Maureen Lipman

 

 

Through much of the 1990s I was working and living in the bleak north-east of England.  Well, where  I was living was not particularly bleak.  It was in Guisborough, on the edge of the north Yorkshire moors.  But where I worked, although only a half-hour drive from Guisborough, was more than merely bleak, it was dire!   Teesport, adjacent to Grangetown which must have had one of the highest crime records in the country, was a place to get away from as often as possible.

I joined the local Ramblers association and "got away" whenever walks were available.  I met many wonderful people and made lots of long-lasting friendships.  I also engaged in two other activities that actually embraced many of the same people.  One was a membership of a social circle called Nexus and the other was devoted to one of my hobbies, that of cooking.  I formed a gastronomic group; we called ourselves the Cleveland Epicureans. 

A charming young teacher named Arline was a member of every one of these groups.  I no longer recall her surname.  She subsequently married David, a member of the Epicureans, and became Arline Oakley.  I went to their wedding and later visited them when they had moved to Olney in Buckinghamshire.  But I seem to have drifted away from the point of this recitation.

 

Arline had wanted to visit London.  Although I had relocated to Cleveland, I had retained my home in the Queens Park area of north-west London and it was being looked after by my daughter Emily.  I frequently returned to it for weekends.  So I suggested that, if Arline wished, she might accompany me on my next journey home and was welcome to stay in the guest bedroom built in a loft conversion.  She was delighted to accept.  It worked out very well.  Arline and Emily got on famously and formed a united front against Dad in the case of any disputes - not that there were any of real gravity.

Some time later, after our return to Cleveland, Arline said she would like to repay my hospitality by treating me to a theatre visit in Newcastle.  She showed me the programme for the coming month at the Theatre Royal and I noticed that Maureen Lipman was performing in her solo Re-Joyce.  As I was a fan both of the late Joyce Grenfell and the very much alive and lively Maureen Lipman, I said that that show would suit me admirably.  So Arline duly booked two tickets for us.

Poor Arline.  And I mean that in both senses, but particularly in the sense of penurious.  Despite her penury, she was spending her hard-earned cash to repay me with a treat.  Unhappily it didn't stretch to front stall, dress circle, or even balcony, and my defective hearing was unable to cope with our position in the "gods".  I still felt that - as they say - it's the thought that counts and I was really grateful to Arline.  After all the visual treat was pretty good, and there was nothing wrong with my sight, even if I couldn't hear the words.  And I was determined to give Arline an unexpected treat herself.

I composed a short note to Ms Lipman.  As far as I can recall it said something like: "Dear Miss Lipman, I know you do not remember me, but I shall never forget you, and I would be grateful if you could spare a few minutes to meet with me and my lady friend during the interval or at the end of the show.  I will return during the interval to find out."   I went backstage before the show and arranged for the note to be given to Ms Lipman's assistant.  When the interval arrived, I asked Arlene to excuse me for a few minutes, and dashed backstage.  The attendant called Maureen's assistant who told me that "Miss Lipman doesn't know you."  I said that I realised that, but that I knew her, and was it possible to meet for just a few minutes?  She disappeared;  came back very shortly and said: "She will see you after the show, but can't spare more than two minutes."  I went back to the upper gallery, almost not needing the stairs.

After the show I chivvied Arline into hurrying up as I had somewhere urgent to take her.  She begged me to tell her where we were going, but I adamantly insisted she be patient.  We went to the stage door.  Maureen Lipman's assistant was waiting.  She led us into the dressing room with the admonition: "Remember.  Just a few minutes."  Arline's face was a picture!

Maureen Lipman rose from her seat before her dressing table mirror and turned to face us.  She was much taller than I had expected.  Before I could say a word, she said: "My god!   It's . . . it's . . .  No, don't tell me.  I'll get it in a minute.  It's Vivien . . . No.  Dammit, who do you remind me of?"  "Margaret Lockwood?" suggested Arline softly.

"Yes!  Yes!" shouted Maureen.  "Maggie!  Maggie Lockwood!  Of course!  My god!"

A Maggie Lockwood look-alike

For at least the next ten minutes Maureen Lipman was speaking almost non-stop.  Every now and then she would put a question to Arline, then almost without waiting for the reply, would dash on to the next topic  As far as I could gather it involved Maureen's adolescent idolizing of  Margaret Lockwood and Arline's having been told most of her life how much she resembled the veteran actress.  I was less than the paper on the wall.  Finally the assistant approached and said: "Maureen . . . "  "Yes, of course," said Maureen Lipman.  "You must excuse me."  And we moved to the door.

As I held out my hand to shake Maureen's, I said "Please excuse my chutzpah . . ."   She cut me off.  Gave me a cold stare, and yelled: "YOU NEVER APOLOGISE FOR CHUTZPAH!"  And then a broad grin, which was tremendously reassuring.

When we got back to the street, I said to Arline, "I just wanted to explain that, when I said I remembered her, I just meant I remembered reading her books."  Arline looked at me, sorrowfully.  "You don't have to explain your chutzpah".  And we both laughed.