The TV and stage actress on being married to Damian Lewis, saving on grocery bills and age
Helen McCrory
The daughter of a Scottish diplomat and a Welsh physiotherapist, McCrory, 47, went to Queenswood boarding school in Hertfordshire and the Drama Centre in London. She lives in north London with her husband, the actor Damian Lewis, and their children, Manon, 9, and Gulliver, 8.
I get up at about 6.30, then wake the kids and get breakfast ready either with the nanny or my other nanny — Damian. He’s just back from his other job, acting, and once we find a uniform that suits him, he’s going to adapt quite well.
I tend to put on whatever isn’t too crumpled on the floor, and like to pop a hat on because I do look like Janis Joplin left overnight in the tumble dryer. Breakfast is an apple and any yoghurt the kids have left in the bottom of the bowl. I’ve tried to be more organised; I’ve even gone through phases of setting the table the night before, like some strange B&B. But I’ll still have to run up and down the stairs shouting: “Have you got your tie? Have you cleaned your teeth? Oh well, eat a mint!”
Acting work is feast or famine, and right now Damian and I are both at home, which is lovely. We’ve just done our house up. Well, we’ve put in new plumbing and electrics before we burn the street down. We’ve been here for 10 years and there are still lightbulbs hanging from wires. But I’m so uninterested. I spent three weeks emailing paint and wallpaper samples to Damian on set and it left me brain-numb. I have patience in bounds when it comes to family and work, but care less about the house.
I’ll usually cook lunch. Today I’ve got asparagus and artichokes and a quiche in the oven. I had working-class grandparents who’d never eat out when home was round the corner. I still tell Damian very proudly that I’ve saved £14 on the weekly shop, and he’ll roll his eyes as he unpacks it into the fridge. The duvet cover on Manon’s bed was mine when I was 14, and we still use towels I had at school. My father worked in Africa, so I spent a good bit of my childhood there. Out there, you always made do.
I had an unneurotic upbringing and I was a habitual little liar. My father would say: “The police will arrive for you any minute.” I’m not frightened to tell off Manon and Gully. I expect other parents do the same. The rules of life here are: “Mummy can have a glass of wine because I’m an adult and you’re a child and that’s that.”
If I’m on set, say, I like to sleep for an hour after lunch. During a show, I can fall asleep for five minutes in the interval and wake fresh for the second half. It’s like turning a light off and on. At home there’s too much to do to nap. I’m always writing a letter with one hand, stirring a pan with the other.
Damian and I are sociable and love a dance, so we’re lucky to get invited to fantastic parties. I also adore dressing up. My wardrobes are full, because getting rid of clothes is like throwing children over a cliff! I’ll never ask Damian’s opinion, ever. It’s all for me.
I’m much happier as I’ve got older. Age has given me nothing but confidence, security and joy, yet women are always judged on it. Damian and I talk about it a lot, because he’s never asked about his age or juggling kids and a career. To me, “Helen McCrory, 47” means nothing. “Helen McCrory, bad housewife and argumentative after a bottle of gin” would be much more relevant.
Once the kids are down, Damian and I usually just talk or play a few records. No TV. I’m also getting an old-fashioned phone so no one expects emails from 6pm-6am. I’m a good sleeper, maybe because I don’t feel anxious about anything. But I must have selective hearing, because if Damian’s away working, a sparrow’s fart will wake me.