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

  About five years ago I wanted to make a documentary about everything to do with death as so many of us, especially women, find themselves not only grieving for their beloved, but having to face a mountain of paperwork concerning the running of their lives. In my mother’s generation it was even worse, as running the home and paying the bills was regarded as completely the man’s domain.

  My parents were very advanced and far seeing about such things, and spent many months investigating the financial ins and outs of death duties and life insurance and inheritance tax. My dad hated the inheritance tax – don’t we all? How can the government be allowed to tax us twice? Why shouldn’t we be able to leave our hard-earned money to our children if we want to? Nowadays our children simply have no chance of getting on the housing ladder without help from their parents, and some of us just do not have the ready money to help. I was incredibly lucky to receive a gift from my hermit Uncle Percy, down in Devon. None of us thought he had a penny! That money became a deposit on a flat, and a foot on the rung of the property ladder. Needless to say I would be rich today if I had not had to give half of the sale of our house to my second husband and bought him a restaurant. Still the past is the past.

  The point I am trying to make is that it is vital as couples that you get everything out in the open from the start, and don’t let our very British dislike of talking about death get in the way. I wanted the documentary to be informative and fun, which I realise is an odd concept to many people, but I felt I could pull it off. None of the broadcasters wanted to know, unfortunately, as they thought it would be too morbid, and now, because recently Billy Connolly did one which was less than successful, and Channel 4 are showing one about people with terminal illnesses, they feel there have been enough.

  But they are missing my point about how we approach death and prepare for it, be it financially or spiritually or just waiting to die, which too many people do. They get to retirement age and seem to stop. Why for God’s sake?! Medically speaking, your chances of living to eighty are very good. Obviously the quality of your life is important, and I do think that just because the medical stats say you could live to eighty, too many people somehow see it as their right. Doctors are not magicians and Nature is tops when it comes to deciding when our bodies have had enough.

  Because of what has happened to me I feel I am in a position to talk about death with some authority now. I accept I am going to die in the next few months, weeks even. This is a piece of string moment, I know, but it came up in terms of treatment a few weeks ago when the colon specialist, Richard Cohen, was talking about reversing my stoma. Professor Stebbing made it quite clear that if I stopped having chemo I would probably last eight weeks, and in order to reverse the stoma I would have to curtail chemo for the operation, so that kind of says it all.

  I can accept this, and the good thing about dying this way is one can make a plan. I have to put aside all the emotions and concentrate on practicalities.

  There was a wonderful moment last year when Michael went down to Somerset to visit his dad’s grave. It is a beautiful cemetery on a hill with gorgeous views. Anyway I get a text from my husband with a photo of two mounds of earth next to one another and the message: ‘Saw these and thought of you and me. They are on offer, two for the price of one, so I bought them, isn’t that great?’

  Only my husband . . .

  But in a sense it is better to address the problem sooner rather than later. Like my parents, my sister Barbara, who died in 2008 of lung cancer, used her last six months to organise the family finances. And she organised her funeral, which was lovely. The interesting thing is, though, does one choose a funeral with hymns and prayers that suit only the deceased person? Surely part of the mourning process, and that includes the wake or the funeral, is for the loved ones left behind? Should they not be allowed some say in the proceedings? Michael thought it would be great for our friend Peter Delaney to come down to Somerset and conduct the service there and all my friends could troop down also for the funeral.

  ‘I wouldn’t expect everyone to have to come all the way down here to pay their respects,’ I said. ‘I want a tribute or something that is nice and handy, and anyone who fancies coming in and saying goodbye can do so easily, not to have to get on a train for three hours.’

  ‘I bet they would do it though,’ said my lovely husband.

  ‘That is not the point. I do not want to put people to a lot of trouble. Couldn’t we have a family ceremony in Somerset, if it is your wish to have me buried down there, but maybe we could organise a memorial service in London for friends, and anyone who wants to call in, and then have a party afterwards? That is what I would love.’

  He looked at me askance, but I know he understood what I was getting at. I will suggest some hymns I love, and maybe some readings, but I will not insist that the boys, or my sister or nieces, should feel they have to read or sing or anything like that. It is a tough call. We have reached a compromise, I think, and there will be a service in Somerset and a knees-up in London! So if you are passing, do drop in for a quick boogie.

  As far as the finances go there are things one can try and do, but ruling from the grave is a moot point. One tends to think that a will cannot be changed but I have been involved in two cases now where that is blatantly not true.

  I remember a wonderful moment when I was travelling with all my family to India just after I had tried to commit suicide, and was still married to my first husband Greg Smith, God rest his soul. He was a lovely man but a terrible husband. I knew when I married Greg that there were problems but, like every woman in the world, we all think we are going to be the one to change them, don’t we? I cannot believe this happened to me but I had an unconsummated marriage. Apparently it is quite a common problem. Greg could have one night stands where he felt no respect for the woman in his bed but as soon as he fell in love he was unable to make love. I was the second wife, Cheryl Barrymore was his first and one has to feel for her, poor woman. Going from Greg to Michael Barrymore! I think Greg married four times in all and never found the happiness he sought.

