'Young, vulnerable and cheeky...

On the anniversary of his death, Richard Beckinsale's first wife remembers their meeting

Thirty years ago today, March 18, Richard Beckinsale – star of two of the most successful British sitcoms of the Seventies, Rising Damp and Porridge – died of a heart attack at the age of 31. Here, in an exclusive extract adapted from her unpublished memoirs, his first wife Margaret Bradley – the mother of London's Burning actress Samantha Beckinsale – recalls the day she learned of his tragic early death; and the spark of electricity she felt when they first met, as teenagers, in 1964….

Time heals they say and, on the whole this is true, because it is more pleasant to remember the good things, and the good times. So writing a book about an old relationship is not easy, as one is also forced to re-live the bad times, the hurt and the pain.

But I hope that I can offer an insight into the life of a boy who became much loved both as an actor and as a man. Modest and unassuming, he would have been surprised and happy to know that he is remembered with as much affection by his audience who felt they knew him, as he is by his family and friends.

I recall clearly the day I found out he had died, eight years after our divorce. A day that had seemed like any other.

As I rushed breathlessly through the back door of the semi-detached house I shared with my 12-year-old daughter, I could hear the television blaring. Samantha must have got home before me.

Footsteps pounding down the stairs assured me all was well; ‘I’m starving,' she said grinning and hugging me before sitting down at the kitchen table rifling through my shopping bags. Her school uniform had been shed in favour of jeans and T shirt and she looked incredibly pretty with slightly flushed cheeks, sparkling eyes and her glorious curly hair hanging loose around her shoulders. So like her Dad.

‘You turn off the television then, and I’ll get tea ready,’ I said…

‘Oh, Mum,’ she said as an afterthought as we sat eating. ‘I forgot. Maureen rang. She wants you to ring as soon as you get home.’

Maureen was a friend who lived nearby, so I strolled happily towards her house, enjoying the warmth of the late afternoon sun, the promise of spring, of summer, of the future.

Her front door was snatched open before the bell had stopped ringing. My friend took my arm and led me into the lounge, searching my face and asking whether I had seen the news? Her eyes were full of worry and concern.

‘No,’ I replied.

‘Oh God,’ she muttered, running her hand over her face, her hair, her neck.

‘You’d better sit down. I’ve got to tell you something,’ she said, taking my hands and sitting beside me. ‘Margaret,’ she said ‘Richard is dead.’

Frowning, I looked first at her, then out of the window. I hadn’t taken in what she’d said. I thought she meant Arthur, Richard’s father

‘Good Lord. Was it really on the news? I could understand it being on the news if it was Richard, but not Arthur…’

‘Margaret, it’s not Arthur, it’s Richard,’ my friend said gently.

‘Don’t be silly’ I insisted. ‘I spoke to Richard last night on the phone. He’s taking Sammy on holiday on Saturday. You’ve made a mistake. It’s Arthur,’ I replied confidently.

‘No, Margaret, it was on the news. Richard died in his sleep last night.’

‘No, no, no. You’ve got it wrong. It must be Arthur. Richard can’t be dead.’

I was absolutely convinced they’d got it wrong; she’d got it wrong. That they had made a mistake. But there was no mistake. Richard Beckinsale was dead at the age of just 31.

He had made an impact, from the moment I first saw him at a mutual friend’s party.

It was late Saturday night as we climbed the stairs to Ray’s flat, the party in full swing. The room at the top of the house was warm, smoke-filled and vibrant. Ray welcomed us, surprise evident in his face but he was so pleased and proud that we had come.

Looking round the room, scanning the sea of unfamiliar faces, my eyes were met and held for what seemed to be forever by the eyes of someone standing alone in a corner.

Tall and handsome with thick, dark hair and wearing black-rimmed glasses he looked young and vulnerable, his smile cheeky but infectious. Embarrassed, and unable to face the honesty I saw in his eyes, I turned away.

I saw him again on the Wednesday, at a folk club. Someone was already singing as my friend Mel and I arrived in the darkened room, and it was a few minutes before my eyes were able to focus. Wherever we went it seemed the atmosphere was permanently smoky and dim.

The large shabby room, which was in desperate need of a coat of paint, had a bar running the full length at one end, with tables and chairs place around a raised area at the front, on to which shone a single spotlight.

Scanning the room, I happily began to absorb the atmosphere, the people, and I instinctively knew that I had found my niche, that I would never have been happy in the world of pseudo sophistication with the ‘in-crowd’ where I had been until then.

Eyes riveted and skin tingling, my senses were alerted before my brain registered just who it was I was listening to, singing so beautifully and with such melancholy.He wasn’t wearing his glasses but I was certain I was right. This time I had the advantage, able to observe him without him seeing me.

He was standing completely relaxed and sexy with his head thrown back, one hand covering his ear, the other in the pocket of his jeans. With his eyes closed he sang unaccompanied and with confidence.

Bathed in light and in the hush of the murky room he was beautiful.

Everyone, it seemed knew ‘HIM’.

Before I knew it, there he was, actually sitting opposite me, talking to me and my heart was fluttering or rather pounding so much that I had difficulty speaking….