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     While flying my rump off in the 707 – humping the desert – aviating to all manner of Middle Eastern and African shitholes – another birthday slipped past me.  On 16th October, 1981, I turned 39.

      Saudi Desert: photo taken from the 707.

     It’s funny how “old age” creeps up on one.  How does that happen, dear reader?  In addition, while scanning the earth’s surface as I flew the 707, I was learning that the majority of the population, in the Middle East and North Africa, lived in squalid tents, shacks or mud huts.  No roads, schools, hospitals, malls, theaters, discos or TV – encompassed by endless, trackless, vacant desert - quite a surprising culture shock for the “California boy.”

     I was scheduled for ten days off, beginning on the 20^th of October and, by God, I was determined to get my winged-butt up to London for a proper birthday celebration!

     SAUDIA placed me on the General Declaration, listing me as an additional crewmember, so I wouldn’t have to go through the colossal hassle of getting an exit/re-entry visa, or buy a ticket, and I caught a London-bound TriStar out of Jeddah.

     The cabin staff put me up in first class.  A young, attractive British Stewardess knew me from a “Pepsi Party” in Jeddah - so she made sure I rode in comfort - plying me with the delectable first class chow.  SAUDIA was a rich airline that never scrimped on the amenities.

      SAUDIA First Class chow.

     Much unlike the stateside airlines, dear reader, where a burly, over-aged, flight attendant slams a Coke and a bag of peanuts on your tray table – while giving you a dark look that says, “Don’t ever bother me again!”

      British Union Jack.

     City of London.

     London Heathrow Airport.

     I arrived late in the afternoon and checked into the Penta Hotel at Knightsbridge, which gave me a hefty airline discount.

     Sterile lobby of the Penta Hotel.

     Climbing out of my airline uniform (required apparel when “dead-heading”), I shaved and showered.  The dinner hour arrived, and I suddenly got in the mood for “Mexican.”  Slipping on Levi’s, sneakers, a soft, grey wool pullover, plus a tailored, short, brown leather jacket, with matching leather flat cap (similar to old Brit movies – so I won’t be nailed as a “Yank”), I strode out of the hotel and headed for the nearest Mexican joint.

     I had expected it to be pissing with rain, driven by a damp wind out of the North Sea that cuts to the bone - typical English weather.  I’m happy to report my weather prediction was dead wrong.  Miraculously, it was a mild October evening that was actually dry.  And as I hiked down to Gloucester Road, I whistled a show tune – experiencing the strangest sensation - something out of the ordinary was going to ambush me.

     I had visited this establishment once before and easily found it again: the “Texas Lone Star Saloon” - specializing in cold draft beer and Mexican cuisine.

     Upon entering, I hung up my jacket and cap at the coat rack by the door – then selected a table.  An attentive, switched-on, young waitress took my order and brought my first tall lager.  I took a sip – kicked back and relaxed – all was right with the world.

     Happy fucking birthday, dear reader.  This is all part of the “glamorous life” of an international airline pilot – being totally alone in a strange city on important occasions: birthdays, Christmas, New Year’s, anniversaries and the births, or graduations, of one’s children.  Hence few airline marriages can avoid the train wreck of divorce.  Personally, I chose to dodge marriage and kids – enjoying the job and travel instead – plus I hadn’t the heart to leave emotionally crippled kids behind in the wreckage of my wake.  Besides, I was discovering that I did a lot better alone, without all the baggage of guilt and stress, which marriage and family brings.  Life, I have ascertained, is full of trade-offs - I will die alone without ex-wives and children squabbling over my estate – happily, I accept my fate.

     And as these thoughts tumbled through my mind, I took another sip of beer and scanned the diners that surrounded me.  Just then two attractive, Caucasian women entered the restaurant, followed by two boys that appeared preteen.  They took a spacious booth with a window, on a slightly elevated platform.  One of the women riveted me to my seat – I “knew” her.  From my vantage point, I had a clear line of sight and, as I studied her, it was as if I had programmed each mannerism and gesture. 

     I had seen them all before, dear reader, but I’ll be fucked if I could recall from where.  It was her hair – styled like a frizzy Egyptian Afro – that threw me.  It was all wrong.  So I blanked out the hair and concentrated on her face – at which point I was struck by a bolt from the blue!  She was a famous British actress!  Oh boy, dear reader, let’s play my favorite game; “Name That Celebrity.”  We haven’t done this in quite a spell – here are your clues:

     Controversial, perplexing, shocking and outrageous are the adjectives most often used to describe this actress’ life, which has been rocked by success, scandal and disappointment.  She was born at home in Essex - gate crashing a New Year’s Eve party her parents were throwing during the war - and became this sad little girl, with funny hair, who was always trying to stand on her hands – while afflicted with a stammer and dyslexia.  She can still walk on her hands today, and has done so frequently for the amusement of film crews to cut the boredom on a set.

