Snapshot: Theo lived his dream of a theatrical life
My maternal grandfather, Theo Moss, was born in 1882 and always wanted to be a “theatrical”. Family papers show that, long before it was fashionable to do so, Theo changed his surname to Leslie, in readiness for his new profession on the boards. In his earliest surviving playbill, from 1909, he is way down the cast list in Rightful Heir at the Corn Exchange, Chatteris, Cambridgeshire.
When the first world war broke out, Theo volunteered and left for the trenches after his last performance for some time at the Whitehall Theatre, East Grinstead, in July 1916. No doubt the audience enjoyed these “special soldier nights” with artistes from the Royal Field Artillery Brigade, including “Theo Leslie, comedian, late of the leading London music halls” and “Gunner Snelling at the piano”. Over there, Theo was wounded in action, receiving a shell wound to the left side of his face. He needed his looks for life in Civvy Street, so it was a painful and tense time until the bandages came off.
After the war, he married Ivy, who had helped to nurse him back to health in hospital. She, too, was a performer and the couple toured the country and raised four children – Roy, Jack, Colin, who worked for many years as a stage manager in London, and my mother, Yvonne.
My grandfather never made first billing or had his name up in lights. But he became an actor-manager, rubbing shoulders with stars and stars-to-be. He shared a stage with the 23-year-old Rex Harrison in the musical comedy For the Love of Mike at The Grand, Wolverhampton in 1932. Harrison later became world-famous and married six times.
Rex and Theo loved horseracing and would travel to meetings in the company of fellow, starrier actors Robert Morley and Wilfrid Hyde-White. The foursome would return from days out to Epsom and Brighton races in Wilfrid’s chauffeur-driven Rolls-Royce.
I was a babe in arms when my grandfather died in 1952, but family stories, photos and newspaper cuttings keep him alive for me and his other descendants.
Robin Stewart
Playlist: Science was the best medicine
The Scientist by Coldplay
“Questions of science, science and progress / Do not speak as loud as my heart”
It was November 2009 and to counteract the mental and physical fug of IVF, I listened to my iPod as I dragged myself to and from work. Although a love song, this song suited the emotional rollercoaster of our first cycle. Science and progress defined our days as my boyfriend learned to inject drugs into the fold of my stomach where it was less likely to bruise and we learned the vocabulary of assisted conception.
This cycle, they said, was textbook. Then came the wait, as nature took over from science. After that, a blur: the positive test, a day of euphoria before the bleeding came and a series of tests to confirm what we already knew. We were back to the start.
Next time, there was no music. Two more biochemical pregnancies followed, one as a result of IVF and the other natural. We turned to Chinese medicine and, on the advice of our doctor, gave it a last ditch attempt in early 2012. This time a double dose of science won – Chinese medicine and IVF. We married in June and our son was born on Christmas Day 2012. Listening to The Scientist, I always think about how lucky we are.
Emma Phillips
We love to eat: Lentil paté for breakfast
Ingredients
One onion, finely chopped
Splash of oil
One mug of lentils
Enough water to cover
Pinch of mixed herbs
Squirt of tomato puree
Salt and pepper to taste
Fry the onion in the oil for at least five minutes until soft. Add lentils, water, a pinch of mixed herbs. Simmer until fudgey-looking, then bash with a tattie masher. You want something that is far too thick to be soup. Add tomato puree and salt and pepper, transfer to a nice bowl and leave to cool. (You can posh it up with lemon juice or garam masala, but this is the original and the best.)
Back in the 70s, I was half of an unemployed gay couple passing ourselves off as Just Good Friends and lentil paté was our standard daily breakfast. We rented a run-down, freezing farmhouse in a non-royal corner of Aberdeenshire. It was pre-Thatcher and no one called us scroungers or benefit cheats.
Most of our dole went on cat food, paint and canvas, and puncture repair kits for our battered bikes. The wealthy local farmer dressed his scarecrows in his family’s castoffs and when our clothes were beyond mending, we raided the fields for at least one stylish sweater and a decent pair of corduroys.
But the austerity-breakfasts were the true triumph of ingenuity over convention. While my housemate was outside early in the morning doing “eastern things” (meditation, tai chi, running on the spot to get warm), I was inside wielding an ancient iron frying pan on the only ring that worked, and making chapatis. When cooked, I spread them with butter, tahini, the famous lentil paté and a sprinkle of grated cheese, then yelled, “Ready!”, unspiritually out of the back door.
Served with several mugs of tea, and eaten while wearing lots of jumpers, two pairs of socks, hiking boots, fingerless mitts and usually a scarf, too, this was the finest breakfast imaginable and it kept us going all day. Years later, I morphed into a professional person, bought my own clothes and changed partner. But we still have lentil paté for breakfast every morning – how marmalade and cereals caught on will for ever remain a mystery.
Alison Napier
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