  At the time it was incredibly hard to deal with because he always made the woman think it was her fault. I talked to Cheryl about it once and she agreed that it left her feeling useless and unattractive and it was the same for me. When I told my parents my father could never get over it. ‘You are trying to tell me that Greg never wanted you?’ He would ask the question over and over. ‘I just can’t understand the man. Good Lord that is what marriage is all about, Lynda. You poor girl, you do all the housework and cook and clean and look after the bugger and he can’t perform. That is your reward for goodness sake for being a loving housewife!’

  Oh my dear old dad. Anyway, they were amazing about my insensitive and desperate call for help, and once we had all recovered they decided we would all go on a big adventure, possibly the last one ever as a family, as we were all grown up, and would not be able to take advantage of Dad’s discount with BA for much longer.

  Just as we were rolling along the runway and gathering speed to take off, Mum said, ‘Have you made a will, Lynda?’

  ‘No,’ I replied, wondering if she knew something I didn’t about the plane!

  ‘Oh dear, just think if this plane crashed, all our money, and all our homes, and the farm would go to Greg as he is next of kin at this moment!’

  I couldn’t imagine a worse-case scenario. The thought of hitting the deck and seeing Greg with the keys to my mum and dad’s house as I closed my eyes and kicked the bucket was horrendous. But it could have happened.

  The only way to truly keep money safe and make sure it goes into the right hands is in a trust, but that is a nightmare for most of us and it can be very expensive. One should write a will, and make sure you have people around you trust to keep an eye on it after you are gone. The worst and most common scenario has to be if your husband or partner meets someone else.

  I would hope, in a way, that Michael does meet a lovely lady, who could l
ook after him and they could have a loving relationship. He says he doesn’t ever want that again, and I understand, but things can happen. However, if that lady was on the lookout for a meal ticket, and decided that my sons’ inheritance was of no consequence, that once I was gone they could fend for themselves and she and Michael could sail off into the sunset, then that would be a disaster. I want to know to the best of my ability I have them sorted. It would be just the same the other way around as well. So my dear husband has been running round like a mad man getting everything straight, and I do recommend that anyone reading this (God, I hope there are a few) will take note and make a will.

  And while we are on the subject, a living will. Here is another thorny problem. I do not want to be resuscitated after a heart attack or a stroke, thank you very much. I am not going to try and tackle the whole issue of assisted suicide here, but it is a subject one should think about very seriously. It is so hard for me to discuss this with the family because we are coming from some different places. In a way their arguments are purely selfish. They want me to live, obviously, and so do I, of course, but if that is not possible then please let me go in as dignified a way as I can. I don’t want to be remembered in a bed, out of it, on morphine. I look at myself now on a bad day, haggard and drawn, with my white hair flat against my head and a stoop of tiredness and pain, and it is so depressing! I do not want Michael and the family to say goodbye to me looking like that. I see their faces now when I need to lie down, and I catch them watching me with such sadness in their faces. I want to say goodbye as me, Lynda Bellingham, B to my husband, Mum to my boys, Bellie to my friends, Lynda Bellingham OBE to my enemies!

  Funnily enough I went to a psychic recently who opened the conversation with, ‘You have many people who hate you, Lynda.’

  What?! I haven’t noticed that particularly in my life. If I have ever had run-ins with people I have tended to ignore them or just avoid them.

  ‘A lot of negativity in your life and you have had to fight very hard for anything good to happen.’

  Now that is true. People talk about how lucky I am and I can honestly say that is not the case. I have made things happen by sheer force of will and I have refused to be overcome by other people’s negativity, such as that of my second husband. I have always looked to the future and moved on, but luck, as such, has not been in abundance and certainly not at this point in my life. But the idea that there are people around me who hate me was quite a shock. However, I do not have the time to worry about them now; if envy was ever a cause I am sure they feel better now knowing I won’t be around much longer!

  I wasn’t gone yet though and I was continuing to try and get out and see people as much as possible so my next outing after my lunch with Robbie was in April to the Lady Taverners Spring Lunch. What a group of ladies they are! Over the years I have made some very good friends with these campaigners and while having a good time they raise thousands and thousands of pounds to buy buses for children with disabilities, and help them with facilities to play sports and have great days out. Each charity has a different approach to raising money and the Lady Tavs is like joining a club. You get to know people over the years and it is lovely to all meet up at these functions and have a gossip.

  In May I attended the Alzheimer’s Society’s Dementia Friendly Awards, and once again bumped into all sorts of different people I have seen over the years getting to grips with this insidious disease. Great Britain is now a leading voice in Europe, along with Holland, and even throughout the world. Japan has a huge interest in its ageing society and dare I say it has a much more respectful approach to the elderly than some parts of the UK. But slowly we are coming to terms with the illness and dealing with it. However there is so much research that still needs to be done that money is vital, as usual.

