Catharsis [this could be quite long]

I don't know how you react when you learn someone you care about has died. I was with a couple of friends in the pub, both of whom knew of Rich, but neither knew him well. I had a phone call, it was Jan, she told me what had happened. I don't think I really reacted. I said something like "Right, I see. Thank you for telling me". There didn't seem anything else left to say. The other two were chatting away, and my brain simply wasn't engaged anymore. They noticed my silence, and asked what was wrong. I told them. I don't do "breaking news" extremely well, although it gets better after a bit of practice. It always helps if I start out with people who didn't know the deceased very well though. "Rich is dead" I told them.

I had found out just days before that Rich had cancer, that it was through his liver; my brain had instantly told me that there wasn't much hope for him. But we'd all thought that he'd have months to go, that we'd go and see him, see how he was coping. Even so, it was a fore-warning that not everyone had. I rang Jan back, and told her I'd help ring around people. I went home, and rang as many people as I could think of, holding my emotions in check, by doing this thing that I felt needed to be done. I facebooked one person, and asked if he'd ring me. We hadn't spoken in maybe a couple of years, yet as I picked up my phone, he said "It's Rich, isn't it?". Who else would I have rang about?

Rich is just one of those amazing people. It has been an absolute pleasure to know him, and now I'm selfishly devastated that I didn't get longer with him to know him better.

I first met him after a friend persuaded me to audition for Much Ado About Nothing. I think there was some workshop about it (I didn't understand workshops much at the time) but I remember Rich coming over and asking what I'd done before. I now know that his love of theatre extended to his mannerisms around the thesps... he'd deliberately drawl, enjoying the sound of rounding vowels from his lips. "Sooo... have you done much acting before?" he asked. However, he also rounded on my boyfriend. "No. I'm not acting". Matt was very clear about this. I got cast in the play as good Ursula, one of Hero's maids. By the end of the play, Matt was a key comedy role, playing the "large" in a Little-and-Large duo with Terry, that Rich had somehow incorporated. I still don't know how Rich managed to get him involved, but he had a charm of his own.

Over the 6 years I've been acting with Mask, Rich has cast me in all his plays, and I've taken minor roles with as much stoicism as I can muster. I know very well that when it comes to Shakespeare, for the ladies, there are very few principal characters, and therefore, getting through the audition says two things: Rich likes my acting, and he can work with me. Two brilliant compliments to me, from Rich. Again and again, he'd tell me how important it is to have good actors playing minor characters, because it can make or break the fluidity of the play. But really, the joy of being around Rich was reward in itself. How you'd let him tell you stories you'd heard again and again, because you liked to hear him tell them; how he could make almost any Shakespearean line into some form of innuendo; how he flirted outrageously with his entire cast; how, even when he lost his temper, he did it with such style we almost felt honoured. But when he was in the pub and he'd get a roguish expression on his face, you'd cherish the moment of sharing an outrageous tale.

On Saturday, as if the heavens had foretold it, we, the Mask, had a theatre visit planned to The Globe. There were ten or so of us going, and everyone knew already. When I saw Theatre Dave, Tom and Jonni in the station, my heart tumbled in acute and vivid memory that these were the people who'd shared time with this brilliant man who I was so proud to call my friend. I hugged them, and, seeing my tears, they grinned at me and told me there was time enough for tears later.

We had a double-bill planned, a full day of Shakespeare, the Taming of the Shrew in the afternoon, and Richard III in the evening. Taming of the Shrew was a play that Mask ourselves did last year, so it was very familiar to us all. It was a brilliant and engaging production, and although we weren't able to get tickets next to each other, furtive glances across told me that my friends enjoyed it as much as I did. We found ourselves mouthing our lines, and I had a fair few moments where I thought, yeah, OK, Royal Shakespeare Company, you ARE good - but we did that scene better. Rich did that scene better. And then I'd find my cheeks were wet, during this comedy.

Another lovely thing about the Globe is just taking in the theatre itself. You get reminded of the seventeenth century not only by the lack of back to your bench-seat, but the wooden pillars and thatched roof make you suddenly catch yourself thinking, IS IT 2012, in the centre of London? Or have we somehow time-travelled several centuries. I was on such a tangential thought when I remembered the reference to the Globe in The Tempest, when Prospero is in his "insubstantial pageant" speech. That made me remember how The Tempest was Shakespeare's last play, and it hit me for the first time that it was now Rich's last play too. And then I remembered playing Ariel, and felt a great confusion of emotions that somehow I was extra-pleased to have had that chance to play my favourite role so far, one of the best parts in the play, because it was the only chance I was going to have to do so, which then made it a really upsetting thought that I was extra pleased about.

I wandered around during the interval, not really seeking anyone out, but just enjoying being alone in a crowd, a little anonymity. As I made my way back, there seemed to be a shared emotion running between us. No one said, Rich would have liked this, but just a look, an understanding smile, a touch on the arm, passing between us, meant that we knew what was in each person's thoughts and heart. No words needed to be spoken.

In between plays, we dissolved to find sustenance in London. Summer and I, with our fancy smartphone technology (it is abysmal that Prospero gets underlined in red, and smartphone doesn't) had checked Facebook, and I found out that Glen, who I'd been particularly worried about because we hadn't been able to phone, had posted on Facebook. When I saw Summer's face, I could see she'd read his beautiful tribute. Before the next play, reconvening with a drink, I mentioned to the others that Glen had posted a fitting tribute. "What does it say then?"said Jan. I handed her my phone. "I can't see that" she said, and passed it to Jill, who shook her head, "I can't read it either, not without my glasses. What does it say?" The bastards made me read it out. My voice cracked halfway through, but I kept going, till tears were pouring down my cheeks. This is what I read, standing outside the Globe Theatre, in the evening sunshine:

Oh Richmond! What an absolute joy it has been to know this great man. My tears are a combination of joy and sadness.

Joy? Well what can you say. A great friend and director. Always going the extra mile to ensure that everyone feels comfortable knowing what their character is. For me especially. He always invited me to his house to go through an entire play, discussing in great detail, how lines affected the character, the bloody blah, blah pentameter. His stories, oh his stories, his warmth, kindness and great knowledge of the plays he directed. A dear, dear man and great friend always having confidence in my abilities as an actor, even when I didn't....

Sadness? This goes without saying. For all who knew him, a great hole will be left by his passing. The fact that we'll never see him again, that smile, knowledge and great patience, encouragement and prescence both on and off stage. One of lifes gentlemen has left us. A sad, sad day. On the flip side we all have the most wonderful memories, something we will never forget and something only the people that knew him could possibly share. My heartfelt sympathies go out especially to Betty and the boys and anyone who had any connection with him.

God bless Rich, I'm sure you'll be watching over us all 

After this, I accepted a hug from Tom, and stumbled into Richard III, who was brilliantly played by Mark Rylance, whom Mask had enjoyed so much in "Jerusalem" on a previous outing. I was really interested, because Richard III was one of the first Shakespeare plays I ever saw, and I remember my dad whispering to me what was going on all the way through, although my memories didn't recall him (Richard, that is) being quite so bad-ass. Part of me wasn't quite with it, though. I don't think it was because of the play, but rather the effect of the whole day, spent with friends, and yet, conspicuously missing one - not one that we'd been expecting to be with us, but just with an absence weighing heavily on us.

It was a very emotional day, and the more important for spending it with friends who cared so much. We helped each other just by trying to understanding our loss together. But still, the enormity of it was barely sinking in. That was most poignantly reflected by Jonni, after his first trip to the Globe, stepping off the train home, and saying, "That was the best day ever - " and then faltering, stumbling over his retraction, realisation hitting again.