Many of you will have been aware that I am politically “hot” these days. Due to my writings in this very tome, my reflections in The Spectator and a rather charged interview on Sky TV, nominally about my play Allegra, but actually about their agenda. My belief that Israel should exist as a Jewish state has thrust me, in my near dotage, into a sort of “Mo of Ark” situation.
I was due a break after my stint in Allegra, so, as a delayed honeymoon, David and I travelled first to Puglia for a friend’s wedding, to be followed by a week on a sailing boat to three Greek islands to meet with other chums. Afterwards, I had signed up to do a one-day play reading, called Right Before I Go; a moving compilation by Stan Zimmerman (of Roseanne and The Golden Girls fame), of letters written by actual suicides. It was to be followed by a discussion with the audience to raise awareness and funds for a charity. But… read on for the best-laid plans of mice, men and Maureen.
My phone bleated out the news that an actor has withdrawn from the reading on the grounds that he could not countenance my political views. His name was McCarthy and being me, I couldn’t resist wondering – in the Telegraph whether this might be the “New McCarthyism”. The phrase was taken up, although not credited, by none other than The Wall Street Journal, then the Times, and then, wonder of wonders, The Hollywood Reporter. Goodness, it was going viral – or at least, mildly infectious all through the holiday.
I offered to meet with Mr McCarthy and discuss our differences. Or, better still, celebrate our similarities. I mean he might have been marching behind me on the anti-Putin, pro-Ukraine demos or standing in front of me with a placard outside the Chinese Embassy protesting the treatment of the Uyghurs. I suggested hummus and mint tea in a restaurant of his choice and that he might rejoin the show as colleagues who agree to differ, but both support an anti-suicide charity.
McCarthy would not look at my olive branch let alone pick up my gauntlet.
He was interviewed in the Belfast Times and protested loudly that he never asked for me to leave the cast, he never bullied me, he just made his point. He omitted to add that his appearance at Soho would have been on a different night to mine.
The fascinating part of the actor’s moral incapacity to share a lectern with a British Jew was heightened by his being a member of the audience at the opening night of my play Allegra at Richmond. He is on camera at the vox pop, singing the show’s praises, and mine as he made his way to the after-show party. Apparently, he came to see the show again in London. Only my husband visited Allegra more than once and we share a bed.
I have never made it secret that I am a proud, outspoken Jew, but something must have radicalised the actor in the six weeks that followed the party, to the point of issuing a statement on social media. He didn’t have to withdraw quite so publicly. He could have quietly told the producer that he’d forgotten on that particular Wednesday, he’d promised to take an elderly aunt to have a boil lanced.
Two days later another actor chose to exit the reading for the same reason. Now I was slightly getting the wind up enough to toss around in my bed on the ferry to Corfu. My dreams were uniformly about being thrown off buses in Hull and everyone I’ve ever met crossing the street to avoid me.
Meanwhile as far as the chartering of the yacht was concerned, we were informed that the captain had gone AWOL and the cook was in hospital. Mice, Maureen and Menelaus. Finally a skipper was engaged, a nice, friendly German called Conrad, but he could only do four days, Ithaka was too far and Zakynthos was out of the question.
We had a conference “to sail or not to sail”? We sat in the baking sun and tossed a euro. I was all for staying by the pool in the hotel and forgoing the sail boat, but finally we thought – to Hades with it – let’s go.
I am so very glad we did because aside from all the jumping about and the sudden pulling in of ropes and twisting of sails and thundering up and down stairs and cutlery drawers dropping out in the galley when you’re trying to make a cucumber and tomato salad, there is a moment when you’re just sailing, which is just sublime, where, suddenly, the engine cuts out and the sail just flaps gently and there’s nothing to be heard except the sound of the universe. And swimming in the pistachio coloured crystal sea is, even for a scaredy cat like me, utter bliss.
So, we were due to fly home on the 8th, but when we headed to the airport the fans were hit by the s***s and the air traffic control lost it. Two thousand flights were cancelled. We spent six hours at Corfu Airport being told NOTHING by BA. Finally, after two hours sitting on the plane on the tarmac, we were taken off the plane, made to queue for our luggage and schlepp it to a distant taxi back to the hotel.
British Airways did not distinguish itself by its humanity. No help with hotels, taxis, information. No desk at the airport. Number blocked. Families with exhausted babies wandered aimlessly, the British joy-makers emptied the vodka bottles and the glasses ran out.
The next day dawned with no info, no texts. Zero. By lunchtime on the 9th we headed back to the airport on the chance of a flight. It was mayhem. We drank coffee for five hours. The read-thru in Soho was the 10th, at 2.30 prompt. Finally, at 12.45 we received a text to say our plane would fly at 5:15.
My Agent said, “you know this might be Jack’s way of telling you not to appear at the Soho Theatre ‘cos it’s dangerous’.” Gulp. I had engaged security but I didn’t know who was in that audience and fully expected to be booed. Or worse.
Reader, we made it home a day late and the next afternoon, a full house watched five excellent actors read out the touching and beautiful suicide notes in Right Before I Go.
I had never read my letters out loud before and wept throughout, as did the audience. TG there was no protest and I am stronger for braving it out.
Still, on Saturday at the WLS, I thought people were looking at me with their heads inclined as though I might need trauma counselling. Thrillingly, Rabbi David gave a sermon about being a proud British Jew, of such passion and intensity that the congregation burst into spontaneous applause. I am inspired. Chag Sameach and Well Over the Past.
To get more from opinion, click here to sign up for our free Editor's Picks newsletter.