You settle in at the hospital, and then we’ll meet you.” Albert protests, but Hardy stops him. But I’m not concerned immediately, ’cause she’s responding better than when we arrived. They say yes, but they’ll first check Mae’s vitals.Īfter the ambulance doors close, Hardy turns his attention back to Albert. The paramedics load Mae onto a stretcher, and Hardy asks if they can bring Albert, too, then asks again to make sure they remember. Hardy wraps his arms around his friend, both to comfort him and to keep him at a safe distance. When he sees his mother laid out, he bites his fist. Shortly after, her son Albert pulls up on his bicycle. By the time the ambulance arrives, Mae is responding, but barely. ” He says, “Not even a little Canadian?” She doesn’t reply. She’s slipping in and out of consciousness. Someone in the crowd tells us that Mae tripped while walking her dog. He drops to one knee and takes her hand in his. It's Mae, the mother of one of Hardy’s childhood best friends. As Hardy approaches, he says, “I know her.” A woman, blood covering her face, lies faceup, half on the sidewalk and half in the street. We get on our bikes and fuck off.įive minutes later, just past the prep school he attended as a boy, Hardy spots a commotion, and we pull over. Except for the beat-up jeans, his five-foot-nine frame is covered in black, from his helmet to his motorcycle boots. “Should we fuck off?” he asks as we pull on our gear. “It’s easier to say that than to go deep-sea diving into it.” To Hardy, a fiercely private man and a reluctant public figure, the canned story serves the useful purpose of making an unsuspecting person feel like they’re getting to know the real Tom. I point out that’s a line he’s delivered many times to many writers. “Behind the Laura Ashley curtains, there was naughtiness and fuckeries!” he begins like an overenthused docent. (He also has a ten-year-old son with assistant director Rachael Speed.) The journey is short in distance-a little more than two miles-but ultramarathon-long in life experience. Our plan is to trace the path from what he calls his “privileged bourgeois background” to the upper-upper-class town of Richmond, where he now lives with his wife, actor Charlotte Riley, and their child, his second. “Ready for the five-dollar tour?” he asks. Rather, he was the prodigal son returned: He grew up in the upper-middle-class community, the only child of Chips, an adman and writer, and Ann, an artist. He didn’t choose the location for its social scene, if the few geriatric residents shuffling by are any indication. He bought the place fifteen years ago, moved out six years later, and now uses it as a crash pad for out-of-town guests. “I’m the youngest person to own a flat on this block,” Hardy, forty, tells me, sounding both proud and bemused. Then, overriding his knee-jerk snark: “It won’t happen again.” on a Tuesday doing fuck-all, innit?” he says to the caretaker, who’s already in retreat. “Must be hard for someone who’s home at 3:00 p.m. Hardy leans back in the saddle of the offending source, a Triumph Thruxton fitted with a not-so-subtle 1200cc engine.
Leonard’s Court, an apartment building in the leafy London suburb of East Sheen, comes out to the driveway to say that a tenant has lodged a noise complaint.
We're at the first stop on Tom Hardy’s literal tour down memory lane, and he’s already causing trouble.
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