     She is also the great-granddaughter of Prince Francis of Teck (1870–1910) and therefore a second cousin, once removed, of Queen Elizabeth II.  Hence the first volume of her autobiography was entitled: A Right Royal Bastard.

     Prince Francis of Teck.

     Queen Elizabeth II.

     Because of her learning disorders – the stutter and dyslexia – she was expelled from four schools.  So she took the bull by the horns and enrolled at the Royal Academy of Dramatic Art (RADA), in order to cure her stammer - a bold move for a kid of 15. 

     In the process, surprising hell out of her, she discovered she was damned good at acting.  Thus she landed her first film role in 1962, Term of Trial, at 20, featuring Laurence Olivier - winning a BAFTA nomination and Olivier’s heart – becoming his on-again/off-again lover over the following years.

     Then she did The Servant, in 1963, and received another BAFTA nomination – followed by Blowup, in 1966.

     From 1966 to 1969, she did a fair amount of stage work in London, and got married to a famous playwright, who wrote Ryan's Daughter (1970) for her – whereby she earned an Oscar nomination for Best Actress.

      Followed by the controversial  Lady Caroline Lamb (1972).

     Then came the scandalous The Man Who Loved Cat Dancing (1973), when her business manager/lover beat her up, and was ultimately found dead in her motel room.  Although ruled a suicide drug overdose – mystery and controversy still clouds his death.

     Afterwards she did The Sailor Who Fell from Grace with the Sea (1976) - performing nude love scenes and a masturbation scene – cutting edge stuff that got her more controversy and a Golden Globe nomination for Best Actress. 

     Okay, that’s all the clues I’m going to give you, dear reader.  No pulling the wool over your eyes – by now you’ve figured out who this is: Sarah Miles.

     Ryan’s Daughter: Sarah Miles and Christopher Jones.

     As I mentioned before, it was the hair that threw me, for previously I had only been exposed to straight hair in all of her films and publicity stills.

 

     At present I was seeing her real hair – a frizzy Afro - styled in the manner of an Egyptian queen’s wig from antiquity.  Getting over my initial astonishment, I determined it was attractive and suited her.

     My food arrived: a beef taco, cheese enchilada, Caesar salad, rice and beans.  It was a close facsimile – in no way matching California-Mexican fair.  Shortly thereafter the food for Sarah Miles’ party also arrived.

     Upon finishing my meal, I asked for coffee, and also requested both my bill, and Sarah Miles’ bill.  When they arrived, I paid me pounds in cash, and gave the waitress my SAUDIA business card, with a note on the back expressing thanks for all the remarkable films Ms. Miles had provided for my entertainment.

     I had no desire to infringe on her dinner party.  Observing my ex-father-in-law, Clint Walker, being harassed by fans taught me this courtesy: allow celebrities their privacy.  I generously tipped the waitress to deliver my card.

     Eventually I polished off the coffee – it was time to leave.  I wanted to catch the “tube” and head for Leicester Square – seeking a bit of birthday action at the clubs in Soho.

     I stood and walked over to retrieve my cap and jacket by the door.  Placing the cap on my head - I slipped an arm inside my jacket – as I gave Sarah Miles a parting glance.  My waitress was there having a discussion with Ms. Miles – handing Miles my business card.  She flipped it over and read the note on the back – then queried my waitress – who turned and pointed at me.  Spotting me about to leave – Sarah Miles motioned for me to join her.  Hanging up my jacket and cap – I did exactly that.

     Sitting down next to her in the booth, we shook hands in greeting, and she immediately thanked me for dinner – telling me it had been a very long spell since someone had done this.  I could tell she was genuinely appreciative – if not quite surprised. 

     The other lady and the two boys had already vacated the booth – opting for the room in back with the computer games.  For the next two hours we were alone and had a surprisingly pleasant conversation.  In the process, I learned some fascinating details regarding the fabulous Ms. Miles current situation.

     Let’s hit “pause,” dear reader.  You’re no doubt wondering why a famous, “notorious” film star would possibly open up to a ragged-assed airline pilot.  Looking back, I think it was on account of my stutter.  Having suffered this affliction herself – I believe caused her barriers to be lowered – coupled with the fact she possessed one of the kindest souls I’d ever encountered.

