by Harvey Burgess
It is late September 2010. My father, John Herman Louis Burgess, a seventy-seven year old actor, will soon be exiting the stage for the final time in his richly eventful life. It is two and a half years since he was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer. I knew immediately it was bound to be terminal. A politics lecturer of mine at Nottingham University, in the early 1990’s, died of it within five weeks of diagnosis and a year or so ago, the Hollywood actor, Patrick Swayzee, who at one point declared that he was “kicking it,” succumbed after a twenty-month fight. If only it were a less destructive form of cancer. Without the enzymes provided by a healthy pancreas the digestive system cannot function properly and without the insulin it produces the body’s blood sugar level becomes unbalanced. A chronic loss of appetite and an ever increasing inability to ingest and/or digest food is the devastating consequence
John has just been admitted to Heathgrove Lodge Nursing Home, a private care home for thirty-six patients in the north-west London suburb of Golders Green – where he was born and raised and a short bus ride away from where he has lived for the last ten years or so – which specializes in palliative and convalescent care for stroke victims and Alzheimer’s and Parkinson’s sufferers. A rapid deterioration in his health has prompted the decision to enter an institution that, in all probability, he will never leave. Following a period of quite a few days when John felt continuously sick and nauseous and had not eaten anything, he underwent a procedure, in hospital, to remove blockages in his duodenum and bile duct. He was optimistic that it would alleviate the symptoms but it has not really done so.
John was born John Bogush, the family name of his Jewish grandfather, who arrived in England from Poland at the turn of the century (his grandmother was of Hungarian descent). His grandfather, Morris, had two brothers who opted to settle in New York, where they opened a laundry. Morris preferred to head for London and the Jewish Ghetto in Whitechapel. He became a very successful travelling jeweler and John’s father, Bertie, inherited a considerable sum of money. Unfortunately, Bertie, who John describes as a loving but feckless man, did not possess his father’s acumen and engaged in a number of loss-making enterprises, including children’s clothing, jewelry and car repairs. Consequently, much of John’s youth was spent in straitened domestic circumstances. His parents did not get on well and he also clashed with his mother (who died of cancer at 44 when he was a teenager). For a while he lived with his grandparents, where he was the apple of his grandmother’s eye. He has two younger siblings, Michael and Wendy, with whom he has always been close.
In John’s early teens, he boarded at The Brunswick School in the town of Hayward’s Heath in the southern English county of Sussex. It was run by two ex-army officers and many of his peers were colonial boys who had grown up in Kenya, Malaysia and Rhodesia. John was one of only two Jewish pupils. He recounts how, as he was sitting down to his first meal, Major Lee Harrison clamped a hand on his shoulder and said “Young Bogush, your dad says you can’t eat pig meat.” John was not best pleased and his annoyance was compounded when Morris sent a rabbi down to the school to teach him his bar mitzvah portion. Morris was devout and tried unsuccessfully to get him to adhere to the faith. John was having none of it and has never strayed from his militant atheism.
He loved his time at Brunswick and excelled at rugby, shooting and boxing. There was a stiffness and a sternness about the place but an underlying sense of fairness and compassion. As was the case later on when John was in the army doing his National Service, he very much identified with its sense of community. He has always loved being around people has my dad.
Michael and Wendy often talk about how dashing John looked in his army uniform and how proud they were of him. He has always been a hero to Michael who says he was too young to go to his brother’s army demobilization party. The actress, Shani Wallis, who played Nancy in the film, Oliver (based on Dickens’ Oliver Twist), was at the party.
In contrast to Brunswick, John did not enjoy his time at St. Paul’s school in West London. He found the teachers aloof and uninspiring. Nevertheless, it was there that he fell in love with literature and the arts and won the junior school essay writing prize. At 17, not long out of school, John joined an amateur theatre company and he made such an impact that they encouraged him to audition at RADA (The Royal Academy of Dramatic Arts). In preparation, he entered a recording booth at John Barnes department store and came out with a 12-inch vinyl record. On it was a monologue by Cassius from Shakespeare’s Julius Caesar and Keats’s sonnet “On First Looking into Chapman’s Homer.”
