Year of the King: An Actor's Diary and Sketchbook - Twentieth Anniversary Edition by Antony Sher
Authors: Antony Sher
Tags: Drama, Literature & Fiction, British, Theater, Humor & Entertainment, Biographies & Memoirs, Performing Arts, Shakespeare, British & Irish, Arts & Photography, World Literature, Acting & Auditioning, Arts & Literature, Entertainers, Stagecraft
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look smart. At church all my friends
commented.' She says all this laughing, an infectious bubbling laugh.
I want a photo of her.
Mum insists she takes off her working apron. When I say it isn't
necessary Mum says, `Let her look nice too.'
`That's right,' says Katie, going into a panic but still laughing. `What's
people in London gonna think of me if they see me like this?'
`Put on your other apron,' Mum shouts as Katie disappears into the
maid's room, `the nice one!'
Katie reappears wearing a different apron. When we pose for the photo
she becomes very serious and stands to attention. I tickle her and she
screams to Mum, `Ooo Mommy, Ooo Madam help!'
Granny joins us for a farewell lunch. She can't hear too well, which
either creates awkward silences when questions aren't answered, or else
she doesn't realise a conversation is in progress and will start one herself.
Again it strikes me how young and inexperienced Mum and Dad become
in her company.
Afterwards I accompany her to the car to say my farewells. Her cheek,
as I kiss it, is like very soft tissue paper. She says, `I wish you much good
health and every success.'
I say, `Hope to see you soon. Maybe next time in London.'
She chuckles and the car pulls out of the driveway.
Now it's Katie's turn. I go into the dining room, the room cool and
dark as always. She is bent over the table clearing up. I stand silently
behind her, watching her work. At last she turns with the tray full.
`I've come to say my farewells.'
`No. Not already. Really, already?'
We hug and I slip some money into her hand. She has prepared a little
speech. `Master Antony, may God grant you every happiness ...' but her
eyes moisten and she can't finish.
`Thank you for everything . . .' I say and get no further myself.
At the airport the family farewells are more festive and chaotic, the kids
all taking photographs, the hugs and kisses posed for the cameras.
In Johannesburg, it's pouring with rain, preparing me for England. But
it's a warm rain, and the thunder and lightning are unmistakably African,
reaching away into vast empty spaces.
The white police in the airport are armed, the black ones not. Presumably in an emergency the latter would be required to hurl themselves
bodily at hijackers.
On the plane it's a relief to hear British accents again. Waiting for
take-off I suddenly remember Richard's line, `Sent before my time into
this breathing world scarce half made up'. Maybe that's the solution to
his appearance - foetus-like. Smooth, almost slimy baldness. Unformed
features. What has made me suddenly think of this? Yesterday at Fick's
Pool there was a mentally-retarded boy with no eyebrows. Also Yvette
was talking about their youngest daughter being born three months
premature, the nurse saying, `Go on Mrs Sher, hold her, she won't break.'
The plane lifts off into the storm, bravely plunging into dangerously
dark-blue clouds, forked lightning in the distance. You think you're
through it, the clouds lighten and soften and then it's like your head has
been plunged underwater again - it's dark and murky and the plane rocks.
Below there are glimpses of the outskirts ofJo'burg, suburban homes with
large lawns and swimming pools; now farmlands, the fields a blackish
green in the stormy light. We break out of the clouds but a higher bank
towers above us for what looks like hundreds of miles. You fear for your
safety - we must be so tiny against this colossal wall. One of the wings keeps brushing the edge of the cloud and disappearing. Now we're
engulfed again, thick grey-blue darkness, then light suffocating whiteness,
and then suddenly we lift up out of it and we're climbing into a perfect
evening in the heavens. Below us are the familiar calm fields of clouds,
above space as high as we dare go.
3. Acton Hilton, Canary Wharf
and Grayshott Hall 1984
New Year's Day, 1984
A day in groggy limbo. Wake in the early afternoon after last night's New
commented.' She says all this laughing, an infectious bubbling laugh.
I want a photo of her.
Mum insists she takes off her working apron. When I say it isn't
necessary Mum says, `Let her look nice too.'
`That's right,' says Katie, going into a panic but still laughing. `What's
people in London gonna think of me if they see me like this?'
`Put on your other apron,' Mum shouts as Katie disappears into the
maid's room, `the nice one!'
Katie reappears wearing a different apron. When we pose for the photo
she becomes very serious and stands to attention. I tickle her and she
screams to Mum, `Ooo Mommy, Ooo Madam help!'
Granny joins us for a farewell lunch. She can't hear too well, which
either creates awkward silences when questions aren't answered, or else
she doesn't realise a conversation is in progress and will start one herself.
Again it strikes me how young and inexperienced Mum and Dad become
in her company.
Afterwards I accompany her to the car to say my farewells. Her cheek,
as I kiss it, is like very soft tissue paper. She says, `I wish you much good
health and every success.'
I say, `Hope to see you soon. Maybe next time in London.'
She chuckles and the car pulls out of the driveway.
Now it's Katie's turn. I go into the dining room, the room cool and
dark as always. She is bent over the table clearing up. I stand silently
behind her, watching her work. At last she turns with the tray full.
`I've come to say my farewells.'
`No. Not already. Really, already?'
We hug and I slip some money into her hand. She has prepared a little
speech. `Master Antony, may God grant you every happiness ...' but her
eyes moisten and she can't finish.
`Thank you for everything . . .' I say and get no further myself.
At the airport the family farewells are more festive and chaotic, the kids
all taking photographs, the hugs and kisses posed for the cameras.
In Johannesburg, it's pouring with rain, preparing me for England. But
it's a warm rain, and the thunder and lightning are unmistakably African,
reaching away into vast empty spaces.
The white police in the airport are armed, the black ones not. Presumably in an emergency the latter would be required to hurl themselves
bodily at hijackers.
On the plane it's a relief to hear British accents again. Waiting for
take-off I suddenly remember Richard's line, `Sent before my time into
this breathing world scarce half made up'. Maybe that's the solution to
his appearance - foetus-like. Smooth, almost slimy baldness. Unformed
features. What has made me suddenly think of this? Yesterday at Fick's
Pool there was a mentally-retarded boy with no eyebrows. Also Yvette
was talking about their youngest daughter being born three months
premature, the nurse saying, `Go on Mrs Sher, hold her, she won't break.'
The plane lifts off into the storm, bravely plunging into dangerously
dark-blue clouds, forked lightning in the distance. You think you're
through it, the clouds lighten and soften and then it's like your head has
been plunged underwater again - it's dark and murky and the plane rocks.
Below there are glimpses of the outskirts ofJo'burg, suburban homes with
large lawns and swimming pools; now farmlands, the fields a blackish
green in the stormy light. We break out of the clouds but a higher bank
towers above us for what looks like hundreds of miles. You fear for your
safety - we must be so tiny against this colossal wall. One of the wings keeps brushing the edge of the cloud and disappearing. Now we're
engulfed again, thick grey-blue darkness, then light suffocating whiteness,
and then suddenly we lift up out of it and we're climbing into a perfect
evening in the heavens. Below us are the familiar calm fields of clouds,
above space as high as we dare go.
3. Acton Hilton, Canary Wharf
and Grayshott Hall 1984
New Year's Day, 1984
A day in groggy limbo. Wake in the early afternoon after last night's New
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