  Thankfully the Alzheimer’s Society is getting there and we have Dementia Friends, supported by Prime Minister David Cameron. Hopefully we are teaching society a whole new way of approaching sufferers. It may be naive of me, but I hope that attitudes towards all the vulnerable members of society will improve through this campaign and we as a society will take time to consider those around us. In terms of care, of course, we have a long way to go. The government should have an all-party policy on this. We all know what it is going to cost in the future and it should not be a political issue. I feel that the NHS and caring professions have to be addressed and the public need to accept that they will have to pay towards their healthcare.

  I think a lot can be done to educate people too. Why not make caring a decent career for a young person? Train them properly, show them it is not all about old people and nappies, pay a decent wage and make them feel an important part of the healthcare of this country. I know we hear so many awful things about healthcare but I really do believe that care workers should be given proper recognition and respect and money for the jobs they perform. They are invaluable to the running of any institution, be it a hospital or care home. God knows we are going to need more and more as the elderly population grows and there are so many young people needing work.

  Nurses should be made to feel more special too because it does take a special kind of person to dedicate their lives to others. But nowadays everything has become lost in pay scales and administration and agency nursing. Carers, healthcare workers and nurses should all be recruited and young people enticed into a career with the offer of decent wages and lifelong commitment. Let us make it a profession to be proud of alongside the nursing profession. I now know, more than ever, just how important these people and the jobs they do are.

  20

  TIMES, THEY ARE A-CHANGIN’

  June 2014

  With all the recent enquiries into sexual abuse, and the Yewtree investigation, I was asked to take part in a programme about life in the seventies and how much things have changed. I must say, looking back, it is amazing just how different attitudes are now. I left drama school in 1969, and so much of my career was formed from 1970 through to the early 1980s. That part of my career saw some good, some bad and even some really bad stuff in the form of my comedy work, which I naively imagined was showing people how versatile I could be when in reality it pitched me into what is now known as the ‘tits and arse’ brigade.

  Almost every photo of me in a comedy saw me either playing a nurse with big boobs or as the only girl in the programme, always wearing a low-cut T-shirt or some such nonsense. At that time women were there to be mocked and ridiculed and yes – I am afraid to say – touched up. I remember a very famous comic saying to me, ‘Now in this scene I am going to drop a pencil down the front of your dress and then I look for it.’

  He then spent a good five minutes basically abusing me. I just stood there not quite knowing what to do and then turned to the room and said, ‘How funny was that then?’

  They all looked embarrassed I am pleased to say. But the line between what was acceptable or not was obviously in a different place back then.

  Of course there are serious questions to be asked about certain people and obviously there are real sex offenders out there, but some of these cases now, I think, are way over the top. Do we honestly believe that all these young bands say to their groupies, ‘Now, how old are you and does your mother know you are here in my hotel room?’ I don’t think so!

  I do blame the parents, because they really do not know where their children are half the time and they must know that if their daughters go out with not much on they are in a certain amount of danger. I can remember my dear old dad, who was so gentle and shy, telling me to understand the male psyche. As he put it, ‘All men have a basic animal instinct that women do not have, and if a man has not seen a woman for some time, or indeed never, as in some cultures, to suddenly be accosted by the sight of legs and thighs and breasts is just too much for them and they attack.’

  I think some of the very liberal thinkers among our female society should take this onboard. I am not saying any young girl deserves to be raped or abused because of how s
he dresses, but maybe a little thought and understanding of the opposite sex might not go amiss.

  But back to the seventies and I did have quite a few embarrassing moments, especially if there was a bed scene. I always dreaded these sorts of scenes as they are so cringe making. I had one with an actor much older than me and I was playing his mistress and we were supposed to be making mad passionate love. We both wore knickers but I had no bra on . . . ‘Intrinsic to the scene, dear’ is what they always told you. Anyway the director called action and this dirty old man stuck his hand between my legs. I let out a yell and the director shouted, ‘Cut!’

  ‘What on earth is the matter, Lynda?’ he asked impatiently. I looked at my co-star who was smiling at me. Smiling!

  ‘Nothing, sorry, let’s go again,’ I said as I settled back under the covers.

  ‘Action!’ cried the director, and with that I grabbed the actor’s crotch and squeezed, hard!

  It was his turn to let out a yelp and the director called, ‘Cut. What the hell is going on here, you two?’

  ‘Nothing,’ we said in unison and indeed nothing did happen from then on. That is the way to deal with dirty old men.

  To be honest it all depended who you were working with. Dear Robin Askwith spent his life on those Confessions films trying to protect the very actresses he was being asked to abuse. None of them seemed to mind much! My first husband was the producer of the films and he used to receive large photos of so-called actresses with nothing on except a big grin on their faces, saying ‘All producer’s requirements will be met’.

  You could be forgiven for wondering who was abusing who!

  In the seventies, every time one had to do a publicity shot it was inevitably a tits and arse number. Not that I ever took my clothes off for the newspapers, but the photographer would always ask you to undo one more button or stick your chest out. That was humiliating, but sadly in those days it never occurred to me to say no.