Sir John Mills - How to keep love alive

Sir John Mills, actor, was born on 22 February 1908 and died on 23 April 2005. Over the years I was lucky enough to interview him a number of times and his brilliant actress daughter, Hayley, is a special friend. For a proper portrait of her parents, I recommend Hayley’s recent autobiography, Forever Young. What follows is simply my account of my last encounter with Sir John - in January 2001, when he and his wife, Mary Hayley Bell (1912 - 2005), marked their sixtieth wedding anniversary with a renewal of their marriage vows.

‘She wouldn’t use the wheelchair. She got to her feet. She absolutely insisted. Sixty years on, arm in arm, hand in hand, we walked down the aisle together as the wedding march played and the congregation stood and applauded. I was so proud of Mary. It was the happiest day of my life and my life has been full of happy days.’

On Tuesday last, 16 January 2001, John Mills, actor (Great Expectations, Ice Cold in Alex, Ryan’s Daughter), and Mary Hayley Bell, writer (Duet for Two Hands, Whistle Down the Wind), celebrated their diamond wedding by renewing their marriage vows at a special service in their village church.

Twenty-four hours later I have come to take tea with Sir John, to hear all about the great day and to discover - I hope - the secret of keeping love alive across six decades.

Sir John will be 93 next month. He is a little bent and virtually blind, but ‘otherwise sound’. ‘I have nothing to complain of,’ he says lightly, ‘nothing.’ He is small, spry, beautifully groomed, softly spoken, and bubbling over with enthusiasm: Richard Attenborough without the schmaltz. ‘Look, a telegram from the Queen Mother, bless her, and, this morning, a card from the Queen. Isn’t that wonderful?’

We are sitting in the drawing room at Hills House, the Mills’ family home in Denham Village, Bucks. The decor and furnishings have the feel of a smart West End comedy of the 1950s. Sir John’s Oscar is tucked discreetly behind the door. The Noel Coward Song Book is open on the grand piano. Around the room, everywhere you look, are portraits of familiar faces of a certain vintage - Vivien Leigh, Laurence Olivier, David Niven, Earl Mountbatten of Burma - with one image predominating. All told, in the one room, I count forty-three different pictures of Lady Mills. ‘I am madly in love with her, you see,’ says Sir John, with affecting simplicity. ‘And yesterday morning, when I took in her breakfast tray I had put a carnation on it, and she looked up at me and said - clear as a bell - “I absolutely adore you”, so it seems she’s still got a soft spot for me too.’

As we speak, Lady Mills is across the hallway, in the TV room with one of her carers, being prepared for the photograph. She is 89 and suffering from Alzheimer’s Disease. Sir John calls it ‘a touch of dementia’, but insists, ‘We don’t let it get in the way.’ When she is brought in to join us I squeeze her hand and she gazes at me vacantly. As her husband helps ease her into her chair, she holds on to him - clings to him - and when he puts his face into hers suddenly she breaks into a sweet and brilliant smile and kisses him. He kisses her and gently strokes her hair as the photographer snaps away. The flashlight disturbs her. She isn’t enjoying this. She whimpers and turns away. ‘I think that’s enough pictures,’ says Sir John, cradling his wife’s head in his arms. ‘We mustn’t tire her. She’s had quite a week.’ As the carer leads Lady Mills away, Sir John calls after her, ‘I won’t be long, my sweet. It’s nearly time for Happy Hour.’

‘What’s Happy Hour?’ I ask.

‘Our evening drink. Mary has a Horse’s Neck - a tot of brandy, a slice of lemon, and ginger ale - and I have a Low Flyer, a Famous Grouse and water. We raise our glasses to each other and I give her the news of the day. It’s one of the ways we keep the marriage fresh. At our age, it’s important to live in the here and now and not get locked in the past. You won’t have noticed, but we’re neither of us as young as we were. That’s why I decided we should have the service. I thought, “I’ve been promising Mary a proper wedding for years. If I don’t get on with it, it’ll be too late.” It was exciting and very moving. We sang “Lead us Heavenly Father, lead us” and “All Things Bright and Beautiful”. I gave Mary an aquamarine ring and she gave me a simple, gold wedding band. I absolutely love it.’

Sir John slips the ring off his finger and shows it to me with pride. ‘Isn’t it lovely?’

‘Was she able to choose it?’ I ask.

‘No.’ He smiles. ‘I went into the village and bought it, but I got the one I’m sure she would have chosen.’

What does he recall of their original wedding on 16 January 1941?

‘Not a lot. It was at Marylebone Register Office. The war was on. I was in the Royal Engineers. I got forty-eight hours leave. It was all very rushed. Our honeymoon was one night in Duke’s Hotel in Jermyn Street. I don’t remember much about it.’ He leans towards me and puts out his hand to make sure I’m still there. ‘I’ll let you into a little secret, Gyles. It wasn’t the first time we’d been to bed together. That happened a year or so before, on a wonderful Sunday in late September 1939. We’d been for a drive in the Surrey hills and ended up at a pub called The Boy and Donkey. Bed and breakfast, £ 1. Now that was a night to remember.’

Sir John has been happily married for longer than anyone I know. How has he done it? Are there rules we can all follow?

