhodos and hydrangeas parched. Even London Pride pale and collapsed. Hart's Tongue F. in complete shade dying!

Thermometer over 100 degrees F in sun.

Never seen the garden here so parched nor the house so hot. It's always cool here. Not tonight.

Wednesday August 20 1975

Neil Dickson came down, and did splendid things to the path. He's a nice straight dull boy. Very sensible, and will make a good husband. He came back today, with a sore throat of all trivial things, and went straight to the doctor from the station! How odd people are about illnesses.

Not so hot after a thunderstorm or two, and an odd flood in Hampstead etc.

Mollie came home on Monday. Just the same really, except that her breathing is better. Still sits and stares at space for two hours at a time. But then she always did that. Very thin and frail. I think they've sent her home to get a bit worse.

Tuesday August 26 1975

Sudden outburst from Mollie at dinner reduced us both to fury. Said she'd rather die than have another go of radiation. And seemed disposed to say that the stay in hospital had done her no good. All as if it were our fault.

I suddenly see that she has spent her life like this, railing at circumstance to innocent bystanders. I have never seen D. so cross as she was afterwards at Mollie's stupidity - dimness. She actually wondered where she'd caught the disease from. Well, perhaps you do catch cancer - goodness knows, but if you think that, why let us near her? etc. etc.

She might have been invented with her various idiocies and virtues, as a torture for us both. Has been, I suppose.

Tuesday September 2 1975

At Elstree studios. D. has a part. The 'Too True to be Good' has come up, not a good part really, but Judi Dench and Ian McK are to be in it, and Clifford Williams, who did 'What Every Woman'. It's a part just saved by an outburst at the end. Mrs Mopply. Rehearses Sept 22. Oh the relief. She has been so wretched, with Mollie and this awful hot summer. Still no rain. When it comes, it will never stop, and the cottage will be sodden again. Where have the sun-showers-sun days gone?

Mollie went to hospital yesterday, and they seem quite pleased. We had a reasonable talk with her on Saturday, when at least she agreed to talk to the Social Services woman, and, in principle, agreed to sell the house. They did talk to the S.S woman, and we apply now to Wandsworth for a warden-controlled flat. So we'll see.

She is driving us both mad by her prejudice and self-satisfaction and lethargy. This last has nothing to do with her illness. She always slumped in her chair. Even in the theatre she let her head rest on the back of the seat, oblivious of stares. She wants nothing, and yet is deeply smug, and selfish - my goodness.

My 'General Hospital', recording today, has been easy and enjoyable. Nice people, nice director. Alone in the waitress service part of the canteen - and I mean alone, nobody else at any of the tables at five to one. Glass of white wine, poached salmon - just over a pound, coffee and cream. 11 1/2 p. Very good value, and shows you how much profit ordinary restaurants make.

Weather still warm, but only ordinarily so, thank goodness. Yesterday and this morning, saw clouds of house martins round the v. big trees on the common just at the end of our road. It seems a little early to be gathering for migration.

Went the other day to see the original 'Frankenstein' film, with Colin Clive as F and Boris Karlott as the Monster. Colin C. had a certain intensity and sort of poetry, that must have qualified him for 'Journey's End' which he created - Stanhope, I mean. A slightly common intonation for the class he was supposed to be, 'Hend' for 'hand', 'chep' for 'chap; I suppose even young English people might think that was actually part of the upper-class accent. I thought Colin C. was well-bred, but I don't think he can have been. Boris K. a very touching sketch.

Friday September 5 1975

To NFT last night with John N., Joyce F., and D. to see 'One More River'. First sight of Mrs. Patrick Campbell in 1934. I had imagined many things, but not that she would be rather limp or inept. Certainly she wasn't trying, but there is always a residual steel in a real professional. Not in her. Well, I suspected she was a bit of an amateur.

Joyce F is a girl of remarkable imaginative penetration. Which has been a great draw back to her, I expect. As she doesn't seem to have met many others of like capacity. Her company at her best, gives us great pleasure.

Saturday September 6 1975

11.0 p.m.

About 10.35 the bell rang, - I looked out of the window into the porch. A poor little man said he'd had a fall, and wanted to get home. I thought he was drunk at first, but I don't think he was. His face was covered with bumps and bruises and cuts, and he was very muzzy. He lived at 81, as his very neat diary showed, but he thought the road was the other way round, and I suppose he'd rung our bell because his house was in the same position as our, the other way round! He's come by taxi. I got him into a spotless hideous bedroom, and I think I was right to leave him. I would want to be left in such circumstances.

Monday September 8 1975

To Wandsworth Town Hall to see further about Mollie's affairs. Much struck by comparative intelligence of social services staff, no need to repeat things, or keep one sentence for one idea.

Books in waiting-room, which was properly shabby, as we're all paying for it, (but clean and adequate) were interesting. 'Tale of Two Cities', 'She Stoops', 'The British Constitution' by P. Wales, no doubt one of Prince Charles' pseudonyms, and 'The Lady with the Lamp' by Reginald Berkeley, in which Edith E. made a success in 1931? - Florence Nightingale. And a Readers Digest for March 1965. Dear bright girl to talk to.

Tuesday September 9 1975

To Waterloo to book Mollie's and my seats for Bournemouth on Thursday. Looked nervously everywhere for carrier-bags with bombs, especially as Clapham South Station was closed for a bomb scare, with six of seven police-cars outside. Return fare to B'mouth now £6.84. Day return £.470. That's what the period return was only the other day. What a year, bombs and inflation. Bought Anthony Powell's list of the dodecology 'Hearing Secret Harmonies' and finished it by nine o'clock. As good as ever, which is saying a good deal.

Rained enough today for me not to have to water, for the first time for months.

Fuchsia Riccatonis is it, or Mrs Popple just coming into full flower in three-quarter shade.

Sunday September 14 1974

The pond was deserted because of the rain. House-martins streaking just about the surface. A huge fish surfaced to the gills - quite three feet long it must have been with that head. A pike?

Saturday September 20 1975

Walking back from Tooting this afternoon, I saw two signs, one on an ironmonger's shop, said, 'Get your barbecue charcoal here'. Another, on the locked double glass doors of the Balham Spiritualist Temple, said, 'Please ring for healing!’

Planted some snowdrops at left side of little path, right in front of garden door, and another little group in front of raised chrisya bed. Also re-grassed a little patch of lawn to see.

Planted two bowls of Roman Hyacinth yesterday, and put them in cellar.

