This Much Is True

Sean Hewitt was an exceptional Canadian actor playing Motel the tailor. He was mercurial, pixie-like in stature, with a ferocious temper and a superb singing voice. He became my closest friend on tour; a most adorable man who stayed in my life until he died in 2020.

In the Handforth house was also a repellent girl called Isobel Stuart, who played another of Tevye’s daughters, Hodel; actually, she was a fucking nutcase. Her stage name had been Sylvia Jewison, but she changed it; no one quite knows why. She travelled with her cat (nothing wrong with that) but she and I had a major fight — and I mean an actual physical fight. I was clearing out the fridge at the end of our tenancy and I threw away some yoghurt cartons that belonged to Isobel. She lost her temper and hurled a knife at me. I don’t think she meant to hurt me — she was probably slightly deranged. She certainly had anger management problems but then, so did I. The truth is that while we were playing a loving family on the stage, we were at daggers drawn in Handforth. After the incident with the knife, I complained about Isobel to Equity— which is not what you’re supposed to do. You’re supposed to manage the dispute within the company, but it wasn’t managed by anyone and I was outraged. I don’t know what happened to her. All I can remember now is that she had an affair with a trumpeter in the orchestra and I never shared with her again. Our poor company manager, Roy Astley, found us all quite a trial.

Madhav Sharma played Perchik in Manchester and then abruptly left the company. He was in deeply in love with a girl in the London chorus; the relationship was foundering through absence and when he naughtily took a night off to visit her, he was sacked. But we suspected there was an additional reason to let him go. Madhav had a mellifluous speaking voice (still has), with rich tones, clear diction, and a keen intelligence. But he couldn’t quite grasp the notes of Perchik’s song. ‘Now I have Everything’ isn’t easy. I’m tone-deaf, and I liked him a lot, but it had to be acknowledged he had everything but the last note — it was nearly always flat. Not always; our leading man, Lex, was a great supporter of Madhav’s and championed his cause, but to no avail. And so, after Manchester, his understudy Christopher Saul took over.

There were couplings on the road. Our Scottish stage manager, Bill Hutchinson, was nuts about Kim Braden; Donald Proudfoot did ask me for a kiss. Apparently, my lesbian predilection was not generally known; it must have been before I broadcast the fact, although Heather was safely installed at Gloucester Terrace. I think she joined me once. But the main sexual activity took place among the gay boys in the company (it was just before AIDS took so many in our profession). Most of our male dancers were gay. I loved them all — great characters, with the sense of fun and campery I still relish. The chief of police was played by handsome, white-haired Trevor Griffiths. He looked imposing in his uniform when he came onstage to enforce the exodus from Anatevka, rather less so when he was sitting in his dressing-room, knitting!

Lex Goudsmit, our leading man, had come from the London production; he took over from Topol in London and was by far the best Tevye I ever saw. He totally inhabited the character, had a superb singing voice, and a sense of fun with both power and gravitas in his performance. He was a delightful human being. His wife came too, and the company loved them both.

Our Golda for six months of the tour was Thelma Ruby. She was a wonderful company mother, intensely professional but she loved a good laugh. She travelled with her wire-haired dachshund Candy and we went on a dog-mating expedition together, another extension of my role as the Matchmaker. The male dog in question was called Guy: Thelma wanted to teach Candy to sing ‘I’m in love with a wonderful Guy.’ She remembers my being very anxious that Candy was enjoying the experience. (Did you know that the dog has a bone in its penis? Unlike man.)

The show was hard work: we performed eight times a week. There were two matinees, one either on Thursday or Wednesday, and one on Saturday — but I was young and full of energy. I liked to get to the theatre about two hours before curtain up; it takes me a while to get into character. The best way I can describe that process is that slowly you divorce yourself from what’s going on around you; you think about the show and you think about moments that you weren’t so happy with and how they can be improved. It’s a continuous process of getting into focus as the run progresses.