LEONARD ROSSITER, MY FATHER

To the public, he was Reggie Perrin and Rigsby–and still is, long after his death, with repeats continuing and remakes planned. To Camilla Rossiter, he was just Dad ...

From INTELLIGENT LIFE Magazine, Spring 2009

I can’t remember a time when my father wasn’t famous. In the days of just three television channels, he was on one side as Rigsby and on the other as Reggie Perrin for most of the 1970s. Even now, 24 years after his death the chances are that one of them will be showing an episode of “Rising Damp”.

When I was very young I assumed that everyone’s father must be on television. Only as I got older did I understand that mine was different and grasp just how well-known he was. I realised that to other people he was such a familiar face from their living rooms that they felt they knew him. When we were out and about, total strangers would often just walk up to him and start chatting. He wasn’t simply my dad—he was also public property.

At primary school, I would be asked for his autograph by other children, and occasionally by the teachers. He had a supply of glossy black-and-white photos that he would dutifully sign for me to distribute the following day. The picture was of Dad looking rather jovial and wearing a cravat. If my schoolmates were puzzled that they didn’t get one of Rigsby in his moth-eaten cardigan, they never showed it.

A question I’m often asked is “Was your dad funny at home?” Well, he wasn’t a comedian like Tommy Cooper or Eric Morecambe—both of whom, in one of those odd quirks of fate, died the same year as my dad. Rather he was an actor who is chiefly remembered for two comedy performances. So, no, he wasn’t “funny” in the sense of cracking jokes over the breakfast table.

But he was tremendous fun. Dad was a highly sociable man with a huge enjoyment of life. My mother, Gillian Raine, is an actress, and they had a wide circle of friends in the business. Some of my strongest childhood memories centre on the raucous dinner parties my parents threw. Like most only children, I was comfortable in the company of adults and would happily stay up and join in the conversation. As well as theatrical stories and charades, there would often be political arguments. Dad was a staunch Conservative whereas most of his friends were firmly Labour, which led to heated but good-natured rows, usually fuelled by vintage wine.

Dad was a wine connoisseur. He was introduced to the subject by his dear friend John Barron, who played CJ, the boss from hell in “Reggie Perrin”. Dad went as far as having a temperature-controlled cellar constructed in our house in Fulham for the cases of wine he would buy from Christie’s and Sotheby’s. But it was a cellar with a difference: it was in the attic, which was the only place we could fit it in.

It was very narrow with racks on either side to hold the bottles. This meant that the only person small (and sober) enough to get down the far end, to the really good stuff, was me. Dad loved Dickens, so I was nicknamed “the Artful Dodger”. For me, part of the fun of dinner parties was waiting for Dad to launch into his best Fagin performance and announce to the guests that he needed to “send for the Dodger!” I would then proudly retrieve whatever was required from the far reaches of the cellar and emerge to loud applause.

Another interest was chess. Neither Mum nor I played, so Dad bought himself an electronic chess game, about the size of a modern laptop. He pitted himself against the computer, which soon became the bane of his life. Whenever it won, it would trill “I win, I win, I win” while flashing green lights at him. To his great delight, he finally beat it and ran up and down the stairs shouting in triumph. The machine, rather sulkily, emitted just one “You win” and switched itself off.

Less successful was Dad’s attempt to master the piano. One year he expressed a desire to learn and for Christmas, my mum bought a piano and arranged a tutor. His first lesson was to focus on the basics. The tutor sat Dad down at the keys, hit a note and said “Len, this is middle C”. Dad just looked at him and said, “Why?” There really is no answer to that. Whatever the tutor’s explanation, it failed to satisfy Dad. He simply could not accept that a random note was called middle C. Perhaps the perceived lack of logic put him off. The piano sat in our living room for years afterwards and Dad never progressed beyond middle C.

Once a subject had captivated him, Dad had an immense capacity for absorbing information. With wine, he started from scratch and made himself an expert. He had a similar gift for languages and was fluent in both French and German. But the piano failed to grab him, so he simply didn’t bother. This all-or-nothing attitude probably explains his reputation for being difficult to work with. I have no doubt he could be very difficult, but not for the reasons people might assume. He wasn’t interested in throwing his weight around because he was the star. There was no prima-donna side to him. But the one thing he demanded was that those he worked with should always give 100%. He set himself incredibly high standards and expected no less from everyone else. He was an absolute perfectionist.

To Dad, actors had a clear duty to the audience, whether on stage or screen, to perform to their very best. He considered those who were lazy or just coasted to be letting the public down. In his eyes, if you weren’t going to bother to work your hardest or the audience could see the wheels turning, you had no business being in the profession. You were no better than an amateur—one of the worst things he could say about anybody.

