Jenny waving her big red knickers at that speeding train? Sorry, it was all a bloomin’ fake!
. . . and other priceless gems from master storyteller BERNARD CRIBBINS in the memoir that’s his own joyous Jackanory by Bernard Cribbins
STEAM trains. I love them. When I was a boy, in the early thirties, me and my pals would run to the railway bridge near our homes and inhale the intoxicating smoke and steam as an engine whistled below.
the thought still makes me smile. So when my friend Lionel Jeffries phoned me nearly 40 years later, to ask me to play albert Perks, a stationmaster, in a film he was making, he didn’t have to ask twice. the movie was called the Railway Children — and, of course, neither he nor I had any idea it would become one of the best-loved British films ever. actors never do know that at the time.
But I did know that working with Lionel would be fun. We’d done a number of films together, such as two-Way Stretch with Peter Sellers, and I always loved getting a phone call from him: ‘’ello darlin’, it’s Li here!’
the Railway Children was going to be his first shot at directing, and I soon discovered it was a story that meant a lot to him. His daughter, martha, had been reading the book, a Victorian classic by edith Nesbit, a gentle tale of three children and their adventures living alongside a Yorkshire railway line.
martha had given him the book and said: ‘Daddy, I think this would make a good film.’ Convinced there were more wise children in the world than wise adults, Li promptly bought the rights for £300.
Jenny agutter was cast as Bobbie, the oldest of the children, and Sally thomsett was to play her little sister, Phyllis. She was supposed to be 11, but Sally was actually 20 — three years older than Jenny.
Sally was forbidden to reveal her real age to the Press — or see her boyfriend, drink alcohol in public or drive her new sports car. even the film crew didn’t know how old she was, and while they were asking Jenny how she thought a take had gone, they’d be giving poor Sally sweets.
to prevent Jenny and Sally from getting up to mischief, the production company put them up in a remote hotel. One evening, fed up with drinking orange squash and staring out across the dark forbidding moors, Sally decided to stage a break-out and dragged Jenny 20 miles away to Leeds for a night out.
there, they found a nightclub but, sitting on a mezzanine above them, were Lionel Jeffries and the film’s producer, who swiftly took the two escapees back to the wilds of Haworth. I love that story.
Shall I let you into a secret as to how they filmed what looks like a pretty dangerous scene?
YOU remember when Bobbie stops the train by waving her red bloomers on a stick in front of the landslide, then faints on the track? Well, the engine was actually moving backwards and away from Jenny at the time, and they simply reversed the film.
Clever, eh? It was thought too dangerous to do it the other way.
the most memorable scene in the film is when Bobbie meets her father on the platform. If you don’t shed a tear when she shouts, ‘Daddy, my daddy!’ you’re made of wood. I always well up when I watch
it. Jenny, who remains a close friend, doesn’t. Hard as nails, she is!
my own story begins on December 29, 1928, almost 90 years ago. If that sounds depressing to you, imagine what it’s doing to me.
the area of Oldham we lived in was called Glodwick — pronounced Glod-ick — and our abode was a tiny two-up-two-down.
the luxurious facilities at Chez Cribbins included a cold-water tap, a tin bath and an outside loo that we called ‘the long drop’. my mum, ethel, was a weaver in a cotton mill; my dad, John, was a jack-of-all-trades.
His own father had been a clog fighter. Clog-fighting was a milltown pastime that was used to settle disputes. It involved two blokes kicking each other’s shins while wearing wooden clogs with iron on the soles. Whoever gave up or bled first would be the loser.
my very first shoes were clogs — when you scraped them along the ground sparks would fly up from the iron soles. millworkers like my mother worked barefoot, as a spark in the dusty cotton mill could cause a fire or an explosion.
Because of the noise of the looms, the workers communicated by reading each other’s lips. Being able to talk silently had advantages, and it was also used outside the mills.
I would watch my mother have entire conversations with women on the other side of the road, without a single word said aloud.
It was a skill mum never lost. I remember watching a rugby game on the television with her. the referee had words with a forward and, as he waved him away, the forward mouthed something.
‘Oooh,’ said mum, folding her arms. ‘Did you see what he said?’
During the trooping of the Colour, she used to lip-read everything the Royal Family were saying on the balcony.
If the Queen murmured something to Prince Philip, my mother would repeat what she’d just said. unlike the rugby, though, it was never anything risqué.
I was 12 when the Blitz began. after a night of listening to the anti-aircraft guns pounding, we kids would run around the streets picking up all the shrapnel. every boy had a box of shrapnel under his bed, and we’d trade it like currency: ‘Hey, Charlie, swap you my nose cone and a bag of sherbet for your unexploded bomb!’
I left school at 14 and worked as an assistant stage manager at
Oldham repertory theatre, looking after the props and hoping for a chance to act.
Nothing dimmed my ambition, not even a horrific accident during a production of Macbeth.
If you’re not familiar with Shakespeare’s Scottish play, it ends with a fight scene where Macduff kills Macbeth.