In the early days at Heathgrove Lodge, John feels ok about half of the time and wretched the other half. On the good days, he’s ebullient and entertains royally his nearest and dearest and the steady stream of visitors who come to see him from all corners of the country and beyond. “Johnny B” as so many of his friends love to call him, is a great raconteur and bon viveur. He has never lost that talent. There are lots of wonderful stories during these first few weeks. He imparts an unforgettable anecdote about pursuing Joan Collins at a party, when they were at RADA together. Apparently, he kept on brazenly asking her for a French kiss and she finally relented. But that was as far as he got. And then there is the incident which happened during his time in the Channel 4 soap opera, Brookside – set on a Liverpool housing estate – in the 90’s, when he became quite high-profile with the British public. He was on his motorbike and wearing his crash helmet when a huge articulated lorry that was passing by screeched to a halt. The passenger door opened and a guy leaned out and said “Alright Bing.” (Bing was the nickname of the character John played in Brookside, David Crosbie). “Scared the living daylights out of me. How the hell could he have known it was me?” says John, shaking his head with incredulity.
John’s diagnosis meant that he had to withdraw from the National Theatre, where he had been directed by both Nick Hytner and Trevor Nunn (who he also worked with at the Royal Shakespeare Company in the 1970’s and 1980’s). His journey to the heart of the English Theatre establishment was an unorthodox and circuitous one. After graduating from RADA – John was awarded a scholarship and coached by the well-known actor, Brewster Mason – and doing a four- year initiation in repertory theatre, he became disillusioned and opted for a more conventional path.
John married my mother, Lana, who belonged to an affluent, traditional north-west London, Jewish family. By the time of the marriage, John had already changed his name from Bogush to Burgess. He explains why: “The principal of RADA tactfully suggested that a rather more English sounding name might be more suitable for the `anyone for tennis` brand of plays then popular on the British repertory circuit.”
During the 1960’s, in which myself and my two brothers, Paul and Andrew, arrived, he ran a successful menswear business. My earliest memory is of my dad telling me bed time stories he had made up about two American cowboys called Hank and Bill. He had nicknames for his kids; mine, as wacky as they come, was Schkobshkin or Schkobby B. Always urbane and adaptable, John appeared to be a contented family man. But, deep down, an intellectual and a deep thinker, he knew he was cut from a very different cloth to mum and her clan.
One particular story he has always enjoyed telling, is insightful. The family were sitting around after the Shabbat dinner one Friday night when the topic of Israel came up. Dave Clore, the family patriarch, a short, stocky and truly fearsome egomaniac, had made a disparaging remark about Arabs and Palestinians. All of a sudden, John interjected, saying, calmly, something like “Er, what about the Palestinians? Don’t they have any rights?” After a pregnant pause, all hell let loose. An incandescent Clore, in the midst of employing more colorful language, addressed my grandmother: “Queenie, what is this? Who is this, this shnip?” (a Yiddish word meaning insignificant person or non-entity)
By 1969, John had become hugely dissatisfied with his life and departed London for Canada, leaving a wife and three kids, the youngest less than a year old, in his wake. Right or wrong, he was a man who had the courage of his convictions. Being true to himself was not up for negotiation. John travelled to Canada with his beautiful second wife, Sylvia. At Queens University in Ontario, John took a Drama degree. He thrived in an academic environment and immersed himself in both theatre and radio. He hosted programs on the University radio station as well as acting and directing plays. He received plaudits for his direction of Brecht’s “The Caucasian Chalk Circle,” as well as for his performances in Orton’s “What The Butler Saw,” John Mortimer’s “What Shall We Tell Caroline?” and Frederick Knott’s “Dial M For Murder.” After graduating, he returned to his roots and began treading the boards in English repertory theatre once again. Although John and Sylvia separated, they remained close friends until her tragic early death.
John had to start from scratch and life was hard. Initially, he lived with Michael and his wife in Watford, a satellite town to the north of London , where he did a stint in a meat factory. Back in the city, I recall him living in a bedsit in Belsize Park and working as a uniformed chauffer. He used his charm and networking ability to try and get a foothold back in the business. There was one particular casting agent who was besotted with him and was always promising him the world. He preferred to maintain a purely platonic relationship with her, the result being that she only ever offered him scraps. John got to know a high-profile director, producer and actor called Lionel Harris but what might have proved to be a productive relationship for him ended abruptly. Harris had offered him the small part of a butler in a period piece which was to be taken on tour for twelve weeks. During rehearsals in Birmingham, Harris decided to cut two of John’s lines. He was incensed, stormed out and returned to London. And that was the end of it.
