Random reflections on 40 years
of theatrical production inWest London
and my own lifelong starring role
I have not led a blameless life.
I want to make that clear.
But I have been privileged to
have spent most of it surrounded
by some very forgiving people.
Through them I have learned
to forgive myself - for favouring observation over participation,
not just in the theatre but in
the drama that is my life. So, now
we've got that out of the way...
,,,
I was born in Bournemouth
in 1943 , the second son of James Loftus and Winifred Rideout. That's Mum on the beach with my elder brother Bob, circa 1935.
Jim was a Geordie from Gateshead, County Durham. Win was a local girl, slim and pretty, sharp and bright.
They had married on Christmas Day 1932 after Winnie had given birth to my older brother Bob.
The real father having disowned Winnie and Bob, my dad stepped in and sealed our fate.
I heard all this from Dad on the eve of my departure for London in 1961.
By then, I had another brother, Geoff, who was 11 years younger than me. So I was the middle child in a span of 22 years, and Bob was old enough to have been Geoff's father.
The war ended just before my second birthday. So I grew up in post-war austerity. Most foods and all sweets were rationed. And rationing
remained a fact of life till I was ten.
Dad worked on the railway, Mum in
a laundry. I started primary school
in 1946 aged three. My brother Bob went off to naval school in Gosport
in 1948, so I was an only child from
then until Geoff arrived in 1954.
That same year, my only surviving grandparent Alice Rideout died. She lived two blocks away from us, just
100 yards from my junior school,
St Andrew's Primary. Till age 11 I spent many hours at her house, waiting for Mum to pick me up. We listened to the radio together, played cards, and chatted endlessly, sitting either side of the large black-leaded range that bathed the little kitchen living room in constant warmth. There was always a black kettle simmering away, and we drank gallons of tea, give or take the odd cup of bitter-sweet Camp coffee.
TIME
Borrowed
I don't think Bournemouth was ever a target, but the Luftwaffe had a habit of getting rid of unused bombs along the south coast when
returning in a hurry from raids on London, Southampton, Bristol, Portsmouth and others.
A landmine dropped on the corner of my street and I spent much of my pre-school childhood playing in bombed buildings
and the building sites that took their place.
When not doing that, I spent my time in the engine sheds at Bournmouth Central, where Dad worked as a plate layer and cousin Ron as a fireman on the mammoth steam engines whose wheels alone were taller than me.
I don't have many photos of Dad,
or Mum come to that. But of course they were hugely influential in my life right up until I left home for London in the bitter winter of 1961.