Sunday September 21 1975

Edna's visit from the 11th to the 18th, went well. She is a little more crippled, needs a stick to go into the dining-room, and says she has cataract. Oh dear, but still very cheerful.

We went to the Watts exhibition, and thought 'Choosing' exquisite. I'm so glad to have seen it, especially after the Graham Robertson letter. Also to the Georgian theatre exhibition at the Haywood. Quite fascinating to me, less so perhaps to non-enthusiasts. Two beautiful airy Zoffanys I already knew, but only in reproduction of Garrick's Hampton house. Prompt copy of 'Coriolanus' in Kemble-Siddons case, open at Act V. 'Everybody for last act.'

Mollie had made us both very tired - I took her to B'mouth the day Edna came. She seems to like being with Mummy and Lalla, is staying for another week and then going on to Auntie 'D's in the Isle of Wight. We cancelled her appointment at the Royal Marsden, and were surprised that they cancelled it just like a dentist's appt. Perhaps she's going to tick along for a bit. I'm going to suggest to Lalla she lives with them. No real hope, but it would solve so many problems for all of them, but if Lalla can't bear it, well - .

Monday September 22 1975

D. to first rehearsal of 'Too True to be Good'. They did read it, tho', she said Clifford Williams wasn't keen on readings, and had a discussion. Well, I think that's quite sensible with a play that has not come quite off. (How I admire Shaw for trying it!) Discussion quite good and valuable except for Joe Melia saying there was a cri de coeur from Shaw in it.!!

Thursday September 25 1975

To London this morning to buy D. some shoes. Red leather t-strap, Italian made £23, and some mules in gold and white brocade, £12. Raining very heavily, especially on the way back. I wrang some water out of my trousers.

Friday September 26 1975

On her bad hand the muscle between thumb and first finger is definitely wasting. The beginning of something terrible? Oh no.

Sunday September 28 1975

She practised five finger exercises and scales today to strengthen her hand. That she should have to.

Fanny Rowe rang up to thank her for her letter after Clive's death. It upset her, of course.

I feel, what with one thing and another, as if I shall never be able to think quietly and comfortably again. Every area of my life is worrying - except, ironically, my career.

Monday September 29 1975

Went to see about the Play for Today I had been offered, - clashing with a good part in 'Quiller Memorandum' for that very nice man, Gerald Blake. Got it, so had to turn down G.B. Three weeks rehearsal and a prestige attaching to it, which is largely underserved. However - ! It is a step forward as things repulsively are.

Tuesday September 30 1975

What a curious packed day. Rang John Nickson in the morning to hear his news. He told me, among other things, that David and Lindsey are getting divorced. In the afternoon I rang Derrick. He's fixed my TV affair, raising my BBC fee permanently from £80 to £120 for Category 1, and comparably thro' the other two categories, so that I get £360 odd for this play. I rang Lalla tonight, and she and Mummy are willing to have Mollie, at least for the winter. (They seemed to be describing another person from the one we know.) D. came back from her appt. with her physiotherapist, who says she must go to the doctor with her hand. As I thought. (But not till after the play, I said. And thought, in case.) My other godson, William Greig, rang. He hoped to see us before going up to Cambridge for his first turn on Saturday. So I asked him to dinner - tomorrow, Patrick Rowe's b'day.

Thursday October 2 1975

Last few days, since the heavy rain, there have been five wagtails on the enclosed bit of common in front of the Marianne Thornton School - a family, possible, as there seems to be only one unmistakeable male. Anyway, the largest number I have ever seen all at once.

William's visit a great success, tho' we were both tired, D. much. He is a great tall gangling affair of 19, very polite and slow and reliable, tho' properly self-absorbed. He may have no talents but I like him.

Lunch with Julian today. Talked much of professional things. Less trying. He is so indeterminate and colourless nowadays.

Still tormented by worries about her hand.

Friday October 3 1975

To West End to get copy of Agatha Christie's 'Hollow' because Judi Dench said at rehearsal 'Let's do an A.C. really well. It will run for ever.' D. suggested 'Hollow'. Ian McKellen said 'Is there possibly a good part for you in it?'

Also bought beautiful book about 'Vict. and Edw. Theatres' by V. Glasstone. At last perhaps they'll save them as amazing collections of antiques if nothing else. Minutes of Methodist Conference arrived for Mummy, with Daddy's obituary in. Sent to the wrong address, 30, inst. of 32, the obituary included his birthdate as May 10 1888 inst. of 1889, his B'ham church is listed as Mosely Rd. instead of Cambridge Rd. He frequently wrote in the 'Christian World' not, 'Herald', and worst of all his church at B'mouth is listed as Punshon Memorial, when his one claim to fame is that he raised the money for, built and occupied St. George's, for 14 years, filled it sensationally, and left it what it remains today, one of the best known churches in Methodism.

For what that's worth. And the Minutes are supposed to be the documentary source of Methodism. They had only to check their own records.

Sunday October 5 1975

Sent income tax £2000 as first instalment on back tax.

Tuesday October 7 1975

To cottage, alone. A very pleasant day yesterday, spent with John N. having lunch with us at the Spaghetti House. We went, in his car, to the Hayward for another look at the theatre Exhib. and took D. to her shoe fitting, then back home for Ruth Draper records, - he stayed to dinner.

Later in the night, we all had diarrhoea, and he, he tells me on the telephone tonight, was sick as well. (He still makes much too much of illness.)

Poor D. was up, (as I was - three times, but never felt bad) twice, and the second, so deeply asleep was she, she started to shit as she got out of bed, and went on the carpet. I woke up after my third - just getting back to sleep - and found her bolting the stable-door etc. by holding her chamber-pot under her after she'd done some on the carpet! Still, she did collect a bit! I cleaned it up while she was in the loo, and straightened the bed, so altogether she had a good three hours, and then another good three hours. She had a heavy day today, of fittings as well as rehearsal.

Mowed lawn, and finished off Neil's path. He'd left a great pile of earth in the middle of the path. Oh dear, I couldn't have.

Wednesday October 8 1975

Jo's production of 'Habeas Corpus' opened tonight. I wonder if she did it well, and if she'll go on with direction.

Planted Pachysandra terminalis under yew, one bit down path, one bit in back beside old rhodo, one bit under bay-tree, so we'll see. Also bits of that trailing spreading campanula - I must identify it sometime - everywhere. Tulipa sylvestris in corner of myrtle-bed, with two bits of southernwood - replanted myrtle in myrtle-bed!

Weather beautiful golden sun shining through the hedges. Masses of fungi everywhere.