John soldiered on. I went to see him in weekly rep at places like Folkestone and Canterbury, on the Kent coast, and Oxford. He played leading roles in a whole series of plays and also directed another play, “Love In A Mist,” at Folkestone. At the Marlowe Theatre in Canterbury, John played Graham in Alan Ayckbourn’s “Time and Time Again.” The Kentish Gazette gave him a glowing review: “We see a beautifully timed performance by John Burgess as Graham, the caricature of middle-aged randiness who comes too close to life for comfort.” Eventually, his endeavor and sheer talent brought him the breakthrough he craved so much. In 1977, the Royal Shakespeare Company (RSC) came calling.
One thing that has never been an issue is John having access to his three sons. Mum is a rarity in this world; a person who never bears a grudge. Mum and dad have known each other for fifty-two years and she has been his friend and confidant. Having her close at hand during his illness has been vitally important for him. John’s fourth and last wife, Dorothy, has appeared sporadically during the period of his illness. Her presence has provided succor and her absence inflicted anguish – the highs and lows of tempestuous relationships were ever thus. They met in the early 1990’s in Liverpool, when John was in Brookside and their wedding was featured in Hello Magazine.
We are sitting outside in the lush, Heathgrove Lodge garden, John in his wheelchair. There is a nip in the air but the blue sky, permeated by wispy cloud, hosts a warm, milky sun. For a few minutes, John takes his shirt off, exposing his fair, freckle-covered body, and puffs away on one of his favorite cigarillos. Him sitting outside on the decking at Paul and Iane’s (Paul’s effervescent Brazilian partner, of whom John is very fond) beautiful house in Golders Green, more often than not in his dressing gown, enjoying a cigarillo and a cup of tea, or something stronger, has been a regular occurrence over the last two years. No illness was ever going to turn this man into a monk. After John’s diagnosis, he moved out of his own flat and in with Paul, Iane and their two children, Maya and Luca. He has loved being part of their family unit and spending time with his beloved grandchildren – twins, who will shortly turn eight. John acknowledges that he could not have coped on his own as he faced the ordeal of extended chemotherapy and radiotherapy treatment and he is eternally grateful to Paul and Iane for their generosity. His good days become more and more infrequent and this turns out to be his last exposure to the elements. How John has loved the great outdoors, the most prodigious walker I know, equally happy strolling through parks and fields or traversing a city’s streets for hours on end. Despite the fact that he has long been popping a cocktail of daily pills for ailments including insomnia and high blood pressure, he was a fit man before his diagnosis. He loved swimming as well as walking, his heart was strong, and we had fully expected him to live until well into his eighties.
The minute we leave the autumnal chill behind and enter Heathgrove Lodge we are hit by a wall of heat. The atmosphere is stifling and the building’s long, rectangular corridors and small elevator add to the general feeling of claustrophobia. As soon as we arrive at John’s room, we peel off our coats, scarves and sweaters and pile them up on a chair. The room is small and we are forever tripping over each other’s bags. There is an en suite bathroom but it is tiny. The paint on the walls is peeling and the toilet seat is broken. We put John’s pictures on the walls, buy him a mini-fridge and get his bed upgraded (the old one is dismantled and left in the corridor and it is hours before the new one arrives). In fact, we all seem to spend an inordinate amount of time in the corridor, on our mobile phones, searching for a spot where the reception is decent.
In this place, our senses are constantly assaulted. Through John’s open window we can hear the sound of children playing and yelling at each other in the orthodox Jewish school next door. Above the general hubbub, itself quite loud, we hear a good deal of shouting, crying and wailing. An emaciated woman in the corridor, who remains slumped in a chair all day, howls throughout the night. We consider having John moved to a different floor. The lounge leading to the garden is invariably full of decrepit, largely comatose, patients watching TV on a tiny screen. It reminds me of a scene from the film “One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest.” More overwhelming than anything is the smell of excrement. On more than one occasion I am overpowered by it and find myself leaning against a wall, retching.
The atmosphere at the nursing home is convivial and most of the staff are friendly. It always makes me laugh when one of the nurses breezes in and says “Morning John. I’ve got your meds and a breakthrough.” The latter is a morphine top-up injection rather than a chocolate biscuit. But it all feels more than a little haphazard. The staff, often thin on the ground, keep bursting into the room with a formal menu and an entertainment schedule when John is sleeping and despite the fact that we tell them over and over again that he eats irregularly, doesn’t want to choose from the menu and has no interest in bingo. At one point he is left in the toilet and told to knock on the wall when he is finished.
Three or four weeks after John’s arrival at Heathgrove Lodge, he is no longer feeling well enough to receive visitors. The twin evils of pain and nausea have taken hold with a vengeance. Try as they might, the medical team just cannot find the right pain management strategy. Every time they increase the dosage of Oxycodone and the other pain meds, he is knocked out for the best part of twenty-four hours. He then comes round and feels reasonably comfortable. But before long, he is in pain again and becoming increasingly unhappy.
