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

  On my left was a wonderful array of dignitaries. I had no idea what they all did, but it was a bank of colour, with the gold of the braided uniforms, and the reds and blues and silver of the extraordinary amount of adornments that were on display. Behind the rows of Palace officials was a huge arch and a statue, I seem to recall. The whole room had enormously high ceilings and the gold filigree, and painted stucco, and the red carpet and the chandeliers just made everything feel unreal. As I stood in the doorway I could see across the ballroom into the next doorway, and beyond that the next, golden light stretching as far as the eye could see. I had the same emotion of excitement and awe as when I received a coronation gold coach from school to commemorate the occasion. It was a tiny replica coach in gold, with the white horses attached. I used to turn it over and over in my hands, lost in the magic. Now here I was stepping onto the immaculate red carpet and walking slowly to the point I had been told to stop and wait. A very impressive gentleman was on my left and whispered that I would turn and curtsey when I heard my name. All well and good, but the man struck up a conversation with me!

  Did I like the Palace? How did I feel?

  I wanted to say to him ‘shut up I can’t hear my cue’ but I think instead I did a tiny shush to him because it was true I couldn’t hear very well. Suddenly I heard ‘Bellingham’ and turned and curtseyed and walked two steps forward.

  Prince Charles did recognise me and gave me a lovely warm handshake. ‘Lovely to see you again, Lynda, and we are so pleased you have been awarded this honour. How do you find the time to fit everything in?’ he asked, as he leaned forward and placed my medal on a little hook which was on a clip that had been carefully placed on my coat. It makes everything so smooth for the hand-over.

  ‘Much like you, sir, with difficulty,’ I replied. ‘However, the good news is that now I can sport an OBE people will take me much more seriously, and I will be able to raise much more money for charities, Yours included!’ He laughed and stood back, which was my cue to take my two steps backwards and turn to the right and move off at a regal pace towards stage right.

  Once out of sight of the ballroom you are then whisked to a table on which all the boxes are laid out, and yours is found and your medal placed inside. The whole operation rolls like clockwork. You then walk to the end of this small corridor and you are back in the ballroom, once again, and placed in a seat for the remainder of the ceremony. I knew this was going to happen and I knew there was another hour to go, so I asked permission to make a detour and turned left to the loo, just to be absolutely secure. I had the room to myself which was lovely and spent a few minutes holding my medal to my chest and gazing at myself in the mirror with a big grin on my face, silly cow.

  After the final award had been given we all trooped out into the quadrangle for photos. I had pre-paid for my shots as, once again, the organisation of such things had been so efficient. I had filled in a form weeks before and now all we had to do was follow the leader and do as we were told. There was a rather lovely moment when a lady who had been awarded an MBE was explaining to me that the choir that she coached had come down to cheer her on, and would it be possible to have a photo? We walked to the front of the Palace to be greeted at the railings by these girls singing away, their voices soaring above the traffic noise of a busy London day. All I could see was a row of shining faces and behind them banks of tourists waving their cameras in the air. Talk about multicultural; the world was right there on the Queen’s doorstep.

  I had arranged to have a lunch at The Delaunay restaurant in the Aldwych. Chris Corbin and Jeremy King are the owners, and they have been part of my London life for thirty-four years. We had first met when they were managers of Joe Allen restaurant in Covent Garden, owned by my dear friend Richard Polo. I was introduced to the place by Christopher Biggins, naturally. We were a gang of actors making our way up the ladder and Joe Allen was our watering hole. It became known as the actors’ restaurant and people would book tables just to watch the actors. Its success, in the early days, was mainly due to the fact that, believe it or not, one could not get a decent meal after ten at night in London; incredible to think that a city like ours was so parochial.

  Richard worked so hard to gain the trust and affection of the theatre world and then the rest followed. If one was appearing in a play in the West End there would always be a single red rose delivered to the stage door. So many birthdays, deaths and bar mitzvahs have been celebrated there. The piano player, Jimmy, would bang those keys into the early hours. I remember going to have supper when Elizabeth Taylor was in town and gazing at her as she sat in a discreet corner having her supper. I can tell you her eyes really were violet and so beautiful. I met Lauren Bacall one night, who took a fancy to my ex-husband which was interesting. There were suppers too with Liza Minnelli, Christopher Biggins, Joan Collins and Percy Gibson, her husband, who all have very wicked senses of humour. Richard Polo did not allow customers to approach famous guests while they were eating, which was fair enough, but I remember one day sitting at the table next to Edward Fox who had just been playing the King of England and an American lady managed to seat herself next to him. She was beside herself with excitement.

  ‘I can’t believe, I am sitting next to the King of England,’ she cooed.

  Everyone tried to tell her Edward was just an actor, including Edward, but she was not having it. In the end it was easier for all concerned if he just played the game. A waiter arrived to escort the fan from His Majesty’s presence, and Edward bade her farewell in his best voice saying, ‘Goodbye, dear lady, we wish you health and happiness.’

  He gave her a little nod and she curtsied!

