VALERIE: Bren’s always been more of a sister than an aunt to me. But above all, she’s been my best friend. She was on Desert Island Discs a while ago, and I tuned in to hear what music she’d take. I thought, how fortunate to be on an island with her: not only would she be totally entertaining, but you’d also see how practical she can be. In a couple of days she’d have built you a nice little house with a front porch and a back garden. She’d cut your hair, run you up a lovely palm skirt, lay a floor and most probably plumb in a toilet.
There are so many things Bren could be if she wasn’t an actress. That’s what I love about her: she’s always prepared to have a go — even if it means making a fool of herself. She’s got this wonderful larger-than-life personality that fills a room. She has this charismatic, warm, funny way about her. My earliest memory of Bren is of me following her around. It didn’t matter what she did, I just wanted to be with her. Bren’s family and mine lived in Ramsgate. She was the youngest of nine siblings; my mother, Pamela, was the eldest. As I was an only child, Bren, just four years older than me, would come and stay with us. It meant I had a companion and someone to play with, and it gave her mum a bit of a rest. I can’t tell you how excited I was. For weeks beforehand, I’d be on my best behaviour in case my mother changed her mind.
Brenda lived in a big house near the centre of town, and we usually went to pick her up. She’d be sitting on the steps looking out for us — this little girl with a messy bob of fair hair and socks and shoes that would be half hanging off. My mother would get hold of Bren, get some grips out of her bag and scrape Bren’s hair back to within an inch of her life. Bren would be clutching a brown paper bag stuffed full of clothes and other bits and bobs. And she’d often wear a cardigan my mother had knitted for her. Mum would knit us matching ones which we’d go out wearing together. We’d think we were the bee’s knees. In no time we’d be giggling and she’d have me in stitches.
When I was at primary school, my mum worked in the afternoons, so I’d go and meet Bren, who was then at juniors’. She’d come back with me and we’d have tea together, which Mum would have left out for us. One day we were walking back and Bren starting telling me there was something in tomatoes that made them poisonous. Mum had left us a salad, and we weren’t two minutes eating it when Bren said: “Oh no, Val! Quick, get me some water — I think I’ve been poisoned!” I ran into the kitchen to get the water, and when I came back, she was lurched out over the table as if she’d passed out. I panicked and threw the water all over her. I don’t think she expected her trick to backfire so quickly, but we were in stitches about it afterwards.
Bren loved acting in school plays, and even then she shone. But she didn’t come from a family that thought of it as a viable career. Times were hard for her parents, so I suspect she knew she’d have to get a “proper” job when she left school. She did a secretarial course at 16, then got a job at the Royal Bank of Scotland in London. And what was so sweet was that she bought me a present with her first wage packet.
Her second job was with British Rail at Euston. Fortunately, they had a very active drama society and it wasn’t long before Bren became their leading light. From there, she eventually got the courage to follow her heart and leave her job to go to drama school. Now when I see Bren on the screen or at the Oscars, it seems surreal. Because to me, Bren is still that little girl from Ramsgate. She’s just as funny, just as warm and just as loving as she was then.
BRENDA: The other day I said to Valerie, “I love coming to stay at your house, Val,” and she replied, almost telling me off in the process: “Why don’t you come more often?” The fact is, I’ve been going to stay with Val ever since I can remember. We were both children living in Ramsgate. My mother was 42 when she had me. She had lost three brothers during the war; her mum had also passed away. So when I came along, they must have been quite hard years for her. To help her out, my eldest sister, Pamela, would look after me. Pamela was 21 when I was born, and not long after got married. She then had a little girl, Valerie.
Pam ran a very orderly house. It was spotless. Everything was neat and tidy, and Valerie was neat and tidy too. But, much more than that, Val was such a cherished child — everyone talked about her with such affection. I think I was quite envious. I guess coming from such a large family and such humble beginnings, things were a bit different in our house. When my brother, who was in the army in Cologne, brought me this beautiful musical box with a dancing ballerina inside, I cried. I thought I wasn’t worthy of the gift, and I told Mum it was Val who should have it.
Being that bit older than Val, I was always in charge. But her mother would forever be telling me all the things I couldn’t do. We could have picnics on the green and listen to the musicians in the summer, but I was forbidden to take her to the swimming pool in case she fell in. Pam would’ve skinned me alive for disobeying her. Yet on many occasions I did, and I’d swear poor Val to secrecy. But Val was too honest for her own good — certainly for my own good! She found it hard to keep anything from her mother. One day we were larking about in the bedroom when we accidentally ripped a bedsheet. Val agreed to say nothing, but a couple of weeks later, the pair of us were sitting on the kitchen table as Pam washed our arms and legs, when Val pipes up: “Sorry, Mum.” “What for, darling?” says Pam. “For tearing the bedsheet.” Val just couldn’t let it go. Her mother, to my detriment, also got to hear about the time I tried to hang her. We were playing cowboys and Indians, and I wanted to play my part. I got a bit of rope, tied it round Val’s neck and tied her to railings. Luckily, someone spotted us and told us to get home.
A while ago, I asked Val if she remembered me doing that, and she said: “Well, I remember the fallout — I was nearly asphyxiated.” Oh, was I in trouble for that. And then there was the time I let her take the lead of this bloody great german shepherd dog. I used to take the pub’s dog for walks to get pocket money, but I was forbidden to let Val hold him. Of course, didn’t I let her have a go — only for the dog to take her hurtling down the street and into a lamppost. The poor girl! Her poor ear — it was like a cauliflower.
When I think back to those days, I wonder she still talks to me. The fact is, I love Val to bits and we’ve always been there for one another. I was matron of honour at her wedding, and she was there for me after the breakdown of my marriage. One time I was feeling a bit depressed. I was performing something at the Barbican and, not knowing what to do, I called up Val. She said, “What’s the matter, Bren?” and I said: “I feel a bit low, Val.” In no time Val and her husband, Chris, had come to take me home with them. That night we all sat down and had a lovely meal. Just as I was getting up from the table, I didn’t see this cabinet of wine on the wall behind me, and hit my head against it. And didn’t the whole thing come crashing to the floor! There must’ve been over two dozen bottles. The whole lot smashed. Wine, glass everywhere… And you know what? They were still talking to me afterwards.
Val’s got three wonderful children, but they’re grown up now. So when she can, she comes away with me and we have a whale of a time. You know, if I was on my own tomorrow and had to retire, I hope Val would still be there. I could set up home with her. She’d do her bit and I’d do mine. But more than that, she’s this special person in my life, and there isn’t anything in the world that will ever change that.
