There's Something I've Been Dying to Tell You Read online

  I also wanted to indulge that ‘shopping’ moment. I did not have to feel guilt because I was there as my duty to Queen and Country (I can make up an excuse for anything and anyone!). It was my big day and much as I was embarrassed I was going to indulge myself and enjoy it. I might even let Furby have a glass of champagne! I went to all the big department stores but there was nothing. I ended up in Selfridges, which is huge but, to my mind, so badly laid out.

  What used to be so lovely about going to a posh department store was that each floor had its own special feel. There was the young and trendy, the everyday, the mature woman and the really posh designer room where one could wander around and pretend to be able to afford what was on offer. Nowadays every floor is like a flea market, with rows and rows of clothes hanging squashed together. There are designer rooms but they are terrifying, manned by stick insects, both male and female, who can hardly bear to look up from their iPads or phones to serve you. It is really depressing.

  I walked up and down for at least an hour and a half and only saw one coat dress that vaguely represented what I had in mind for my big day, and that had a designer label and cost £3,000! It was just not worth spending that kind of money for one day. I needed to be able to mix and match so I could wear the outfit again slightly re-arranged. I remember Joan Collins discussing the problem with me once at a charity event. Her answer was to find a dress that she really liked, and that fitted her perfectly, and then have several made in different colours. What a canny dame she is. So I was a bit stumped.

  Then I turned to the font of all knowledge, Andrea Schaverein, my friend and colourist, who knows everybody in North London and would no doubt link me up to a contact who would find me a dress. She came through good, and sent me to a little shop near Marble Arch in New Quebec Street. The lady who owns the shop, and designs the outfits, is called Suzannah. What a treasure trove of frocks. Suzannah had a rail of ready-made dresses from which you could choose and then she would make it to measure. I had decided to use a fascinator I had worn only once for Helen Worth’s wedding, which was a very subtle French navy. Suzannah had a lace dress that matched exactly. Fitted, and knee length, with long sleeves, thank goodness. How difficult is it to find a lovely summer or cocktail dress with sleeves?

  To go over the dress I found a white wool and silk fitted coat, with a neat little pleat in the back and turned up cuffs. It was so simple and yet so chic. I was sorted, and then Suzannah suggested I go to a shoe shop in Islington for some shoes to match my coat. Emmy shoes are located in a lovely row of shops in Cross Street, N1. Oh dear, she had some amazing shoes, mostly handmade, and completely unique. They were not cheap I will admit, but no more than the designer boys on the street. I ordered some off-white suede court shoes and a bag to match – well, it is not every day one gets an OBE – and I could wear all these items again. I was delighted and thrilled with my purchases. What I had not realised, but sister Jean pointed out to me as we left, was that the Duchess of Cambridge is a valued customer, and there was a copy of Hello on the seat in the shop with the Duchess sporting a pair of Emmy shoes. What can I say? She has very good taste and I expect she was thrilled when she saw me in mine in the Palace News the following week.

  Underwear had become another area of interest since Furby had arrived, and it was certainly causing me more than a little grief. The trouble being, the Elastoplast effect of the bag hanging down means it gets in the way of the knicker line. OK, maybe not a Victoria’s Secret knicker line, but let’s not go there.

  I can’t imagine Victoria’s Secret will ever have to consider underwear for wearers of a stoma. Though having said that, I could be very wrong, and it would be incredibly liberating and a wonderful campaign for young women who do have to cope at an early age with operations for Crohn’s disease and colitis, and diverticulitis. I recently saw an article in the paper about a very brave young woman who had to wear a stoma, and she was photographed in her bikini with her accessory. I was so impressed with her bravery, and wouldn’t it be great if an underwear company took up the cause and helped make specialised underwear for those customers?

  I hadn’t yet found anyone who specialised in this kind of underwear but I had made a useful discovery. I found some all-in-ones from Rigby & Peller which are fantastic at hiding Furby. They squash him down gently and keep him in his place when I am wearing a dress. Rigby & Peller do amazing swimming costumes as well because they are made on the cross and hold and lift and, believe me, they are so tight nothing can escape. Again, they are not cheap but to know I am covered and safe is worth paying the extra.

