Nina and I met in 1962, when her father came to Cambridge for a year on a Ford Foundation fellowship. I have a vivid image of her in the living room of her house, with her parents, on a summer's afternoon, while her brothers, who were boys at the time, played in the garden. Nina was about 16 or 17, and, as you will imagine, very pretty, vivacious and politically switched on. She was soon knocking about with the same people I did, on the acting scene and at the University Labour Club.
A snapshot from those early days: four of us driving back to Cambridge from London, late at night. Nina in the back of the van with her boyfriend, leading us all in singing protest songs. For me that memory encapsulates so much of Nina – political conviction, love of song, a deep streak of romanticism. Politics was her faith, and nothing, throughout her life, would lessen her commitment.
But Nina was also deeply interested in people. If I ask myself why my friendship with her has survived when so many others have not, it is quite simply because Nina kept in touch. She put effort into her friendships – and she was always making new ones, and introducing us to each other. She was endlessly hospitable. She took a keen interest our children. Another snapshot – she and I and my three children all at the theatre together. My children cowering in adolescent embarrassment as Nina rose to her feet, clapping enthusiastically, and shouting "Bravo."
Her unabashed enthusiasm was one of the things I loved about her. I also loved her eccentricity. Nina was someone who bucked the trend. If it was fashionable, Nina wasn't into it. This was true of everything from politics through social trends, to fashion itself.
No one took more pleasure in her friends' successes, but she was also there for you when you were down. Even more important, was her ongoing interest in our work. When I visited her in Swansea at the start of this year, before her cancer was diagnosed, I mentioned a new writing project. Immediately she told me of an obscure autobiography in which my subject featured; not only that, but she had a copy. Phil was detailed to dig it out from the back row of a shelf of books stacked two deep, and sure enough, it was very helpful.
In July, when she seemed to have made a heroic recovery from her operation, we went to Stratford together. Over supper we talked about her book on Horner, to which she was putting the finishing touches, and about my project. I thought I was still flailing around, but Nina could see I had made progress. It was this sort of thoughtful, attentive encouragement, which made her such a valuable friend.
It always seemed to me that Nina's life really began to gel when she settled in Sotheby Road and got together with Phil. They were so mutually supportive and so good at giving each other space to do their own thing. Nina still sallied forth to her many meetings and immersed herself in her writing, but Phil's humour and shrewd common-sense seemed to me to help her lighten up. She had great respect for his intelligence and his judgement. So did I. An endorsement for a play or a film from Nina could mean a riveting evening or one that was hard-going. A double endorsement was a much safer bet.
Nina faced the ordeal of her illness with great courage and stoicism, and no one could have done more for her than Phil, who nursed her single-handedly at home, and juggled her needs against the needs of her friends who wanted so badly to say farewell. I'd like to thank you for this, Phil, on my own behalf and behalf of everyone here. [And to offer my deep sympathy to you and to her brothers.
Nina was a great presence, a huge spirit. For my part, I feel truly privileged to have had her for a friend.
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