Anne's Song (11 page)

It was shortly after that visit to Cornwall that I experienced one of the greatest shocks of my entire life. Each of my sisters attracted fans who fastened on to them alone – and I was no exception. Although I'd bowed out of the group because of Amy, there was a young girl – I don't think she was yet twenty – who had a bit of an obsession with me. She was slender with mousey, shoulder-length hair and a slight West Country accent. She lived in Plymouth and I think she identified with a Nolan who also lived in Devon.

She'd write to me and she got hold of my phone number so she'd ring me, too. She even turned up at the house on a couple of occasions. She once brought a little tricycle as a present for Amy. She became a bit of a nuisance in that she began writing on a regular basis and then she'd be upset if I didn't answer every letter. I'd sense an antagonism when she wrote the next time, asking me why I was ignoring her, but the truth was, she wasn't a friend; she was a fan. She seemed a little lost, a bit strange, someone with no real life of her own. I was nice to her, though, and, because of that, I think she built it up into something more than it was.

I was at the hairdresser's one day and I'd taken Amy with me. I spent more time there than usual and then I decided to do a bit of shopping in Torquay, so I'd probably been away from home longer than I'd told Brian. While I was out, he received an anonymous phone call – presumably from this young fan – warning him that Amy was going to be kidnapped. Naturally, he immediately rang the police who took the threat extremely seriously. Brian tried to reach me at the hairdresser's and was told I'd left about an hour ago. Now he was frantic while I was blissfully unaware of all of this, wandering round the shops with Amy in her pushchair. An hour after I was expected home, this had turned into a major alert. Police were combing Torquay and Paignton, looking for me and Amy. By the time I eventually got back, Brian was standing anxiously at the door.

I was surprised to see two detectives in the house. They sat me down and started firing questions at me. Where had I been? Had anyone suspicious approached me? Was Amy all right – and so on. Then they told me why they were so concerned. And that's when the colour drained from my face. They asked if I knew of anyone who might have some sort of grudge against me. I told them that I couldn't think of anyone, but I did mention this rather obsessive fan who I was gently trying to discourage. Maybe she was fed up and had seen this as me giving her the total brush-off. So they took the details and went to check her out. As it turned out, it had indeed been her. Poor girl, she ended up being sectioned and placed in a psychiatric unit. That was the last I heard from her.

That incident apart, I was content with being a wife and mother. I honestly loved housework and shopping and looking after Amy. Brian was doing fine at the football club, although we were finding it hard to exist on his wages and keep up with the mortgage repayments. I wasn't receiving any royalties from sales of singles recorded after I'd left the group, and I certainly hadn't saved any money from when I was singing with my sisters. We borrowed money from his dad and my sister Bernie. I felt quite comfortable with that; they were family, after all, and the Nolans were on the crest of a wave. In the last couple of years, they'd had five Top 20 hits.

With hindsight, it might have been more sensible if I'd found a job in Torquay or Paignton, but what could I do? I didn't know anything else except singing. I'd left school when I was fourteen so I had no qualifications. As our financial struggle intensified, it was pretty obvious where the answer lay. Brian and I sat down one day for a serious financial conversation. He'd seen me crying when my sisters had sung the song called 'Amy'.

He said, 'Do you want to go back to the group?'

I was honest with him. 'I cried,' 1 said, 'because yes, I miss my sisters and singing with them, but also because of the words in the song. I'm terribly torn. I don't want to leave what you and I have here.' I paused. 'On the other hand, we do need more money. What do you think?'

'It's up to you,' he said.

I wasn't worried about the physical demands of being part of the Nolans again, but I did find the prospect daunting for other reasons. They'd had a string of hits in the meantime which I would have to learn. They were big stars now with their own TV specials. I'd be part of a much more successful act than the one I'd left. Also, I knew that a return to my show business life would take me away from the two people I loved more than anyone in the world, but there didn't seem any real alternative.

There was the question, though, of how this would impact on Amy. She was only nineteen months old. Brian wasn't going to give up his football so there was only one solution: Amy would come with me when we were on the road, but with Mum travelling with us to look after her when we were performing. If we were busy with TV work, my mother would stay in our house in Paignton with her; or Amy could stay with her in the house in which my parents still lived in Ilford. As soon as I put this to her, she agreed immediately without even consulting my father. She loved the idea of seeing more of Amy.

So I called the girls. It was Maureen who answered the phone.