  The final touch underneath the dress and the underwear are the tights. I bought these Spanx tights which have a reinforced gusset, don’t you love that word? Gusset! If ever Furby was going to think of making a run for it (pardon the pun) these would halt the progress immediately. So I was completely covered, God willing, for every eventuality.

  17

  A GRAND DAY OUT

  The big day was such fun.

  I had received the letter from the Cabinet Office in November 2013: ‘The Prime Minister has asked me to inform you, in strict confidence . . .’ I couldn’t believe it! I was so thrilled to be recognised. I had to keep the secret until New Year’s Eve, no less. It was torture and I didn’t even tell the boys because they might inadvertently post it on Facebook or something. It never ceases to amaze me how everyone has to tell the world everything about themselves these days. I expect more from my children, who should know better, but they are all the same!

  While I was in hospital over Christmas I almost forgot all about it until suddenly, as I was preparing to leave the ward for the operation on 13 December, someone mentioned the New Year’s Honours List, and I realised with a jolt that it would feature me.

  I had some wonderful letters from family and old friends and even strangers. The boys were so thrilled, which was lovely, though we did have a little family joke about how it was a shame I had to get cancer to get an award. I hasten to add it was not true because I am told that the application had gone in long before it was announced I was ill. In fact, it had come about thanks to the efforts of my friend Katie Mallalieu. Katie was a primary school teacher at the time, and had been to see Calendar Girls when we were in Manchester. I had shown her around backstage and she had become a friend. We discussed all sorts of things, but one thing we both agreed about was that we wanted to help get Alzheimer’s out to the public. I was an Ambassador for the Alzheimer’s Society because both my adopted mum and my birth mother had suffered with the disease.

  I worked as an ambassador for the Alzheimer’s Society and I cannot tell you how much things have changed for the better in the last five years. I managed to visit several care homes and was really impressed by the attitude and care of the people involved. We hear so many negative stories in the press, and I understand there are some terrible things that have happened in the care industry, but at the same time there are people doing marvellous work as well.

  In 2014 dementia has finally been recognised fully by the government, and the UK is leading the way in treatment and understanding of this dreadful disease. But a few years ago when my mother died of Alzheimer’s it was still a hidden illness. People did not want to talk about it, and my poor father used to be ashamed of my mum. Many of her friends deserted her and she could not understand what she had done wrong. We were very lucky and found her an amazing home in Stone, near Oxford. The staff were all so loving and caring towards the residents but it makes such a difference having that awareness and understanding of the condition now. Those visits around the country taught me so much.

  As well as my charity work with the Alzheimer’s Society, I also worked for Barnardo’s too and while I travelled the country, touring with Calendar Girls, I spent a lot of time visiting outreach homes for young single mums. These outreach homes are twenty-four-hour houses of safety. I went to one home in the middle of a building site near Bradford and it was such a shock to someone like me from a happy mid
dle-class family. The windows were all boarded up but the lady who opened the door to us was so warm and welcoming. There were girls as young as twelve and thirteen, some already mothers. They were wary and suspicious at first, but as we sat down to tea and biscuits they relaxed.

  The shocking thing was their attitude to Michael who had come with me. They seemed to flirt with him in a very knowing way. It was the only behaviour they knew in front of men. Two girls, who were sisters I discovered, had both lost an eye. They had been gouged out by their pimp to keep them from running away. I will never forget their beautiful young faces marred by those gaping holes. How many of us, safe at home, have any idea what kind of world there is out there? I had such admiration and respect for the women and men who work day and night to help these young people and restore their lives to some kind of normality.

  I am so grateful for having the time to visit so many different kinds of charitable organisations and it taught me so much and humbled me. My life as an actress in the glamorous capital was a far cry from the real world.

