‘I never wanted to live in the suburbs. I was a terrible snob…’
Via her indelible performance as Dot Cotton (latterly Branning) in the longrunning EastEnders, June Brown can lay claim to being something of a national treasure. She’ll be 87 in February – and has no plans, thank you very much, to hang up her launderette overall. ‘Retire?’ she says, exhaling a long plume of smoke from her Superking cigarette, never far from her lips. ‘No, I’ve never entertained the idea of retiring because I’ve never regarded myself as having a proper job.’
She draws great succour from her work and clearly enjoys the encircling drama that is the staple of the series. But that is nothing compared with her own extraordinary roller-coaster life, revealed in her new autobiography, the aptly titled Before The Year Dot.
It makes eye-popping, heartwrenching reading, not least because June has known so much personal loss. Her adored elder sister, Marise, died when she was eight from a mastoid infection that would have cleared up in days had antibiotics been available. Her baby brother died of pneumonia in infancy.
If her sister’s death was devastating, her first husband’s could scarcely have been more traumatic. She met him when they were taken on as Old Vic company members. Alec Guinness was one of its leading lights. ‘Johnny [Garley] was an incredible personality, so witty and a marvellous impersonator. He was also an excellent actor. I really believe he had a touch of genius.’
But behind the good looks and the abundant talent lurked a darker side. ‘His father had been admitted to a psychiatric hospital when Johnny was in his final year at college. That had a profound effect on him. Then his father exerted as much pressure as he knew how to stop Johnny enlisting in the army because he thought he had this extraordinary acting ability. Johnny managed to convince the authorities he wasn’t suitable material but he always felt awful guilt about not doing his bit.
‘All of this preyed on his mind throughout the time I knew him but it wasn’t until the last months of his life that I had any idea he planned to kill himself. I’ve always believed he saw death as the ultimate release. And there’s no doubt he was going through some kind of breakdown in his final weeks. He was in despair.’
One sunny day in May 1957, 30-year-old June went to visit one of her younger sisters. ‘We were chatting away and I suddenly had this strong feeling that I ought to get home. As I approached the house, I saw that the curtains were drawn, which was odd because it was the afternoon.
‘I let myself into the building but the door to our flat was locked. I got the caretaker to break it down. I walked into the bedroom and there was Johnny, lying on the bed, the gas fire next to him. I tried giving him artificial respiration. Suicide was a criminal offence back then.
‘I got him breathing again but it was obvious he’d suffered severe brain damage. He lasted four days in hospital and then he died. We’d been married seven years.
‘The funny thing was that I’d taken to making him promise he wouldn’t do anything foolish if I was going out. That day – I’ll never forget it – I’d forgotten to make him give me that promise. And I’d also handed over a shilling for the gas meter and extra money to ring me at my sister’s if he needed to.’
Yet, there wasn’t a single moment, she says, when she felt angry with her husband for what he’d done. ‘I’ve never understood it when people talk about anger at someone who’s taken their own life. I realised why Johnny had done it. The poor man was in torment. I just didn’t realise the extent. His doctor told me later that he had been on a collision course. He was determined to take his own life.’
She did go on to find happiness, only to have it snatched away from her again when her second husband, Robert Arnold, best known as PC Swain in Dixon Of Dock Green, succumbed to a particularly aggressive form of dementia 10 years ago.
But she won’t wallow in self-pity, saying simply that ‘death is a part of life’. That doesn’t mean, though, that she wasn’t deeply touched by the loss of so many loved ones and none more so than Marise, whom she called Micie (pronounced Meecie).
‘She was the sun and the moon to me, the kindest, nicest person I’ve ever met. We never once quarrelled. I can’t remember her ever being cross. I loved her without reservation. I have never felt such loneliness, such devastation from that day to this. Her death was the defining moment of my life. Now, I was the elder sister to Rosemary – I call her Rosebud – and, in time, Lois.
‘Micie was the first and last person to treat me as I was, the only one to know the real me. She never once criticised me, so it was a terrible shock when she went. I felt as if I’d been cut adrift. The result has been that I’ve spent my life looking for a companion who could show me the same sort of love I got from Micie. I’ve measured everybody against the way she treated me. And I’ve never found anyone to match her.’
Life as a child was never easy. June’s father, Harry, made a fortune before the war as a produce buyer in the Far East, most of the money disappearing with the devaluation of the German mark.
