Susannah Corbett - Harry H Corbett: The Front Legs of the Cow

For Maureen

I would like to thank all those whose contributions have made this possible

Firstly, my interviewees, who so generously and willingly gave up their time Nicolas Amer, Douglas Argent, Desmond Barrit, Lynda Baron, the staff of Benchill Primary School, Neil Benson OBE FCA, Major M. Bentinck (RM Ret.) the Royal Marines historian, Richard Briers CBE, Diane Cilento, Barry Clayton, George A. Cooper, Kenneth Cranham, Michael Crawford OBE, Tina Cross ONZM, Carmel Cryan, Barry Cryer OBE, Clive Dunn OBE, Shirley Dynevor, Glynn Edwards, Barry and Paul Elliot, Fenella Fielding, Sir Bruce Forsyth CBE, Terry Gilliam, PO Robin Guyatt (RN Ret.) Royal Navy Memories, Sheila Hancock CBE, Jim Hamman, Karen Harris, Ewan Hooper, Professor John Hill, Miriam Karlin OBE, Marjie Lawrence, Rosemary Leach, Joanna Lumley OBE FRGS, Ian McGarry, the staff of Manchester Central Library, The Rt Hon Lord Morris of Manchester AO QSO, Brian Murphy, Jean Newlove, Diana OConnor, Michael Palin CBE FRGS, Freddie Ross Hancock MBE, Carolyn Seymour, Joseph Siddall, Peter Sloan, Victor Spinetti, Frank Thornton, June Whitfield CBE, Barbara Windsor MBE, Aubrey Woods, Henry Woolf, and Barbara Young. Going above and beyond the call were Mrs Stella Goorney, for giving me Howard Goorneys interview tapes; Harry Greene for more than he knows; Murray Melvin for always saying yes and, of course, the incomparable Ray Galton and Alan Simpson.

I would also like to thank my agent, Eve White, my editor, Mark Beynon, and the team at The History Press for their unfailing enthusiasm.

Special mention is due, as well, to my friends and family who were happily press-ganged into being sounding boards Malcolm and Simon Blott, Jonathan Corbett, Elizabeth Hall, Cynthia Whittaker and lastly Enyd Williams, for her tea, her sympathy and her precision.

Above all I am grateful to my husband Dan Hallam and my children, Lily and Elena, for their belief, their patience and their love.

Every effort has been made to secure permission from the copyright holders of all photographs in this book. I apologise for any omissions.

We first met Harry on the morning of the read-through of the first ever Steptoe and Son in 1962. But of course we knew of him. Everybody in show business knew of him. He was an actors actor. Whenever he was on television every actor in the country who was not working (which in a good year was about 80 per cent of them and still is, although these days with different actors) would find a TV set and closely study his technique. Methodish, Brandoish, Theatre Royal Stratfordish, Joan Littlewoodish, but above all very Harry H. Corbettish. Halfway through writing the first Steptoe script we knew exactly who we wanted for the son. Wed never met him but found out that he was playing two weeks of Shakespeare at Bristol Old Vic. Alan always said it was Richard III , Ray always said it was Henry IV, Part 1 and when we read this book we found out it was Macbeth . Anyway it was some old king.

He loved the script and persuaded the Old Vic mob to give him a week off and thus began fourteen of the most enjoyable years of our career. The wisdom of our choice was confirmed on the first day in the studio. After five days of rehearsal we were enthusing at the wonderful seediness of the set but Harry said, Never mind the set, what are those seats doing there?

Theyre for the audience, we said. Audience? he said. Nobody told me there was going to be an audience. And then the clincher, I shall have to re-think my entire performance.

We looked at each other. Fantastic. A proper actor at last. This was underlined in the last scene. Trying to leave home he has piled his belongings on the horse and cart but his father wont let him have the horse. So he decides to pull the cart himself. It wont budge. He gradually breaks down until he is in tears. Normally the type of actor we were used to would have just shaken their shoulders with their backs to the audience. Not our method man. We looked at each other in amazement. They were real tears. Blimey weve got a right one here!

Present at the show was Tom Sloan the head of BBC light entertainment. You know what youve got here? he said. A series.

No way, we said. Its a one off.

We knew he was probably right but after nine years of Hancocks Half Hour we werent ready for another series. For the next six months he kept on at us and eventually we agreed, if the two of them wanted to do it. We were convinced that two classical actors wouldnt want to sully themselves with a commonplace sitcom. It would be like Laurence Olivier and John Gielgud in Are You Being Served? Mind you thats not a bad idea. Why didnt they think of that? And how wrong could we be. Harry and Wilfrid both jumped at the idea. Wed forgotten that time-honoured panacea that never fails to work on actors: money. Light entertainment fees were about five times more than the drama rates Harry and Wilfrid were used to. Of course theyd do it. There was no madness in their method. Incidentally we have it on good authority that had our two turned it down Olivier and Gielgud had been seen in the Goldhawk Road taking horse and cart driving lessons just in case.

And now years later comes this wonderful book by Harrys daughter, Susannah. Despite our many years of friendship with Harry much of this book was a revelation to us. Testimony to his inherent modesty and lack of self-aggrandisement. He was always happiest talking about the profession rather than himself. We dont know if Shakespeare missed Harry but we certainly do.

Ray Galton and Alan Simpson

He should have been dead when you woke up, so said the doctor with a well-practised knack of combining optimism with arse covering. If he can survive 48 hours hes got a good chance.

Harry H. Corbett had suffered his second heart attack, so massive that doctors were astounded that his wife Maureen had not woken in their rural farmhouse to find him cold at her side. But Harry was made of strong stuff. He had managed to rouse her in the dead of the night. She in turn woke their children, Jonathan and me. Leaving me with instructions to warn the hospital that they were coming, Maureen helped Harry to the car and they disappeared into the night. She drove like Fangio though the dark, quiet, twisting lanes of East Sussex to get him there in time.

Well, this could be it; this could be the big one. He masked his fear by joking with the staff. He had them in stitches hed had a lifetime of practice. During a quiet moment, he had the foresight to apologise to Maureen in case he croaked. Raising their two young teenagers alone would be tough.

The minutes stretched into hours, creeping towards the magic forty-eight. Alerted family paced the corridors, teasing life back into legs numbed by hard chairs. The unnerving fluorescent lights creating a twilight zone where drawn faces betrayed inner thoughts. If he didnt make it, would they say the right thing? Would they be any use? They hoped they wouldnt have to find out.

Trapped in this half-life limbo world, Harry surveyed the view from the bed. The scuttling nurses, the steady drip, drip, drip in the tubes and the web of wires leading to the machines that reassuringly continued to go bing. He turned his large, soulful blue eyes to Maureen and with a wistful smile softly curling around his mouth he asked, I suppose a shags out of the question? As ever his timing was superb.

Harry fought for forty-five hours. He died 21 March 1982. He was 57 years old.