‘Yes, definitely. The first rule is keep it romantic. Flowers, candle-lit suppers, surprise presents - you need all of that, year in, year out. You’ve got to work at it. I tell Mary I love her at every opportunity. If we’re at a dinner and we’re seated apart, I always send a note down the table for her.

‘Next rule: never let disagreements turn into rows. Nowadays people seem to think it’s a good idea to clear the air with a row. It isn’t. You can say hurtful things in the heat of argument. Don’t. If ever Mary and I had a tiff, before we went to sleep I would always say, “It’s my fault” - even though I knew it wasn’t. Never let the sun set on your wrath and avoid silences at all costs. You’ve got to keep talking.

‘And you’ve got to be friends as well as lovers. I remember saying to Mary, even before we were married, “I would rather drive across France with you than anyone else in the world - even if there wasn’t bed at the end of it.” We’ve always been good companions and we’ve never been apart. Separation is dangerous. Two or three years ago I was at a film festival in Spain and I was having dinner with Stephen Fry who was there and he said, “Where’s Mary?” And I realised it was the first time in fifty-seven years that I’d been abroad without her. Of course, I was very lucky because when we got married, Mary gave up the stage and became a writer. That meant we could always be together. Some of our happiest times have been on location. Next month, for our second honeymoon, we’re off to the Rock Hotel in Gibraltar. We spent a very happy three weeks there when I made I Was Monty’s Double.’

‘What about infidelity?’

Sir John pauses and takes a sip of water. ‘Ah, yes. This is a tricky one. Right at the beginning Mary and I sat down and had a long talk about this. And we agreed, “If either of us does slip up in that department, we won’t say a word to anyone, let alone each other.” I tell you, Gyles, it’s absolutely fatal to go round thinking “I must unburden myself, I must explain what happened, I must tell her the truth.” Just keep quiet and move on, that’s the rule. So we’re both pretty certain it’s been all right, but neither of us knows for sure.’

He leans forward again and confides in a conspiratorial whisper, ‘What I do know is that you should never boast about past conquests. I remember once, in the very early days, we were having dinner at a restaurant in Soho and the wine - it was a very good wine - was flowing and Mary said to me, “You’ve worked with some pretty attractive leading ladies in your time. You’re a full-blooded man. Were you ever tempted?” And, like a fool, I told her who one of them had been. And then I had a few more glasses of wine and named three more. Well, not long afterwards we were walking down Shaftesbury Avenue, when who should we see on the other side of the street but one of these girls. Without thinking, I gave her a friendly wave and, as I did so, Mary gave me a terrible hack on the shins. I learnt my lesson.

‘The truth is that I don’t think you can be madly in love without being jealous. Even now, at a party, if I see Mary with a very attractive man I get into a terrible state.’

Given the example he and Mary have set, can he explain why his own children (Juliet, Jonathan and Hayley) haven’t been so lucky in love? ‘Oh, they’re all happy now, thank God. Yes, they’ve had one or two unlucky experiences along the way, but getting your first marriage right isn’t easy. My first marriage was a wash-out. I was nineteen, far too young. We began to grow apart almost from the start.’

I ask (because I haven’t found it in any of the reference books), ‘What was your first wife’s name?’

For the first time in our conversation, Sir John looks anxious. He is reluctant to answer. Eventually he says, very quickly and quietly, ‘Aileen Raymond. She was a lovely girl. She’s still alive. She made a good second marriage to a chap called Ogilvy [brother of the advertising man, David, and father of the actor, Ian]. I’m telling you, Gyles, because you’ve asked, and you’re a friend, and I have to be honest with you, but you won’t make a big thing of this, will you? Please. I don’t want to hurt Mary.’

We move back to safer territory. ‘What does the future hold?’

‘Well, I’m rather busy.’ He gives a little chuckle. ‘I’ve got an autobiographical video coming out for my birthday and I’ve been asked to do a new television series: Raffles with Nigel Havers. I haven’t signed yet, but I think I might do it. It’s rather an amusing part.’

‘And Mary?’

‘We’re very, very lucky. We’re not rich, but we are able to afford wonderful carers for Mary, round the clock. A while ago, she had to go into a home for a week while we had the stairlift installed here. I couldn’t bear it. I’m lost without her. We need to be together.’

He seems so alive, so rooted in the present, that I wonder if he ever thinks about dying.

‘Yes,’ he says slowly, ‘but I don’t call it dying. When someone passes away, I say they’ve “taken off” or “gone ahead”. I say that not through fear, I promise you, but because I believe it. There’s a marvellous book called The Bewildered Man’s Guide to Death by a chap called Tester. Juliet put it on tape for me. It’s about people who have died for a few minutes, or hours even, and then recovered and told their stories. It’s a most comforting book. I am going to take a copy for Judi [Dench] when I go to Michael [Williams]’s funeral. I think it will help her. I thought a lot about Michael and Judi yesterday.

‘Mary used to say the body is just an overcoat. The day will come when we’ve no more use for it. The body dies, but the spirit goes on. Of that I’m certain. One day, Mary and I will leave this world, but we’ll be reunited in the next. Mary and I will be together always. Always. Now I’ve found her I’m not going to let her go.’