GOODBYE

‘Are you all right, Sally?’ Gordon says.

I nod.

‘You sure?’

‘I’m fine.’

We both know I’m lying. But I manage something like a smile. This black Mercedes feels right. The faint smell of leather, a sense of weight and luxury creating the false impression of safety. The driver checks on us in his mirror. He’s obviously starstruck but keeps a respectful silence appropriate for the occasion.

The weather is too bright for a January morning, the sunshine mocking us with its optimism. It’s only a short journey from the hotel to our destination. The same one as for Mum ten years ago. Some landmarks are familiar from childhood: the half-timbered Bell and Book, a bus shelter where everyone’s teenage snogging took place. The thatched building that used to be a tea room; it’s an estate agent’s now. And look, there’s the theatre they wanted to name after me. Someone from the ‘Regeneration Steering Group’ approached me to ‘make a discreet off-the-record enquiry’. I was appalled. I said I might manage to cut a ribbon but to be forever tethered to this place? Over my - I told them no.

So much changes, yet nothing does. The essentials are fixed, the core is fundamental. Each day looks new but the past is ever-present.

Gordon reaches across and rests his hand on mine. He really is a treasure, did all the arrangements. I only had to pack an overnight bag and be ready. And I am ready, so ready for this. At last.

We flew up late last night. I hate short flights. Too much waiting around, then hardly time to settle. Like taking the bus for a couple of stops.

Oh, Sally, please; when did you last get on a bus?

The hotel is the best in town but it has that air of trying too hard. Luxury should be casual and unobtrusive; the Horizon Park was showing off its credentials. The gold, the mirrors, the staff uniforms, everything a notch too much. Still, it was clean and quiet; the water was hot, the bed King size. Not that I slept much. But lying awake listening to the aircon on a comfortable mattress is a damn sight better than on an uncomfortable one. Gordon did some of his snuffly-snoring. I didn’t mind; it was the least of my worries. Anyway, when I leaned over and touched his face he stopped. He’s a good man. A patient husband. I don’t know how he puts up with me.

Breakfast was adequate but such a fuss. ‘Good morning, sir, morning madam... Breakfast for two?... Tea or coffee? ...… Continental or cooked?...’ Too many words. Leave me alone! I nearly snapped. Gordon saw my clenched jaw and took charge, finding a quiet table in the corner, getting me mint tea and fresh fruit salad. I pushed it around my bowl for a while. He had a ‘hearty fry up’ although what’s hearty about it I struggle to see. I watched him push all that meat into his mouth and wondered about the state of his arteries. How would I cope if he suddenly - ?

Banish those thoughts, Sally. Stay in the present.

The smell of the seats, Gordon’s hand, ordinary people on dull streets. I’m safe.

I hung up my black YSL suit in the bathroom last night and the steam from our showers did the trick. It’s smart but not flamboyant. I have no desire to be the leading lady today although of course there will be attention. Cameras, whispers; local TV?. Eyes upon me, seeing how I play this role. For once let me be the walk-on, a non-speaking part. Like those first months after drama school when I was grateful for any opportunity, milling around rhubarbing in the background, queuing up with the other ‘supporting artistes’ at the catering truck. And then being trusted with a line. A line! Don’t fuck it up, Sally…

Don’t fuck this up, Sally.

The rise, when it came only a few years into the business, was stratospheric. ‘Like a supercharged rocket blasting off!’ (Jack Tinker, the Daily Mail). From struggling to leading in a few months. The furore over that first film role didn’t do any harm. ‘Unknown Brit in raunchiest sex scenes ever!’ (Express.) Soon I was splashed over every tabloid and glossy gossip mag in the country. In the world. L.A. came sniffing. Casting directors who all wanted to be my best friend. Then decades of hard bloody work, glowing reviews and that air of mystery. I’m treated as a ‘star’, interviewed and quoted as someone whose opinion matters. Balls! I’m a bloody actress, that’s all.

I show up for life every day.

Sex scenes at twenty-three, Ophelia at Stratford, Hedda on Broadway, European art movies in black and white, Hollywood blockbusters with more CGI than flesh and blood, British TV costume dramas and cameos in the boy-wizard nonsense - so what? All that matters is who I am, how I live my life.

Every day is another victory.