  Katie and I began to work together regularly in our joint efforts to raise awareness and money for the cause of Alzheimer’s. Katie organised a walk up in Lytham St Annes for her school and I went along to start them off. Katie had worked so hard to organise the event and we were very disappointed with the local press who were less than enthusiastic.

  The next project was to create a calendar of photos and paintings of real people with dementia next to a famous person that had links with dementia. Katie came to Manchester again when we were touring the following year, and took photos of me and her as a starter, and then Lisa Riley agreed to do one, and several of the Calendar Girls supported us. I organised a little PR launch down at the Athenaeum Hotel in London. Richard Barber, a friend who is a well-respected freelance journalist, wrote a piece for us, and Yours magazine, who are always so loyal, also did a piece. Sadly sales of the calendar did not soar and Katie had used her own money to get them made, so I was feeling really guilty. However, Katie is not a young lady to be deterred and she continued to organise all sorts of things to raise money for the Alzheimer’s Society.

  We met again in Bradford 2012 while I was doing pantomime. I had had a text from her then boyfriend explaining that Katie had been having a really rough time, and gone through a personal tragedy, and would I ring her and try and get her to come and visit. I was only too happy to be able to return a little of the kindness and support she had shown me and my good causes. We met for lunch and had a long talk. She had, indeed, been through a good deal of heartache but she was and is a fighter, all credit to her. We met several times while I was up in Bradford, and on one of these occasions she arrived with a huge pile of paperwork.

  Katie explained she had proposed me for an Honour, and it was required that the proposer assembles all manner of proof of the work, and the reasons why they thought their candidate should be accepted for an award. There were pages of stuff from every charity I had ever worked for, it seemed, and what they had to say about me. I was incredibly touched that Katie had done this and gone to so much trouble. I did not share her confidence that it would get her anywhere and, to be honest, did not give it another thought. How wrong could I have been?

  A year later and we were all off to the Palace. I was able to take three people as guests but I cheekily rang the organisers and asked for four, as my stepson Bradley, who lives with us, would have been left at home and that seemed a little harsh. I so wanted to share this moment with my family. I was unable to get a place for Michael’s daughter Stacey, which was a shame, but she made me feel less guilty by explaining it would be very difficult for her to make babysitting arrangements. So with Stacey unable to come, it was me and the lads!

  They all looked amazing in their suited finery. Michael had declared very early on that we had to drive to Buckingham Palace as the last time we were there, for a garden party, he had just loved driving through the main gates and parking up in the quadrangle where all the coaches line up at state occasions. It is very exciting, I must admit, to be able to walk up the steps into the palace and remember all the times one has seen this scene on television. The problem was his beloved Range Rover – the pride of his life, though some might go as far as to venture the love of his life, sad though it is – only had two seats in the back. When Michael bought the beast he decided he wanted the special big seats instead of the standard three. So now what would we do? Undeterred, he rang Range Rover in Somerset and asked if we could borrow one for the day with the three seats. Not a problem, was the reply, so now we were all piled into a white Range Rover Sport winging our way to the Palace. The boys tweeted and took selfies the whole way, it drove me mad! Then I succumbed and tweeted a photo of my hat. I know it is ridiculous but I couldn’t help myself. We were hysterical as we swung into the courtyard and parked up.

  When you have accepted the invitation to attend the ceremony you get all sorts of different leaflets and instructions about the big day – I must say the organisation is phenomenal. You can even buy a DVD of the day, filmed with your family as they walk through the palace, and sit in the ballroom, and watch the ceremony. My lot looked like they were casing the joint! One rather special advantage which comes with the Honour is that you can use the OBE Chapel in St Paul’s for marriages and christenings. The lads were very keen on that.

  ‘Yes, it would be wonderful if you could all find a wife and have children in the next six months, because that may be all the time I have left!’ I said. ‘Highly unlikely though,’ I added realistically.