'What would you think,' I said, 'about the possibility of me coming back into the group?'

Initially, I think she was a bit surprised. 'Well, we'd have to have a meeting about that,' she said. 'You're absolutely sure, are you? It's no good coming back and then wanting to leave in a year.' I could tell that she was slightly worried how my other sisters would react and I understood that. I assured her, though, that I was deadly serious. Two hours later, she rang back. 'That's fine,' said Maureen, 'and we're all one hundred per cent behind you.'

Now that I had to go through with it I felt a whole mix of emotions, including being quite scared. Had I done the right thing? But there was no going back. I couldn't let my sisters down. So it was settled. In October 1982, almost exactly two years after I'd left the group, I was once again one of the Nolans. Now I'd just have to get used to stripping naked in front of them!

Early in 1983, Robin Smith wrote a new song for us. 'Dressed To Kill' jumped straight into the charts at number 35, our quickest entry ever. It was obviously going to be a big hit, so our record company decided we needed a new image. We were given elaborate hairstyles, strong make-up and dressed from head to foot in leather and lace. You certainly couldn't miss us! It was utterly different from our previous altogether more homely appearance.

In fact, so striking was this new look – lots of attitude, no smiles – that it was decided to give away a poster of us all in our fancy gear with each record sold. Although this later became common practice throughout the industry, it was totally new back then and frowned upon. Unbelievably, the people who controlled the charts arbitrarily 'demoted' our record to number 95, a position from which it never recovered. We all felt pretty hard done by.

The girls had first gone to Japan in 1980 when I was pregnant with Amy and had left the group. They'd performed at the Tokyo Music Festival and Stevie Wonder was one of the guests. I'd always been a big fan and was sad not to have met him. Then, in 1983, the Nolans were invited back. It was a long way away and we'd be gone six weeks. I'd miss Brian and Amy almost more than I could say, but I was part of the group again and I had to honour our professional commitments.

While we were in Tokyo, we were booked to appear at the Blue Note jazz club. By coincidence, Stevie Wonder was touring the country at the same time and, as luck would have it, his end-of-tour party took place in the club. After we'd completed our act, we were invited to stay on and join the party. He arrived after everybody else, and in real life he looked exactly as I'd seen him so many times on screen, except I was surprised by how tall and slim he was. We were introduced to him. He had such a nice, gentle, unassuming manner. He even agreed to pose for a photograph with us; I've kept it to this day.

There was a piano on stage and, without prompting, he sat down and started playing all his hits. It was like a private concert, like sitting in his front room, quite unforgettable. Every time we asked for a special request – 'Isn't She Lovely?', 'Superstition', 'For Once In My Life' – he'd play it. He's so talented that his voice sounded just like it did on all his records. It was like being caught up in a dream. It seemed almost surreal, an experience I'll never forget. Even so, nothing could compare with getting home and seeing Brian and Amy after being away from them for so long. I almost physically ached to hold her in my arms again.

We were still hugely popular in our native Ireland and toured there again for two weeks later that year. I'd been feeling a bit unwell and then I had a nasty fall when I tripped over an iron bar during rehearsals in an Irish TV studio; I was thrown up into the air and landed heavily on my back, bruising my right hip. It shook me up more than I realised. The comedian Roy Walker was also on the show and he walked me back to my dressing room.

Never mind the bruise. What worried me was that I'd just discovered I was pregnant again. I'd already told Brian our good news, and I'd confided in my sisters who had been incredibly supportive, never allowing me to pick up anything heavier than a teacup. Nor was there any animosity about my rejoining the group and then having to take a break when the baby was born. I had quickly reassured them that I'd be happy to work almost up to the birth.

As it turned out, it wasn't to be. I stayed with my parents in the house in Ilford the day we returned from Ireland, but I was keen to get back to see Brian in Torquay. I told my mum that I was feeling a bit queasy and she persuaded me to stay the night with her. My father had slowed down quite a bit by this stage. It was 1983 and he was in his fifties now. He seemed to have mellowed into middle age and appeared genuinely concerned about my welfare. Even so, I'd look at him sometimes and that dark secret would come unbidden into my mind. It was a legacy I was never going to be able to eradicate completely.

The following morning, I insisted on going down to Devon, but by the time I got off the train in Torquay, I was suffering sharp pains in my stomach and they were getting progressively worse. Something was obviously wrong and Brian called the doctor. The pain was excruciating and I'd started to bleed. I knew from my first pregnancy that I was suffering a miscarriage. The doctor gave me a shot of morphine straight into a vein which stopped the pain instantly, and then he called for an ambulance. At the hospital, a scan revealed that I'd lost the baby.