Tranquil for the first time for some months. Dear cottage and its healing air.

Thursday October 9 1975

Divided up one of the astrantias, - 1 bit in hydrobed, 1 in rhodo bed, one in corner of sitting- room bed between chives and tradescantia.

Sunday October 12 1975

Came back to London Friday; while waiting for car, saw two house-martins overhead, as late as I've seen any so far. Got a lot of useful things done at cottage, as soil not too wet or dry.

Bought and planted wall-flowers at the house, four bundles of ten at 36p a bundle.

Friday October 17 1975

A group of sixteen jackdaws on the common, the most I've ever seen together, like the wagtails.

Sunday October 19 1975

D. and I saw a robin in the garden for the first time since we moved in in 1962.

Sunday October 26 1975

A heron on the island in the middle of the pond, fishing from time to time, quite undisturbed by the fishermen or the other people walking by.

Five Pochard have come back all the tufted Duck.

Monday October 27 1975

Clare Foote, D's physiotherapist, says it's carpel tunnel syndrome. I hope it is.

Thursday November 6 1975

She sees the neurologist next Wed. It's very difficult to go on as usual, but I think I do.

Monday November 10 1975

Tomorrow I go to B'ham to arrange the sale of Mollie's house and so on. Partly I go now to get it done while I can, partly to be away when she goes to the doctor, to make it seem unimportant. She will go on from the hospital anyway to her matinee and evening performance, and I shall be back in the evening.

And it will pass the last few intolerable hours for me.

Tuesday November 11 1975

I could not go into the kitchen because of dog-shit. Bimbo in the front room is emaciated and dying, I would say. I was shocked in a way I have not often been.

The solicitor is dealing with it.

We'll see.

Oh darling.

Thursday November 13 1975

He didn't say what was wrong - he really didn't seem to know - but mentioned spine. Today she went for an x-ray of her spine and elbow and shoulder.

She also had a blood test.

I cannot believe I'm writing this.

She goes to see him again next Wednesday, and seems to have no serious fears. The play is transferring - to the Globe.

Sunday November 16 1975

Very cold and wet and November. Nobody round the pond, as it was raining.

David Conville rang last night, and seems to be serious about a revival of 'Salad Days' in the West End. I liked everything he said about it, especially that it must be in the right theatre. It sounds as if it'll come off. I hope so. We need the money.

Her poor hand.

Tuesday November 18 1975

12.20 p.m.

She's just gone out to take her make-up off, having to open the door with her left hand. Went to bank, to book binders with some vols. of Theatre Notebook, and to the V&A to present my 1951 suit, and then to a film 'Lisztomania’, very bad. All ostensibly to get away from Mollie, but really to forget tomorrow.

She seems calm. But then so do I.

Thursday November 20 1975

Yesterday was the worst day I ever spent, and yet it did not end too badly.

She went off at quarter-to-ten, saying 'I have a hunch it'll be out-patient stuff.' I did the grate, shaved, dressed property in case I had to go and see her at the Dr's. And then waited, not knowing what the result would be, not able to read or do anything but think of the worst and the medium and the best and the medium and the worst. I gave Moll her lunch and saw her off to her radiotherapy and waited. I thought by 2.30, that she hadn't rung because she was too upset and just wanted to get thro' the matinee without speaking to me and making it worse. She rang at 3.0 after her first scene. She could hardly speak for crying, as she said she had to go into hospital on Dec. 1. I could speak to the doctor between 9 and 10 tonight. 'Had he asked to speak to me?' 'No'. 'Does he think it's serious?' and her twopence ran out. I put the phone down, got some coal up, put Moll's tea ready and started to walk to the theatre, as I didn't want to get there till curtain-down. Stopped off at the Tate on the way for a sit- down.

She perfectly all right, sorry that she'd cried. Breaking her record of not being off had upset her for a bit. He wants to do a lumbar puncture. And see. When I spoke to him and forced him to particularize, he said no, she mustn't give up her play. And it might only be ten days.

He doesn't know what it is. But it isn't a tumour and it isn't leukaemia and it isn't general paralysis. It is mechanical. That doesn't mean it can be reversed. The hand may always be wasted. Not that he said that. He was rather pedestrian. We must fight all the way.

John N. rang up in the evening, and was very sweet and I was so grateful to have someone to talk to. I felt exhausted today. She's been quite wonderfully brave.

Sunday November 23 1975

Two Pochard drakes and one duck.

Mollie becomes more irritating and maddening to us both every day. Oh, if only the doctor says tomorrow, that she can go to Bournemouth.

She goes into the hospital (private) on Monday week, when they transfer to the Globe. What with one thing and another, I'm so tired - right inside.

Sunday November 30 1975

Three pairs of Pochards and far more Mallard. It's gone really cold and foggy.

On Friday Mollie and I had a real quarrel. Started by her, as I was about to pour my gin and tonic after a very tiring two hours with my accountant. 'I have a horrible feeling you want to get rid of me.' And 'You've just got round Lalla to make her have me.' 'She's never asked me herself.'

I told her at once about D's hand and going into hospital. She echoed it, and never mentioned again during the quarrel. When I told her I spoke, as it were, with Lalla's voice, she was obviously completely surprised. She'd no idea such a thing was possible. I thought that if I said it Mollie would believe Lalla had said it. Which is why Lalla hadn't written again, because she thought that way, too. I was upset, but the worst I said was that all I'd done for her had obviously been a mistake. I could have mentioned the dog-shit. Or 'You are so selfish and so stupid.' I'm glad I didn't. And what good did she do by starting it, even if her strictures had been true? Poor silly creature.

I feel sick over tomorrow.

December 1 1975

A horrible day. Even the weather, very wet and windy and cold.

Her room looks out on Vincent Sq. trees and grass.

Tests galore, bone-marrow, electrical, lumbar puncture, milogram, showing details of the spine. Saw another doctor besides Dr. Gibberd, v. nice, a gent, said it may be a benign tumour in her neck, but also said it could be inflammation of the spinal fluid about which there is nothing to be done. Seemed to incline to the benign tumour, which could just come out. But that may be my imagination. We stayed cheerful.

Stopped with her till quarter to five. Came back to soak joint, as it mustn't got to waste, did up grate, washed up last night's dinner-things and my own. And D's other nightie. Jo rang up, and was very helpful. Ju rang up, and was equally so. Old friends are the best. I feel frightened and tummy-churning all the time, but won't say it again.

