Pixie Dust

Here’s a true story about acting. When our kids were little, we spent a spring break with friends on Captiva, an island (recently walloped by Hurricanes Helene and Milton) on the southwest coast of Florida. Our friends had two children about the same ages as ours.

Every four or five houses in the neighbourhood shared a swimming pool. The houses were pretty much right on the beach, which meant the pools were often underused. But our children were learning to swim. We were in the pool a lot — rather to the chagrin, I was sure, of a couple who, under sun hats and sunglasses, were reading on their chaises. They must have had the place pretty much to themselves before our not exactly quiet arrival.

Occasionally I glanced their way. I was concerned that four leaping, splashing, shrieking kids might be precisely what they’d prefer to avoid on their holiday. But they appeared unperturbed. They read. And talked. And read. I never saw them go in the water.

I’m not sure what it was that suggested to me that I recognized the woman. Her swooping, broad-brimmed sun hat and her large sunglasses meant that it wasn’t her famous face that tipped me off. They kept their voices low, so it wasn’t her even more famous voice. Whatever it was — a gesture, a laugh — some bell rang. After a few investigative sidelong glances, I said to my wife, “I think that’s Maggie Smith.”

Janice took a few glances of her own. She nodded confirmation. And she would know. Janice had worked in the costume department at the Stratford Festival during the seasons when Maggie Smith, at the invitation of the artistic director Robin Phillips, was a star of the company. “Maggie could be difficult” was the inside word from the costume department. But then (inside word, same source) actors generally were, when it came to costumes.

Dating someone in theatre, in Stratford, Ontario, meant seeing a lot of plays. And my timing couldn’t have been better. What brilliant seasons they were. Maggie Smith as Titania. As Lady Macbeth. As Cleopatra. As Masha in Anton Chekhov’s Three Sisters. And the performance I remember best: Maggie Smith as Virginia Woolf, in Edna O’Brien’s Virginia.

Eventually Janice went over to the two chaises and said hello.

Maggie was in Florida on holiday with her husband, the playwright and screenwriter Beverley Cross. Janice chatted with them for a while. Whatever the difficulty had been — something to do with a hatpin in Three Sisters, as I recall — was long forgotten. Before we left the pool that afternoon, we were all introduced.

Our daughter, Caroline, was particularly star-struck. Hook, the Peter Pan movie with Robin Williams in which Maggie plays Wendy in older age, had just come out. Hook was a very big deal among the grade 4 set.

Caroline was all for inviting them over for dinner, but we explained that Maggie and her husband were probably here for peace and quiet. Other than a few friendly waves when we arrived at the pool every day, the kids were pretty good about respecting “Wendy’s and Mr. Wendy’s” privacy.

Caroline had to keep a journal of her holiday, as the price exacted by her teacher for the extra vacation days we were adding to regulation spring break. She undertook this assignment with flair. There was decorative text underlined with rainbows, and there were multicoloured illustrations on every other page.

On our last day, Caroline wondered if it would be okay if she asked Maggie Smith to autograph her journal. We said we were sure that would be fine. But for some reason, Maggie and Beverley didn’t appear at the pool that morning. And so, late that afternoon, I walked with Caroline to Maggie and Beverley’s place to ask for the autograph.

Beverley answered the door. I explained our mission, and he ushered us into the living room, where (minus the sun hat and sunglasses) Maggie was (no surprise) reading. Caroline told her about her journal and shyly asked if Maggie would sign it.

One of the things I’ve read about Maggie Smith, since she died in late September, was her ability to italicize the spoken word — giving the most ordinary request a ring of great importance. That was how she said, “May I see?”

Maggie turned the pages of Caroline’s journal with considered attention. Her expression was serious. And then slowly, regretfully, as if acknowledging some terrible, implacable fate, she returned it to my daughter and said, “I don’t think I can, dear.”

The pause that followed was (I now realize after all those seasons of Downton Abbey) practically Maggie Smith’s dramatic trademark. Caroline was crestfallen. I felt my temper rising. The word “difficult” was flashing red, though I think I knew, even in the heat of the moment, that getting angry at Maggie Smith wasn’t going to get me far. But the crash of disappointment lasted only an instant. It was simply a set‑up — brief but, in that moment, entirely convincing. A set‑up by a pro. With perfect timing, Maggie added, “Not unless you can bring me your pencil crayons.”

Caroline still has the journal with a full page of Maggie Smith’s drawing of the pool. It’s signed, “To Caroline. Love, Wendy.”