I remembered my first miscarriage and the feeling almost of relief that accompanied it. This was different. The last time, I was the unmarried eldest daughter in a Catholic family with a burgeoning career and a thoroughly wholesome image. Now I was married and very much wanted a brother or sister for Amy. Nor had I been scared of another pregnancy, despite Amy's rather dramatic entry into the world. There was nothing to suggest that I'd suffer in that way again. I'd cried the first time I'd miscarried, precisely because I felt guilty about not having to face the problems that would ensue had the baby been born. This time, I went numb with the loss. I had no tears to shed. Naturally, Brian was sad about what had happened but he was more concerned about me and how I was coping.

I was kept in Torbay Hospital for two days which included having a dilatation and curettage operation before I was sent home. Bernie and Maureen came to Paignton to stay with me while Brian continued training. Then the phone rang after a few days. It was Norma, Brian's mum and a gentler creature you couldn't hope to meet. Her soft Geordie voice was in my ear. 'I'm so sorry, pet,' she said and the simple sweetness of her words cut me to my heart. All the pent-up emotion was suddenly released and I cried and cried for the baby I'd loved and lost.

Soon the demands of my career helped to take my mind off the miscarriage. It was at a post-golf tournament event, the Bob Hope Classic, that we met the great man himself. Each year, he hosted a dinner afterwards at the Grosvenor House Hotel in London's Park Lane. It was a huge black tie, ballgown affair held in the Great Room. President Ford was there – we had our picture taken with him – as were Princess Alexandra and her husband, Angus Ogilvy, alongside the rest of the great and the good. We received a massive cheer as we were announced, coming down the sweeping staircase into the Great Room.

With so much experience under our belts, we took most engagements in our stride, but this was different. We knew it was a prestigious event which was also being televised live. No wonder we were nervous. Backstage, we were all telling each other to keep calm. I remember saying to my sisters, 'If you do something wrong, don't stop. Just smile and carry on.' Then we rapidly rehearsed some of the trickier harmonies, something we rarely did on other occasions.

We were the cabaret along with Stephanie Lawrence who had been in both
Cats
and
Starlight Express.
Unfortunately, she slipped on the stage and fell over, her skirt riding up over her head. The whole thing was really embarrassing. We felt for her, and it didn't exactly put us at our ease. Suppose one of us lost her footing or caught a heel in her dress? It didn't bear thinking about.

Suddenly, there was no more time for fussing and fidgeting. We were on. Bob Hope himself introduced us; a great thrill. We performed a Barbra Streisand medley, with Paul Williams, the man who'd written some of those songs – 'Evergreen', 'Watch Closely Now' – sitting right in front of the stage. It was that sort of an evening. We also sang 'People', 'Second Hand Rose' and 'Don't Rain On My Parade' from
Funny Girl,
and 'Woman In Love'.

This isn't meant to sound boastful but, vocally speaking, we didn't hit a bum note. Backed by Alyn Ainsworth's orchestra, it was one of the most accomplished live performances of our career. We were continually being rubbished for being cheesy but we could sing and nobody ever said otherwise. I'm very proud of that evening.

Even allowing for the excitement of that engagement, we all had the feeling that perhaps the Nolans were beginning to peak. The hit singles were drying up and, while we still got bookings, they weren't quite as plentiful or as prestigious as they had been in the glory years at the end of the seventies and the beginning of the eighties. In November 1983, Linda announced she wanted to leave the group to pursue a solo career. Her husband Brian, who'd been our tour manager and had assisted the sound engineer, obviously would go with her.

Linda's last performance as part of the group was the
Val Doonican Christmas Show
on which Howard Keel and Wall Street Crash were the special guest stars. We had a particular affinity with Val because he used to sing with my Aunty Doreen, my dad's sister, back in Ireland. He's also the nicest man in the world, everybody's favourite uncle, relaxed, highly professional but always calm about everything. Most of his shows went out live; not that you'd have known it to look at him. Nothing seemed to faze him.

It was a real thrill to be on the same show as Howard Keel because he'd long been an icon of ours. We all loved his big movie musicals –
Kiss Me Kate, Seven Brides For Seven Brothers, Calamity Jane
– so it felt as if we were rubbing shoulders with Hollywood royalty. His voice was still fantastic and he was such a masculine man. You'd never have known, though, that he was a major star. He sat on the sofa next to us and chatted away like a long-lost friend. Like Sinatra, he had no need to appear big; he knew how good he was and had nothing to prove.

