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1
STRONG STUFF
This book begins with a love story. Not the boy-meets-girl kind, but an instinctive platonic love that can exist despite age differences between two people. As is so often the way with these important life events, it seemed to come out of the blue. My husband â who was working as a locum GP in Hampstead at the time â had been roped in to visit an old lady who just wanted someone to listen to her tales. I happened to be researching a book on what I regarded as âreal womenâ, rather than the maddening chick-lit variety who infested the media. Iâd been forced out of my job as a BBC correspondent and presenter due to the horribly debilitating autoimmune condition lupus, so I had been writing books instead. He realised that Joan was exactly the kind of woman I was looking for and asked her if she would be happy to talk to me. That was how I found myself at Joan Rhodesâs door on a wet autumn day in 2003.
I donât really know what I was expecting as I rang the bell to the scruffy-looking garden flat in Belsize Park, north London. I was meeting a woman in her early eighties whoâd once been internationally famous for her beauty and physical strength, but I knew little else other than my husbandâs keenness for us to come together. I should have spotted that I was in for a rollercoaster of a ride by the clues that inhabited the dingy area around her door. The rather abrupt handwritten note by the bellpush instructed me to be patient: âplease wait it takes me time to answer the door.â Discarded giant stretcher bars, used for artistâs canvases, and broken bits of once-functional detritus littered the alleyway that led to the garden.
The author and Joan, 2003.
Certainly nothing told me I was about to encounter someone who would soon become so significant to me personally, a woman I would quickly come to love and adore. Ringing that bell was a life-changing moment. Once I entered that flat, a part of me never left.
I could hear huffing and puffing coming from the other side of the door, the odd grumble, a faint complaint of pain and a gripe of discomfort. Then the commanding call for me to hang on: âIâm coming.â
When the door eventually opened, after another interval which was filled with the jiggling of bolts, I was confronted with a bulky figure draped in a riotously colourful ensemble that would not have been out of place in the Caribbean. The visual noise was so great that it jumped out of the darkness from the depths of this intriguing home.
Two big blue eyes gave me the once-over. They were accentuated by expertly pencilled eyebrows. Joan was larger than life, both in appearance and behaviour. Her mid-length curly hair was white, but the ghost of heyday blonde still lingered. My 5ft 0in and 9st were dwarfed by her 5ft 7in and 15st. With years of practice, she hid the extra weight well, sparkling in all her finery. The showy fabric was shaped like a kaftan, held together with a huge blue paste brooch in the shape of a butterfly. It was only later that I noticed there were holes where some of the fake stones once sat. This sense of faded theatrical grandeur permeated every aspect of Joanâs life.
She wasnât like any old lady I had ever met. She had the vibrancy of youth, barely contained in an ageing body. You know how you can see a much older woman and think, âGosh, she must have been beautiful when she was youngâ? Well, Joan was still beautiful. Her facial skin belied her age. Later she told me it was because she had slathered her body and face with olive oil straight out of the cooking bottle all her life. The walking frame that she clung to didnât diminish her; if anything, she used it like a podium from which to hold forth. Age had certainly not withered Joan. She had adjusted and learnt how to make it work for her.
I had managed to arrange this interview after writing a formal letter to Joan, explaining I was an ex-BBC news presenter and correspondent who wanted to write about her. An invite to lunch came by return of post. As I was ushered in, I was showered with a warm flood of welcomes and fripperies. I followed her into the depths of 37A Belsize Park Gardens and noticed how slowly she shuffled along, each step an act of willpower. She cursed her legs but laughed off the discomfort. Once again, I would come to learn that laughing in the face of pain and misery was her way of dealing with it, a lifelong trademark.
I want to say that the flat was an Aladdinâs cave, or like an old curiosity shop, but neither description is adequate for the crazy jumble of oddities and dusty treasures that met my eyes. There were just too many objects to see them all at once. It was a kind of theatrical mayhem, a storyboard of a life in showbusiness. I noticed that the prized objects werenât crammed in randomly; they all had been strategically placed, having a home of their own â and from that setting none of them strayed in the coming years.
The entrance hall would have been gloomy if it werenât for the plethora of decorations. Secret spaces were guarded by floor-to-ceiling turquoise velvet curtains that were adorned with giant red swags and bows. There were lots of pots full of whatnots, plastic flowers that were disintegrating in a way that would please environmentalists and a half-mannequin decked out in a sequined basque and a straw hat with feathers sitting where a head should have been. I was glad we made slow progress as it gave me time to take it all in.
It was the same story in the living room, which would have been spacious if it hadnât been so heavily populated with fascinating memorabilia. The walls were crowded with artworks from every âismâ you could imagine, as well as a few you couldnât because they didnât exist yet. Framed pictures of stars from yesteryear posing with Joan jostled for position on the side tables. On one long wall there were rows of old vinyl albums in their bright artistic covers sitting on tiny wooden shelves, with thousands of books on larger shelves below. It struck me that the overall effect was that of a stage set, with me as the audience, about to witness a performance about the life of a woman who had been a celebrity of her day and was still someone to be reckoned with.
