To Love and Laughter

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5 minute read

The actress Helen McCrory died last weekend. Depending on your taste, you might have known her as Cherie Blair in The Queen, Draco Malfoy’s mother Narcissa in the Harry Potter films or recently, as the wonderful Polly Gray in Peaky Blinders.

Her death knocked me. It’s always said when someone dies too young and at just 52, Helen was definitely that. It’s sadder still when a parent leaves behind young children and she had two with her husband, the actor Damian Lewis - daughter Manon and son Gulliver who are 14 and 13.

In a world obsessed with sharing every detail of one’s life, Helen’s close friends and family had been sworn to secrecy about Helen’s cancer diagnosis, so her death came as a shock and prompted an outpouring of grief.

What struck me as I read the obituaries and articles written about her over that weekend was how they were all, without fail, tinged with something very special. They were wrapped in love and you could feel her fun, her energy - her mischievousness leapt off the page.

Director Sam Mendes wrote beautifully about his friend Helen in The Guardian and about her casting in his production of Uncle Vanya in the Donmar Warehouse.

“When I was directing Uncle Vanya and Twelfth Night as my final productions as artistic director of the Donmar in 2002, I asked Helen to play the role of Sonya in Uncle Vanya. Word came back that she would love to have a chat about it. She strode into my office, sat on the sofa and immediately told me I had it all wrong. She told me she should be playing Yelena – the other young female role – and then proceeded to spend the next hour telling me exactly why. She left the room with the part. This has never happened to me before or since. All I can say by way of explanation is that it just felt inevitable. She was clearly already halfway to giving a superb performance, I simply had to get out of the way and let her complete the job. Which, of course, she did – with utter brilliance.”

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But it was the piece that Damian Lewis wrote about his wife in The Sunday Times that took my breath away. His description of Helen, the way you could feel his adoration through his words was beautiful.

"She’s left our beautiful children, Manon and Gully, too early, but they have been prepared for life. They have in them the fearlessness, wit, curiosity, talent and beauty of their mother. She has exhorted us to be courageous and not afraid. As she said repeatedly to the children, 'Don’t be sad, because even though I’m about to snuff it, I’ve lived the life I wanted to.'

“I’ve never known anyone able to enjoy life as much. Her ability to be in the present and enjoy the moment was inspirational. Nor was she interested in navel-gazing. No real self-interest in self-reflection; she believed in looking out, not in. Which is why she was able to turn her light so brightly on others,” he said.

I know that people say lovely things about almost everyone when they’ve died. You so rarely see anyone say ‘oh but he was an awful prick’, or ‘good enough for her’, even when you suspect it may be warranted. But the love for Helen McCrory seemed to be on another level and the emotion in the tributes was raw and real.

And they made me think. About my own life, my future obituary. How would my husband speak of me, what would my children remember?

It’s been such a hard year, there has been so little to make us smile and laugh or celebrate but even in the midst of a pandemic there can be moments. There are things I used to do, before I got busy with the kids, and work and just surviving. I used to dance around the kitchen to random 90s pop. I used to open champagne for no reason and end up in fits of giggles at stupid TV programmes. I used to bake extravagant cakes for no reason but to eat them.

So, this week I turned up the music and danced with my kids – I’m delighted to say that Groovejet (If This Ain’t Love) was a particular hit with the two-and-a-half-year-old. I’m going on a picnic tomorrow with my sister and her family who I haven’t seen since last September. I made two delicious caramel, vanilla cheesecakes last Sunday – we ate one, I gave the other away.

I’ve thought about all the good things I’ve managed to get done this year, the work I’m proud of, some volunteering, some sharing of my time and knowledge and I’ve given myself the space to feel proud of me. When do we do that? When do we celebrate ourselves?

I want to thank Helen McCrory for reminding me that there are more important things than checking my emails yet again, that the bathroom doesn’t need to be bleached if my kids want to play, that I should get drunk with my husband for the hell of it and laugh our heads off. And thank you also to her generous friends and husband for sharing her wisdom and life and their memories, with people who didn’t know her but loved her work.

Damian Lewis said that in the weeks before her death she had spoken to her family about love and his future girlfriends saying that “love isn’t possessive.”

“She said to us from her bed: ‘I want Daddy to have girlfriends, lots of them, you must all love again, love isn’t possessive, but you know, Damian, try at least to get through the funeral without snogging someone.”

That made me laugh out loud. I always said that if something were to happen to me and my husband married again too soon that I’d haunt him. But now I think I prefer Helen’s way, I would just want everyone to be happy. And remember me with love and laughter.

Jennifer Stevens, April 2021