Friday December 5 1975

Myelogram. It showed disc trouble. Wednesday was the worst day. Came in at five-ish, and Dr. Gibberd said it was not, in one way, serious, that is, it was not a progressive paralytic disease. The relief was enough to make me cry when he'd gone, and D. was so comforting, because, of course, she'd never thought the worst. However, the reality is none too bright. Today we saw the neuro-surgeon, who says an operation to relieve the pressure on the spinal column - first we've heard of that - probably no improvement, but prevents any worsening - 4 per cent chance of being completely crippled. She says her instinct is for having it at once. And never mind 'Too True'. Of course it would be awful to go back into the play, perhaps find her hand worse, and jeopardize the next job.

Monday, Tuesday Wednesday. Tomorrow Lalla comes up for the day, and I must tell her.

I've never had anything as bad as this happen to me.

Saturday December 6 1975

I wish I didn't always write so badly.

A very bad night, woke up about four, after getting off about one. Met Lalla at 10.40 at Waterloo, spent next five hours in Christmas crowds in Oxford St., except for hour and a half in Davies St. London Steak House, in literal isolation. Lovely, as we could have absolutely free talk about Mollie. It's all right as far as Lalla is concerned. How wonderful to be able to say that. Lalla took D's illness and Mollie in a way that removed both weights from my shoulders. We went to see D. and all was well.

How can I help her? How does one respectably help the love of one's life to have a nasty operation? And the accountant comes here tomorrow afternoon to talk over things.

Lalla went away very happy.

D. seemed so up, I wondered whether she'd had bad news. I suppose I help. I felt very tired tonight after I came back from hospital with L., gave her tea and took her back to Waterloo, and put her on special charter train, fare £1.85? return. Run by young man in jeans long hair etc. Makes profit!

Feel utterly helpless and despairing abut D. That should not be. I rely on her to inspire me. That should not be.

Sunday December 7 1975

We decided on no operation for the moment, as the tests last a year. And perhaps try other ways. Certainly the surgeon's presentation of the operation was negative. It is difficult to embark on a painful and dangerous operation if it is only to be preventative. And we can always go back and try again.

She comes home tomorrow. How heavenly. All the same her hand is as bad as ever, and she's worried that there's no wigger at the Globe.

I'm so tired. Wrote to both solicitors crossly.

Monday December 8 1975

She's home. Veal for dinner and courgettes. Laina rang during dinner. Bimbo's dead. Company manager at Globe rang, to say could she come back on Monday, not Thur. as programmes were printed till Monday, and we must think of Gillian (her understudy). I have never seen her so cross.

She's home.

Tuesday December 9 1975

Her understudy rang just as we were about to start dinner to say, at length, that of course, she'd clear out of the dressing-room any time.

Peter G. couldn't, I suppose, get any sense out of the management.

She cried. I’m not surprised. What a silly unprofessional mess. She to bed at 9.0, feeling weak, tho I don't think she is. I did the Christmas cards.

Saturday December 13 1975

She returned to the play on Thursday. All's well. Now we start again on her hand.

Mary enraged both of us by telling Edna, who naturally rang up in great distress, the night before I was going to ring her to tell her that there was no need to worry, at the moment. Mary was told by Prim. Why?

Monday December 29 1975

Five Pochard drakes and four ducks on pond. More than ever before. Cold weather on the way? They haven't nested there yet.

Other news. We didn't go to the Flint-Shipmans' party at the Phoenix on the 15th because of the worst fog since 1952. I couldn't see the Avenue at all from the end of our road. Because of the hot summer, I suppose.

Went to B'mouth for the day, to take them their presents. Rang Edna. She's found Nora with her face in the fire. Few burns, drink must be locked up. Doctor impossible.

Mollie is restive at B'mouth, but we pay no attention till Lalla complains. John N. and Ian Dickson came to dinner on the 22. Ian Dickson a great disappointment. Unshaven, dirty, drunk, slow and boring.

D's boxing Day mat. £500 up on previous week! Odd, for both of us had thought that shows should be cancelled this week.

Last night we went to dinner with Pauline Jameson and her husband, Lou Lewington, Wing- commander. Sad. Awful dinner. cold consomme (with ice you had to break on the top under the yoghurt), some sort of bird - rabbit? much overcooked, with boiled pots, and frozen peas dumped on the plate without being asked, and ice cream with nuts and chocolate sauce, which looked exactly like the cold consomme but wasn't so cold. There's something sweet about her, and something pathetic and something maddening. Dear Helen Christie. And Derek Jacobi. Nice plumping queer, who never says anything dangerous or disturbing. Was going to supper in the week with Joan Plowright, Dorothy Tutin, and Geraldine McEwan.

Thursday January 1 1975

Thank God 1975 is over.

I thought that having to have a new roof at £1500 and Jeremy going into a mental hospital was bad. By April Mollie was with us, the dreadful back income-tax thing as at its height, in August there was hideous Paris, in September I noticed D's hand, and Mollie came back and so on.

I'm waiting for her at an Acupuncture - ah, no, here she comes. We'll see. She seems all right.

I feel slack.

Sunday January 4 1976

A very dull, windy wet day, but that has the advantage of the Common being empty. The pond was rough, and the ducks all on the water facing into the wind, as they went to sleep, - I suppose they'd sleep. She says she thinks her back may be a little better.

Wednesday January 7 1976

On Monday afternoon, I sat in Green and Underwood's waiting-room and looked thro' Spotlight from 2.30 till 5.45, but it was worth it, for 'Salad Days'.

Casting.

Yesterday John N. and I went to the pantomime at the new Greenwood Theatre. Quite a decent little place, crude, but not a bad shape, no stupid forestage or width, 'Cinderella', pretty, inexperienced Cinders, Stacy Dorning, and a Buttons like an electric puppy. Tony Maiden, very talented, 17.! Came out at the interval, as the Ugly Sisters were so terrible. John and I were the only ticket-holders besides 40 children.

Today getting ready for Edna. Rave second notices for D's play from Times and Guardian. Peggy Ashcroft came round tonight, saying, 'It's Peggy'. D. has never met her. How odd. She looked 47.

Thursday January 15 1976

Lalla 70 yesterday. Edna rang to say she was safely in Cornwall after her week here, and to say that Mary's father was in the Crown to welcome Garibaldi when he arrived at Weymouth? Plymouth? in 187?

Sunday January 18 1976

Six Pochard drakes and five ducks.

The circus has gone, such a pretty circus, with a blue big-top, and delicate lights outlining it and the entrance, lovely red curtains and small, to make the entrance into the big top more exciting and surprising. Went to preview of 'Plunder' at a National on Tuesday. Went with a swing. All laughs got. Dinsdale Landen very good. Polly Adams perfection.

