Read Online Year of the King: An Actor's Diary and Sketchbook - Twentieth Anniversary Edition by Antony Sher - Free Book Online

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    `Oh God. Another Arab.'
    `No, no. British Intelligence, Second World War. An officer with a
Napoleonic complex ...'
    The play sounds very exciting. It's now scheduled for Slot Four. The
Peter Barnes play is in Slot Five, with Adrian directing, and apparently it
also contains a terrific part for me. `Adrian's been itching to talk to you
all week,' Howard says.
    I tell him that Ron had advised me to have a play out after Richard.
    `Yes I know. He relayed that conversation to us and I got rather angry.
I said to them, if we want Tony in the season, and we do, what's the point
in having him do as little as possible','
    `Well actually Ron made some rather good points about osteopaths'
couches ...'
    But this news is too good to start worrying about minor details like
health. Two new plays are a decent compromise. I ring Bill to tell him,
`It all sounds very promising.' He says that he's definitely going to offer
Buckingham to Malcolm Storrv. It will be a powerful image: the small
deformed Richard with this giant as right hand man. And our rapport as
actors and friends will be a corner-stone for the whole production.
    Last minute packing, feeling very excited about everything, not least
that now is the winter and on Monday the summer ...
    The thing I keep remembering is Monty seeing me to the door after
our session on Tuesday. He suddenly said, `I envy you. I'd love to see
South Africa again. Christ, I can't watch a programme on 'I'V about that
bloody country without crying.'

     

2. South Africa 1983
Sunday r i December
    Sitting next to me on the plane is a ten-year-old boy. He looks up and
says with great excitement, `We're going to live in South Africa!' He's
called Leon and is from Manchester. Points across the aisle to where his
parents sit, restraining lap-fulls of his little brothers and sisters. As the
eldest he has volunteered to sit on his own.
    As we are about to take off, I offer him the window seat. He says, `Ooo,
could I?' He has never flown before and the take off is intolerably exciting.
In fact he can hardly bear to watch this miracle and keeps turning back
to me blushing and grinning.
Monday 12 December
    Dawn. The round window is a milky blur of pink, orange, blue. Gradually
it focuses into one of these endless fields of clouds.
    `Is it ice on the sea?' asks Leon as he wakes and clambers over for a
good peer. He stares in wonderment. `The air must be thin up here, so
close to outer space.'
    An hour later the clouds are more mountainous, erupting. They break
dramatically, disappear, and there below is a red land with soft black hills
that look as if they're melting in extreme heat, and one long, white,
perfectly straight road. Africa.
    I point it out to Leon who shouts, `It's Africa, it's Africa! Look Dad,
it's Africa!'
    The father looks at me wetly and shrugs, apologising for his son. I've
taken a dislike to this man, primarily because he's emigrating to South
Africa.
    As we are coming in to land at Jo'burg I say to Leon, `Come on you'd
better move over to the window seat.' He's looking glum and says, `My Dad has said not to bother you anymore.'

    `Oh don't be silly.' I turn to the father. `He must see the landing in his
new country. Something for him to remember in years to come,' wondering
if the man perceives any double meaning at all.
    Leon presses his face to the window again and remains glued there as
we descend and South Africa turns into reality with a gentle bump from
below.
    During the connecting flight to Cape Town I become very emotional.
Different feelings and memories welling up, settling, welling up again. As
the plane begins its descent they start playing schmaltzy music which
makes it all much worse. Bits of me, dormant for years, coming to the
surface. Excitement and fear.
    Stepping off the plane, the blast of dry heat, the baking afternoon with
its brilliant blue sky, is all familiar and calming.
    Monty and I were both right about the photographers: