I don't quite understand how the unhappy news of Pete Postlethwaite untimely death has triggered thoughts of numbers and OCD. On mourning his passing today my thoughts wandered from me at the age of 15, The Who, Sesame Street and my need to count everything.
Those readers familiar with Pete's work will understand why he is considered by Stephen Spielberg to be 'probably the best actor in the world'. It is said that Pete's response to the accolade was to dismiss it with a typical self effacing comment that it sounded for all the world like a lager advert. No 'luvvie' this chap. He did not present himself with airs and graces and I would be very surprised if the termites came out of the woodwork to insist that he was a diva who made unreasonable demands. I want to believe that he was what you saw. A strong, passionate, committed Northerner with a heightened sense of justice. For those of you who have not seen it do please watch the film 'Brassed Off'. I defy you not to be moved by the speeches Pete makes despite your politics. For my American readers, think Charles Bronson and/or David Carradine in his youth for a flavour of what Pete was able to project on screen.
As I trundled through my chores with Pete's death on my mind I remembered standing in St Mary's Churchyard, alone except for the birds and the dead. I was 15, fearless and feisty and singing The Who's 'My Generation' and in particular the line: 'I hope I die before I get old', at the top of my voice. I had tried to see what a 30 year old me would look like and found it impossible to envisage. I considered it so very ancient and part of me thought I would die by the very old age of 32 in any event because my mother had. The logic applied to that thought process was along the same lines as the opening statement of my autobiography commissioned by the English teacher as a class exercise: 'I was born at an early age and was a girl because my mother was'. But it was something I truly believed until I passed the key date.
I found it impossible to consider being anything other than 15 and frankly my dears, if I'd known what was to come, I might well have pleaded with the Gods to let me remain in a Peter Pan state of fearlessness. As it was I had no choice but to continue on the route mapped out for me. Oh I was so very brave in those days; afraid of nothing and no-one. Well with the exception of a couple of people who should have protected me. I was safer in the outside world than in the so called family world. I was perfectly capable of hitch hiking to where ever I wanted to go; sleeping rough in derelict houses when it was too late for me to make it 'home' and reliant on the kindness of strangers to look out for me. Once it had become too late to go home, 8.00 pm since you ask, I would be locked out of the house in any event and forced to 'sleep' in the barn. Five minutes late was enough to see the door barred to me. One particular night exactly five minutes late, I approached the door to see her smile as she locked it against me forbidding my father to let me in. I developed a 'well I'm going to get into trouble anyway so I might as well go the whole hog' attitude.
One decade later Beloved Son and Heir had come into my world and everything I had been through started to make some sort of sense. I had a fierce, tigerish love for this wonderful thing that I had helped to create and was determined he would not receive the kind of raising I had received. I never, ever said, 'because I say so!', I never, ever hit him with a weapon, I never ever deprived him of sustenance physical, mental or emotional and I never, ever, ever broke a promise to him. I fell instantly in love with him the second I saw him and indeed as time proved, there came the opportunity for me to discover my inner tiger and protect him from assault. One of our shared pleasures as he grew was Sesame Street. I seem to think that his favourite character was Big Bird whilst mine was Count Dracula. It was many decades later that I realised Count Dracula tapped into that part of my brain that needed to count everything. I did not weigh food for recipes, I counted the spoons or handfuls of ingredients. I counted the stairs I climbed to my flat. If we bought sweets I had to count them to make sure there was an even number. Anything that amounted to 13 had to be swiftly culled to reduce it to 12 before being handed over to Beloved Son and Heir. I counted how long it took to fill the bath before the water cooled. I still count the number of birthday or Christmas cards I receive not, I hasten to add, to wallow in the number which could either confirm how much or how little I am remembered. That's not the point! The point is in the counting.
Three is my number of choice: displays have to be in threes; a mixed bunch of flowers picked from my garden has to offer a minimum of three of each species otherwise, no matter how much I love a particular flower, it cannot be picked unless it has two matching companions. I do sometimes wonder if it comes from the root of my abandoned Roman Catholicism forcing me to acknowledge, if only obliquely, the Trinity.
So when I heard that Pete Postletwaite was only 64 when he died I counted the number of years between us: 5 since you ask. Well nearer 4.5. There is something infinitely sad about your peer group dying. The people you see on the silver screen, or the theatre seem almost invincible, larger than life and immune to the petty trials of us mere mortals. Pete was one of those people I would have liked to see on stage before he went: Jimmy Stewart was another in the West End with his play 'Harvey'; Joyce Grenfill, in anything at all, another. Some stars I have been fortunate enough to see: Leo McKern holding the stage for two whole hours on his own - absolute magic. Griff Rhys-Jones as Mr Toad. Even Leslie Phillips and Brian Rix entertained me.
So Pete, I hope the Gods appreciate you because they have taken you way too early, rest in peace.
Love and Peace
THE Purple Fairy xxx
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