Monday January 19 1976

D. had her note-case snatched, in the dear little cobblers at Balham Hill. Her Barclay card, Selfridges card and £1. And that pretty case I gave her. She was chatting to the cobbler and the young man said 'Oh, shurrup' and snatched. It's the 'shurrup' that's the horrid part. Can there be any more blameless sweeter tempered person than d. in London?

Poor wretched young man.

Sunday January 25 1976

Flock of Redwings on the enclosed bit of Common. Never seen them before. D. very depressed about her hand.

Thursday January 29 1976

David Conville has got Dorothy and me out of the casting of 'S.D.' No wonder. We can tell a big difference between two actors he thinks exactly the same. Oh dear, I'd hoped to make some money, - now we won't.

Sunday February 8 1976

Pond properly filled again. All the birds back incl. three Pochard drakes and four ducks. Three wagtails, and the large flock of red wings in the enclosed paddock near us. And an occasional Field-fare.

Tuesday February 10 1976

We took Judi Dench and her husband, Michael Williams, out last night to Bianchi's in Frith St. They are both true and adorable people. We laughed a great deal, told each other our horrific income-tax stories, (she has been asked for £7,500 for the 'Cabaret' year!) and altogether got on like mad.

Saw a Goldcrest in the garden today.

Friday February 13 1976

An avant-garde (sic) film at the National Film theatre tonight, 'Un Homme pui Dort'. An hour and a half of portentous boredom, with a good point better expressed in ten minutes.

The film on Tuesday, 'La Gifle', though much less heralded, infinitely better.

D. cried when she got home on Wed. and again today, from the pain in her back.

Sunday February 15 1976

Nine Pochards. Still a great flock of Redwings on the Common.

Felix de Wolfe rang me on Thur. to say that casting for 'S.D.' was almost complete. All mine but the mums, virtually! Tim and Jane mine! Monday February 16 1976

Bought two pairs of winceyette pyjamas at Marks, - £11.! Smoked bacon, £1 a 16.

John N. drove D. home, an act of disinterested kindness.

Sunday February 22 1976

D. in tears again with the pain of her sciatica. Donald married on Friday. Did not go, of course.

Malcolm to stay for two nights, very irritating about D's career. Am afraid I lost my temper. Saying she must play 'bitchy' parts, as that's where her real popularity lay.

My two TVs came out, and the Times said that, in the Granada one, I was 'superb'. Well, I was left alone to give my own performance, so of course I made more impact.

Two Pochards left. Flock of Red-wings gone, I think. It's been mild and springlike for a day or two.

What am I to do about D? We must go to a better specialist.

Wednesday February 25 1976

First day of my TV. All right, dull, good, because I couldn't bear anything else. John N is good. D. has party tonight given by Eddie K. for end of run. Kind, as he can't have made any money out of it. At Terrazza. John N. is good, because he's seeing Edna across London on her way home.

Thursday February 26 1976

Llewellyn Rees told me he was outside the Old Vic on the first night of the National Theatre and Peter O'Toole's 'Hamlet', waiting for his wife, who'd been taken to the play by Charles Lundstone. He heard the applause start. The first person out was Robert Atkins. 'What did you think of it, Robert?' 'Well, I suppose it's something - to have made Hamlet - nothing.

Sunday February 29 1976

I hated leaving her alone.

The journey is beautiful in bits.

Hotel just the same. Television is shaming, watching it, I mean. Ed Fox not good in 'Loyalties' so self-conscious.

I feel now when I leave her, she may fall or hurt herself without me to look after her - or just I may lose her somehow.

Thursday March 4 1976

Cottage.

Emlyn Williams rang while I was away, to offer her part in his new entertainment, taken from Saki's short stories. Excellent part, one of 4.

Worries: can they possibly find the two young people? That sort of thing, like Wilde, is nothing if not well done, and should Emlyn direct it himself? No. It needs a fresh eye. It's too like a reading, each section too long.

And is she up to it? She gets very bent and her head is bad, there's no doubt. And she's worried by the pain, so that she's in bed by 9.0.

I don't know what to do. But I'll think of something.

Garden not too bad. Huge patch of snowdrops.

Friday March 5 1976

Did a good deal. Big beds still too cold and behind to weed with profit.

Started on old rose bed and think I will have it better than it's ever been.

Anemones and miniature daffs out, and primroses of course. T. sylvestris not altogether happy, not all bulbs have bloomed even first year. Messes of cyclamen. Coum out here and at house.

Saturday March 6 1976

D. cried again tonight with the pain, and said as I helped her into bed, 'A cripple.' I must do something to help her.

Very cold.

Sunday March 14 1976

In Glasgow again. Saw a big black goose? over the river at Preston.

She is still in pain. What can I do? I'll do something, if only pray.

Monday March 15 1976

The most intolerable thing about television is waiting for the bit of whatever it is one wants. With a book, or a paper, you would flip over the pages.

Sunday March 28 1976

She's no worse, or perhaps is being braver. Her hand is bad. I have made a list of all who might possibly help.

Lovely party for Gerard's mother's 80th birthday. Had long talk with Ben Travers, 89, very spry. Knew Saki. 'You had to watch him, he was a homo'.

Good work at cottage. Four or five Pochards still at pond, so perhaps they'll breed this year.

Monday March 29 1976

The doctor was very sensible with her today, and we can be quite flexible. Good. We will.

Garden in good shape. Nest in camellia, first time in something I planted.

Wednesday March 31 1976

Tennents' say the Emlyn Williams thing is to be June. Brighton, Bath, and the Haymarket. Isn't it strange, I still feel jealous.

Sunday April 4 1976

Letter from B'ham solicitors to say the hideous lodgers will be out of the house by Monday. Although they haven't paid any rent for nearly a year, we've had to pay £350 to get them to go. The solicitors advised us not to go to court! and now we don't vote Socialist.

Wednesday April 14 1976

Cottage.

Heard the nightingale this morning about five. Beautiful, perfect.

D. goes up to one of her Emlyn W. auditions tomorrow. Her back and head are still bad.

'Salad Days' opens tonight (opened, as it's now ten to eleven) first London revival.

Horrid time in B'ham last week. Left house like a slum, and stole all Mollie's linen and a picture of D. as a little girl.

Friday April 16 1976

D. came back yesterday not so tired as I expected. Murray Watson, Celia Bannerman and Michael Cochrane are the other three. They were all reading away, and Emlyn suddenly said, 'Oh, stop it, you've all got it.' The amazing thing is that they're all four nice and ladies and gents. Help.

