Patrick Stewart grew up in a small terraced home in a town called Mirfield, on the edge of the Pennines. There was no running hot water, no indoor toilet, no central heating. For a long time he shared a bed with his brother, Trevor, who was five years his senior. Many local families were similarly impoverished. One of Stewart’s friends wore wellington boots to school, without socks, no matter the season – there was no alternative. For entertainment, he turned to one of four books his family owned: an ancient encyclopedia passed down by his grandfather, a couple of war volumes belonging to his father, and a large but tattered dictionary. “That was until I found the library,” he says, “which was critical.” He goes on, “Other than the radio, our home life didn’t have much to offer, and occasionally it had horror to offer.” Books, and later cinema, “became escapism.”
Stewart is talking over Zoom from the study of his Los Angeles home. The walls are wood-panelled and book-lined – he is a long way from Yorkshire now. His wife, Sunny Ozell, an American musician, briefly potters around before closing the door and leaving Stewart to our discussion, which he has in good humour, despite it involving talk of some of his life’s most fraught experiences. “You know, I didn’t talk about my family for decades,” he tells me. “The conversation we’re having, I would never have had. I kept it close. I’d say, ‘Oh, yes, they were fine, they were very supportive.’ And it wasn’t like that at all a lot of the time.”