All the while Joan was chattering away, giving me the guided tour of her shadow-world. I quickly became overwhelmed by the task of trying to understand this interior landscape. Acceptance was my only choice.
We sat near the French windows, facing each other across a reproduction refectory table, one end of which was obscured by grubby stacks of papers, old photographs and ancient newspaper cuttings. She had cleared a space at the other end and carefully set the scene for our lunch. There were unpleasantly crispy cotton napkins and the âbestâ china cups for tea. I was left in no doubt that I was being honoured. Despite her mobility problems, Joan had painstakingly put together an open smoked salmon sandwich for each of us, decorated with lettuce and cucumber. The faux luxury was completely appropriate for this occasion. I was in my element.
Looking back, I think we were both a bit nervous. We were on our best behaviour. Me, the journalist-cum-author, and Joan, acting the cautiously willing performer preparing to tell all. As it turned out, Joan distrusted reporters; like most celebrities, she had been badly mistreated and misquoted by them over the years. She was also surprisingly shy, in her own way. Letting a stranger, an investigative journalist no less, into her precious home must have taken some courage. I was at pains to put her at her ease. I was not from the red-top tabloids and had no intention of forcing skeletons from cupboards. I was proud to have been a BBC girl for twenty years, someone who had never done the âdirty vicarâ tales. For my book, which would not, strictly speaking, be a feminist treatise but would celebrate certain forgotten women, I wanted to get to know the essence of her, her true self. I got rather more than I bargained for.
Joan had a remarkable life story that spanned almost the whole of the twentieth century. It placed her at the heart of historically significant people and places. I had thought of including her as one of a number of women in my book, but â as she warmed to telling her tales â I realised her life could not be squeezed into a chapter or two. Here was a woman who deserved to be celebrated as an icon of the female struggles of the last eighty years. She was a rebel who had subverted the male status quo of the world she inhabited. Encapsulated in this mercurial woman was a synopsis of how history had treated women and clues on how to cheat the system successfully. As the encounter progressed, we both began to relax and Joan was happily occupying centre stage, her favourite place. I made the perfect onlooker, smiling and reacting at the correct moments of the performance.
Things had gone so well that after we finished our posh luncheon, she began singing songs to me such as âMy Old Manâs a Dustmanâ and âThe Lambeth Walkâ. This was accompanied by classic theatrical movements involving arms, hands and face. (Her disobedient legs were no longer part of the act.) Her ebullience was infectious. I found myself laughing and clapping like some starstruck stalker at a stage door. I think that was when I fell in love. When Joan put on the charm, she was irresistible.
Joan regaled me with tales about some of the celebrities I had grown up knowing only from afar. She often performed with Bob Hope but didnât find him at all funny, and she wasnât that impressed by Peter Sellers when she was in one of the Pink Panther films. She said in real life he was âa bit of a grumpâ. Most exciting were the stories about the movie star Marlene Dietrich, whom she met when they shared a stage in Amsterdam. Joan utterly worshipped her, and I think the attraction was mutual, as Iâll explain later in this book. They became great friends and were in touch until Marlene died.
I had my reporterâs notebook out and tried to keep up, but my shorthand was no match for the speed of her delivery or her ability to distract me. I had intended to record the interview but in all the excitement I had forgotten to get the little machine out. Maybe it was better that way, as things were not going to plan.
My journalistic instincts were buzzing but so was my heart. How could I write about this fabulous woman when it was obvious that she should be the one to put pen to paper? I knew then that I could not write a book about Joan at that time. It was her story; I felt I had no right to appropriate it.
When I eventually managed to put a more serious tone into the conversation and suggest she wrote her autobiography, her face lit up. Of course, she was planning to do just that. In fact, she had been toiling away at the project for years. Throughout her life, colleagues and fans had entreated her to share her experiences with the reading public and, in answer to the encouragement, she had sporadically jotted down great tracts of her reminiscences.
She motioned grandly to the piles of papers that occupied the nether end of the table, which she said were the bones of her book. With a sparkle in her eyes, she reached for the handwritten bundle on top of the nearest stack and asked if I wanted her to read some of it to me. In this theatrical atmosphere I couldnât help but wonder if the stage props had been set out deliberately in this way, and that I had neatly taken on my role as her biggest fan. I didnât mind â I was glad to listen. It was only polite after she had gone to so much trouble over lunch; but I was also captivated by what she had to say.
An hour or so later, she stopped for breath. I offered to make more tea and told my watch to go to hell. As I suspected, the papers were full of strong material, insightful anecdotes and glimpses of history. But she wasnât a writer; the manuscript required a lot of editing. Before I could stuff my fist in my mouth, I had volunteered to help with the project. It transpired that her only living relative, her nephew John Cash, was already greatly assisting with her endeavours. I had been cast as the besotted professional on hand to give a second opinion and possibly assist in finding a publisher.