New gate. Beautiful oak, planed and sand-papered and fine. All handmade. How awful to have to remark on it, and how lovely to have it. A dear little man from Punnett's Town made it, and rammed home the gateposts, and with the aid of a spirit-level, hung the gate using the old long hinges.

Cost of the oak, seasoned as much as you can get these days, for gate and well-head, £51. Did good work in garden. All beds in fair shape.

Saturday April 17 1976

D. down all day, perhaps the result of Thursday, the extra exertion, I mean. Warm enough to sit out. Put out parsley seeds in myrtle-bed d-room bed, old rose bed and rhodo bed, so still have enough. Also night-scented stock in both big beds either side of centre path. I wish her play began next week.

Sunday April 18 1976

D. had another cry tonight, thinks her head is worse. She will try butazolidian. When we get back to London will try everything and everybody.

Accepted to do our Trollope reading at Smallhythe in June. Tried making some scones tonight! Not a success.

Monday April 19 1976

Warm enough to sun-bathe yesterday and today. D. sat out all afternoon both days from two till six. Heard cuckoo for the first time today.

Prim 60 today. Rang her. She was alone! Finished rose-bed. At last.

Tuesday April 20 1976

Still warm, windy and dry, too dry. Reorganized rubbish-dump, v. hard work, also re-mowed lawn. Very far on for time of year with all work. Incredible, considering we were away so long, and shows what progress I'm making in getting the garden, even here self-supporting, as London is. D. said she was walking better today.

Sunday April 25 1976

She went to bed straight after dinner, as he leg was so painful.

Wednesday May 5 1976

Ditto. Painful tears last night during dinner. What am I to do?

Friday May 14 1976

She is a little better, or perhaps a little braver. She has been to a faith healer which may have helped.

Her E. Williams thing is postponed till August, perhaps cancelled like my Manchester play. John N. has had a heart attack. Horrible. At cottage, healing and beautiful.

Saturday May 15 1976

R. Mrs A T Delamare out before Ascot Brilliant. Trollius beautiful in this drought year. Cowslip spreading with seven flower heads. Will divide if we get enough rain to make it safe.

Hepaticas spreading well, and astrantias have made lovely big clumps. Smilacina r. out in full flood. View from gate of the oak tree trunk, bluebells and bracken in the sunset.

Sunday May 16 1976

She cried most bitterly again. I think at the moment, she must rest all the time, except for work.

I think this is the first weekend I've ever spent at the cottage when I didn't worry about the garden once, because it is now so nearly all beautiful. Trillium grandeflor. out which I thought was gone. Three clumps, seven lovely flowers. Good. A tall centre needed for d- room bed, replacement for Marhonia b. which is finally dying, interestingly, as the big one is as healthy as ever. And something for new site behind rubbish dump.

John Nickson is going to be all right, I think. Poor little thing.

Saw two fine yellow wagtails down by Brooklands stream, when we went to get the milk.

Thursday May 20 1976

D. so much brighter, starting her TV with Cilla Black. So much better yesterday at thought of it, and getting her teeth so much more right. Oh, the relief, tho' not at all permanent, no doubt. But oh it's so good to see her smile and feel she's there and not away somewhere with her pain.

Friday May 28 1976

She got through the studio day on Wed. much better than I expected, and ate her steak and courgettes with an appetite. But yesterday and today her back has been painful, and she has felt low. I am still full of resolve.

On Monday I bought a male and female tortoise. On Wednesday they tried to mate, he making a tiny mewing noise, as D.H. Lawrence remarks in some poem. Pretty shells.

Tuesday June 15 1976

At the cottage. She got through the reading at Smallhythe, but that's all one can say.

How lovely it is here, the messes of roses and irises and bell-flowers. I will perhaps write tomorrow.

But how the cottage helps one not to despair.

Wednesday June 16 1976

Worked well all day in the garden. D. very bent and in pain.

We went to 'Sleeping Beauty' at the Coliseum on Monday. Neither of us had seen Nureyev before. A vulgar little show-off with an ugly body, he did not even 'get' the audience until he did a series of startling turns which set them clapping before he'd finished. Yet Margot F. liked him. Perhaps he was better at first. Incomparably better than anyone - for production (by N.) and clothes and perfs. were not at all startling - was the Blue Bird, Frank Augustyn - a beautiful dancer with style and lightness, subtlety, tenderness. Surely he'll be a star. Yet neither the Times nor Telegr. mentioned him next day, tho' he got a storm of immediate cheers.

Friday October 15 1976

She saw the specialist in August, and last week for his conclusions. He can't do anything. Her hard is permanently clenched, she walks very badly and is losing weight. She struggled thro' 'Little Lord Fauntleroy' and 'The Crezz' on TV. Yesterday we went to a faith-healer in Somerset.

Edith Evans died yesterday - only the Times got anywhere near her. The greatest actor either of us has seen.

Sunday October 17 1976

It may help to write. It may not.

A lovely article by John in the Observer about Dame E. A silly and vindictive one by Harold H. in the Sunday Times. Have done more house-work lately, partly because she can't, partly, I suppose for distraction, partly perhaps, in case someone else has to come in later, to look after her, if I'm away.

Thursday October 21 1976

What a two days. Yesterday I saw the accountant. The income-tax want £10,000. Prim came to dinner - we said it would be for the last time. Today I told the estate agents to sell the cottage.

This afternoon D. went for a film interview. Three days in Amsterdam - £600. P. Green rang up to say the casting-director thought she looked rather ill. She brought the script home. Perhaps tomorrow they'll say no.

Friday October 22 1976

After I wrote, Ingrid Bergman rang to ask us to dinner tonight. Later Peter Green rang to say they were very worried about having Dorothy. She was upset, tho' not seeming fully aware of how ill she seems to others. I have not (4.0) heard from him yet.

Ingrid rang this morning to say the restaurant she'd booked was up two flights, was this all right as she's heard D. wasn't walking well? It was also a Chinese restaurant, so I asked her to change it, ostensibly for the stairs, but she changed it for Mr. Chow.

D. has gone to a homeopathic doctor in case he can help her pain.

It is very difficult to decide whether to let her work or not, even if anyone wants her.

Saturday October 23 1976

A delightful dinner-party. Ingrid is so good and straightforward. Sat between her and Helen Montague, who now more or less runs Tennents. Rather loose-lipped, physically and mentally. Frith Banbury also there, cultivated, a bit catty, but good company, dear Griff James.