Her mother, Louisa, busied herself with bringing up the children but never loved June in the way that she doted on her sister Rosemary. ‘In my 30s, I lived across the road from Rosebud in a maisonette in south Croydon. Heaven knows how we landed up there. I’d never wanted to live in the suburbs. I was a terrible snob.
‘Anyway, I said to Mother one day: “Why don’t you go and spend some time with Rosebud? You get on better with her.” She looked at me: “You’re not jealous, are you?” she asked. “No,” I said, “because it’s the truth.” And yet, when I came to write down that incident for my book, I found I’d got a lump in my throat.
‘So, deep down, it must have affected me quite a lot because I think I was close to my mother, emotionally speaking, but she didn’t recognise it. She always thought I was like my father, full of the cheek of the devil. What she didn’t realise was that inside I wasn’t really like that at all.’
Throughout it all, and just like her most famous small-screen creation, June has been sustained by her faith. ‘I grew up singing songs about Jesus and at school I learnt about my own faith. We always went to Sunday school and to church because my father was a choirmaster. He was head chorister at St Alban’s cathedral. He always used to say that, if there’d been the wireless in his young days, he’d have been as famous as Ernie Lush, a sort of precursor to Aled Jones.
‘My grandfather was the epitome of a man with a strong faith. He was a very upright Christian. My faith was instilled into me at a young age by his example. I’ve read lots of books since that have questioned various aspects of religion and some of them have raised interesting points. But I’ve never wavered in my faith.’
June got into acting when she was in the Wrens, and after the war she won a place at the newly established Old Vic Drama School in 1947, being one of only four students who joined the theatre company on graduation. A steady stream of screen and stage roles followed, including playing Lady Macbeth opposite Albert Finney. Then the actor Leslie Grantham, having been cast as ‘Dirty Den’ Watts in EastEnders, caught June in an episode of Minder and recommended her to producer Julia Smith.
That was 1985 and, save for a fouryear break in the mid-1990s, she’s played Dot ever since. And if June has anything to do with it, Dot will be with us for some time to come yet. ‘Despite everything,’ she says, ‘I look forward with hope. I’m one of life’s optimists, I don’t like to think negative thoughts; never have. I was always taught to say thank you for whatever happened to you, good or bad. It’s the power of positive thought by any other name.’
Before The Year Dot: The Autobiography, is published by Simon & Schuster, priced £20.
She draws great succour from her work and clearly enjoys the encircling drama that is the staple of the series. But that is nothing compared with her own extraordinary roller-coaster life, revealed in her new autobiography, the aptly titled Before The Year Dot.
It makes eye-popping, heartwrenching reading, not least because June has known so much personal loss. Her adored elder sister, Marise, died when she was eight from a mastoid infection that would have cleared up in days had antibiotics been available. Her baby brother died of pneumonia in infancy.
If her sister’s death was devastating, her first husband’s could scarcely have been more traumatic. She met him when they were taken on as Old Vic company members. Alec Guinness was one of its leading lights. ‘Johnny [Garley] was an incredible personality, so witty and a marvellous impersonator. He was also an excellent actor. I really believe he had a touch of genius.’
But behind the good looks and the abundant talent lurked a darker side. ‘His father had been admitted to a psychiatric hospital when Johnny was in his final year at college. That had a profound effect on him. Then his father exerted as much pressure as he knew how to stop Johnny enlisting in the army because he thought he had this extraordinary acting ability. Johnny managed to convince the authorities he wasn’t suitable material but he always felt awful guilt about not doing his bit.
‘All of this preyed on his mind throughout the time I knew him but it wasn’t until the last months of his life that I had any idea he planned to kill himself. I’ve always believed he saw death as the ultimate release. And there’s no doubt he was going through some kind of breakdown in his final weeks. He was in despair.’
One sunny day in May 1957, 30-year-old June went to visit one of her younger sisters. ‘We were chatting away and I suddenly had this strong feeling that I ought to get home. As I approached the house, I saw that the curtains were drawn, which was odd because it was the afternoon.
‘I let myself into the building but the door to our flat was locked. I got the caretaker to break it down. I walked into the bedroom and there was Johnny, lying on the bed, the gas fire next to him. I tried giving him artificial respiration. Suicide was a criminal offence back then.