The nausea refuses to abate. John has next to no appetite and finding anything that he feels he can eat and then keep down is a constant battle. All he seems to imbibe is soup, tinned fruit and nutritional drinks. One day, he tries to eat something and immediately vomits it up. He then breaks down and cries. We cry inside as we try to comfort him. It is the first time in my forty-nine year life that I have ever seen my father cry.
John says he cannot bear it anymore and asks us to take him to Switzerland, where euthanasia is legal. We tell him it is too late for that and nothing more is said. We know that is not what he really wants anyway. The truth is that, even though we all know he is moving inexorably towards the end of his life, he still never really gives up. John never willfully allows the life force to drain out of him. It is being sucked out, he is starving to death, but he never gives it a free passage.
John’s half-hearted request gets me thinking about the remarkable Murad ‘Jack’ Kevorkian, the infamous Armenian-American right-to-die activist. He is as unwaveringly single-minded as John is. Kevorkian, five years John’s senior, is commonly referred to in the States by the sobriquet, “Doctor Death”. He made it on to the cover of Time magazine and served eight years behind bars for second-degree murder. I reckon he and dad would get on famously. Kevorkian, in addition to being a pathologist, is a painter, composer and jazz musician, all areas of culture John is passionate about. If John hired Jack, I think they would spend about fifteen minutes discussing business and several hours covering the theatre, art, jazz, classical music, literature and cricket. Oh yes, John would surely have enquired as to whether Jack had ever watched cricket and would have loved nothing more than to share with him some insights into the game he loves with a passion.
Throughout the final part of John’s life, he talks about how he is hoping to watch the upcoming installment of “The Ashes,” the biannual cricket contest, between England and Australia. Both John and Michael are fanatic Essex supporters and John has travelled abroad on several occasions to watch the England team play, including to Australia. Over the years, John, myself and my cousin, Jerry, to whom we are all very close, have spent many hours watching and discussing cricket. John has a deep knowledge of the game and his bookshelf has never been without the Wisden cricket annual. Likes facts and statistics, does John. Lords Cricket Ground, the home of cricket, just up the road from the nursing home, is a sanctuary for cricket lovers. His illness has not stopped him from going to a place where the unmistakable sounds of red leather ball on smooth, oiled willow and polite ripples of applause can always be heard.
The minute I think of cricket I think of John. One of my earliest memories is of being on the cricket field at boarding school when I was about eleven years old. He had been in Canada for at least two years. I just remember seeing the silhouette of a man in the distance and following his movements as he walked towards us. And then I saw him clearly. It was my dad.
At the end of each day, either myself, Paul or Andrew, sit with John for an hour or two, even if he is sleeping. He does not move much and his breathing is barely discernible. In the darkened room, I try to read the paper, usually the Evening Standard. As night closes in, the inescapable feeling is that there is not long to go. I feel sad, very sad. My heart is heavy. But, for some reason, I keep my emotions in check.
“We think, umm, perhaps you might want to say your goodbyes”, one of the nurses says to us softly. “We’re going to up the dosage significantly this time and he may not come round again. Very few patients do at this level.” This time it does seem different. John has been sleeping for quite a bit longer than usual. Is this it then? Is he sliding away? Fading into oblivion. A life lived to the full, always defiant, refusing to be confined by stultifying convention. “Who so would be a man, must be a non-conformist,” said Emerson, and that is John to a tee. He can be impetuous and hot-tempered but is also gentle and the clearest of thinkers when advising others (ironically, not always so much when it comes to his own life). He may be physically small but his stature is immense; charismatic and irreverent. Equally comfortable in the company of the likes of Harold Pinter as he is with supermarket checkout girls. He has always had time for people and made a lasting impression on them.
We leave him for the night, downcast that the dad we know and love may be gone for good but reflecting that, maybe, it is for the best. What is certain is that all of his sons will feel his absence acutely. Father and friend, we love his unorthodox ways and his camaraderie. He has always had time for us and, more often than not, has been at the heart of the major decisions we have taken in our lives. In my and Andrew’s cases, his love affair with Tucson, Arizona, where he toured with the RSC in the 80’s, has resulted in both of us living there. Last year, against all the odds, John was well enough to make it out to Tucson for Andrew’s wedding.
