Chapter One: DecemberChapter One DECEMBER 1982 Newly arrived in London, I was waitering at Tuttons brasserie in Covent Garden, and had just secured an acting agent, who suggested getting accent coaching to help me play Northern Irish, as there were so many dramas being made about the Troubles and "you''re dark-haired and blue-eyed, so you could go up for Irish roles." A pal told me about the Actors Centre, where you could take classes at an affordable price, so I signed up for Joan Washington''s accent course. Boiler-suited, Kicker-booted, and sporting a Laurie Anderson spiked haircut, she was a charismatic and formidable presence, with a rich, deep voice that contrasted with her petite figure. At the end of the first session, I asked if she would consider teaching me privately. "What for?" "To iron out my colonial accent." "I don''t really have the time, as I''m coaching at various theatres and at RADA." "Please. I''m begging you!" That made her laugh.
" Please? " She gave me the once-over, sighed, and replied: "Okay." " Thank you! What do you charge?" "£20 per hour." "But I can only afford £12." She fixed me with her big monkey eyes and said, "All right--but you''ll have to repay me, if you ever make it." "Done deal!" I was renting a bedsit in Blenheim Crescent, a few blocks down from where it intersects with Portobello Road, in Notting Hill Gate, for £30 per week, which puts the price of her lesson into (my) financial perspective. Plus the cost of taking the tube all the way to Richmond, then a twenty-minute walk to her house, situated behind the ice rink in East Twickenham. Trying to work out how many sessions I''d need and what to budget accordingly. Anticipating months of classes to sound acceptable to the natives.
"So how long do you reckon it''ll take to sort me out?" "No more than a couple of sessions." I was astonished. Her innate gift, as has been reiterated by everyone lucky enough to have been taught by her, is the confidence she instilled with her belief that you can crack it. Which inspired this pupil to believe he could do it. And all for the princely sum of £24! "You just have one sound that you need to be aware of--when you say ''basin'' or ''council'' or ''pencil,'' you overcompensate and say ''bay-SIN,'' ''coun-CIL,'' and ''pen-CIL.'' Instead, say ''pen-SULL'' rhyming with ''pull'' and throw it away." Even after almost four decades together, the teacher in her never missed the opportunity to correct this defect in my speech. Occasionally, when we were mid-argument, she''d go Henry Higgins on me, with an accent correction, simultaneously increasing my fury and trip-switching us into hilarity.
While I was grateful that she didn''t think I needed endless coaching, I was also frustrated that after only two sessions I no longer had a legitimate reason to see her again. She was also a few years older than me, married-but-separated, with a young son, and with a string of prestigious productions and a movie to her credit. I was an out-of-work actor from the southern hemisphere, from nowhere , earning a subsistence wage as a waiter, schlepping home after midnight, listening to "Sweet Dreams (Are Made of This)" on my prized Walkman. Not exactly a "catch" of any kind-- and pipe-cleaner thin. Joan on the other hand was already a legend in her field. Such was the success of Richard Eyre''s landmark National Theatre production of Guys and Dolls in 1982, and Joan''s accent coaching, that Barbra Streisand enquired, "Who are these American actors I''ve never heard of?" Which resulted in Joan being interviewed to coach Mitteleuropean accents for Streisand''s directorial debut movie, Yentl . As I''ve been a Streisand fanatic for half a century, the details she recalled of their first meeting have been imprinted, like a talisman, on my memory ever since. She''d never coached on a film before and had been summoned to Lee International Studios in Wembley, where she met producer Larry "DeWaay We Were" as he was nicknamed (the double "a" in his surname isn''t a spelling mistake) and casting director Cis Corman, who''d known Streisand since she was a teenager.
Told that she was wearing a colour that Barbra liked, before going in to meet her--"That''s a good sign." Joan found Streisand surprisingly petite compared to her screen persona, softly spoken, and fast. "Can you do some accents for me?" "I''m a trained phonetician and don''t really work that way. Any more than I''d ask you to sing me a medley of your greatest hits." "I understand. This is my Princess Margaret. What d''you think?" "Not very good--it''s an impression rather than the real thing and you couldn''t sustain a whole performance doing that. Needs to be as accurate and authentic as possible.
" "You''re very direct. I like that. So am I. How many movies have you done?" "None." "Then this will be your first, and it''s my first time directing." It''s only when she left the room that her knees buckled with the impact of securing this prestigious job. Joan has never been starstruck in the way that I continue to be, but reluctantly admitted that she was really chuffed, as a Scottish girl from Aberdeen, to be coaching Yiddish accents on Yentl . An endorsement from on high that defied all those naysayers and male theatre directors who once dismissed accent coaching as "irrelevant" at the start of her career.
Probably a very good thing that I didn''t know any of this when we first got together, otherwise she might have run for the Highlands at the prospect of having to accommodate three people in this relationship. Herself, Barbra, and me! She never tired of teasing me about my adolescent-adult obsession with "Babs," and it''s a true measure of how secure our love is for each other that she wasn''t threatened by my fantasy idolatry, even after I''d commissioned a two-foot-tall sculpture of Streisand''s face for the garden. "I get it. She''s unique and beautiful and extraordinary, but you''re mine! And besides, she''s married to James Brolin." For someone as territorial and jealous of any "comers" as Joan was, I count myself lucky that she never banished Barbra from our life together. In January 1983, Joan unexpectedly contacted me, leaving a message on my answering machine, asking if I''d record a script that she was coaching for the RSC, which required a Siswati speaker--"and as you''re the only person I''ve ever met who can speak the language, come over and I''ll cook you dinner." Didn''t wait tables on a Monday night, so I suggested coming over then. Very excited, and it was snowing, which for a boy from Swaziland, is, was , and always will be a magical phenomenon.
Bought a bunch of tulips, wondering if this might be inappropriate/patronising/non-her and held them behind my back when I rang the doorbell, keeping them hidden until I was inside. "Your hand all right?" "Yes, why d''you ask?" "You''ve held it behind your back for the past five minutes." Blushed and offered up the tulips, which thankfully turned out to be more than acceptable. Fired off lots of questions which she answered unreservedly and, in turn, asked me as many, mirroring my curiosity, which culminated in her casually asking, "Are you in a relationship?" while taking a casserole out of the oven. "Not at the moment." She smiled again. "Let''s eat first, then do the recording." Delicious home-made boeuf bourguignon that I put my nose to instantly.
"What''s wrong with it?" "Sorry, should have said, I like to smell everything in sight. Always have done. Ever since I can remember. Can''t understand why everyone doesn''t . You''re a brilliant cook." "Thank you. You have very brown, hairy arms, considering it''s the middle of winter. Have you been skiing?" I was wearing a cream cable-knit sweater, and had pulled the sleeves up while eating.
"Never skied in my life, but was born olive-skinned. Do you always ask so many questions?" "You can talk! You''re very unusual for an Englishman, but then I suppose you''re a colonial." The transition from pupil and teacher into flirter and flirtee happened seamlessly. After dinner, we went into the living room, recorded the script, continued talking, and when I checked my watch it was gone midnight, so no chance of getting to the station in time. "Would you mind if I stayed the night in your guest bedroom, as I''ve missed the last tube? My fault." "Sure." Went upstairs and she opened the door into an icebox. "I''m sorry, but the radiator''s been turned off in here.
I''ll get you an extra duvet." This pantomime lasted all of ten minutes, before I gingerly knocked on her door and said, "I''m really sorry, but it''s arctic in there. May I join you?" Got into bed and, just when I thought things were hunky-dory, she de-hunked me by declaring, "You''re as skinny as a stick-insect!" A passion-killing phrase if ever there was one, which every thin man will sympathise with. MONDAY, DECEMBER 21, 2020 Joan''s birthday. We are unabashed Christmas-aholics, and the house is baubled-up, tree kissing the ceiling, and enough fairy lights to host a Tinker Bell convention. For the past week she''s mentioned feeling breathless and has to pau.