The door of Terence Davies’s 18th-century cottage is ajar when I arrive, the afternoon sun spilling into the hallway from the village green. Davies’ burly manager, John, shows me in, but the first glimpse I get of the man himself is in oils on the living room wall: a large portrait, painted by a neighbour, shows the bespectacled director of Distant Voices, Still Lives looking ivory-haired, pink-faced and pensive. It is likely that he popped out of the womb that way, and that his first words took the form of rhapsodies about Bruckner or the Shipping Forecast. He is 76 now but has given the impression of being old since the day he was born.
Rising from an armchair, Davies is wearing a light blue shirt, blue jeans, grey socks and slippers. On his face are the bristly beginnings of frost-white facial hair. “I’m not able to shave,” he explains, indicating his right arm hanging limply at his side. Four days earlier, he tripped and fell at home, dislocated his shoulder, and spent 13 hours in the local A&E department. “Having a fall reminds you of your mortality,” he sighs. “And your weight. I thought: ‘Blimey, I’m heavy!’” He has decided to count his blessings today. “Considering I’m the runt of 10, I’ve not been too bad where health is concerned. I shall just be like one of those wonderful women in 50s British cinema: I’ll be terribly brave, and I’ll call myself Muriel.”