Needless to say, John wakes up again and is fully compos mentis. It is at this point that the pain management team decide to replace the top-up injection with orally administered morphine. It proves to be a good move as it gives him some temporary relief from the pain and nausea. The following day, at lunchtime, Johnny B is devouring lentil soup and ice-cream and chatting away with his fellow actor and close friend, Alan David. John and Alan have been friends since 1977, when they worked together at the RSC. They hit it off immediately and were holidaying together in Corfu by the following summer. Although they were only staying in a modest hotel, John charmed the chef to such a degree that he cooked them cordon bleu vegetarian food every day. They are discussing Ophelia’s role in Hamlet. John is as articulate as ever. Shame on us for doubting him. No more writing him off.
Another of the RSC class of ’77, Anthony Naylor, is around. Anthony and John have a special relationship in which they share confidences and laugh a lot – “with and at each other; teasing, poker-face send-ups and story-telling are central to the love and respect that characterizes our friendship,” is how Anthony puts it. Anthony is very moved by the “wholly admirable” way John has encountered his illness. John is the most courageous man Anthony has known.
I am sitting next to John’s bed taking dictation. He has been writing a piece on the Israeli – Palestinian conundrum and will not rest easy until it is completed. It is a slow process in which sentences can be changed multiple times. Par for the course for perfectionists like him. In the 1950’s, after John had completed his national service (he was appointed to the rank of officer and they were very keen for him to stay but he declined) he offered his services to the Israeli army. They thanked him politely but did not need him. Now, half a century later, John is composing an anti-Zionist polemic on his deathbed. Five years ago, at the National Theatre, he played the role of a cantankerous, ex-kibbutznik, Jewish socialist, disillusioned with Zionism, in Mike Leigh’s play “Two Thousand Years.”
“Son, did you take suicide bombs?” “Dad?” “Did you take suicide bombs?” “No dad, I didn’t.” “Did I?” “No dad, you didn’t?” “Oh, did I dream it then?” “You must have done dad.” John is wide awake when we have this surreal exchange but it is as though it is not him who is talking to me. It is disconcerting to say the least. The drugs slow and numb and blur but they cannot arrest terminal illness. The reprieve at the time of Alan David’s visit is short-lived. John has not eaten for quite a few days now and he has not even got out of bed to sit in his chair. He sleeps most of the time.
As the weeks have gone by, it has become evident that Heathgrove Lodge is essentially an old people’s home. It is not set up to provide round-the-clock care to terminally ill patients and quite a few of its staff are not up to that task. Moreover, the facilities and general level of cleanliness leave a lot to be desired.
We decide to move John to his final port of call, the North London Hospice in Finchley, a few miles north of Heathgrove and far superior to it, in terms of both accommodation and quality of care. It is a charitable institution and free of charge to patients. The building is as airy and spacious as Heathgrove was cramped and labyrinthine. John’s room is a lot better; larger, a decent en suite bathroom, and a lovely view of the garden through a huge bay window. The hospice provides physical, emotional and spiritual care to those who, in all likelihood, do not have long to live. Even at this stage, they talk about enabling those in their care to “live life to the full despite their illness.” There are doctors, nurses, physiotherapists, counsellors and social workers on site. Whereas Heathgrove always felt like organized chaos, the Hospice feels like a very well-run establishment.
I enter John’s room on the day after he is admitted to the hospice and he is sitting up in a chair, having a bowl of soup. Lazarus has done it again. He has got the bit between the teeth now and a period of belligerence and defiance ensues. He hates the bed bars and makes me lower them on one side so he can sit on the side of the bed. He insists that the nurses have cut his stomach. He wants thinner water. He wants the bed lowered and raised. He will not be subdued without one hell of a fight.
Another time, John suddenly swivels around and tries to put the bed bar down. He wants to get out of bed. I call a nurse. She and a colleague help him out of bed and into the chair. Half an hour later, he decides he wants to get back into bed. I ask him to wait while I bring the nurses. He refuses and recklessly tries to get out of the chair on his own. He doubles over and slides onto the floor. It takes three of them to get him back into bed. He resists, insisting that he will only comply if one side of the bed is left open. If the bars on both sides are left up he will attempt to leave the bed again. He gets his way.
The autumn light is fading. I watch the oak tree in the hospice grounds swaying slowly in the wind. Its presence is somehow reassuring, a solid constant amidst so much human fragility. Background music, mostly classical and jazz, plays softy on John’s i-pod. Also audible, intermittently, is the motorized whirr of the Graseby MS16A syringe driver which is attached to John, under his skin, and pumps a total of 60 millilitres of Oxycodone, 30ml of Midazolam and 5ml of Halaperidol into him at timed intervals. He is also given regular doses of 5ml of Morphine, orally, and this degree and combination of pain relief is proving effective. The consequence, however, of pain avoidance is that John is pretty much knocked out most of the time. He has moments of alertness and cogency but these are rapidly diminishing.