This intensity arose directly from the path he had taken into acting. Dad didn’t drift into being an actor: it had been a deliberate and risky choice. His family had no background in the entertainment business, unless you count the claim that my grandfather, a barber and part-time bookie, used to play cards with George Formby. They were never well-off, and money got even tighter after my grandfather was killed in an air-raid on Liverpool. Dad had been offered a place at university to study languages but instead, to support his mother, he took a secure job as an insurance salesman. He spoke later about how mind-numbingly boring he found it. I think he must have drawn on that time when he played Reggie Perrin. He knew how monotonous a nine-to-five existence could be. I’m sure that’s why he captured Reggie’s frustrations so accurately—he knew it was the life he might have been trapped in.

His escape from insurance came via a local amateur dramatic group. His girlfriend at the time was in the company and, arriving early one evening to meet her, he watched them rehearse. Not overly impressed, he declared that he could do far better and decided to become an actor.

I’m in awe of the determination and self-belief he must have had to take that plunge. Acting was a precarious profession and the safe option would have been to stick with insurance. Perhaps he just knew it was what he was meant to do.

Dad’s training came from the weekly repertory system which dominated provincial theatre in the 1950s. The discipline required of actors in rep was extraordinary. Every week you would learn your lines for one play, while rehearsing another play in the afternoon and performing a third play in the evening. And you did that each and every week for months on end. Dad maintained it was the intensive demands of rep that taught him the craft of acting.

So, by the time he was starring on television in the 1970s, he hadn’t sprung from nowhere. He had worked relentlessly for 20 years before he achieved public recognition. As a very private man, he was never that comfortable with the attention. However, he did relish the fact that he had made a success of his career—and he had no false modesty about it. One evening, he and my mother were due at a friend’s first night. They were running late so, as they reached the theatre, rather than stop and oblige the autograph hunters, Dad hurried past, apologising. One woman took great exception and yelled after him, “We put you where you are today, you know!” Dad wheeled round and marched back, retorting: “Oh believe me, you didn’t—I put me where I am today.”

Normally he was very good with autograph hunters—even in odd circumstances. One day at the seaside, a lady approached us, shoved a loaf of bread under his nose and muttered “Sign that!” He was so nonplussed that he obliged. We always wondered whether she ate the bread or saved it.

Dad wasn’t one of those actors who could walk down the street and not be recognised: his face was just too distinctive. After he had made the hugely popular Cinzano adverts, barmen would often greet him with the words “Evening, Mr Rossiter—I expect you’ll have a Martini!” This demonstration of the futility of advertising greatly amused him.

But of course it was as Rigsby that most people thought of him. This recognition would even extend to Mum and me. Our favourite was the lady on a number 14 bus who, after staring at my mum for a while, nudged her friend. “Look who it is”, she hissed triumphantly, “Mrs Damp!”

Dad would get annoyed when people treated him as if he actually was Rigsby. Anyone who tried asking for Rigsby’s signature got short shrift—although he did enjoy exchanging friendly insults with the taxi drivers who pursued him down the Fulham Road offering imaginative suggestions regarding Miss Jones.

Now there is talk of television companies remaking both “Rising Damp” and “Reggie Perrin”. I don’t see the point—why not have the imagination to create something new? It’s not the same as adapting a classic novel in which characters already have an existence beyond the screen. The characters from those two series were so much a creation of the original cast that I think anyone trying to recreate them will be on to a loser from the start.

Dad’s unique quality was to harness the manic energy he possessed and use it to breathe life into his performances. Outside work this energy was channelled into sport. He followed cricket and football fanatically throughout his life—an England Test victory or a win for Everton would delight him. When England won the World Cup, he and my mum leapt about in such joyous celebration that they brought down the ceiling light in the flat below.

Dad was a good enough footballer and cricketer to have had professional trials. In sport, as in everything, he had to perform brilliantly. He played in charity cricket matches and was furious when he was dismissed. He joined the Chelsea Casuals, a mix of actors and writers who would play football in Hyde Park at the weekend. One opposing team included the waiters from Dad’s favourite Italian restaurant. If he had a table booked for later, it would always give him an extra edge on the pitch. But the sport he loved above all was squash. It’s a demanding game both physically and mentally, and Dad was obsessive about it, playing up to three times a day. As usual, from being a beginner, he was soon considered so good that he could have turned professional.

Comfortingly, he wasn’t talented at all sports. On holiday in the South of France he tried windsurfing, with dismal results. I would dutifully sit on the sand and watch him try and stay upright. Eventually he admitted defeat and stomped back up the beach. He was in a foul mood for the rest of the day.

