energy to defeating the enemy. If there had been a meeting of ALS and he had put forward an idea the others rejected, he would go to his room, retired hurt, hang a notice on the door saying ‘Go away’ or something similar, and perhaps not surface for three or four days. Over time I became used to these periodic withdrawals and would tell those who queried this behaviour that for Spike it was ‘normally abnormal’.
Things were not all bad. Having tried out his poems on me on my first day, Spike had devoted most of my time to fighting his various campaigns and organizing his diary. But now we had settled into a routine together he started testing new work on me. He would phone down and say, ‘I’m finished. Do you want to come up?’ If I did not react as he thought I should he would say, ‘What do you know about being funny?’ End of try-out. Or the smile on his face would fade as he read it aloud and realized it was not what it should be. ‘I didn’t know I could be so unfunny,’ he would say and into the wastepaper basket it went.
Just as he could be incredibly mean, as he was over Paddy’s Christmas money, so Spike could also be extraordinarily generous. One day in April 1967 he asked me, quite out of the blue, how I got to the office. I explained that one of the deciding factors in taking the job was that it was only a fourpenny tube fare from home and I was saving for a car.
‘How much have you got?’ he asked.
It was none of his business and I told him so. He laughed.
‘I’m making it my business because I’m selling the Mini. If you want to buy it I need to know how much you have, don’t I? I love that car and I want to find a good home for her.’
As much as he loved it, it was one of the earliest basic Minis with a bundle of faults. When it rained the interior of the car was awash because the door vents had been put in the wrong way, so the rain ran inside and onto the floor. Controls were minimal. It also had a sneck to slide half the front window open, a temperamental windscreen wiper and heater, and hard seats; with virtually no insulation, it was a loud and bumpy ride. All this I discovered later. Spike adored her.
‘So tell me. How much have you saved?’
The man had a cheek. ‘£125,’ I said. ‘By next summer I’ll have enough to buy a car.’
‘Okay. You’ve got enough now for my Mini.’
I could not do it. ‘It’s worth much more.’
‘I said £125.’
I shook my head. ‘It would be like taking charity.’ All my working-class instincts came to the surface: accepting an over-generous offer might put me under an obligation. But Spike was insistent.
‘I want you to have it.’
‘All right. I’ll take it to your garage to get it valued.’
I drove it round the corner to Queen’s Mews and asked Mike, the owner, for a valuation. With Spike’s name on the log book, he told me, it was worth nearly three times what I had to offer.
Downcast, I returned to the office and explained.
Spike smiled, such a warm smile. ‘You are looking after me, aren’t you? Let me look after you.’ He would not take no for an answer.
I was knocked out. The Mini, 3490 PK, became my own treasured first car. It was my first experience of his largesse, which continued throughout our relationship, though it did not prevent him from accusing me, from time to time, of giving his money away.
Back in my own office I looked at Anthony Hopkins. ‘How about that, then?’ Later I discovered that Anthony liked comedians, which was just as well.
Soon after this Beryl arranged a tour of The Bed Sitting Room, in which Spike had wowed packed audiences in the West End and received ecstatic reviews. The play was based on an original idea by John Antrobus. It was about the survivors of World War III struggling to create order while radiation caused havoc, turning them into animals and items of furniture. Spike regarded Antrobus, an ALS writer, as a wayward son, but claimed that John did not have the discipline to anchor himself behind a desk to write the play. Spike did, though, and the result was brilliant.
He was in good spirits when he returned, high on success. This meant more work for me of course. One day I had been at it non-stop until well after seven o’clock. Spike breezed into the office, relaxed and happy from an afternoon at Alan Clare’s house in Holland Park. Theirs was a musical friendship: Alan had played with Oscar Peterson and at private parties for Frank Sinatra, and Spike liked to accompany him on his trumpet and chat about jazz. When he saw me Spike said, ‘You look knackered.’ Just what a girl needed to hear. ‘You need a glass of panacea. Why don’t you meet me at the Trattoo about eight-thirty?’
He was on. Off to the flat, then a bath, a quick change and a twenty-minute drive back to the restaurant for that first glass of champagne. I went up to the bar to say hello to Alan and there, sitting next to Spike, was Peter Sellers. I was completely taken aback. I would have dressed up had I known. Spike rose and gestured to me to sit between them, and being Spike he made no introduction.
‘Hello,’ I said to Pete. ‘I’m Norma.’
‘No need for that,’ said Spike. ‘He knows you’re Norma.’
Then he pondered. ‘I didn’t realize you hadn’t met before.’
So there was I sitting next to this Hollywood legend, a man who was perhaps the greatest mimic in the world, and the star of countless films. Charm oozed from him. No wonder his conquests ranged from Princess Margaret to Liza Minnelli, not to mention his soon to be wife, the Swedish beauty, Britt Ekland. He put me entirely at ease, as if I were an old family friend. I tried not to show how star struck I felt. I had thought I was immune to being impressed by celebrities, but the evening that followed was truly memorable. There were laughs about old times and anecdotes about his movies. I told him that his portrayal of General Fitzjohn in Waltz of the Toreadors was his best, and he warmly agreed with me. I learned later that, just like Spike, whatever Pete said had to be taken with a pinch of salt. If they were in a mood to please they would listen to your opinions as if suddenly you were an oracle. Everything you said, darling, was absolutely right. In a different mood your views would be met with a curl of the lip, or ‘What the fuck do you know about it?’
There was no swearing that night. Pete mentioned Eric, how he missed him since he was spending so much time in the States, and how much he would like to have dinner, just the three of them. Spike recalled how, one summer’s day in Orme Court, he had been driven mad by the clickety-click of Eric’s typewriter pumping out yet another episode of Sykes and A …, probably because he was having trouble with his own work. He undressed and, stark naked, walked across the landing to Eric’s office. ‘I’m stuck on these last two lines of the sketch,’ he said, handing him his script. ‘Tell me what you think, will you?’
Eric had a read and looked at Spike.
They’re very good,’ he said and resumed tapping.
‘You bastard,’ said Spike.
Without raising his eyes, Eric said, ‘Well, it is rather warm in the office today.’
‘Typical of Eric’s deadpan delivery,’ he remembered. I assumed Spike was embroidering, as was his wont, but many years later Eric recounted the same story, detail for detail.
Then it was Pete’s turn. He, Eric and Spike had decided to hold a Christmas party for their children at Holden Road. It had a large garden which they decided was ideal for a firework display. A magician was hired and, excess being the order of the day, they went out and bought hundreds of fireworks. That was what children liked, yes, and they would get a magnificent view from the large window in the living room where they would hold the party.
The men devoted much thought and a lengthy lunch to planning the display. When they arrived back it was after three and they started setting them out: rockets, Catherine wheels, sparklers, thunder flashes, jumping crackers, waterfalls, rockets, plenty of rockets, and even bigger thunder flashes. It all took rather longer than expected and, being