‘I got him breathing again but it was obvious he’d suffered severe brain damage. He lasted four days in hospital and then he died. We’d been married seven years.
‘The funny thing was that I’d taken to making him promise he wouldn’t do anything foolish if I was going out. That day – I’ll never forget it – I’d forgotten to make him give me that promise. And I’d also handed over a shilling for the gas meter and extra money to ring me at my sister’s if he needed to.’
Yet, there wasn’t a single moment, she says, when she felt angry with her husband for what he’d done. ‘I’ve never understood it when people talk about anger at someone who’s taken their own life. I realised why Johnny had done it. The poor man was in torment. I just didn’t realise the extent. His doctor told me later that he had been on a collision course. He was determined to take his own life.’
She did go on to find happiness, only to have it snatched away from her again when her second husband, Robert Arnold, best known as PC Swain in Dixon Of Dock Green, succumbed to a particularly aggressive form of dementia 10 years ago.
But she won’t wallow in self-pity, saying simply that ‘death is a part of life’. That doesn’t mean, though, that she wasn’t deeply touched by the loss of so many loved ones and none more so than Marise, whom she called Micie (pronounced Meecie).
‘She was the sun and the moon to me, the kindest, nicest person I’ve ever met. We never once quarrelled. I can’t remember her ever being cross. I loved her without reservation. I have never felt such loneliness, such devastation from that day to this. Her death was the defining moment of my life. Now, I was the elder sister to Rosemary – I call her Rosebud – and, in time, Lois.
‘Micie was the first and last person to treat me as I was, the only one to know the real me. She never once criticised me, so it was a terrible shock when she went. I felt as if I’d been cut adrift. The result has been that I’ve spent my life looking for a companion who could show me the same sort of love I got from Micie. I’ve measured everybody against the way she treated me. And I’ve never found anyone to match her.’
Life as a child was never easy. June’s father, Harry, made a fortune before the war as a produce buyer in the Far East, most of the money disappearing with the devaluation of the German mark.
Her mother, Louisa, busied herself with bringing up the children but never loved June in the way that she doted on her sister Rosemary. ‘In my 30s, I lived across the road from Rosebud in a maisonette in south Croydon. Heaven knows how we landed up there. I’d never wanted to live in the suburbs. I was a terrible snob.
‘Anyway, I said to Mother one day: “Why don’t you go and spend some time with Rosebud? You get on better with her.” She looked at me: “You’re not jealous, are you?” she asked. “No,” I said, “because it’s the truth.” And yet, when I came to write down that incident for my book, I found I’d got a lump in my throat.
‘So, deep down, it must have affected me quite a lot because I think I was close to my mother, emotionally speaking, but she didn’t recognise it. She always thought I was like my father, full of the cheek of the devil. What she didn’t realise was that inside I wasn’t really like that at all.’
Throughout it all, and just like her most famous small-screen creation, June has been sustained by her faith. ‘I grew up singing songs about Jesus and at school I learnt about my own faith. We always went to Sunday school and to church because my father was a choirmaster. He was head chorister at St Alban’s cathedral. He always used to say that, if there’d been the wireless in his young days, he’d have been as famous as Ernie Lush, a sort of precursor to Aled Jones.
‘My grandfather was the epitome of a man with a strong faith. He was a very upright Christian. My faith was instilled into me at a young age by his example. I’ve read lots of books since that have questioned various aspects of religion and some of them have raised interesting points. But I’ve never wavered in my faith.’
June got into acting when she was in the Wrens, and after the war she won a place at the newly established Old Vic Drama School in 1947, being one of only four students who joined the theatre company on graduation. A steady stream of screen and stage roles followed, including playing Lady Macbeth opposite Albert Finney. Then the actor Leslie Grantham, having been cast as ‘Dirty Den’ Watts in EastEnders, caught June in an episode of Minder and recommended her to producer Julia Smith.
That was 1985 and, save for a fouryear break in the mid-1990s, she’s played Dot ever since. And if June has anything to do with it, Dot will be with us for some time to come yet. ‘Despite everything,’ she says, ‘I look forward with hope. I’m one of life’s optimists, I don’t like to think negative thoughts; never have. I was always taught to say thank you for whatever happened to you, good or bad. It’s the power of positive thought by any other name.’
Before The Year Dot: The Autobiography, is published by Simon & Schuster, priced £20.