I need these mantras. They keep me grounded.

Turning left at the lights onto Coronation Road. We’re close now.

The drumbeat of my heart.

I can do this. I am doing this.

I will stay detached, observing and not fully present. Hey, I’ve won plaudits for it. ‘An ethereal otherness, hinting at an icy reserve.’ (Derek Malcolm about that awful Martin Amis thing.) Mind you, I can also release ‘The visceral fury of a wounded beast.’ (Michael Billington on my Lady M. at the Globe.) Not for today, but oh yes, that rage is easily accessed, never far beneath the surface. The critics are blown away by my ability to portray wild emotions but we all have depths of pain and joy, of hurt and ecstasy within us. Don’t we? We’re applauded and garlanded – some of us – with shiny awards and stupid amounts of money. ‘But it’s only arsing about in borrowed clothes,’ as I said once on Late Night Review and got in trouble with Des, my agent. ‘They need you to be a star, Sally. Whatever you need, give ’em that.’ A star? No, we’re all just kids playing. ‘I’m a princess and you’re a dragon and we fly to the moon and... and... and... ’ Only these days, instead of: ‘Stop larking about, Sall,’ it’s: ‘And the award goes to...… Sally Foyles!’ Give me fiction over fact every time.

Our car slows down. The indicator ticks, too loud. We pull into the driveway and cruise up to the door. What an ugly building. Of course we make a stir, this big fuck-off limo and the pair of us, incongruously, unintentionally glamorous. Faces peer in, pretending not to. The driver gets out to open the door. A ripple of curiosity. ‘Here she is.’ A woman’s voice. Phones are held aloft. I swear there’s a smattering of applause. Jesus Christ.

Gordon goes first and turns to offer me his hand. I step out with rehearsed poise into the buzzing throng, blinking in the glare. I wish I had my shades on but that would look too actressy. Dignity is the note I’m playing today. Low profile. Restraint and reserve. It’s just another role.

There he is. He’s put on weight; his jacket is stretched over his gut. His father’s son.

‘Hello, Sal,’ he says as Gordon and I approach.

‘Hello Derek.’ He goes to give me some kind of – what? Hug? A kiss? I turn at that precise moment in the pretence of acknowledging the inquisitive crowd. He stands back, thwarted.

‘Hi Gord.’

‘Hello Derek.’

‘Y’all right?’

‘Yes, thank you. It’s a sad business.’

‘He was a good man, my dad. Our dad,’ Derek tries to include me. I look down at my shoes. Valentino, 850 Euros. Paris, October 2019. Figures, numbers, dates. I need to stay in the now, the world of hard facts. Today is January the... something. Fourteenth. And it’s – I check my watch – 10.55am. Perfect timing; ‘Act One, beginners please.’ In an hour this will be over. Ashes to ashes.

We say a brief hello to one or two others including Derek’s poor wife, Estelle. She looks distraught; I can’t think why. A child comes forward with something for me to sign but he’s pulled back by an adult hissing, ‘Craig, not now; do it after.’ Is there a right time to ask for an autograph at a funeral?

I’m aware of drawing the attention and it’s not, I swear, what I want. This is not about me. Let’s get him burned.

A tall man comes forward and, without my permission, takes my hand from its safe place at my waist and clutches it in both of his, mouthing platitudes. ‘Call me Martin.’ I have to remind myself he’s not a man dressed as a vicar; he is a vicar. The church is not a set, these are not a bunch of extras. We get one take at this. Dear God, let nobody shout, ‘Cut! Reset and we’ll go again in five.’

Gordon and I take our designated place in the front pew. Estelle is on my right, sniffling. A cold, presumably; not grief. Plangent organ music floats over us as others shuffle in and mutter. The vicar is poised. Dust dances in the shafts of sun; just like in the movies.

A hush is the clue. The organist launches into a proper tune at a volume that is a statement of intent. I know what’s happening but I’m not turning to look. I wait. And wait.

It’s in my peripheral vision now. Carried aloft by six men in black suits. Provided by Wardrobe, I tell myself; that helps. They halt, lift the coffin from their shoulders in a well-rehearsed routine, and lower it. The wreath on top doesn’t fall off even when it tilts. Someone must have sorted that out.

