parts. They talked constantly of all the roles they thought they had been born to play. I didn’t. I just waited for life to happen to me. Maybe it’s because I was never an easy actor to categorise. I was never a classically handsome leading man – so how odd that I ended up a leading woman in panto. And, while I wanted to be in Hamlet , I never saw the need to actually be Hamlet. I was in my element in the minor roles. I just wanted to be in the company. I could have made a lot more money and enjoyed a lot more respect if I’d had that killer instinct. But maybe I wouldn’t have had so much fun. Besides, my strange belief that life would happen to me anyway seemed to be coming true. I did get good roles. And they got noticed.
My first big break came in a play I can barely remember today. I’ve had to struggle even to track down its title. I think it was The Life of Tom Paine . But it could well havebeen The Rights of Man by Tom Paine. Or possibly something else altogether. What I do remember is that it was a marvellous role. British-born Tom Paine was a hero in 18th-century America, an Everyman figure who took part in the country’s Revolution. The play was a modern take on life in the USA and it was a huge coup for me to be offered the lead.
Throughout our course, Nat brought in a stream of talented directors to work with us on different performances. For Tom Paine , we had David Benedictus and we performed the play as a showcase in one of the studios in Clifton. An invited audience from the industry was watching, and among them was David Jones, director of the Royal Shakespeare Company. It seems that he saw something good in either my performance or my personality, or both. It would be quite a few months before I found out what it was.
The tears when I left Salisbury Rep were nothing compared with those we all cried when our Bristol years ended. Breaking up our little gang seemed almost criminal. We were so close. And for me there was one extra thing to worry about as reality beckoned.
‘Come on, Christopher, enough’s enough,’ my father said to me after I had moved back from Bristol to Salisbury and was planning my theatrical takeover of the world. ‘You’ve got the theatre out of your system now. You should come and work in the business with me. You can make £100 a week.’ And Dad, ever the gentlemen, was prepared to change the business to suit me. I was passionate about antiques and bric-a-brac – not leastbecause I had spent so long in antique shops when I was propping in Salisbury. I had become a regular face in most of the local shops, always trying to do a deal and borrow some furniture or fittings for our next production. Two years on and most of those shopkeepers still remembered me, which may or may not be a good thing.
‘Let’s open a bric-a-brac shop of our own,’ my father said. And we did – I seem to think that we called it ‘Biggins’. It was a lovely shop, I’ll admit that straight away. But working there was just as dull as I had expected. We were bang in the middle of Salisbury but some days several hours would go by before I saw a single person. And when that sole customer did come in I could hardly follow them around the shop and pepper them with questions just to get a conversation started.
Always leave a tip. Going back to my mum’s old rule, my tip would be that, if you love people and you’re always up for a laugh and a gossip, don’t work in an antique shop.
‘Sorry, Dad, but I can’t stay. Will you be able to run it without me?’ I’d been in our new shop for less than six weeks. It felt like six years. And by now I had an escape route.
4
On the Boards
R oger Clissold had been one of my early heroes at Salisbury Rep – not least because he hadn’t shouted at me too much when I ruined one of his performances.
Disaster had struck in the middle of Thornton Wilder’s Our Town .
‘Yup, it was a real smart farm,’ was the line Roger should have
My first big break came in a play I can barely remember today. I’ve had to struggle even to track down its title. I think it was The Life of Tom Paine . But it could well havebeen The Rights of Man by Tom Paine. Or possibly something else altogether. What I do remember is that it was a marvellous role. British-born Tom Paine was a hero in 18th-century America, an Everyman figure who took part in the country’s Revolution. The play was a modern take on life in the USA and it was a huge coup for me to be offered the lead.
Throughout our course, Nat brought in a stream of talented directors to work with us on different performances. For Tom Paine , we had David Benedictus and we performed the play as a showcase in one of the studios in Clifton. An invited audience from the industry was watching, and among them was David Jones, director of the Royal Shakespeare Company. It seems that he saw something good in either my performance or my personality, or both. It would be quite a few months before I found out what it was.
The tears when I left Salisbury Rep were nothing compared with those we all cried when our Bristol years ended. Breaking up our little gang seemed almost criminal. We were so close. And for me there was one extra thing to worry about as reality beckoned.
‘Come on, Christopher, enough’s enough,’ my father said to me after I had moved back from Bristol to Salisbury and was planning my theatrical takeover of the world. ‘You’ve got the theatre out of your system now. You should come and work in the business with me. You can make £100 a week.’ And Dad, ever the gentlemen, was prepared to change the business to suit me. I was passionate about antiques and bric-a-brac – not leastbecause I had spent so long in antique shops when I was propping in Salisbury. I had become a regular face in most of the local shops, always trying to do a deal and borrow some furniture or fittings for our next production. Two years on and most of those shopkeepers still remembered me, which may or may not be a good thing.
‘Let’s open a bric-a-brac shop of our own,’ my father said. And we did – I seem to think that we called it ‘Biggins’. It was a lovely shop, I’ll admit that straight away. But working there was just as dull as I had expected. We were bang in the middle of Salisbury but some days several hours would go by before I saw a single person. And when that sole customer did come in I could hardly follow them around the shop and pepper them with questions just to get a conversation started.
Always leave a tip. Going back to my mum’s old rule, my tip would be that, if you love people and you’re always up for a laugh and a gossip, don’t work in an antique shop.
‘Sorry, Dad, but I can’t stay. Will you be able to run it without me?’ I’d been in our new shop for less than six weeks. It felt like six years. And by now I had an escape route.
4
On the Boards
R oger Clissold had been one of my early heroes at Salisbury Rep – not least because he hadn’t shouted at me too much when I ruined one of his performances.
Disaster had struck in the middle of Thornton Wilder’s Our Town .
‘Yup, it was a real smart farm,’ was the line Roger should have
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