How Arthur and Marilyn changed my life

It may seen superfluous to add to the more than 53 million Google items about Marilyn Monroe but I think (needless to say) that I have a slightly different take. In 1956 I lived with my father, stepmother and brother in a tied cottage on the estate of the Earl of Drogheda (sounds grand, but the press called the House a "country cottage") where my father was head gardener (see my blog about him in October last year) and my stepmother helped out when things were busy (this is what posh history TV dramas always get wrong, because of course it would mess up the casting: country houses always corralled in any amount of help for cooking and cleaning from their dependent local economy whenever there were weekend parties).

When Marilyn and Arthur Miller were in England for their honeymoon and for her to play in The Prince and the Showgirl they stayed in Parkside House - on the edge of Windsor Great Park near Englefield Green - as described, rather fancifully, in Colin Clark's My Week with Marilyn. Laurence Olivier, who co-starred, was the go-between who set up the "country cottage" idyll so it fell to my father to pace the lawns with Olivier and work out (a) who Marilyn was - my father was a bit hazy on that - and (b) plan things for their stay. Secrecy was vital. My brother and I weren't told till much nearer the time, though we knew there would be someone important coming to stay at the House. I think I figured it would be a national leader - Tito I think was one idea I had - and I was a bit disappointed that it turned out to be a vulgar Hollywood star. We were on strict instructions not to tell anyone until after they had actually arrived. The estate was not that secure: we did at least shut the gates but anyone could get through the little wooden ones into our garden and thence to the House via the vegetable garden.

The first thing that impressed me most was the press pack. Exactly like a pack of dogs slavering over a bitch, they hung around the gates incessantly and broke in when they could. Two of them cornered me in the orchard and tried to be smarmy; it was when they called me "little girl" (I was 14) that I told them they were on private property and should leave. We were all amazed by their behaviour (of course it was nothing to what would happen now). It was one of the papers who bought bikes for Marilyn and Arthur following a chance remark that they'd like to go cycling. There is apparently an extant photo of Marilyn cycling but it must have been set up specially - she never left the estate except in a car. My memories of those gentlement of the press has stayed with me during a professional life in media education.

I did see Arthur Miller bowling along the main road on his new bike in Englefield Green once when I was in the ironmonger's. But my closer encounter with him (needless to say I was totally ignorant of his work, thanks to the so-called English teachers in my highly-sought-after girls' grammar school) was when he knocked at the cottage door one afternoon when everyone else was out, and asked to use the phone. What was amazing about this was that it was the first occasion an adult had been polite and respectful to me. He humbly explained that he needed to call his wife at Pinewood and the House phone appeared to be out of order. He hoped it wouldn't be too much trouble to use ours and he was sorry for the inconvenience. I was flabbergasted: what had I done to deserve such decency? I guess this has stayed there in the back of my head all the time I've been developing arguments about the assumptions adults make about what children can understand and deserve.

My stepmother Ruth helped in the kitchen: she remembers Marilyn coming into the kitchen - right through the green baize door! incredible! - on the first evening and asking shyly for candles for the dining table. Ruth also did the laundry and ironing, so of course we peeked in their wardrobes (that's what the help always do). I remember being disappointed by Marilyn's failure to follow the advice I knew by heart: blondes should wear pale blue; redheads green, etc. Everything in there was either black or beige, apart from the amazing red sheath dress she wore at some public event, complete with little lead weights in the ruffles. I thought her colour choices were sad; much later, I realised it was Fashion. I do now wear black a lot, but never beige. Again, it was Arthur Miller's wardrobe that really influenced my later purchases: I finally managed to afford a black cashmere sweater just like his and wore it for years.

I did see Marilyn herself for about 30 seconds. Ruth said I could come to the House when Marilyn and Arthur were leaving, if I stood outside the door and just watched. I remember peeking round the door to see Marilyn in a black "tent" coat, high black heels and her hair pinned up neatly in a bun, kissing the staff goodbye (yes, kissing the staff! - as an extra skivvy, I don't think Ruth got in on that). Then she came out of the front door, saw me standing there in my school uniform, sweaty and muddy from the hockey field, and stopped, confused for a moment and embarrassedly half-smiling, before turning away to get in the car. I felt ashamed: I felt I was behaving just like the press pack.