Arriving at the right level and method of pain medication is an extremely fraught process. From the Professionals’ point of view, they have to balance the needs of the patient with their legal duty, which is not specifically to prolong life, but rather not to over-prescribe so that the patient dies. During the last few weeks, at Heathgrove and now at the hospice, the doctors and nurses have had to continually ratchet up the dosages of the analgesics they administer to him. They have, arguably, been over–cautious and this has resulted in a considerable amount of suffering on John’s part. One thing is for sure, us boys continue to marvel at his high level of resistance to the pain medication.
John’s condition is visibly worsening. I am next to him as he is propped upright in his bed. His conjunctivitis riddled eyes are three quarters closed, eyelids heavy. He strokes his chin with his left hand and extends his right arm horizontally, the hand curved in a half-moon shape and the forefinger pointing skyward. Now and again, he raises his eyebrows. He then leans slowly to the left and grabs at thin air, looking for the bed bars. Even now, he cannot let it go. But why should he? John is just being John, one of those strong, forceful men, who leave their imprint on the world. He has always identified with other strong characters, even if they are not obvious bedfellows. John, a man of the left, idolizes Winston Churchill and has a soft spot for the outspoken, acerbic, art critic, Brian Sewell. Indeed, over the last two years, he has spent a lot of time reading Churchill’s memoirs.
John has stopped eating altogether. He can no longer speak. Hard for an actor to deal with. “Knock me out once and for all. The pain is unbearable,” he writes on a piece of paper. The following day, he is desperately trying to say something to me and I put my ear to his mouth. “Watch cricket,” he whispers. “Ok dad, we’ll look into it and see if we can arrange satellite TV. He nods in approval. He is holding a glass of water. He refuses to use a straw. He runs his finger slowly and methodically around the rim of the glass for a minute or two, before manoeuvring it into position and taking a few sips. I moisturize his chapped lips with a wet cotton bud.
John’s last smile, indeed chuckle, summoned up from God knows where. His friend and fellow National Theatre actor, Tris, is recounting humorous tales of his short-lived dalliance with a very large Zimbabwean nurse. John forces himself to laugh even though it is painful. Tris is one of those larger-than-life people who you feel you have known all your life, even if it is only a single day. He came into John’s life late but they have done an awful lot of laughing together. “I want more Johnny”, is what Tris always says. John’s nickname for Tris is “Big Bear,” entirely appropriate after Tris once hugged John and cracked two of his ribs in the process.
On 15th November 2010, John leaves us. A bright light is finally extinguished. Not nearly long enough but it was a life packed with incident and color and sound. John fought a disease which normally does for its victims within six months, for two and a half years. No one who knew him would have expected anything else.
John instructed us that he wished to be cremated, after a secular funeral service. The ceremony is held at Golders Green Crematorium and the turnout is substantial. Anthony Naylor is the master of ceremonies. It is a perfect celebration of a life. John’s nearest and dearest pay tribute and his favorite pieces of music are played. The lightness and humor is exactly what he would have wanted. Anthony speaks of Johnny B’s style, a style that had a subtle seam of humour running through it. It was manifest in the clothes he wore and the way he wore them. Anthony recalls an example of his friend’s idiosyncratic style: “Johnny B prided himself on his entrances – understated, witty and stylish. I remember his arrival in the kitchen of my new house in the Warwickshire countryside. He was on tour with a Mike Leigh play and was visiting us. At breakfast he glided, as only JB could, through the kitchen door, in a fluffy white toweling dressing gown that hid (mostly) his eye-catching, barely wrinkled pyjamas. On his feet were a generous pair of slip-on fluffy slippers. With his right hand – Noel Coward like – located in his
dressing gown pocket, he paused and smiled and said, “Good Morning, dear boy…”
John and Anthony co-wrote some short stories during the period of the illness. Anthony brings proceedings to a close by reading a small segment written by John. The character is performing a piece for a panel at his RADA interview. Anthony believes it is autobiographical:
“Miraculously, half way through his first piece – Marchbanks’ declaration of love from Shaw’s Candida – he began to experience a surge of confidence, and a feeling, which had never subsequently deserted him, that what he was doing was absolutely right for him.”