It’s big. Even now he’s so intrusive, imposing himself. This glossy case contains him. His body. Dead. A fat, ugly, obscene body. My father. ‘My’? Why this possession of? It’s freedom from I want. But there it is, feet away. Softening, rotting flesh. All that remains of the person I feared so much. Daddy.

A shudder begins in my knees, as they taught us at RADA. I might collapse. My shoulders shake. If anyone notices they’ll assume it’s grief. Let them think that.

I’m not a victim; I am a survivor.

The vicar has an avuncular manner. But he blathers on about ‘God’ and ‘heaven’ and ‘souls’ and it’s clear he believes his comments about a life well-lived are appropriate. Could he be more wrong? The truth would cause a stink. For now, this sanitised, bowdlerised narrative fits the bill. Give them what they want: grieving children mourning their dad, a ‘fine old gent.’ A few tales of his past, his ‘beloved wife Helen’ who ‘sadly passed’ years before after a ‘courageous battle’ with cancer. Mum wasn’t brave, she was terrified and alone. His legacy of supporting good causes: the Round Table, fundraising for charity and his involvement with the youth club. I refuse to dwell on that.

There are hymns. Ones I remember from school, solid classics full of bombast and heft, then a new one to me with a halting rhythm and carefully inoffensive words. It’s twee and I half expect someone to produce a tambourine. Life goes on and all that. No it bloody doesn’t, I want to shout. Not his. Promise me that.

Focus, Sally. Focus.

Derek gets up and reads a poem. Very badly, obviously, which pleases me. He stresses the wrong words, has no breath technique and makes little attempt to project. Mind you, it can’t be easy to get up on your hind legs and perform in front of a BAFTA, Golden Globe and SAG winner, recipient of various other baubles from Cannes, Berlin and some city in Japan. Plus two Oscar nominations for Best Supporting Actress and a DBE.

‘No,’ I’d said when he rang to ask if I would read something. ‘No.’

He said surely I’d want to.

‘No.’

People would expect it.

‘Tough.’

‘Do it for Dad.’

I ended the call and wept angry tears.

Watching him now, hearing his dreadful delivery of sentimental drivel, all I can think is: You knew. You knew! Because he didn’t spare you either. And you did what? You copied his perversion. How could you? How dare you? What kind of boy does that to his little sister? Again and again, month after brutal month until you got bored. Did he know what he’d taught you? That his ‘legacy’ would be damage and despair.

With no awareness that I’m about to, I stand up. In the middle of Derek’s dreadful poem. Gordon is concerned; the vicar notices. Derek presses on, staring at his script and picking his way laboriously through, word by word.

I turn around and look. I see faces, pale and serious, gazing back, intrigued. What’s happening? Is the big star about to do a turn?

Derek has come to the end. He sees me. He looks terrified, his expression pleading. There’s a febrile stillness now; I am cocooned in a bubble of silence.

‘Dame Sally, would you like to say something?’ The vicar’s tone is kind, well meaning. That’s nice. Kindness and care were all I ever wanted.

‘Will you share some memories with us? I’m sure we’d love to hear them.’ He offers me a smile of encouragement.

‘I… I want…’ It’s a whisper. ‘Please…’

I’m eight years old. So scared. How to make sense of what’s happening? Pain, blood, shame. The garden shed. Wood creaking. Big hands. Our secret. Running out, hiding in the long grass. Nettles sting my legs.

Get through this. Sit down.

My mouth is open. The dry rasp of my breath. Guts churning, bowels ready to release.

Get through this. Don’t cry.

I start to cry. People seem touched, others are embarrassed and confused. They think I’m sad about the death. It’s the life that distresses me.

I want to run, hide in the nettles.

I study them, row upon row. My audience.

Now I notice one or two have a different face, a mask of complicity. Have I developed a sixth sense, one that picks up this shared pain? The scent of a survivor. So there are others in this mundane huddle of hypocrisy burdened with their own tales of horror. Which lives have been poisoned? Whose relationships forever blighted? Of course, I’m not the only one who’s here to make certain of his death. To see the bastard torched.

Our secret. Is it?

‘Will you tell us some more about your father?’

Will I? I look at the vicar, my brother, his wife, my husband. Faces waiting. Will I tell them more?

I have to improvise. There is no script now.