     People who have suffered stuttering can spot a fellow stutterer right off.  No matter how artfully one attempts to hide the affliction - with various breathing and word tricks - having used the tricks themselves, ex-stutterers easily detect them.

     I happened to cross paths with Sarah, when she was “treading water.”  She and her first husband, the famous writer Robert Bolt, had split up in the mid-seventies.  Following this, while struggling on his script, Mutiny on the Bounty, in Bora Bora with demanding Producer/Director David Lean, the pressure got to Bolt and he suffered a mild heart attack.  Lean ordered him to L.A. for treatment.  Apparently it was Bolt’s wake up call, for after he arrived, on 10th April, 1979, Bolt paid a visit to Sarah who was living with a friend at Venice Beach.  Happening to take a sunset walk on the beach - Bolt proposed they get back together – Sarah agreed. 

     Venice Beach, California.

     Two days later Bolt suffered a major heart attack – prompting a triple bypass at a Santa Monica Hospital.  Though the operation was a success - while in ICU with nobody watching him - in the middle of the night Bolt attempted to get out of bed.  He fell - smacking his head - resulting in a massive stroke that paralyzed him.

     Sarah told me that, when hammering away on a script, Bolt practically lived on “chip sandwiches” (bread and butter with french fries and ketchup).  She claimed, “At one point God put out his finger and said, ‘Enough’.”

     The fabulous British “chipbutty.”

     The stroke, unfortunately, caused him to forget his promise to get them back together again.

     So Sarah returned to England and got herself ensconced in a small, two-room, sterile Mayfair flat, she called her “Bolt-hole.”  While she tread water – waiting for Bolt’s condition to improve – hoping he’d remember his Venice Beach promise.  It was a tough period for her.

     In the middle of our conversation her son, Thomas Bolt, returned to the booth to check up on “Ma,” and this strange man she was conversing with.  Sarah had nicknamed him “Tomcat,” and today he turned 13.  For a birthday treat he had asked “Ma” to dine at the Texas Lone Star Saloon, as he and his mate could play computer games in the back room.  Tomcat was slightly built and handsome, with shaggy-blonde, curly hair, pierced ears and tattoos on his arms.  Evidently he fancied himself a “rockabilly,” bearing heavy chains and boots.

     That, dear reader, wasn’t what disturbed me.  It was this kids eyes; they were the coldest, hardest blue I had ever confronted.  Inciting me to know - in a deep, dark recess of my heart – this child was on the cusp of putting his mother through hell.

     I glanced from Tomcat to Sarah – it was as if she read my mind.  Sarah sighed and shrugged – then said, “My son and heir.”

     True to my gut instinct, Tomcat went on to become a full-blown heroin addict – stealing items and forging checks to support his habit.  In the process Sarah never gave up on him. Even when he was in jail, had escaped from five different rehab centers, and was living rough on the streets - proved Sarah Miles capacity for love and self-sacrifice to be amazingly boundless.  Over the years, because “Ma” stood by him, Tom Bolt grew up, stayed clean, and became a successful antique watch dealer.  Go figure.

     Sarah and “Tomcat.”

     While Sarah was “treading water” in her Mayfair “Bolt-hole,” she regularly visited and cared for Robert Bolt.  Despite his right side being paralyzed, he was making improvement and attempting to write.  However, Sarah told me that although the brilliance was there – he was getting things back-to-front.  So she had suggested that Bolt get a “nuts-and-bolts man,” to follow behind and straighten out his work.  Obviously it clicked, for Bolt went on to write The Mission (1986) which, in my humble opinion, ranked right up there with his Lawrence of Arabia (1962), Doctor Zhivago (1965), A Man For All Seasons (1966) and Ryan’s Daughter (1970).

   

     At length Miles and Bolt got back together and were married (again) in 1988.  In spite of all his physical obstacles and traumas, Sarah lovingly took care of him right up to his death in 1995.  Perhaps that’s why he’s quoted as saying: “I would be dead without her.  When she's away, my life takes a nosedive.  When she returns, my life soars.”  As per his request he was buried in their garden at Chithurst Manor.  Sarah has photographic proof of Bolt haunting that garden - plainly he still loves keeping her company.

      Robert Bolt and Sarah Miles.

     The woman I met that evening at the Texas Lone Star Saloon was far from “controversial, perplexing, shocking and outrageous.”  For an exceedingly brief two hours, she did me the courtesy of lifting that “media veil” - allowing me a privileged glimpse of the genuine Sarah Miles; a truly down to earth person full of love and hope for humanity.

     Sarah Miles’ napkin, autograph and Mayfair address. For awhile we corresponded. 

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