Simon on breakfasts with LS Lowry

‘I asked him if he’d like to see the matinee. “Good God, no,” he answered, as if I’d suggested colonic irrigation’

WHEN WE PLAYED the Sunderland Empire for a week in 1974, I booked into a seaside hotel which had all the hallmarks of sleaze you could hope for: the smell of frying, the worn carpets and wonky windows – I could have been in a Ken Loach film.

At breakfast in the desolate dining room, I was greeted by a waitress of the Hi-de-hi! school of hospitality: ‘On your own are you, love?’ I said I was. ‘I suppose you think you’re the only famous person around here?’ I demurred modestly. ‘Well, you’re not.’ She led me to the table of the only other breakfaster. ‘Mr Lowry, this is Captain James Bellamy off the telly.’ There was no flicker of pleasure or recognition on the face of the great painter. ‘The two of you can have breakfast together,’ she said, trotting off to fetch me the tinned orange juice.

It was my first taste of speed dating. Lowry shook his head: ‘I’m sorry, I don’t have a television.’ No need to apologise, I answered. ‘I don’t have any of your paintings.’ Our conversation didn’t exactly sparkle – it was like Pinter on Valium. The front of his grey suit was a catalogue of food that had missed its target, and his shaving was far from thorough. He made ‘letting oneself go’ look like an art form. At 87, why not?

After breakfast, we went for a stroll along the seafront – not for the air, he said, just to help him ‘go’. I tried hard to share his love of the world’s dreariest coastline – the sea itself was nearly asleep. He was a melancholy soul, in mourning perhaps for the lost world of his paintings, the matchstick figures trudging through Pendlebury with their hats on. Why is it that pessimists always make me feel so cheery?

The following morning, my place was laid at his table. I told him about the play I was doing and he chuckled at my impersonation of Dora Bryan, the leading lady. I asked him if he’d like to see the matinee. ‘Good God, no,’ he answered, as if I’d suggested colonic irrigation. ‘I can’t imagine why you do it.’ Neither could I.

We went for our stroll. I always enjoy the company of people who work alone – writers, painters, shepherds etc: their thinking is unsullied by zeitgeist.

At our last breakfast, I planned to ask him for a quick sketch as a memento; we both knew our paths were unlikely to cross again. (He died two years later.) Suddenly, with his mouth full of English breakfast, he smiled. ‘What I like about you, Simon, is you haven’t asked me to do a drawing for you.’ I shook my head. ‘Lord, no! Who’d do such a thing?’

Five breakfasts with LS Lowry – priceless.

Simon Williams plays Justin Elliott in The Archers