LITMIR.BIZ

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years. I soon found out that he could spend days, sometimes weeks, mulling over an idea, and then when it was clear in his mind write it up at great speed. He was terribly busy writing and performing in Sykes and A …, but liked a round of golf whenever he had the chance. He dressed the most conservatively, generally coming to work in an immaculately tailored suit or blazer. Eric has survived them all and now, clinically blind and deaf, he is still writing and busy as an actor on stage, television and film, always giving the same thought and preparation to his performances as he does to his writing. Having known Spike longer than anyone, Eric and he had a remarkable bond.

      By the time I arrived at Number Nine Terry Nation had already left. Johnny Speight still arrived there most days. The first series of Till Death Us Do Part had been broadcast earlier that year, and he was basking in the success. He was very busy, a stewpot of ideas, writing Till Death and mulling over plots for plays, but also happy to indulge his taste for the finer things in life. Dressed casually in the latest fashion by Blades or Mr Fish, he would appear in the late morning, chat to Eric and then pop in to see Spike. This amazing self-educated East Ender was a truly original thinker, unfettered by received opinions on any subject, and so wise. And a great observational writer. He thought Spike was at his best when his humour was at its blackest and, no matter what trouble he was in, Johnny always excused him. ‘What do you expect?’ he would ask. ‘He’s not like the rest of us. He’s a true genius.’

      The co-operative lived up to its ideal, and everybody was on first-name terms, always popping out together for lunch or supper at the end of the day. Johnny in particular was generous to a fault. Very early on he took me to lunch at a famous restaurant, the White Elephant at 28 Curzon Street. I’ve forgotten what my first course was but he was drinking whisky with his.

      ‘You need a white wine with yours,’ he said, and ordered it, the most expensive half-bottle on the menu. Johnny then explained to the waiter what he wanted for his main course. A baked potato filled with caviar.

      ‘Go on,’ he told me. ‘Try one.’

      ‘Not caviar on a baked potato! It’s outrageous.’

      ‘Don’t be silly,’ said Johnny. ‘It’s a Soviet peasant’s lunch.’

      Just as Pam had promised, I was soon brushing shoulders with many household names, who always had a joke for the girl from Thornaby. Tommy Cooper, a naturally funny man who was unsure of his talent and could never understand why people laughed at him, often called to see Eric and they would have a whisky or three while they discussed ‘the business’.

      The Goon Show was no longer running but the Goons were still friendly. Peter Sellers often called from Hollywood to chat things over with Spike. Pete and Spike had an extraordinary and lasting relationship, even though Pete was often disloyal. Over the years similar acts of treachery – and with Pete, it really was treachery – from others meant they were damned to oblivion but Spike always forgave Pete with a shrug, saying ‘That’s how he is.’ Anyone else would have ‘died yesterday’, as Spike put it.

      The most cheerful and refreshingly normal of the three was Harry Secombe, who popped in now and again. Fame had not gone to his head and his diminutive Welsh wife Myra made sure it never did. He once told me that after a rapturous reception at a Royal Command Variety Show at the London Palladium he returned to his wife on a high. Then he described in great detail, several times in fact, his performance as the star of the show and the applause he won, reinforcing the tale with a bit of business. ‘Right, Harry,’ said Myra drily, ‘now you’re finished go and bring the coal in.’ He loved her for bringing him back to earth.

      Harry was a caring man and always placatory when there was trouble between Spike and Pete. While the other two were not made of the stuff of faithful husbands, Harry always went home to Myra as quickly as possible after a performance. In his day he could drink whisky with the best of them, Eric, Tommy and the incorrigible toper Jimmy Edwards, but later swore off it for the sake of his health and Myra. As a result he was blessed with the sort of happy family life denied to Spike and Pete; on the other hand, without being unkind, he did not carry the burden of their unique gifts.

      Frankie Howerd often dropped in to see Eric. I can still see his hunched figure, in suits that never seemed to fit. He was a man in doubt of his talent, insecure and lonely, always wondering how long it would be before the phone stopped ringing once more. It had happened before in the early Sixties when comics like him were thought to be as outdated as the old eight-reel films, but he was born again when he appeared with Peter Cook at The Establishment Club and demonstrated that, as an old trouper, he was a master of satire; next to Frankie the Footlights crowd could look like amateurs.

      Sometimes Frankie seemed desperate to be reassured of his popularity. One evening, long after we first met, I was dining with a friend at Spike’s favourite restaurant, the Trattoo, off High Street Kensington, and noticed Frankie shuffle in. He looked around to see if he could recognize anyone, then spotted me and, with that wonderful wide-mouthed smile, sidled over. Leaning forwards so nobody else could hear, he whispered, ‘Can I join you?’

      If Spike had been with me Frank would have darted out of sight as quickly as possible because he was always on tenterhooks about what Spike might say and in awe of his inspirational wit. Frankie’s humour was crafted, rehearsed, and his apparent spontaneity honed to perfection. That evening – and there was nothing unusual about this – he thought he was once again washed-up. In that hoarse whisper of his, with genuine bafflement, he said, ‘The worrying thing is, you see, I don’t know why people find me funny. I have nightmares about it.’

      My companion, a fan, was quite astonished and his enthusiasm reassured Frank, who became expansive and happy. By the time we were about to part he was a different man. ‘Do you know,’ he said quietly, looking over his shoulder like the music-hall comic he was, ‘you’ve made me feel so much better.’ He felt in his inside pocket. For a moment I thought he was going to offer to settle the bill but I did not hold my breath. I knew his reputation. ‘Next time,’ he beamed, ‘you must let me pay.’

      This was, of course, years later, but quite early on I would find myself leaving the office only to rejoin the gang at the Trattoo of an evening, chatting and listening to Spike’s friend Alan Clare, the talented jazz player, on the piano. Though I did not know it at the time, these days marked the beginning of some of the most important friendships of my life. After Jack Clarke I had sworn never to get romantically involved with anyone I worked with and perhaps this is what made things last.

      Meanwhile, Diana and I had become close friends and carried on living together while other girls came and went. One of them was New Yorker Camille Marchetta, who was a lot of laughs, tough and hugely ambitious. She worked for an agent whose clients included film stars and famous writers. She also had an idea she could write, ‘Better than some of the clients.’ We all have our dreams, I thought. Well, she was brave enough to pack in a good job and return to New York to do it. And write she did. Her television series ran and ran and made her famous. Dallas was its name.

      As the months passed the Number Nine blend of business and play came to seem more and more natural to me. Spike had recently been a sensation on the stage in his improvised play, Son of Oblomov, and was now being courted by impresarios to take it to Broadway; Barbra Streisand was just one of the people who pleaded with him. I believe he would have been a huge success and become a worldwide star if he had agreed, but he did not like Americans so that was the end of that.

      In the autumn he presented me with a list of five hundred names for his Christmas cards. ‘I’m going to draw my own for about two hundred of them,’ he said. Ridiculous, I thought. He cannot possibly mean it.

      ‘Get on to the Times Drawing Office in Maddox Street and tell them to put two hundred sheets of their best quality white cardboard paper in a taxi. I need it in the next hour. Then ring Sandfords and tell them to send me a dozen black calligraphy pens in another taxi.’

      ‘How are we going to pay for them?’ Silly me. I did not realize that the Times Drawing Office knew him of old.

      ‘Just do it. Pay the taxi when they are delivered and get David to send me the bill. I’ve got to get

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