Kenneth Williams Unseen: The private notes, scripts and photographs. Russell Davies

see why you’re interested in me. I’m not in the least interested in you.” And he walked out of the room! I’d die laughing, and the old man would go mad.’

      Within the family there was a particular reason why Kenneth seemed to be spared the worst retribution, in spite of his disdain for traditional norms like male aggression. The fact was that he and Pat Williams were not full brother and sister. Louie, unmarried then, had been ‘knocked up’, as the saying went. In the Williams diaries (though not the published version) there is a glancingly sour allusion to the conception, which apparently took place in the hallway of a tenement. The honourably old-fashioned role of Charlie Williams in this crisis was to step in and ‘make an honest woman’ of Louie, to use another phrase that has mercifully expired. So all through life it was Pat Williams’s bad luck to remind her mother of a painful indiscretion, her father of his entitlement to self-righteousness, and Kenneth of his status as the one true child of the union and the household. It was a difficult selection of prejudices to confront, and taken together they left Pat’s life – and her views of her brother – uneasily poised between humour and bitterness. The semi-siblings were at their closest in infancy, where Kenny was already the dominating spirit. He it was who organized the children’s remarkably effective escape fantasy, which they called ‘Our Game’.

      Pat Williams: ‘Ken and I used to share a bedroom. Mind you, we were only little. I should have known then what I know now, oh dear! I’d run a mile. And we had little iron beds, you know those little iron beds? We used to have to be in bed early, gotta get your sleep, you must have ten hours’ sleep, or whatever. And then on Saturday night we got to have our bath, wash our hair, in the zinc bath in the scullery, as it was. And we had to be in bed by five. My mum used to go and meet my dad from work, and they’d go out to the pub and have a Guinness and a gin. So we used to sit up in bed and Mum used to read ‘Little Nell’ to us, and all these little stories. Then she’d go, you see, now we gotta be good children, don’t let anybody in, don’t get out of bed…So we used to play Our Game, and Ken was every other voice, I was only ever me. And if I said the wrong thing

      I got bawled out, “You’re supposed to say” and then he’d give me the next thing. “Oh, sorry.” “Right, you ready then?” And these stories he’d cook up. He would make them up. And they could be anything. “Today we’re going for a picnic.” “Oh, are we?” “You can use the red MG today, the little two-seater red MG.” “Oh, thank you very much.” And he would describe exactly where we were going, what we were going to have to eat, how long it was going to take to get there, who the other people at the picnic were, and home again. And he’d say, “That was good, wasn’t it?” “Yeah, I enjoyed that day out in the country.” And I really felt as if I’d been in the country! Ridiculous! Ridiculous. Because we’d be somewhere, you see, bored out of our minds, and he’d go “O G”, and he’d just mouth it, not say the words. And we’d nod and wink, and just gradually sneak out, and if it was anybody’s house that had a garden we’d go and sit in the garden, if it was another room we’d go and sit in the other room, and they invariably came and found us. And they’d say, “What are you doing in here? Come on out in the sunshine!” “We are quite happy here, aren’t we, Pat?” “Yes, thank you, Ken.” I’d do anything the boy said. I mean if he said go and lay down in the middle of Piccadilly Circus for a half-hour, I would.’

      But that was Saturday. It was typical of this mercurial and outspoken family that Sunday brought different feelings altogether.

      ‘You rotten stinker. I gave you my penny, you bought the sweeties, you’ve eaten all the sweeties, you didn’t even give me one’

      Pat Williams: ‘I’ll tell you what the little bugger used to do. We used to go to Sunday school every afternoon. Mum used to give us a penny for the collection. And we’d get round the corner, you see, out of sight, and I would say to Ken, “I’ll give you my penny so you can buy sweeties, and I’ll meet you here at four o’clock, and you can tell me what the story was, and then we go home.” And he said, “All right.” So I’d part up with my penny, go and play football with the boys, and then I’d meet him at four o’clock and he’d tell me whatever it was, all about Noah and the Ark or whatever. And as soon as we got home, Mum used to say, “Right, come and sit down, tell me what it was about. Did you get a text this week?” Sometimes they’d give us a little text. And Ken would say, “No, I didn’t get one, but she got one, didn’t you, Pat?” I’d say, “Yes, thank you, Ken.” And she’d say, “Right, now you can get the tea ready,” and we always had to get the afternoon tea ready. And wash up afterwards. And he’d say, “Pat’ll wash up.” And I’d say, “You’ve got to do your share.” “If you don’t wash up, I’ll tell Mum you didn’t go to Sunday school.” And he would hold it over my head all the bloody week, true as I’m sitting here.

      Pages 56-60 ‘Feel in a strangely reflective and autumnal mood this afternoon—Dvorak on the radio, the October fog coming down—at 5 o’c. it is too dark to see without electricity—and I am thinking wonderful possibilities—I could write a play, I could be a mad success.’ (Diary, 29 October 1958)