It was normal then to use real swords. Fake ones were expensive, and the fights were always well rehearsed. That was health and safety, Forties style. A young actor called Harold Norman was playing Macbeth. One night the fight ended, and Harold crawled off, gasping: ‘I’ve been stabbed.’ The producer snapped: ‘Nonsense, Harold, you’ve just been winded — now get back on that stage.’
Then we realised that Harold was bleeding from the stomach. The curtain immediately came down, and the audience applauded wildly, calling for Harold to take a bow. The poor man died a month later.
Shortly after Macbeth, I joined the Army to do my National Service, and quickly volunteered for the Parachute Regiment. It wasn’t the red beret that attracted me, more the extra two shillings and sixpence a day you got once you’d done your jumps that I could send home to my mother.
I was the only one from my platoon who passed the selection process and I was feeling quite pleased with myself till an officer gave me an approving smile and said: ‘Army Air Corps, eh? Goo- ood. It’s a short life, but a sweet one.’ Suddenly, the catering corps seemed more attractive.
Before our first aeroplane jump, we were taken up in a Dakota — the first time any of us had flown. Our instructor asked if I wanted to see the wheels as they hit the Tarmac. Next thing I knew I was hanging out of the cargo door with my head in the slipstream and my instructor sitting on my feet.
The sight of those wheels touching the runway was amazing, and the moment they made contact with the concrete a great plume of smoke went up. It was real Boy’s Own stuff. Like I say, that’s Forties health and safety for you.
My first jump was bloody frightening. In those days you had just one parachute, and no reserve. If it didn’t open, you were a goner. When the moment came, I said to my instructor: ‘I’m not sure I can do this.’
He gave me a wide smile and shouted: ‘Go!’ At which point, my sense of duty took command of my actions and I jumped.
Straight after demob, I was back at Oldham Rep, and this time cast in the leading role. I was in fairly good physical shape, so I was pleased to make my entrance as Stanley in A Streetcar Named Desire, wearing a pair of jeans and a tight-fitting T-shirt.
My first move was to whip off the T-shirt, wipe it under my armpits and throw it away. I did this on the first night and a gentleman on the front row threw up.
Since I was no longer stage-managing, a replacement was found. Gillian McBarnet was her name and she was slim and very attractive, with dark brown hair.
For the first few weeks, the lovely Miss McBarnet couldn’t stand the sight of me. Apparently, I was bossy, but once we’d come to an understanding professionally — I’d stopped being quite so bossy — we started stepping out together.
It’s fair to say that Gillian and I were very different. For a start, she came from a posh family from Chelsea, and while I probably sounded a bit like George Formby, she sounded like Vivien Leigh. But despite the obvious social differences, we were soon engaged.
ONE of Gill’s disapproving aunts, when questioning her about the man she was going to marry, said: ‘But Gillian, you don’t know where he’s been!’ My wife is a very strong woman, so the aunt didn’t stand a chance. We’ve been married for more than 60 years.
After ten years in rep, I started appearing on the London stage, before tackling television drama and some film roles. Some of the stars I worked with were absolute charmers, like David Niven.
I met him in Rome where we were filming The Best Of enemies. At the end of one day, there weren’t enough cars to take everyone home, and Gill and I were left stranded. As we were wondering how we’d get back to our apartment, Mr Niven sauntered by. ‘Fancy a lift?’ he said.
He sat in the front passenger seat, leaned over to us in the back, and told story after story. He simply loved having an audience.
He then invited us to supper at a quayside restaurant. We had fish soup, white wine and An Audience
With David Niven. The whole restaurant of about 150 people hung on his every word. Days like that don’t happen very often.
I’ve been lucky enough to work on everything from Hollywood movies to The Wombles, from Doctor Who to Fawlty Towers, and I’ve enjoyed it all — but I can’t say the same about making Carry On Spying. There were some unpleasant moments, especially when I was shot point blank in the face by an extra with a gun.
But working with Barbara Windsor on that movie was a breath of fresh air. She may have been small and blonde, but she didn’t suffer fools and had Kenneth Williams wrapped around her little finger. He even went on honeymoon with her and Ronnie Knight.
Imagine — there you are in your hotel room trying to be all romantic and just before you turn out the light there’s a knock at the door: ‘’eeeere, put ’im down, Barbara. You don’t know where ’e’s been!’
She once said something very salient, did our Barbara. ‘We didn’t get into this business to become famous, did we, Bernie? We did it because we like fooling around and showing off a bit.’
Next to my wonderful wife, Gill, the thing I’m most grateful for in life is my health. As long as I can get about — and as long as the phone keeps ringing — I’ll keep doing what I do.
If someone offered me a job telling yet more stories on television for tiddlers, I’d be just as happy as I would be in Hollywood filming a shoot-out at the OK Corral.
If there’s one thing I’ve learned in my 75 years as an actor, it’s to do your best and be grateful for every single job. What was it the old character actor, A.e. Matthews once said? ‘I get up in the morning, read the obituaries, and if I’m not in them, I go to work.’
ADAPTED from Bernard Who? 75 Years Of doing Just About everything, by Bernard Cribbins with James Hogg, published by Constable on October 11 at £20. © Bernard Cribbins 2018. to order a copy for £16 (offer valid till October 15) p&p free, go to mailshop.co.uk/ books or call 0844 571 0640.