  When I talk like this it might sound rather crude and insensitive, but the written word is sometimes so different to the tone of a sentence when spoken. Sometimes I do something like this deliberately, just to remind the boys of what is going on. I don’t want them to spend every day depressed and overpowered by a sense of doom, but if I can just keep it light enough to nudge a reminder sometimes I think it is positive, otherwise we might all push it so far out of our minds that when the day comes it will come as a terrible shock once more. I don’t know what to do sometimes and that is the honest truth. All our hearts will be broken whatever is said or not said.

  Once inside the building the boys admired the artwork while I went in search of a toilet as I was very concerned about how Furby was going to behave. I was so excited and very nervous which, as we all know, tends to affect one’s normal habits and Furby was no exception! I started forward to find someone who might help me and was lucky to be addressed by a lovely Palace official who showed me the way. The loo was packed with ladies in every style of hat and fascinator you can imagine, and all talking ten to the dozen. I duly queued up and I quickly realised there was going to be a problem as there was no disabled toilet and I needed a basin. I have promised myself I am going to be completely open about all aspects of this awful illness, so do bear with me as I fill you in on the mechanics of a stoma bag. Those with a weak stomach should turn the page now!

  When I empty my stoma bag, it is very difficult to point it in the right direction and often the toilet bowl is too far away to execute a clean manoeuvre. So I decided on my own little system using plastic jugs which I can easily place on a side in a toilet cubicle or bathroom somehow. I empty the bag into the jug, wash the jug out and away we go! Unfortunately, if I am not in a disabled toilet I have to risk popping out of the toilet when no one is around, and performing the jug washing ceremony before anyone comes in. Standing in the loo in Buckingham Palace I realised there would be no chance to pop out to an empty basin. So I decided the only way was to kneel down and empty the bag straight into the bowl thus also avoiding any mishap. God forbid I missed and my beautiful white suede Emmy shoes were tarnished in any way! So there I am folks, on one of the most important days of my life, kneeling in a public toilet, albeit Royal, emptying the stoma. You couldn’t make it up!

  My variety of jugs, though, have proved very successful. Dear sister Jean went on a hunt and I have three different sizes to suit different handb
ags. Darling, it is the ‘must have’ accessory these days. I often get rude looks and tutting from people when I come out of the disabled toilet in restaurants, and long to lift up my skirt and say you don’t have to be in a wheelchair to be disabled! It is these kinds of things that make me a better person, because now I can understand so much more, from so many different perspectives, and hopefully as people read this they will also think about what is going on around them. Life is a battle for so many of us and I just wish we were all a little bit kinder to each other.

  Having sorted myself out I was ready for the fray. I said goodbye to the boys at the top of a very impressive staircase as they were being taken to the ballroom, ready for the ceremony to begin, while we recipients were taken to the long gallery to be instructed in our bowing and curtseying. The atmosphere was buzzing. We all looked so lovely in our finery. I bumped into Katherine Jenkins who looked amazing, and we exchanged a hug. A few years previously she had bought my old house in Muswell Hill. Small world, isn’t it? We were politely told off for stepping out of line by a lovely young Palace official, as we had been carefully placed in a special order in lines so that there would be no mix-up when we arrived at the platform to receive the medal. If one stepped out of line, disaster could strike! We went through the moves . . . two steps forwards, bow or curtsey, accept medal, quick chat, and then two steps back, turn and walk.

  We were informed that today’s Honours would be given to us by His Royal Highness Prince Charles. I wondered if he would remember me as we had met several times recently with PRIME, and I had had the embarrassing encounter with the nice man who wanted to meet Prince Charles and gatecrashed my conversation with the Prince. We were led, in our lines, through the ballroom, where I spotted my party sitting staring at the ceiling, through another beautiful room and down a long corridor to wait on the side for our names to be called. The lady next to me was a very distinguished professor of urology but she surprised me by asking me if I would show her how to curtsey. Well, red rag to a bull, asking an actress to show you a move. We had a practice, and then suddenly I heard my name and nearly keeled over in my panic to get to the door. I entered the ballroom downstage left, so on my right were the audience (the guests and their families, and further back empty rows of seats which would eventually be filled by the likes of us as we returned to the ballroom).