Denise Scott’s front yard is picture-book pretty. A weeping crabapple tree is decorated with shiny red fruit, pansies bloom in an old metal wheelbarrow, late winter bulbs peek through the cold, brown loam. And Denise’s welcome is warm. She’s rugged up in jeans, a soft pink jumper and beanie. Her hug has real affection, and she chatters cheerily in the kitchen as she brews a restorative pot of tea.
It’s been five months since her manager emailed The Weekly with this simple sentence: ‘Keen to have a chat with you about Scotty.’ The much-loved actor, comedian and author had been writing a regular column for us. She loved writing it and readers adored her. Surely nothing was amiss.
Actually, rather a lot was. On the eve of perhaps the greatest role of her career, Denise had been diagnosed with breast cancer. The cameras were about to roll on a boldly reimagined production of the Ruth Cracknell/Garry McDonald classic, Mother and Son, with Denise in the lead. Yet her doctors had advised she begin chemotherapy right away. Our column felt like a bridge too far. Could we please pause it, just temporarily, her manager asked? And could we please not tell a soul? Of course we agreed, and sent our love, and waited.
Then, in June this year – with the production in the can and the chemo complete, during a short break before surgery – we received another message:
