Sheila Hancock - Old Rage: One of our best-loved actors powerful riposte to a world driving her mad--DAILY MAIL

Old Rage

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First published in Great Britain 2022

This electronic edition first published in 2022

Copyright Sheila Hancock, 2022

Sheila Hancock has asserted her right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as Author of this work

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or any information storage or retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publishers

Extract from The Collected Poems of Dylan Thomas: The Centenary Edition published by Weidenfeld & Nicolson, used with kind permission of the authors estate The Dylan Thomas Trust, 2014

Extract from The English Journey by J.B. Priestley published by Great Northern Books J. B. Priestley, 1934

Extract from Walter de la Mares Fare Well printed with kind permission of the Literary Trustees of Walter de la Mare and the Society of Authors as their representative Walter de la Mare, 1918

Extract from The Collected Poems of Philip Larkin published by Faber and Faber Philip Larkin, 2003

Extract from Martha: The Life and Work of Martha Graham by Agnes De Mille published by Random House Agnes De Mille, 1991

Extract from Collected Poems by Louis MacNeice published by Faber & Faber, used with permission from the authors estate Louis MacNeice, 2007

Extract from Harold Pinter Plays 3 by Harold Pinter published by Faber & Faber Harold Pinter, 2013

SAD from One Hundred Lockdown Sonnets by Jacqueline Saphra published by Nine Arches Press, used with kind permission of the author and publisher Jacqueline Saphra, 2021

And the People Stayed Home by Kitty OMeara published by Tra Publishing, used with kind permission of the author and publisher Kitty OMeara, 2020

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

ISBN: HB: 978-1-5266-4744-3; TPB: 978-1-5266-4745-0;
eBook: 978-1-5266-4748-1; ePDF: 978-1-5266-4742-9

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By the same author

Ramblings of an Actress

The Two of Us

Just Me

Miss Carters War

Contents

I am writing in the strictest confidence to inform you that you have been recommended to Her Majesty the Queen for the honour of DBE in the New Year 2021 Honours List. Before the Prime Minister submits your name to Her Majesty the Queen for approval, we would be glad to know that this would be agreeable to you.

No, no it wouldnt.

I dont feel at all agreeable. I feel sick with inadequacy. A lifetime of getting away with it does not merit reward. What if the Queen disapproves and rejects me?

Prince Philip: It is all going a bit downmarket isnt it?

The Queen: Well, she is very good in Just a Minute.

Prince Philip: But what about Wildcats of St Trinians?

Should I turn it down? Its hardly in keeping with my Quaker belief of equality. No, that would be dreadfully rude and ungracious.

I cant even discuss it with anyone because it is in confidence. And we are all locked down anyway.

For heavens sake, why am I not jumping up and down with delight? A while ago, I probably wouldve been. But recent years have depleted my delight quotient, and jumping up and down is physically beyond me.

Oh Lord, maybe that is why they are giving me this, because I am old, and can cross a stage without falling over, and can handle a canal boat. Can? Could. Should I phone and tell them that may no longer be true?

I have passed supposedly disturbing milestones my fiftieth, seventieth, even my eightieth birthday without a qualm, only to be, as I approach ninety, shaken to my core by the shocking realisation that I am now very, very old. Physically, mentally, in my attitude, my health, my outlook, I am suddenly falling apart. Old age aint no place for cissies. It was the Queens own mother who quoted this comment made by Bette Davis. The word cissies has somewhat dubious connotations now, but she meant being weak and fearful. Neither of which, when I worked with her in the latter years of her career, Bette, or, it would seem, the Queen Mother, appeared to be. Nor did I, I suppose. Till now. As I hold the letter, this cissys hand is shaking.

Why have they bestowed this on me? Who are the independent Main Honours Committee that will instruct the prime minister to embarrass the Queen?

Again.

The Queen: First he asks me to prorogue Parliament. Now this.

There is a bit in the letter that says: There is a clear expectation that those invited to receive an honour are, and will continue to be, role models.

What!?

I wish this mystery committee would show me a copy of their independent assessment, so I can see what I have to continue with. Why have they trusted me with this mission? It is very nice of them all to have thought of me, but who do they think I am? Was? Will be? What is my role? Have they miscast me? I am not really the public persona, the show-off, the strong woman, the national treasure, the the Dame. Should I confess that to them?

What kind of role model is someone who, like Macbeth, feels I have lived long enough. My way of life is fallen into the sere, the yellow leaf? (Someone who is beyond caring that, in our profession, mentioning Shakespeares Scottish king by name can be disastrous.) Everything I believed in, and in my small way fought for, has seemingly been abandoned. With Yeats, I feel Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold. Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world. I am hopeless in all senses of the word. Where is the wisdom that is meant to come with age? Where the contentment? My daughters are scarred. My achievements are risible. What an utter, utter waste of time, a lifetime, it has all been. Should they be told thats what Im really like before they bother the Queen?

I am grateful. They have offered me something wonderful, beyond the wildest ambitions of my mum and dad for their daughter. Three years ago, I might have rejoiced, but now, facing the New Years Eve when my family would learn about the secret honour, sheltering alone at home, battered by various events, with death uncomfortably near, I am afraid I really dont feel very agreeable.

Not today. Tomorrow may be different. Lets hope. The whole world is living in hope at the moment.

In 2016 I began writing a book that I hoped would be a gentle record of a fulfilled old age. An inspirational journey. It hasnt turned out like that. As I wrote it, my own and the wider world descended into chaos.

Yet it started so well.

January 2016

The year has begun with my friend and neighbour Delenas annual New Year party. A gathering-together of old friends. It is markedly less crowded nowadays, and those that manage it up the stairs are grateful for the resulting availability of seats. I feel positively sprightly compared to one guest with a broken femur, another a failed back operation, two stroke survivors and an assortment of less than successful hip and knee replacements. The general trend of the conversation was the increasing inability to learn lines, the depressing type of roles that we were being called on to play, the lack of projection in younger actors and shock-horror that some are actually being miked. (Good thing too, I think. Makes life much easier.) The moans were conveyed with loud hilarity at past adventures and present ills. One erstwhile rou was still relentlessly flirting from the sofa, undaunted by the fact he couldnt get up off it. Old age was mocked and defied by this joyous gathering.