London again and giving thanks to the people I love. Brian, despite his absurdly busy life, made time to come to the church and stay with me after. Lou watched it live-streamed and took screenshots.
I was stressing out, trying to make sure that my mum’s final boyfriend, a man who achieved so much, had a send-off worthy of his contentious charming brilliant human life. Stephanie, a strong Christian with time on her hands, had worked hard having made herself next of kin to give him a good last few years, and as a result she was calling the shots. Max and I were there to try to honour the man we knew, knowing we had known him deeper and longer. She took the burden of arranging things though. And did it beautifully. She was perhaps a bit too controlling about the readings. I fought for some Blake, knowing that Blake was huge for Keith, and had to butcher it to make it short, but then she wanted “If”, Kiplings piece that is in every bathroom in the home counties.
Keith gave me some Blake Tarot cards, long before tarot became part of my expression, just when I was a curious young wannabe mystic. I used to use them until I lost a card. I might try them again going forward, lost card be damned. He was always a mischief, and he helped augment my father’s drive towards mischief. Two male role models in formative years, both pushing me towards examination of external stimulus. Dad: “Work out what the herd is doing. Do the opposite.” Keith, later: “If you’re going counterflow, which you are, look after the people who haven’t thought as deeply as you and be kind.”
He knew he wasn’t my dad. He was never dumb enough to try to say he would be. He was mum’s boyfriend and he understood my conflict about him. He found the edges where he could be my friend. He gave me creative freedom on my first ever dayjob, in my summer holiday from school, to typeset and arrange the annual report for his charity. We won an award for reports on the scale of charity he ran. That was his eye and his guidance, but at 17 I had an experience of my creativity being recognised. He introduced me to David Monroe, a young film maker who took the headshots that got me my first agent, became my friend, taught me about rioja, made me feel like my idea of being an actor wasn’t the mistake my parents had worried it might be, and promptly died.
Now I look at the figures who were older and influential in my twenties, as I was making sense of this job I do, Michael McCallion, David, Dad and Keith… the first three died so suddenly… Keith stayed solid, but I started to fear being friends with older men. Michael went too suddenly, just as we were getting started. He gave me Christopher Logue and Alexander Technique and was a brilliant friend when I was auditioning for drama school, always with a helpful creative prompt. He wrote “The Voice Book” and at the time my focus and interest was on voice. A gorgeous man. He was actively instrumental in getting me into Guildhall just by being truthful when I practiced my Trigorin speech with him. David made work feel possible for me. Dad tried to discourage me but I saw his playfulness. All three died in the space of a year.
Keith…? He lived and he took time to challenge me. He wasn’t ingratiating himself with me. My trust was shot so it was hard for me to love him in case my love killed. He was happy to help me realise that success in my industry comes with work if you’re not a classic beauty. He put me in front of his friend John Schlesinger, who told me I needed to train, perhaps because I wasn’t his type. Keith never told me I couldn’t, but he taught me I had to get on with it working out how to make it work for myself, and gave me the courage that took me to Guildhall and thence to a functioning career.
Bless his heart. God rest his soul.
His was the dead body I sat with a month ago. I don’t think I ever really appreciated the extent to which he woke ambition in me until I started getting involved in his funeral and reflecting on what he was silently doing when his focus was on me. He accepted my goal – to be a regularly working actor – and was helping me to think about “how”, rather than just discouraging me as my parents were.
He was ninety when he died, after a heavy “More Menthol” cigarette habit. He lived hard and well despite suffering things nobody should suffer. He never let it dim his fire. I thought he’d be forever. If nobody else will write his life, maybe I should.
Fare forward old bean. It was lovely to meet so many of those that loved him today.
AlBarclay 