An illegitimate mum, a coal miner dad and the 4ft 5in lady teacher who turned no-hoper Brian Blessed into a giant
Fred eventually played against the Australians he could hit the buggers straight in the face!
Hilda, my mum, was a wonderful person, too, salt of the earth, but her life had been even harder than his because she was born illegitimate at a time when that was considered almost a crime.
Her mother, Emma, was 28 when a man got her pregnant and such was her shame that she couldn’t bring herself even to acknowledge the baby when it was born. My mother was taken across the road to live with her grandmother and not until she was 13 did she find out that her grandmother wasn’t her mother.
When she was reunited with her real mother, she was treated like a skivvy, spending the rest of her teenage years cooking and scrubbing for Emma, the man she had married and their two daughters — like Cinderella and her stepsisters!
She never experienced love or any kind of pleasure. There were no birthdays, no Christmases. She was effectively a slave. Not until she met and married my father i n her mid-20s did she at last experience love, friendship and companionship. He tutored her at home, to make up for the schooling she’d never had, and she blossomed.
My father absolutely adored her and he never, ever stopped telling her so.
Our life at home wasn’t always perfect. Far from it. When I was eight my father was gassed down the mine and came home with his head rolling all over the place and his face purple. I was in floods of tears. This was my hero, and all of a sudden he was so very weak. He couldn’t work for months and we went desperately short of food. I had to scrounge from neighbours.
Soon after, my mother had a nervous breakdown. Over tea, she started to speak i n this awful demonic cackle, as if she’d been possessed. Then s he began swearing, something she rarely did. The doctor came and I watched him slap her face until she returned to her old self.
A few days later she went again, this time with a different voice, like that of a little girl. And then i t happened again with yet another voice. Deep down her breakdown was the result of her terrible upbringing, rejected as a baby by her mother, then treated as a slave.
My dad said he thought she was acting out scenes from her younger life, the demonic cackle being an impersonation of her mother and the voice of the little girl, herself. The treatment in those days was electric shock. It didn’t matter what you had — psychosis, depression or a nervous disorder — if it was anything to do with the mind, they’d wire you up and shove a few hundred volts into you.
Aged nine, I went with her to the hospital three times a month and signed f or the treatment because there was no one else to do it . Watching her have the treat ment wa s torture. I remember thinking, how can this be happening to my mother? I don’t understand.
After six months, it started to work. It didn’t cure her but did stop her going into those awful trances. We all remained quite nervous, though, and my father and I never really stopped keeping an eye on her.
Fortunately, she had the ability to laugh at herself. When the local gossips would point her out as ‘that woman who went mad’, she’d just say, ‘Have you never seen a woman
who’s off her chump? Well, now’s yer big chance. Take a good look!’
Despite everything, she lived a long and happy life. She had problems, but then, doesn’t everybody? Her motto was that ‘there’s always somebody worse off than yourself’, and she was absolutely right.
As for me, I became a toughie almost as soon as I could walk. I could have ended up a hopeless tearaway. But I didn’t. My parents always had faith in me. They taught me honesty and truth, encouraged me to take risks and to follow my dreams. And a handful of teachers were crucial in turning my life in a new direction.
My problem at primary school was lack of concentration. I had t he attention s pan of an under-achieving goldfish and wanted to be anywhere but in the classroom.
It was the same with exams, so my 11-plus was a joke. After just one question, I walked out.
At my secondary modern school, I was put in what both pupils and teachers called ‘the Woodentops’ class’. I was a thickie! Worse still, as a teacher we had the world’s most dull and uninspiring man.
One morning, after a few months of doing absolutely nothing, we found the headmaster, Mr Brown, in our classroom. ‘Right then, children,’ he said. ‘I think I need to bring in a giant to teach you.’
The door opened and in walked a pixie. She was 4ft 5in tall, had small round spectacles, a long black cardigan and small pointy shoes. ‘Here’s your giant,’ Mr Brown said. ‘This is my wife, Mrs Brown.’ We all just stared at her, utterly agog.
She strode to the blackboard and wrote ‘Woodentops’, at which point somebody started giggling. Quick as a flash, she turned round and threw the board rubber at the offender’s shoulder. Bang!
‘Is that what you all want to be?’ shouted our diminutive colossus. ‘The thick class?’
She began going round us all one by one. ‘You, how did Latin get into this country?’ she asked. ‘I don’t know, Miss.’ Bang! A crack on the knuckles. On to the next child. Same question. Same answer. Bang! And so it went on.
Eventually, she got to me and I answered her, ‘ The Romans brought it, Miss.’ ‘YES!’ she said. ‘Tell the blockheads!’ I repeated my answer. ‘Right,’ she said. ‘This is the beginning of your education.’
And indeed it was. After a few weeks of being taught by Mrs Brown, we all ran to school! She instilled in us not only a thirst for knowledge but also a work ethic. She had us quoting poetry and writing essays.
Every day was a joy, an adventure. We never knew what to expect. One day we’d do drama and the next she took us on a field walk. She was a staggering woman, and because of her I passed every test they put in front of me. I actually wanted to learn.
After a few months, we were no longer known as the Woodentops. We were one of the best classes in the entire school. Mr Brown was right: his tiny wife was indeed a giant! Thanks to her, the rest of my school life was hugely fulfilling and I excelled at just about everything.
I showed a particular aptitude for drama, and was encouraged by two teachers who were into amateur dramatics. They even took me to see Sir Donald Wolfit play the greatest King Lear of all time.
These experiences were presented to me as opportunities. ‘This is what you could become, Blessed. You can do this!’ I scoffed. How could a miner’s son from the Woodentops class possibly become an actor?
‘ Rubbish,’ t hey said. ‘ Not everyone’s destined for a life down the mines, lad. You have a talent. Use it. You’ve got a future.’
So I went on drama courses, dozens of them. I met actors and directors and learnt from them.
Not everyone was encouraging. When I told a rich woman named Mrs Hunter t hat my ambition was to make i t to drama school, she shot me down in flames.
‘ You’re getting i deas above your station, young man,’ she said. ‘Folk round here don’t go waltzing off to drama school. Drama school indeed! You have a frightful accent.’
As she walked away I just smiled to myself. I thought, I’ll show you, you old hag! And I did.
My 11-plus exam was a joke. I was a thickie! Round here, folk don’t waltz off to drama school