If I was concerned that the dynamics of the group might change with Linda's departure, I needn't have worried. Initially, it felt a bit strange going from five people to four, but we quickly readjusted. We also redistributed the different harmonies and ended up sounding pretty much the same as before.

Early in 1984, we were booked to appear on Marti Caine's TV show. We'd already done a special with her, so we knew what a star she was to work with. I think we felt an additional affinity because we were now Blackpool-based and she was a northern girl from Sheffield. She'd worked the clubs before she won the
New Faces
talent competition and there was absolutely no side to her. Everyone remembers her as a comedienne, but she also had a great singing voice. After battling bravely, she finally succumbed to cancer in 1995. She was a great loss.

The remaining four of us then recorded a new album,
Girls Just Want To Have Fun,
and undertook a highly successful promotional tour of Woolworth and Asda stores. This was followed by yet another tour of the UK, performing in theatres and clubs, although by now we were no longer topping the bill. I've always liked a live audience better than, say, the endless repetitive work in a recording studio. Amy would come with me, my mum babysitting her while I was on stage.

Poor Brian was back in Paignton and still playing. He was captain of Torquay United by then, but the old injuries to his knee and ankle were giving him a lot of pain. We were separated more than I'd have liked because of my work. He'd always take me to the station to see me off on yet another engagement or tour, and I'd look out of the window as the train pulled away from the platform and watch his solitary figure making for the exit.

We were then booked for an appearance on Little and Large's TV show. Like Marti and us, they came from the northern club scene, so we immediately shared a kind of shorthand. Not only did we sing, but we did a comedy sketch with them – well, they did the comedy and we fed them the punchlines. They told us they originally got together when Syd Little had been doing a stand-up routine and Eddie Large started heckling him. In the end, Syd said, if he thought he could do better, why didn't Eddie come up on stage? So he did – and their double act grew from there.

We still see Syd – he lives in Fleetwood, the next town to Blackpool – but we've never really kept up with other people in the business. We're not standoffish but we're sisters, and so we always had each other's company, which meant we never got to know the other artists apart from what was required through performing with them. I've always been close to Maureen because she's only three years younger than me and we grew up together. Having said that, it would be hard to fall out with Maureen. She's placid and kind and the opposite of confrontational. Coleen's just the same; anything for a quiet life. If I crossed swords with anyone, it was Bernie. The trouble is, I suppose, that we're too alike. Each of us can be fiery. I remember coming off stage after one show and I could see she was angry with me.

'I couldn't hear myself singing,' she said, 'because your voice was so loud in my ear.'

'Me too loud?' I exclaimed. 'I couldn't hear myself singing because of
your
bellowing.' And so we'd start bickering. I'm perfectly prepared now to admit that I was probably short-tempered because I wanted Amy and me to be at home with Brian.

Christmas 1984 was very special because we were invited to perform for a week at the Diplomat Hotel in Bahrain. Everyone came: Mum, Dad, both brothers, all the sisters, boyfriends, Amy and me – everyone, that is, except for Brian. December is bang in the middle of the football season and there simply wasn't a choice. That's show business, as they say, and, in our different ways, we were both in it, but I know he was lonely that Christmas, with Amy and me on the other side of the world, and I missed him dreadfully. We spoke on the phone every day, as the enormous bill proved when it arrived a few weeks later. It wasn't an ideal existence and I never got used to missing Brian. If there was just a day's break in our professional diary, I'd travel back to Torquay to be with him.

I liked singing with my sisters but I also liked and needed the money. Brian and I had never lived lavishly – we never once went on holiday while we lived in Paignton – but I do remember we got into the habit of eating out quite a lot, and we did choose to pay for Amy to go to a private nursery.

Looking back now, I can see it was a schedule fraught with possible problems, an accident, if you like, waiting to happen. And it did. We girls were staying in Ilford for a couple of days – there must have been a brief break in the tour – and I was up early one morning because of Amy. There was a huge teapot in the kitchen because there could be up to eight of us in the house at any one time, I made tea and sat Amy on the worktop next to me so I could keep an eve on her. I leant across to reach a cup and in that moment she must have been attracted by the tea cosy because she pulled at it and the pot overturned, emptying its boiling hot contents.