Annabel Leventon - The Guv’nor’s master-class

I have two black and white photographs of an unforgettable job, where all my expectations were confounded.
In one, Peter O’Toole, cigarette in hand, playing Jeffrey Bernard, listens intently as Muriel Belcher, queen of the Colony Room Club, far from sober, delivers a vicious putdown.
In the other, Jeffrey’s chum Eva regales the pub with one of her stories and Peter is joyous in his appreciation.
Muriel and Eva were both played by me, with superstar Peter as Jeffrey Bernard (1932-97), the Spectator’s Low Life columnist, infamous drinker, gambler and womaniser. Peter was born to play the part.
Working with Peter then, in 1989, was a scary prospect. His unpredictability, frequent benders and ferocious temper were legendary. But it was a flattering straight offer: no audition, three weeks out of town in Brighton and Bath and then a run in the West End. As his son was only a year older than mine, Peter refused to do matinees, to be home for Lorcan - and the evening curtain was at 8pm. A perfect job for a single mother. This boded well.
On the first day of rehearsals, four of us showed up, Sarah Berger and I fully made up and hair freshly done, Royce Mills in shirt, tie and blazer, apparently ready for Henley. (It turned out he always dressed like that.) We assumed Mr O’Toole would be late, hungover, not know much about the play and might not even rehearse at all.
Wrong. He was already there, immaculate, clean-shaven, beautiful. He looked us up and down, eyeballing us in a fierce stare, put a hand under my chin, tilted my face up to him, nodded and did the same to Sarah, informing us we were his for ever.
We were to read through the play and then be taken (by him) to Groucho’s for lunch. It was clear from the outset who was in charge. Our director, Ned Sherrin, was there merely to do his bidding. No argument.

The script, composed by Keith Waterhouse from Jeffery Bernard’s Spectator columns, was a marathon for the lead actor. Huge paragraphs, endless sentences, written by an angel, but not meant to be spoken. The rest of us had at least 15 parts each, many of them one-liners, short sketches interspersing giant monologues, there to boost his energy and keep him going
That first morning, we four nervously clutched our scripts, trying to find the rhythm of the piece, stumbling as we went. Peter, with no script in sight, lounging in his chair, twinkling if we got a line right, made it through the entire play word perfect. (I think he only had three prompts during the whole rehearsal period.) He then took us for lunch, making sure we had everything we wanted, while he drank only soda water - as he did for the entire run. Apparently his pancreas had been cut out and he’d die if he touched another drop. At the end of the first week’s rehearsal, one of us was fired. Next Monday, Tim Ackroyd was on board, something of a protégé for Peter. We held our breath lest any of us should go the same way.
In Brighton, we sold out. And in Bath. Peter was a triumph. Royce and Tim, who shared a dressing-room, said Peter came in every evening before the show to piss in their sink. (‘Droit de seigneur,’ whispered Royce.) He never did that to Sarah and me. He already held us in the hollow of his hand. As he held every single member of the audience, night after night.
When we moved to the Apollo Theatre, Shaftesbury Avenue, knowing we had a hit, I arrived to find my dressing-room and have a look round backstage. The set, already in place, was a reproduction of the Coach and Horses Pub. I knew it because Private Eye in its glory days went there and I’d worked at the Establishment Club up the road. The designer had reproduced the bar, the lighting and the engraved mirrors. The whole play takes place over one night there, when Jeffrey, very drunk, slides under a table and wakes at 3amto find he’s locked in with the ghosts from his past.

It’s a moody piece, shifting from race courses to divorces, wetting the bed at school to cat racing and egg tricks. Peter lurched from one area to another in increasingly drunken mood-swings, setting the bar on fire at one point. It had gone down brilliantly on tour. Now, however, he was in a towering rage. I found him kneeling in his dressing-gown at the front of the stage, shouting obscenities. ‘It’s a comedy, for fuck’s sake. I want Palladium fucking lighting, darling, straight into my eyes at all times. Do you get it? Palladium fucking lighting.’
He was right. Night after night, the audience rose to its feet. He deserved very bit of it. I learnt more working with him than in the rest of my career. His work in rehearsal, exploring every possibility of when to draw breath, light a cigarette, fill a glass, stumble and pause set him free to be spontaneous every night. One night, Waterhouse's famously difficult egg trick failed. In complete silence, Peter looked at the audience, shook his head, went back and rebuilt the biscuit tin lid, the pint mug, the egg, the shoe, and did it again. It worked - the egg, balanced on the matchbox, plopped into the pint mug after he'd flipped the tin lid away with his shoe. The audience went mad. 'I was so terrified - I don’t remember doing the rest of the play,’ he confessed. All we saw was his nerve.
He always had nerve, plus the comic timing of a genius and vocal mastery. He took his voice seriously. For half an hour every evening, we were barred from his dressing-room while he did his vocal warm-up. We never worked out where he drew breath during those huge monologues. We came to believe he could speak on the incoming breath.
His rapport with the audience was total and he was generous to his fans: ‘Give us an autograph, Guv’nor.’ He always did. If we tried something new and he liked it, he’d bark, at full voice, ‘Good gag! Good gag!’ On the last night of the run at the Shaftesbury Theatre, he took his final bow and beckoned to the wings. Charlie Wentworth, his aged dresser, tottered on stage with a tray of champagne. Peter then made a farewell speech where he referred to each of us with respect and affection. We were all in tears. Ten years later, when we were to reprise the show at the Old Vic, Peter knew how far away I was living. He called me in: ‘You are to stay in a hotel near the theatre for production week, No arguments. I shall pay.’ He did.
It was the first and only time a West End production had come back a decade later, with the same cast and set. It was a short run of eight weeks. I think Peter knew it was his swansong, back in his favourite theatre. Night after night, the audience was on its feet, cheering. His performance was, if anything, richer, deeper and funnier than before - the essence of Jeffrey Bernard. Annabel Leventon was in The Rocky Horror Picture Show, Minder and Bergerac
It was also the essence of Peter O’Toole. Ferociously intelligent, world-weary, beyond talented, utterly charismatic. We were privileged to have been present.