Joan did go on to write her autobiography, which was entitled Coming on Strong. Her biggest help came from John, although I did chip in with suggestions here and there. It was an interesting collection of stories but the whole process from pen to publication was a complete nightmare. Once again, Iâll explain in more detail later in this book. Suffice to say for now that Joan paid more than ÂŁ8,000 for a run of 2,000 copies to be printed in 2007. The book sold out, but she never received a penny from the venture as the publishers went to the wall. Joan was livid. I had never seen her usually well-controlled anger before, but it burst out of her because she felt badly cheated.
When I eventually dragged myself away from 37A, after three or more hours, I was well and truly hooked. This was a seismic shift in my life. I left her home humming âThe Lambeth Walkâ, my mind alive with images of dancing movie stars. My world was already richer. By the time I got home, she was on the phone telling me how delighted she was with our encounter and wondering when we could do it again. This was on a Monday. I âpopped inâ for tea and a chat on the following Wednesday, and so began my existence as one of Joanâs confidantes.
I would be close friends with Joan for the next seven years, visiting two or three times a week, steering her through the good and bad of the NHS, helping her in and out of hospital when she became unwell. I loved her. It was not a chore â it was a pleasure to be there and to make this last passage of her life as smooth as possible.
Hers was a colourful world full of dazzling people and, through knowing Joan, I have come to understand how a woman could take on all comers and survive, no matter how hard life had been to her. Men were often threatened by her strength. After all, a woman with such a feminine figure was not supposed to be able to do what she did. Doubters plagued her all her life, verbally attacking her and trying to match what she could do. No man, or woman, ever beat her. She always won a challenge of strength. When I asked where the power came from, she told me what she did was real and driven by a deep-seated inner rage at her hugely dysfunctional early years.
You are no doubt wondering how you come to be reading the very book I said I wasnât going to write. Well, itâs quite simple really. Ten years after her death I found myself appearing on camera for the first time in an age, but on this occasion it was on Joanâs behalf. I was simply a part of the broader picture. In 2019, I had asked the BBC programme The Repair Shop if they could help rescue one of Joanâs stage costumes I had inherited. It was a sexy leotard with a detachable floor-length split skirt. A similar outfit from Joanâs wardrobe lives at the Victoria and Albert Museum in London and is no doubt in much better condition. Originally, my prized version would have been covered in hand-stitched metal sequins in different shades of green, but the years had taken their toll. Joan told me how she would perform at numerous theatres in one evening in London, meaning she had to unceremoniously chuck her stage outfit into a bag as she dashed from venue to venue. I suspect she had worn this costume thousands of times. No wonder it was looking rather sad; there were large bald patches and evidence of a hundred Joan-style repairs. Even the clasp on the skirt wasnât original â she had adapted a pair of paste diamante earrings to do the job. Every time I lifted the garment, more sequins wafted to the floor, leaving a sparkling trail and yet more bald patches. The crotch had been mutilated for some reason, completely cut across. Large areas of sequined fabric had faded to a grim grey and the hem was badly worn.
The programme team said they would take on the challenge. The producer loved Joanâs story. And thanks to the tireless efforts of Sara Dennis, an expert with textiles, I joined the ranks of previous participants who struggled to hold back the tears when their rejuvenated, beloved object was returned.
It was during the filming at the ancient barn in West Sussex that I realised I had some unfinished business to tackle. The production crew, who were mostly aged between 20 and 30, were utterly fascinated by Joan. To my surprise, these trendy millennials seemed to have an affinity with her and, as we took various breaks in filming, they would come up and ask me more about this cool woman theyâd never heard of. They were puzzled about why she had been forgotten, written out of history, or muted like so many other women. It was Saraâs daughter who ultimately triggered this revisited project; she had told her mum she wanted to read the biography about Joan and was staggered to hear there wasnât one. This was a view echoed by everyone I encountered during the filming sessions. I had a lightbulb moment and realised that the time had come to bring Joan back from the dead to take her rightful place in history. Her life story demanded to be told and I was the obvious person to do it. After all, that was how I entered her world in the first place all those years ago.
So began this labour of love. I was fortunate, because thanks to the kindness of Joanâs nephew John, who runs her estate, I had access to extensive archive material, her own words in her autobiography, and the mountain of research and writing he had diligently put into his own manuscript.
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ABANDONED BABES
Young Queen Elizabeth was amused to see her husband bested by a woman in a sparkly leotard. The Duke of Edinburgh was one of the volunteers on stage for an unusual act, which involved a challenge by a beautiful artiste to match her ability to bend steel bars and six-inch nails. Being a well-built man, he would have expected to emulate any shows of strength, especially those per...