  An evening spent at Joe’s that sticks in my mind more than most was during an event organised by Sir Cameron Mackintosh, for the Royal National Institute of Blind People, in 1988. The Queen is the patron and her presence was expected at this one-off night of entertainment at the Lyceum Theatre. It was to include all Cameron’s shows over the years and also all the actors and actresses he had worked with and that, amazingly, included me! I had been in Cameron’s first professional tour that he produced. In fact I nearly married his brother Robert after that tour. When Cameron handed all the cast of Hey, Mr Producer! a mug at the end of the evening to say thank you, mine said on it: ‘To think we were nearly practically related!’ For this charity event, a scene had been devised to include all his leading ladies through the years singing ‘Hey, Mr Producer!’ I was lined up with the likes of Julia McKenzie, Siân Phillips and Sue Pollard. We were a motley crew!

  It was so scary to be in a line-up like that. During the course of two days we were all called to hang around in case we were wanted onstage. I didn’t care about waiting around, I would wander from dressing room to dressing room star spotting. There were so many names and performers and dancers that everyone had to muck in and share dressing rooms. They were full to bursting with costumes and wigs and screams of delight. I had a magic moment meeting Hugh Jackman in the corridor, and we chatted about Oklahoma! which was the show he was doing at the time. Not only is he incredibly handsome but so very nice as a man.

  The actors and dancers all used Joe Allen as the watering hole-cum-green room. It was so weird to see the restaurant full of diners from the city, in their suits, alongside dancers sitting on stools at the bar, with practically nothing on, doing the splits from time to time. I was sitting having a coffee when in came Clarke Peters, well known for his wonderful performance in Five Guys Named Moe. Another handsome devil may I say. We spent the morning telling theatrical stories and laughing a good deal as I remember. Imagine my surprise twenty or so years later when he pops up in The Wire!

  By the time the show was to start I think everyone involved was completely exhausted. But that is when Doctor Theatre takes over, and as the curtain rises and the lights hit you, you feel like a sunflower tuning its face to the sun. I spent most of the evening in the wings just watching great talent. At one point I turned to the man next to me and whispere
d, ‘Isn’t this wonderful?’

  ‘She is out of tune,’ he replied. I turned in amazement to find I was facing Stephen Sondheim!

  Early that afternoon I had sat at the back of the stalls and watched my hero perform. The orchestra had gone for a tea break much to everyone’s dismay. They could not be persuaded to wait, and as they have a very strong union there was no discussion. I personally think that it is a sad state of affairs when for such a unique show – which is what this was – they could not stretch the rules. Of course we have to be protected from overzealous employers who would work people beyond endurance, and I have been in theatres where we worked all night to get the show ready, but that is part of the magic. Anyway, the orchestra went for tea and left this wonderful actress to sing her solo without musical accompaniment. There was just a spotlight on her as she sat very still and started to sing. I hope she will not mind me saying this but her singing is not melodic, as such, but it is full of emotion and her consummate performance as an actress turned this solo into five minutes of magic I will never forget.

  Dame Judi Dench I salute you.

  So Joe Allen’s is tied up in good memories with fond friends from my theatre days. We all had some fun times together over those years, and now Chris and Jeremy from Joe Allen’s and the great Mitchell, their general manager I think his title is, are my benchmarks for good food and good taste and loyalty, and so I wanted to go to The Delaunay for my special lunch.

  The Delaunay has a private room at the back of the main restaurant. It has a long line of windows so every now and then one can look out and see what the world is getting up to. I had invited several friends such as Biggins and his partner Neil, Peter Delaney and Paul de Ridder, David Pugh and Dafydd Rogers, and my literary agent Gordon Wise, and Sue Latimer, and my very old (she will not like that, but we do go back forty years) friend and flatmate and first agent Felicity McKinney. Katie Mallalieu was there, of course, and dear friends Angie and John Chandler and my brother-in-law David with his partner Carole and my old mate Nickolas Grace. Linda Agran, the delectable Mrs Scott, was present, and last, but by no means least, my sister Jean. It was so hard trying to decide who to invite because I wanted everyone I love to be there but we just couldn’t afford it! I can’t remember why Lynda La Plante was absent as she is another very important person in my life; I know we invited her.

  As I write this I am only too aware of just how many people were left off the list and I want to take this opportunity to apologise and suggest it had nothing to do with how much I love you, but the limitations of time and space and money. But in that room, oh my goodness, practically everybody made a speech and I was rather embarrassed! As the wine flowed, so did the love. I couldn’t eat a thing but kept taking gulps of champagne either to fortify myself or to stop the tears from flowing. When the celebrations came to an end, Michael ordered two taxis because there were a few of us going back to North London. I have to admit I got in my car and immediately thought I was going to be sick. I clung to the handle and looked straight ahead the whole journey home. I couldn’t speak in case I threw up and my lovely driver, another Michael, was chatting away to me about my day. I felt terrible.

  I managed to make it up to our apartment and realised I was all alone. The boys had gone out, taking advantage of their groomed appearance, and Michael was in the other car with Angie and John. Probably gone to the pub I thought grumpily, how dare my husband desert me in my hour of need? I was transported back to my student days when too much cider induced this terrible drunken torpor of sickness and self-pity. As I lurched round the flat getting undressed I was talking to myself, whining about how nobody loved me, and it was my big day and now I was drunk, and all on my own, and how the hell do I get this dress off by myself?

