Sunday Times Article, 1990

[What follows is an article from 1990, published in the Sunday Telegraph. First is Jini Fiennes' account of her eldest son's early life, followed by Ralph's memories of his childhood.]

Jini Fiennes:

I decided when I was three and a half that I was going to have six children. We were very settled when Ralph was born. Mark, my husband, was a farmer and his own shepard. We had a large flock of sheep, a big house and plenty of help, so I was able to spend lots of time with Ralph. He was a wonderful baby, thrilling and so exuberant. Martha came along a year later. I don't remember Ralph being jealous but I do remember I bought her a teddy that you could throw in the washing machine; all Ralph's teddies were very superior, not the kind you could wash. He took one look at this new, inferior teddy and claimed it as his own. Martha never got the teddy; Ralph still has it, I think.

I don't really feel like a parent, more like a corridor enabling my children - this cluster of poets - to spin into the world. From the earliest age, Ralph always had an enormous effect on people.. He was very sociable and had a sense of occasion, but the same time he always loved being alone; he has a very intense and reflective side. He was also a very concentrated child.

At one stage, he obsessively drew Noah's Ark. He had a passion for African animals and knew all about them. He had no interest at all in the animals on the farm. The way to his heart was by giving him books about African wildlife. We went of course to London Zoo, but there wasn't a hippo. So, in the middle of winter, we made a special expedition to Whipsnade. Ralph was about four. We went into a horrid little house with a smelly muddy pool and out of the murky water emerged a hippo. Ralph stood transfixed with tears in his eyes; it was as if he were in the presence of a god. I read something that Desmond Morris had written. He said that often children are riveted by the animal kingdom as a means of coming to terms with the hierarchy and theatre of man - which fitted exactly with Ralph's pictures, in which he was always asking which was the king.

Ralph had a [Pollock's] toy theatre by the time he was six or seven. By that time, we had bred him a captive audience. I remember "Treasure Island" could go on a bit. There was a play about babies all being eaten up, which was a great success. I remember one occasion when I could have seen the future performer in Ralph. When he was about three we were asked to a neighbouring farm for a party. The party-giver was an eight- year old, but Ralph was asked along to keep her younger brother company. They had a ventriloquist who sat with a huge dummy in front of all the children. He asked if anyone would like to come up on stage and before I could stop him, Ralph pelted up with a look of intense seriousness. The ventriloquist asked if he had a song and Ralph launched into an improvisation in a made-up language he'd composed in his cot. It was a long tuneless dirge and he stood there tapping his toe in time. It was agonising not knowing quite how to recover him.

I can't remember any particular conflicts with Ralph, though I remember when Mark who, like a sort of Abraham leading his people to some vague promised land, had grown an enormous seaman's beard which *his* father, who had a small moustache, thought was desperate. At the same time Ralph, who was 15, suddenly cut his hair terribly short, almost punk. I remember Mark sitting at the table with his huge beard, being very disapproving of Ralph. I thought it was terribly funny.

Ralph has always make serious decisions about his life which he would announce. When he was about 11 we were living in Ireland and regularly attended Mass as a family. He came solemnly one day to tell me that he couldn't possibly go to Mass anymore because he simply didn't believe in it all. Even though at the time I was a fairly committed Catholic, I respected him for that. Later, when he was halfway through his foundation course at Chelsea Art School, he announced that he realised he was not an originator of ideas, he was an interpreter; and that was when he decided to become an actor.

There was never any money to go the theatre when the children were young. I had never been to Stratford. I'd always longed to go and my first visit was to see Ralph play in the main house; it's just amazing.

His success isn't the thing I'm proudest of. I'm immensely proud of his complete integrity and depth of commitment. He has given some wonderful performances and it's marvellous that he is on an adventure such as being in the theatre.

Ralph Fiennes:

I was the eldest of six children by the time I was seven. My image of childhood is of walking, drawing, painting, gumboots, mackintoshes, children's books, teatime, hard-boiled eggs, dogs, running, playing, always <>. I think all of us at one point or another wanted to define our territory. There were six of us all being encouraged to be creative and I remember being furious because one of my brothers, Magnus, always seemed to be copying my ideas. Mummy said I shouldn't be angry but flattered that he thought my ideas were worth copying. Even though there were so many of us, I think that my mother was very fair about the amount of time she gave to all of us.

There were certain contradictions about the way we were brought up, which was essentially with middle-class values, albeit slightly off-the-wall ones. But there was never the material back-up to sustain those values; so they always had to be adapted to suit the circumstances.

I did resent the way we moved around so much, but now my mother has convinced me that it made us more adaptable and was a good training for life.

From the earliest time I was aware that my mother was writing and painting. She wrote a children's book in which we were all involved. It was called "Tristram and the Power of the Lights." It's never been published. She would explain how important it was that she should be able to write and we all understood that need. She always had her own space with a typewriter.

My mother has a tendency to exaggerate, a sense of drama. She's half Irish and I think it's a rather Irish quality. It's what her voice has in it, the emotion and stress, that is so particular. My mother is passionate, but also understanding and acutely, almost frighteningly, intuitive about people, places and things. One of her catch-phrases, which was applied to whatever we were doing, from cleaning our rooms to writing a story was: "You must get your *guts* into it."

It would be applied even when you were writing and essay, so I'd write subjectively without discipline. That's why I found it so hard to do English A-level, because it needed a distance I was never encouraged to develop. I do judge other women by her, but there are areas I shy away from - the emotional intensity with which she talks about any situation can be overpowering. But it's also that same energy that is so exciting. I think we have a common understanding that has grown since I left home.

Of the books she's written since we were older I like "The Dust Collector" the best; I love it. Particular images recur in both her books and paintings: images of birth, maternity, age and primal forces, and of sex. All her work contains a deep understanding of these things, which doesn't surprise me, and it's wonderfully exciting to see how these preoccupations have found their own language in her work.

We certainly had confrontations when I was a child. I think it was because I was obsessively selfish and demanding and she was very strong in making me aware of that. I think of her now as more of a friend than a mother. I value her opinion about my work hugely because she is able to sense and articulate things in my performances and communicate them to me in a way that no one else possibly could.