Our family holidays had to be taken at resorts where there were sports facilities; the idea of sitting in the sun for two weeks would have driven him mad. The other factor behind our choices was Dad’s fear of flying. For years he simply refused to get on a plane, so we had to go somewhere that could be reached by ferry or rail. Eventually, Mum persuaded him to fly so we didn’t spend most of the trip on a train. To his great credit, he was prepared to confront his fear for our sakes, but he never relaxed. As we came in to land at Heathrow, he would break out in a cold sweat and grip the armrest between us until his knuckles were white. I remember being amazed that my father could be scared of anything.

At home, Dad could be strict, particularly where homework was concerned, but overall I remember him as a fun father. He was immensely proud that I could read by the age of two and a half and would boast about it to all and sundry. He would happily spend time telling me stories or playing games. Of course he still hated to lose; even Monopoly would bring out his competitive streak. If I beat him at cards or a word game, he was torn between being annoyed at himself for losing and proud of me beating him.

As a family we went to the theatre and cinema a great deal, but Dad also loved watching classic films on television. This was in the very early days of video, so whenever something good was on, he would make quite an event out of recording it for our collection. The concept of being able to get more or less any film you want on DVD would have thrilled him.

Even today, some of my favourite films are the ones he introduced me to. We watched “Some Like It Hot” together so often that I could recite the script by heart. Dad adored the Marx Brothers and Jacques Tati, but he never warmed to Charlie Chaplin. Most of all, he enjoyed films with a sardonic humour to them. “Kind Hearts and Coronets”, “The League of Gentlemen” and “The Lavender Hill Mob”, films in which the villains very nearly get away with their crimes, were three of his absolute favourites.

He was brilliant at bringing any play or book to life at home. When I was reading “The Merchant of Venice” for school, he came and sat next to me on the sofa. Suddenly he began to act out the scene where Shylock demands his pound of flesh. He leant in close to me and, using a pen as an imaginary knife, began to make little slicing movements. I fled shrieking to the kitchen in thrilled terror, leaving Dad roaring with laughter.

He had become a father relatively late in life: he was 45 when I was born. I know he enjoyed the fun side of being a parent but he was also very protective. Once my primary school was making a trip to Hastings. At the time there had been several crashes involving school coaches, so Dad refused to let me travel in the coach with the rest of my class. Instead he drove me all the way to Hastings, waited in the car while we trooped round learning about William the Conqueror, and drove me all the way back home. Of course, I was deeply embarrassed. But looking back now, I can see that he did it because he cared so much about me. On the first night of “Loot” in 1984, I remember sitting with Mum in the royal box. At the curtain, Dad had arranged for the whole cast to turn and bow to us. Again, I can appreciate now what a sweet gesture it was, but at the time I wanted to disappear.

One evening soon afterwards, he walked all the way into the West End as usual. Mum and I were at home when we got a call from the theatre. He’d missed his cue, so they’d broken down his dressing-room door, to find him unconscious. Mum rushed to the hospital where he’d been taken—at the time he was technically still alive. She wisely got my godfather to come round and sit with me, knowing it wouldn’t be long before the press heard what had happened and tried calling our house. The doctors tried to revive Dad, but he was pronounced dead at the hospital.

A journalist called at the hospital and tried to get to my mum by pretending to be the producer of “Loot”. Mum, knowing full well that the producer would be back at the theatre comforting the cast, refused. The hospital staff smuggled her out of the back to avoid the waiting press. It angers me even now that she was put through that at such a traumatic time.

His death, at the age of 57, was caused by something called cardiomyopathy, which is a disease of the heart muscles. It often affects young athletes or those who, like Dad, are extremely fit. Apparently it was something he was born with and it could have struck when he was eight or 80.

Awful and shocking as his death was for us, I now think it was the way he might have chosen to go. I’m relieved he wasn’t ill or in pain over a long period: Mum and I often say he would have made a terrible patient. Had he been told he would die in a theatre, during the run of a hit show, I think he would have taken that.

I was only 12 when he died and I deeply regret that we never had the chance to get to know each other as grown-ups. I’m very lucky to have such a wonderful relationship and friendship with my mother, and I hope I would have had the same with Dad. I miss the conversations, laughter and arguments that we never got to share. Trivial things remind me of his loss. I can watch a film or read a book and find myself wondering if Dad would have liked it. Or it can be something more emotional: I would have loved it if he could have been with me on my wedding day.

Of course, I’m luckier than most people who lose a father. I can see or hear him whenever I want simply by switching on the television. And although it’s not like having him back, it is the next best thing. When people discover that I’m Leonard Rossiter’s daughter, they usually tell me how greatly he’s missed. I’m always touched to know how fondly he’s remembered after so long. Above all, I’m very proud that he was my father.

Picture Credit: Getty

(Camilla Rossiter is a former journalist now working in health-services administration.)