The South Bank in London has provided the setting of many epic episodes in my life. It started in 1951, when, as a teenager who had been through the ugliness of war and the bleak years after, I was suddenly blown away by beauty, imagination, and joy during the Festival of Britain.
Heaven knows how our bankrupt, bombed nation conjured up such a countrywide display of culture and creativity on the banks of the Thames, but as prime minister Clement Atlee put it: “We shall show we are not just a nation of shopkeepers, but are people who appreciate and practise the arts.” The nation rallied after years of misery, uniting to build a better world. It’s a pity we don’t do the same now.
When the festival was over, the angry Tory government tore it all down, and destroyed it, but the Royal Festival Hall remained, and from it other art establishments grew, transforming a dockland bomb site into a centre of culture. I’ve visited and worked along the South Bank throughout my career and have a particularly treasured personal memory of the Royal Festival Hall. My husband, John, always envied that I appeared in musicals. When the offer came for him to do a concert performance of a musical version of Peter Pan, he was ecstatic. He loved every minute. No subtle film performance this, but a full blast, theatrical, barnstorming Captain Hook. As the narrator, I watched him give the performance of his life. It was as if he knew it was his last. He died of cancer a few months later.
Arriving at this riverside strip, I always feel a frisson of excitement. And fear. I worked at the National Theatre for a year, overawed that someone who once played Senna Pod, wife of Hengist Pod, inventor of the wheel, in Carry on Cleo, was daring to tread those hallowed boards in Chekhov… let alone direct. A woman directing anywhere in the 80s was rare, but in a vast auditorium like the Olivier? Unheard of.
‘I wondered if they might be interested in my addition of Marmite. Perhaps not’: Brussels sprout rarebit
On a recent visit to cheer up a lovelorn grandchild, as we sat in the stalls waiting for the show to start, I told her how, 40 years before, I had sat shaking in the very same seat, my voice thin and wobbly, as I used a megaphone to issue orders to stage staff and actors whilst running a technical rehearsal.
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Mollie and I had come to cheer ourselves up by seeing a performance of the uplifting festive family show Ballet Shoes, and having a nice meal on-site at Forza Wine – an outpost of the (I’m told) ever-popular rooftop restaurant in Peckham. I’d booked a table for a post-show meal, but I was rather apprehensive as curtain call approached.
This wasn’t my first attempt to dine at Forza. On the first occasion, after a production of Hamlet, I’d struggled to even find the restaurant, only to be told when I arrived that the kitchen was closed, despite our confirmed reservation. They’d offered me some conciliatory salad, which was rather good, but it felt ludicrous that at our national theatre you could not get something to eat after curtain down.
Forty years earlier I’d used a megaphone to direct actors from the same seats
The second time I was due to dine there I had to cancel, because I caught bloody Covid.
By the third attempt I had learned that, concealed in a corner on the National’s ground floor is a glass lift taking you straight to the restaurant, which few people seem to know about. The quest to find the restaurant is rewarded by a beautiful dining room with sensational views through large windows over the ancient river. In summer, the terrace beyond is often packed, though indoors this midweek evening only one other table is occupied. Apparently people mainly dine before the show, which might account for the increase in dozing audience members I’ve noticed of late.
The colourful, sharing-plate menu injects some excitement. Cime di rapa, anchovy and pangrattato, for instance; chicory and gorgonzola al forno, or January king cabbage, pancetta and chestnuts. Some of the words I recognised. Our enthusiastic young waiter offered up his advice. The plates he chose for us, despite their fancy names, were in fact rather homely and comforting.
First to arrive was a brussels sprout rarebit – their hearty, wintery take on cheese on toast. I was on safe ground here, it being one of the few things I can cook myself. It was tasty, though I wondered if they might be interested in my addition of Marmite. Perhaps not.
‘Injects some excitement’: cime di Rapa, anchovy and pangrattato
Next, deep-fried spuds and chianti vinegar: perfectly cooked, crispy whole small potatoes in their jackets, and a plate of moreish cauliflower fritti with aioli, the humble vegetable fried in a seasoned batter and served with a dollop of French mayonnaise.
By this stage, we felt guilty for keeping the staff from their homes. It was a relief when the last dish arrived – sea bream, puntarelle (a variety of chicory), citrus and fennel, which I would have relished if I had not felt a self-inflicted obligation to gobble it up rapidly.
Frankly, the items we chose could well have been served up normally as one lovely large dish, but I suspect I’ll never grasp the small-plates routine. We both ordered a glass of Beaujolais, chosen by our youngster: Le Tout Nouveau, smooth and fragrant, despite being guzzled in haste. Only one, however, with a drive home ahead of me. Not that we had much option – by the time we’d settled up, the place was dead. As was the theatre itself.
‘I would have relished it if I had not felt a self-inflicted obligation to gobble it up rapidly’: sea bream, puntarelle, citrus and fennel
When we went in search of my car, the secret lift took us back to the ground floor, which was completely, rather sinisterly, deserted at 11pm. Another lift took us down to the underground car park, which was already locked and bolted. Back on the ground floor, our voices echoed as we shouted for help. Eventually a rather sad caretaker let us out.
The National may be in the grip of a change of attitude to leisure. The West End is also quieter at night. It can be quite difficult to find somewhere to eat after seeing a show, to linger over a drink and discuss what you’ve just witnessed. Do I have to accept that we simply don’t stay up late any more? Some 70 years ago I remember dancing the night away on the South Bank. With my 93rd birthday looming I am damned if I’m to spend what time I have left getting an early night.
Forza Wine, 2 Royal National Theatre, Upper Ground, London SE1 9PX (forzawine.com). Starters from £4, desserts from £9, wine from £42