When
my mother first met my father, Gerald Blake, at Burnham-on-Sea repertory company, she thought
he was the world’s most repellent man.
Six
months later, they were married.
Their
snowy February nuptials took place at the imposing Marylebone Register
Office on the Marylebone Road with just two witnesses: Hugh Johnson , the man
who was later to become my Godfather (younger brother of the actor Richard
Johnson, and something to do with the Twinings Tea family – so I was told); and
my father’s best friend, another actor, Frederick Hall, who acted as Best Man. Due
to my mother’s young age (21), the whirlwind nature of the romance, and to the couple’s
disparate backgrounds, there was not a little opposition – from both families -
to the match.
 |
| "Oh Bobby...." Sally Blake with Don Avison in "As Long as They're Happy", c.1955 |
My
father had fallen in love with Sally the moment he saw her. A tiny (4'11") welsh
creature with raven hair, and a biting wit, enveloped in a cloud of Chanel No 22, he won her with poetry,
chocolate, Thurber cartoons, and cats. Always cats. They moved into a former
monastic building opposite Francis Holland School called Dorset Chambers (now
Chagford House), and Alfred Jingle, a local short-haired black and white feline
gentleman of no fixed abode, but with an eye for the main chance, moved in
shortly afterwards. He gave the young newlyweds the full commercial: ‘bad’ leg
(bit of a limp), huge eyes, sucked in cheeks, and mewing piteously on the flat
roof outside. With hardly enough to feed themselves, they took him in. Interestingly,
Jingle’s leg dramatically improved when my father brought home a borrowed cat
basket in which to take him to the vet.
From Dorset Chambers, they moved on to Lincoln, when my father landed a job as Director of the Theatre Royal there. My mother, pregnant with my brother, starred as Clucklecrop, the magic hen, in their production of Jack and the Beanstalk. The crew cleared the wings every night for her to rush off to be sick between scenes. My brother was born some time during the run, and later, the city showed its appreciation for the little theatre group by giving my parents special permission to dip their baby son in the font of Kings at Lincoln Cathedral, for his baptism. My brother spent his own particular after show party crawling about in his lacy Victorian robe, polishing off the dregs of as many discarded champagne glasses as he could reach.
Shortly
afterwards, my father won a training contract on the Directors’ course at the
BBC, and the little family came back to London, moving into a garden flat in
Fairhazel Gardens, West Hampstead. My father’s talent as a Director soon showed
itself, and the shows started mounting up on his CV... Dr Finlay’s Casebook, Z-Cars,
Doctor Who... all topped off with a
moderate Pools win that bought him a car, a cine-camera, and for my mother, a
black and white ‘humbug’ striped PVC mac, a red silk umbrella with a red and
white spotted lining, and a bottle of L’Air
du Temps.
When
Fairhazel Gardens was good, it was very very good, but when it was bad, it
flooded. Up to waist height. The old Roman drains had never been replaced, and
simply couldn’t cope. By this time, I had arrived, and the summer routine of
passing the baby out of the window to be taken to friends on higher ground was
beginning to pall.
In
1967, my father went on a recce to find us a new home, and secured a tenancy on
a palatial flat in Regent’s Park. With two grand reception rooms, entrance hall,
servants’ quarters and 3 main bedrooms, 1 Hanover Gate Mansions on Park Road had
been the former residence of the Swedish Ambassador to London, but by the time
my father found it, it was in a state of disrepair and the rent asked for it,
just £12 a week.
To
help pay for it, Sally went to work for Victor Wagner’s cosmetics shop next
door, between Hugo’s the Hairdresser, and Coulthard’s the Newsagent’s. Victor
was our upstairs neighbour. A shrewd, but lovely East End
businessman, his pouting French wife made it clear she felt she had married
beneath her, but enjoyed spending his money well enough – and the freebies from
the shop.
It
was at Victor’s that my mother got to indulge her perfume passion to her heart’s
content. Not only that, but whenever Victor had finished with display material,
he let her help herself to any or all of it. So it was that to my father’s
mounting unease, our gracious flat became filled with racks and glass shelves,
and display stands, including a gigantic Mary Quant daisy you could actually
sit inside – and I did, playing at being in a car. Often, she would have to
take me with her to work, as I was still too young for school. I loved to play
in the basement among all the samples and shelving, stacked high with lotions
and potions and bottles and lipsticks and powder and swansdown puffs in
unfeasible colours.
One
day, my mother came home with two cranberry velvet Hermès Calèche[1]
display stands. One enormous, one slightly less so. Placing them carefully on
the kitchen table, she demonstrated how they lit up with a little strip light,
hidden behind a panel. The light cast a magical glow onto the golden plastic relief
of a horse and carriage, alongside a tall, golden rose, made of some sort of
raffia material. Generously, she let me have the smaller one, and set it up for
me in my room.
Later
that evening, we all went across the road and into the park to see some friends
of my father’s in a production of “A Midsummer Night’s Dream” at the Open Air Theatre. Lights were laced through
the trees, and everything was greens, and browns, and earth and mystery. As my
parents knew the actors, they “went ‘round” afterwards, meaning they went to
the stage door and then on to the bar to drink and smoke and chat until the
early hours. My brother and I were given free rein to play on the stage in the
semi darkness, until our parents were ready to take us home.
Some
days later, my mother found me with my bedroom curtains closed, with the Calèche stand illuminated, and several
dolls lined up upon it. Another couple were sat on an old lipstick display
stand to the side.
“What
are you playing?” She asked, curiously.
“Midsummer’s
Nights Dreams...” I said.
To
my annoyance, she laughed.
“Oh
dear. My poor child...” She said, and left me to it.
Of
course now, I realise what she was laughing at.
Perfume
and theatre.
No.
I suppose I didn’t really stand a chance.
Emma Blake
May 2014
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