  I did one very sensible thing though, folks, I removed the white suede shoes immediately. Just like in the loo at the Palace, the protection of these shoes seemed of the paramount importance. Just as well, because seconds later I was standing in the middle of the bathroom, barefoot, surrounded by poo. Furby was obviously so disgusted with my behaviour he had rebelled and burst! Picture the scene, I know it is not very pleasant, but one has to see the funny side, as Lynda Bellingham, OBE, crawled around on her hands and knees mopping up the mess. Twice in one day on my knees in the toilet, people would talk! I was in floods of tears, not so much about being ill and the cancer, but because I had let myself down and realised, yet again, I would never be in control of my life or my body. What I did learn from this episode was I certainly did not need to make things worse by giving Furby too much to drink.

  By the time Michael came home I was in bed supposedly fast asleep. He thought I was, because he crept out and went and slept on the sofa. I fell asleep still complaining to myself that my carer had dared to let me down and go to the pub in my hour of need. And before you say to yourselves, what a cow, it was her own fault, when I woke up the next morning I was mortified and gave him a huge big hug because in all seriousness it must be so hard for Michael sometimes seeing me ill, and he handles everything brilliantly. He deserved a night out in the pub with his mates, God bless him.

  So my OBE day was memorable in many ways, not all of them pleasant, but that is the story of my life as you have probably realised. Nothing seems to quite go right, but I am determined to enjoy the good bits for as long as I am here on the planet.

  18

  CENTER PARCS WITH THE FAMILY

  A year previously it was coming up for my sixty-fifth birthday, and our fifth wedding anniversary, the weekend of 31 May 2013.

  ‘Michael, let’s do something special to celebrate. I would love to take the whole family to Disneyland Paris for a long weekend and we can celebrate when we are there,’ I said. By the whole family I meant my two boys, Robert and Michael; Michael’s son Bradley and his daughter Stacey and her husband, Sam, and their two boys, Cooper and Oakley, aged seven and four, and my grandson Sacha aged three. In my ignorance I reckoned that it would be cheaper than flying everyone to Orlando or Florida. Silly me! It would roughly work out to about £15,000 for four days!

  It was time for Plan B. There is another place that is my favourite for children and adults and it is full of happy memories for me and my boys: Center Parcs. We decided on the Longleat Center Parcs because Stacey lived down that way, and it also meant we could all visit the lions at Longleat on one of our days there. We booked and were all set to go.

  As there were so many of us I decided to be ahead of the game and take all my own meat and supplies, and pick up all the extras in a lovely shop they have on site. It’s a lovely shop but a bit pricey for a full grocery shop. So we stacked the back of the car with enough meat to feed an army for a week, same with the wine and beer and cold drinks, and at the last minute I had bought a beautiful chocolate mousse cake with Happy Birthday and Happy Anniversary written on it, which was carefully lodged between two boxes to keep it safe. The boys followed in their cars, and we would link up with Stacey when we arrived. We had spared no expense and got three villas, because Stacey and her family needed space, none of us wanted to share with the lads, and Michael and I like our own time. We would play all day and do barbeques at teatime, but then we needed to sit and chill on our own veranda and watch the sun go down together. Well, hopefully there would be sun to watch.

  All the villas were a mere bike ride away from one another. Don’t you love the bike riding? For anyone who has not had the pleasure of time spent in a Center Parcs, let me tell you, it is all about riding a bike. The moment you have unpacked your car you have to return it to the car park for the remainder of your stay, and either walk everywhere or hire a bike. If you have not ridden one for a while it is a little daunting as the nice boy wheels out your trusty steed. You pray no one is watching as you mount up and – assuming you are lucky to stay on the first time – wobble your way out of the hire shop round the corner into a bush! It takes a while to get used to but as they say ‘you never forget’ and soon you are speeding up and down the hills, r
inging your bell like a mad fireman.

  The first night was the actual birthday/anniversary. We had married on the day of my 60th birthday. I had booked a table in one of the many restaurants at Center Parcs and I had delivered the cake in its box, to be opened at the appropriate moment. We had a lovely meal and then I beckoned for the cake. Nothing happened until a few minutes later and a very upset-looking waitress asked to speak to me privately. I left the table and followed her into the kitchen where she opened the box and showed me, not a beautiful cake, with candles flickering, but a round chocolate melted pile of . . . !

  ‘I’m so sorry, Madam, but we have only just opened the box and found it like this,’ she whispered. ‘We can put candles on another cake for you but it won’t have the message written on it, obviously,’ she added, as if I couldn’t see for myself the disaster of the situation.

  For a brief moment I wanted to scream or cry, but decided life was too short and said, ‘OK, just bring another cake with some candles.’ Which they did, and the little ones loved it and the big ones understood. Silly Granny should have known it might melt in the back of the car and certainly should have refrigerated it when we arrived. However, there was no use crying over spilt milk or even melted mousse and it did not spoil a wonderful evening.