How lovely it might have been, but my mind goes back and fore between D. and the money, the money and D.

Monday October 25 1976

Apparently Peter G. has now persuaded them to have her, but she feels she can't do it, nor come with me to the cottage tomorrow. I shall have to stay one night to see the estate-agent. She cried most bitterly.

Tuesday October 26 1976

At the cottage, alone. The last day here in my old little narrow bed, before the estate agent comes tomorrow.

When I got here just before lunch, I cried very much immediately, violently, for her for myself and the cottage. And have not done so since, as I dreaded.

Sally came this p.m. and was her own dear self.

Thursday October 28 1976

The man from the estate agency, Gerring and Colyer, was quite young, under thirty, tall, clumsily built, tho' not at all unpleasingly so, with big capable hands and a very quiet gentle manner. He made a very painful time as little painful as it could be. He was obviously very taken with the cottage. When I said lightly, 'Perhaps you'll buy it yourself', he said he was seriously thinking of it, and meant it.

He said they would leave it open to offers, as a valuation was difficult with such an unusual position and property. Anyone who wanted it would want it very much. But it would certainly be in the £13.000 - £15,000 bracket.

It is better to sell it now for financial reasons than have to sell it because D. can't get to it. Then she would feel she was depriving us of it. The money is more than I thought, and will certainly help.

Monday November 1 1976

Mr Griffiths rang to say he would take the barbed-wire down, and he might be interested in the cottage himself.

Peter Green asked me out to lunch, and was very kind. Our talk got me a little straighter about D. and work. If only the voice were right. The walk and the hand could then be more forgotten. Have written to Dr. Earl, and dread his reply. Also wrote to thank P.G. All this unknown to D. which is so horrible to me.

And yet the doctors may all be wrong - they so often are.

Thursday November 11 1976

Edna has been for her usual week, and she has been a great comfort - and distraction. She was much distressed by D's state. When I saw her off today, she cried - the only time I've ever seen her do so - when she offered me £50 so that we could go to the faith-healer's again. And she knows nothing of the income-tax troubles. Her great friend, Hester, came for the day last Monday, - small, good clothes, talkative, intelligent, immediate friendship - and rang tonight to thank us, obviously much struck by D's frailty. Would I let her know etc.?

To Jo and Harry's last night - they were sweet. Hurried talk with Jo in kitchen - she is all there, with me. Thank God. 'Dinner with Ed Fox and his Jo last week. He came here for us, and drove us back. Most thoughtful, and have told him all. How funny. I find him almost the most comfort as a thought. Strong, if uncertain in his passion!

Estate agent's description of cottage came, yesterday - amazingly ecstatic - tho' quite deserved - I couldn't look - cried bitterly and put it away - have not told D. Poster today, 'Greta Garbo dying'.

Friday November 12 1976

First day of 'Rough Justice' TV. Home in time for lunch. She'd been down the road for a bit of shopping, and also went to the doctor's at 6.30. The result was tears at dinner-time again. So walking doesn't help. And she proposed going to Claire's 'if I'd give her an arm across the Common and save a taxi.' I don't think I'm wrong to stop her doing that.

Thursday November 25 19176

I have so many contrary thoughts. Sometimes I find myself making plans for after she's died, and am disgusted, but do it again.

Our life now is so suddenly different - never going out, never ringing anyone up, never having anyone in. Even so, the financial future looks dark. Even if she could work again, but she can’t - without a miracle. I find I don't want to confide in anyone.

Sunday November 21 1976

John Warner came to lunch yesterday - very sweet. Worried.

There has always been a Lesser Black-backed Gull on the Common, just one among the Black-headed. There still is this year, but it is a young one, with streaks of the immature brown markings still on its head. The Pochards are back on the pond, eight so far.

Saturday December 11 1976

She cried again tonight, as she is no better, worse, if anything, and Julian rang up about 'The Duenna'. She said she was interested.

I get so tired praying for her to get better, and there's no one now to tell that I'm tired. As I have to be strong for her to say she's tired.

She sees the Aylesbury faith-healer in January.

Friday December 17 1976

To see her trying to darn my socks.

And the young man who was so nice about the cottage, has left the estate-agents, so there is that to begin again.

Tuesday March 22 1977

John opens in 'Julius Caesar', sent him some flowers.

Mollie died on March 3.

She can just get up-stairs, and did and TV three weeks or so ago, someone who was dying.

Thursday April 7 1977

Dorothy died today. I found her dead in bed when I got back from rehearsal.

My poor little ploob.

Tuesday June 7 1977

11.0 p.m.

I went today to watch the Queen's Jubilee procession. Stood at the same spot in the Mall where I stood for the Coronation. Went afterwards to John Nickson's for lunch, - a number of young people to whom I did not attend as I should have done.

Back home for dinner alone. To B'mouth tomorrow to put Mummy in a geriatric ward. Much disturbed by street party.

Sunday July 17 1977

Saw a Fieldfare on the Common on Friday. Very unusual.

Sunday October 2 1977

In Bristol, to do a new play 'Sunset Touch' by Jonathan Raban, directed by Eric Thompson at the BOV. I was thrilled to be asked. A four-in-hand, a clergyman living in S.W.11. Very good part.

At the Grand. Plastic hotel. Everyone willing, but don't know what they are not doing. Dinner Whitebait - tepid, chicken-reasonable, tho' with frozen peas, but fresh beetroot - good cheeseboard - Caerphilly odd. Room smallish, hear every word of people and TV next door. Will leave.

Room also too warm, as usual. I am writing at the open window - and it's been coolish today - in my summer pyjamas, and still not cool.

Am very nervous of this long part on stage, and without her to help me for the first time in something big. Perhaps it's as well that back stage has been rebuilt, as it's where I first met her.

Dining-room Americans mostly. Two young English men near me talking of their days in the Cubs, obviously thinking they were in a 'sophisticated' restaurant. Very ill-lit. Waiters willing. Coffee tepid. Bill £5.53.

Monday October 3 1977

First rehearsal. No reading. Everyone pleasant. Tried to stay calm. Felt hopelessly still and flat. Eric Thompson very helpful in suggestion. Tried to learn tonight, 2 pages in an hour. Nearly in a panic, then remembered I still had time, was tired from walking looking for flats, and only a sandwich lunch. I have long long way to go to get thro'.

Tuesday October 4 1977

Better today. Eric T. most helpful and shed light everywhere. Still stiff but places where it was coming. Felt it possible I might do it sometime, tho' when...? Learnt to page 9, a little quicker. A struggle, but perhaps it will get easier.

