This Much Is True

My beloved agent in America, the late Susan Smith, was terrified that I would come out publicly there. She said, ‘We don’t understand that sort of thing in Hollywood; don’t do it, just keep your own counsel.’ She really didn’t want me to be gay. She said, ‘I don’t mind, I don’t care, you can be whatever you want, but don’t be out in Hollywood. Sei schtum. Don’t speak about it.’ So, I didn’t talk about being gay when I went for interviews, but among my friends I didn’t hide it. While I agreed with Susan that my sexual life was my own business, I don’t see why anyone’s sexuality should be of any concern to the suits in Hollywood. It really shouldn’t matter if you are gay or straight: people should just get over themselves. When I got my OBE, it was for services to drama. It wasn’t for services to sex or to lesbianism. On the other hand…!

The night my mother had her stroke was the only time I ever saw Daddy cry. She walked all over the house in a kind of state of dementia and then, in the morning, she couldn’t move. He stood at the end of the bed, and the tears fell out of his eyes. She went to hospital then, but afterwards she came back to the house and Daddy looked after her until she died, seven and a half years later.

Daddy couldn’t have been more loving and caring. The stroke took away Mummy’s speech and paralysed her down one side. Daddy had to do everything for her: feeding, bathing, dressing, and getting her to the lavatory. He put her to bed and got her up again the next morning, and he would cook and clean and wash. I would come down from London once a week to do the shopping, and often Heather would come with me. She found the whole situation very distressing, so she would busy herself emptying the cupboards and washing them out and scrubbing all the floors until the house shone, while I stayed with Mummy, trying to cheer her.

Daddy looked after my mother on his own, without any help. It was hard and relentless; there was no charity like Crossroads to provide respite care and, after the seventh year, when Daddy was in his eighties, he couldn’t cope. Mummy was taken to the dementia unit in Littlemore Hospital. Daddy would visit her every day and I would go when I came down from London. I used to sit with her, and hold her hand and hug her. I weep as I remember the horror of it, to see my mother like that, unable to speak or move. I remember that her hair was all straggly and she kept saying over and over again, ‘Flora, Flora.’ That was her mother’s name, and I knew then that she wanted to die. She wanted to be with her parents. She adored them in the way that I adored her and Daddy. It was the bleakest time of my life.

Once Mummy went into Littlemore, I was aware that she would die very soon, but it was Heather who answered the inevitable phone call. It was 30 August, 1974. I was at an Equity meeting when I was told there was a call.

Heather said, ‘Miriam, I’ve got something very sad to tell you.’

I knew. ‘Is it Mummy?’

Heather said, ‘Yes, she died.’

My immediate thought was, ‘Thank God. Thank God, she’s dead.’ I wish I hadn’t thought that, but I must tell the truth. I felt grief, but also relief; the agony was over; for Mummy and Daddy and for me. In these pages I’ve described Mummy as she was — so full of life and energy and love. She will always be there in my heart.

I believe Mummy’s illness and death had a positive impact on me: I saw the dark side of life. Before her stroke, I’d seen only the sunny side. But the personal experience of tragedy opened my eyes and gave me a compassion I had lacked until then. I realised then that life could get up and bite you — and now Covid has got up and bitten us all. I know that kindness and gentleness are the most valuable commodities. Now, more than ever, they demand distribution.

Life on the Road: Fiddler on the Roof

In 1970 I was cast as Yente the matchmaker in the UK tour of Fiddler on the Roof. That was my first big job. My salary was £50 pounds a week. Actually, it wasn’t much more than I earned at the BBC, but I wanted to be an actress using both my voice and my body.

Fiddler on the Roof is a musical about Tevye, a poor milkman, his acerbic wife Golde and their five daughters: Tzeitel, Hodel, Chava, Shprintze and Bielke. Tevye wants to marry the daughters off and turns to my character, Yente, the matchmaker, to find them suitable — ideally wealthy — husbands. The matchmaker is both a gossip and a philosopher, like all Jewish women — it’s a good part, with opportunities for comedy.