Just Biggins. Christopher Biggins
lot. It stopped me from growing up too fast and from getting into trouble. But it didn’t entirely shield me from reality.
My sexuality was still pretty much a mystery to me in the late 1960s. I wasn’t in denial and I wasn’t tortured by any sort of sexual angst. I simply had too many other things whizzing around my mind to think about that side of life. But it seemed that plenty of people were prepared to think about it for me.
The wonderfully outrageous Raymond Bowers was clearly one of them. ‘There’s that Christopher Biggins. He’s so queer he could be a lesbian,’ he roared out above the crowd as I walked into the coffee shop at the Playhouse one afternoon. Robin Ellis, who would one day be Ross Poldark to my Reverend Ossie Whitworth, was in the coffee shop with Ralph Watson and his girlfriend Caroline Moody, who died so tragically young. The whole room seemed to fall about laughing at Raymond’s words. I blushed so deeply I nearly fainted. Queer? Lesbian? I didn’t know what any of the words meant, let alone understand the overall sentiment.
But, public embarrassment aside, Raymond turned from someone who could – and indeed did – scare me, into a close pal. He also proved to be a useful role model in an age when visibly gay people seemed few and far between. He lived in The Close in Salisbury with a chic older man called Geoffrey Larkin. Their big town house had a room painted entirely in yellow and contained nothing but a black grand piano. I thought it was the peak of sophistication. Maybe it was.
Raymond and Geoffrey upgraded Great-Aunt Vi’s table manners for me. Serviettes became napkins and the living room itself became a drawing room. The pair were top-notch entertainers and threw the most wonderful dinner parties – or was I supposed to call them supper parties? I forget. Either way I would head home from the events reeling that such stylish and elegant people existed, let alone existed in Salisbury. I was just thrilled to be part of that world. While Geoffrey has sadly died, Raymond is still very much here, working at the National Theatre. I still smile every time I think of him.
Back at the theatre we put on so many productions. We had so many different directors, who all taught me new skills. I was 17 ½ when I got my Equity card, which was essential back then. It was only a simple piece of cardboard. There was no photograph on it and it wasn’t even laminated. But it had my vital Equity number. It was easily the most precious object I had ever owned. After two amazing years I felt I was doing all the right things. But was I learning enough? Was I going in the right direction?
‘You need to go to drama school,’ said Stephanie one day – and I do hope that she meant it in a nice way.
‘You mean in London?’
Something about that scared me. I was too young. Too confused about who I was.
‘It doesn’t have to be there. You should try the Bristol Old Vic Theatre School. They’re as good as anywhere in London but you won’t be distracted by being in the big city and we’ll still be able to see you. Try Bristol,’ she said.
And so I did. But would I get in?
‘Auditions will take place over the course of a weekend and you should be prepared to take part in a variety of exercises throughout your time with us.’ I was floored by the first word of the instruction on the application form and don’t think I ever made it to the end of the page. Auditions? Plural? These would be the first formal auditions I had ever done. A weekend of them would be a little different to collaring dear Mr Salsberg in the foyer of his theatre and saying I wanted to join his company. I feared auditions back then and I loathe them to this day. Do they ever really work? Can’t you spend years perfecting one four-minute piece but be lousy at everything else you are called upon to do? Maybe that’s why Bristol did ask so much more of us all.
Over the two-day assessment we all danced, sang, did our key audition piece and any number of other readings. Six or seven of the theatre school’s people were watching us all the time, scratching things down on note pads, building up the tension with each stroke of the pen. I think it was the first time I’d ever been really nervous. My subconscious must have known how important this was. But after a few weeks of agony I got the acceptance letter. I’d made it past dozens of other keen candidates. I was on my way.
‘I will never, ever experience anything as good as this again.’ Excuse the drama, but that was what I felt. It was what I kept saying, through a ridiculous amount of tears, when I said my goodbyes at an end-of-season party at Salisbury Rep. I remember a few moments when everyone else left me alone in the back of the stalls – a sensible move on their part. I looked around. Yes, it was only a converted church hall. It wasn’t the West End, it wasn’t Broadway. But it had been so good to me.
I would even miss the damp and the smell of all the mildew. I blubbered so much that night I probably added quite a bit to the problem. I left my mark on that place in tears, if nothing else.
But more seriously I was right about it being the end of an era. Actors starting out today miss out enormously now that the old repertory system has passed. I needed that place where I learned so much from other people’s experience. I needed a refuge where I could fall in love with drama. Putting on a new show every few weeks isn’t for the faint-hearted. It’s a hard slog. But it’s worth it. In Salisbury I found out that in the theatre anything can happen, and it usually does. A bit like my life, as I had just discovered.
‘Christopher, I need to talk to you. I’m pregnant.’ No, it wasn’t a girlfriend talking to me – that really would have been a story. It was my mother. But bearing in mind that I was 18 and my mother was 40 it was still a pretty newsworthy event.
‘How can you be pregnant?’
And why did I ask that question? Obviously I wasn’t that naive. Though the thought of my mother and father still at it wasn’t something I liked to dwell on.
Maybe what I meant to ask was: ‘Why are you pregnant?’ Although that didn’t really sum up my feelings either. All told, it was all something of a shock. Mum and Dad had called me into the living room in my final few months at Salisbury Rep.
‘You’re going to have a baby brother or sister,’ my mother added. Yes, thanks for clearing up what ‘I’m pregnant’ means, Mother.
Of course, if I was in shock, you can imagine what my poor parents themselves thought. With me getting ready to go to Bristol they had probably been looking forward to having the house to themselves. I know Dad was particularly stunned by Mum’s news. But he had a second surprise coming.
‘Can Pam really be pregnant? It’s been 18 years since she had Christopher,’ he asked our long-time doctor, the still wonderful Jim Drummond.
‘She certainly can be pregnant, and she’s not the only one,’ Jim said. It turned out that his wife was having a baby 19 years after her last. There must have been something in Wiltshire’s water supply back then.
All things considered, it was probably a good thing that I was ready to fly the nest just as the new chick arrived. I like my sleep. And like most teenage boys I wasn’t keen on the idea of changing any nappies. I was also a bit of a worrier – and I didn’t like worrying about my mother’s health. Giving birth after such a long gap wasn’t easy for her. And this birth wasn’t an easy one. It turned out that my mother had a fibroid as big as a grapefruit that needed to be removed. She had a Caesarean section to deliver her baby and the surgeon threw in a hysterectomy for good measure.
But she and my baby brother both came back from hospital safe and well. Little Sean was soon the new prince of Sidney Street. And he’s turned out to be a real treasure. With an 18-year age gap, he and I were never going to be like ordinary brothers. Technically speaking I was easily old enough to be his father – when we were out in the street together I think a lot of strangers assumed that’s what I was. Fortunately, as