Worked from 10.30 till 4, nominal half hour for lunch, lengthened to nearly an hour to my irritation. Learnt from 5-7, dinner, and an hour later on tomorrow's stuff.

Wednesday October 5 1977

Another goodish day, but terrible patches of feeling I can't do it at all. I can't decide whether it's me out of practice with real acting as opposed to piddling TV, or whether it really goes dead on me. And of course the play has its imperfections. Learned all first scene tonight, thank God. I think it's getting easier.

Thursday October 6 1977

In new hotel. Room better, lovely view of gorge, restaurant and bar worse.

Better day, felt I was beginning to see my way thro' the v. difficult conversations with God. Worked till 1.15. No afternoon, because of Hamlet matinee. Went to James Bond film at 2. and studied from 5 to 7. Am up to pg. 35. Halfway! If I know it when we run it!

Friday October 7 1977

These hotels are really awful, but flats seem hopeless. No short lets. However I will go on trying.

On Monday will come the test when I first put the book down. I have Sat. and Sun. (I hope in enough quiet) to study and work. I hope I can do it.

Saturday October 8 1977

Went out in morning to get letter from the theatre - kind one from John Nickson. (I've had lovely ones from Joyce F. who I think, thought I was in the depths, but really only superstitiously nervous.) Lunched at Cawardine's early, omelette, salad, glass of wine. £1.75.

Back here and studied from 2.45 - 5.30. Now learnt all but the last two-thirds of the last scene, - in the last third of which I say hardly anything, and then only short lines. Tomorrow can finish study, and go over work for Monday. It is difficult broken spontaneous stuff, needing great variety and many sudden changes of direction.

Dined at hotel down the road, - cheaper and infinitely better in every way. Will move there on Mon. or Tue. Three boys came in, aged at most, 16, 14 and 12, and ordered dinner in their shirt-sleeves with great aplomb. Very nearly a real head-waiter in a dinner-jacket. First I've encountered in Bristol.

Sunday October 9 1977

Studied from 2 - 6.30, with a couple of ten minute breaks, and have roughed in the whole play.

Now I put the book down tomorrow and see. Shall leave this hotel for the St. Vincent Rocks on Tuesday.

Tuesday October 11 1977

Moved hotel rooms again yesterday to St Vincents Rocks and am now settled, I hope. Yesterday was heaven. I got through well. And felt yes I am going to know it. Worked well both days, am getting on with the difficult bits, not just sticking. Eric is marvellously helpful. I hope it all lasts. Oh please let it. How I love acting.

Thursday October 13 1977

Theatregoers' last night. Very usual, discussion about bad language. Lots of dim nice people, one or two intelligent ones. One woman asked at little party afterward, what I did!

Hour alone with Eric T on monologues, God-conversations. Only general note be more egg- stained and shambling. Yesterday and today really felt I got further. Think I more or less know it, and that's such a relief. Now I have miles to go to be it. I don't secretly feel I'm at all good.

Friday October 14 1977

Rehearsal in morning all right, sudden run-thro' in afternoon, with lighting designer etc out front and a few props, and dried and dried and felt terrible and panicky. Have felt awful ever since - suicidal. Two days solid work ahead. Oh D.

Saturday October 15 1977

Theatregoers in morning cheered me up a bit. Worked and studied right thro' the play from 2 - 5.30 and felt another bit better. Dear Bing Crosby is dead. Gentle and kind and good.

Sunday October 16 1977

Worked thoroughly thro' play. Hope it stays with me.

I am worried that I am no good.

Monday October 17 1977

Lovely bit-by-bit thorough rehearsal, leaving me feeling much more certain, more fixed, better. Turned my foot on a paving-stone going to rehearsal. Painful and stiff. Lalla says Mummy is much worse.

Tuesday October 18 1977

Another excellent rehearsal today, just me and David Buck. I'm beginning to feel sure.

Fitting with the theatre tailor! Went to pictures, 'Blazing Saddles' and 'The Ritz' both quite funny in crude bursts.

Wednesday October 19 1977

Ditto: I feel I am getting there. But I still feel terror that when I put pressure on my perf. I shall collapse. Silly, but you can collapse from fear you may collapse.

I must not leave my next stage perf. so long.

Thursday October 20 1977

Run-thro'. Again stiff and nothing. Dried several times. Director of theatre in front. I felt by far the worst of the four of us. Nobody has told me how good I am, - or how bad I am. I am getting a cold.

Friday October 21 1977

Much more tranquil tonight. Run-thro' this afternoon flowed, and I didn't dry at all. And I think I might get by. But I don't think I'll get there by Wed. if ever.

The others seem so much better and more natural. But I am feeling all right.

Lovely gossipy dinner with Peggy Ann Wood. The dear.

Saturday October 22 1977

I find that I have to avoid anything that might move me on the television set in my room. Books are all right, because I can put them down at once. But music is dangerous or anything unexpected.

And I only saw part of 'Hamlet' at the theatre. Tho' that was partly because it was so poor.

Sunday October 23 1977

Another quiet day, tho' I had a moment of panic in the afternoon, combination of the play and D. Went for a walk, and found myself near the zoo, where I went so often with D when we were here to look at the baby chimp, George.

Beautifully kept zoo, all animals and birds in prime condition. Technical rehearsal tomorrow.

Wednesday October 26 1977

11.55.

Didn't notice I hadn't written.

First night went better than I'd ever dared hope. First person round said 'Stunning'.

I've done it, darling, I've done it. I didn't make a mess of it after all.

Two nasty fluffs all the same, but nobody knew except dear Pip, the stage man.

Thursday October 27 1977

Gathering the sweets of success with a calm mind and a tired body. Show went v. well. Only one little fluff. And am beginning to play it.

Must start to look round me more. Off stage, I mean.

Friday October 28 1977

Jonathan Raban came round and was very complimentary. Interview with John Cox at lunch. Pathetic.

Monday October 31 1977

Full house on Sat. heavenly.

Equally heavenly collapse on Sunday.

Eric Thompson came tonight, said it was 'splendid'. Old actor Hedley Goodall came round, and said 'most poignant'.

Paragraph in S. Times said several managements are interested. I still have to be really good by my standards.

Life without shape, Morning and night, are luxuries. I wait for sight And wait to be blind again.

She dies every morning, And I wait for night. Blindness is luxury, Then I wait for sight.

But my eyes see nothing, So I listen hard. Silence is luxury Then I hear her step.