Anne's Song (8 page)

Finally, we ended up with two nights at the Albert Hall so I got to sing there eventually, which more than made up for the disappointment of Denise and me being thrown off the school coach all those years earlier. It was nerve-racking, but an amazing experience. Mum and Dad came to both London concerts, although they didn't accompany us on the European leg of the tour.

When it was all finally over, Sinatra presented each of us with an engraved gold medallion which he'd had inscribed with the words, 'Love and Peace, Frank Sinatra'. In return, we showed our thanks by buying him a doll for his granddaughter. It's a sign of the man's generosity that, at the after-show party, he left Elizabeth Taylor's side, brushed past a large group of reporters and photographers, and came across to thank us personally for our gift. I speak for all my sisters when I say that we'll never forget the man or his kindness.

As I look back over our entire career – and we had some fabulous experiences – I think that nothing ever eclipsed the Sinatra tour. It was the high spot, no question. We had our own rhythm section – piano, bass, drums, guitar – but all the strings and the brass for our act were provided by Sinatra's sixty-strong orchestra. You might have thought that returning to the nightly demands of the London Room would seem a bit of a comedown after all that we'd experienced on the road with Sinatra, but I think we remained as high as kites for weeks afterwards.

As it happens, I have another, quite different reason to remember the Sinatra tour, apart from the thrill of appearing on the same bill as one of the all-time greats. Gene Cherico was the bass player in his backing band and I fancied him almost from the moment we started rehearsing. He was around forty, and not particularly tall: about five foot eight, a couple of inches taller than me. He had dark hair and dark brown eyes behind granny glasses like John Lennon's. He was of medium build and was always smartly dressed onstage and off. If he went outside, he'd put on his Burberry raincoat. He had a lovely smile. I hardly spoke to him all the way through the tour as we criss-crossed Europe but, when we arrived in London, he invited me to a posh restaurant in Park Lane – he was staying at the Hilton – after the second of the two shows at the Royal Albert Hall.

The meal was lovely and he invited me up to his hotel room when we left the restaurant. I didn't need my arm twisting; I was happy to be with him. When we got to his suite, we were kissing and cuddling and then I took my clothes off and climbed into bed. Gene did the same. I'd kissed men before. There was the sailor I'd met on the cruise and there'd been a boy in Blackpool called Pete who would sometimes come with me if I went out dancing, not that my father ever knew about him. But, as soon as Gene put his arm around me, I burst into uncontrollable tears. Sobbing my heart out, I hurriedly dressed and ran out of the hotel. For some reason, I felt guilty and confused and I knew my father wouldn't approve. Before I left, Gene tried to calm me down. He was absolutely lovely, gentle and understanding and reassuring all at once. He must have thought it odd, though, that I was carrying on like this.

I know he really liked me a lot and I liked him, too. He didn't have a wife or girlfriend and I was single. 1 was twenty-four by then but, when it came to it, the idea of sex, much as I was attracted to him, was too frightening. Half my life away, my father had done something so unforgivable that this was the legacy. Those had been my only sexual experiences. Despite that, my dad had always drummed into me that sex was wrong, sinful, dirty.

It strikes me now as both sad and wicked that two adults who'd formed a bond with each other couldn't go to bed together because my father had made the prospect of intercourse something degrading. I'd never been allowed to feel natural with anyone of the opposite sex. My dad had stunted me emotionally by what he'd done. Somehow, I felt like a child all over again. If I'd been able to analyse my feelings rationally, I think I'd have hated him then as much as I'd done at any point in my life.

Gene wrote to me when he got back to the States, a really sensitive letter, but he must have thought I was nuts. I was a woman behaving like a little girl and not really understanding why. I'd got into that bed of my own accord. It's not as though he'd coerced me. What on earth was the problem? I couldn't have told him, even if I'd wanted to. It's probably why I never replied to his letter. What could I have said? Certainly not the truth, even if I'd sorted out in my head that that was the reason why my nerve had failed.

Every time I looked at my father, a part of me would recall what he'd done to me. I couldn't ever see him simply as my father. I'd look at him and see a dirty old man. Try as I might, it was impossible to expunge those memories, and that's a dreadful legacy with which to be saddled as a grown woman.

I was twenty-five when I first had sex, with a man I'd met in the Valbonne and who I'd invited to come and visit me one afternoon in the London Room. I'd kissed other men, but never indulged in anything else, not even heavy petting. It wasn't too surprising. My father had made it as difficult as possible for me, and for Denise and Maureen, to have anything to do with boys. He had much less influence over my three youngest sisters because, by the time they were interested in boys, they were much more independent than I'd been.

Any attention that had been paid by boys to the oldest three of us when we performed or toured was swiftly discouraged by him. Any interest one of us might have shown in a particular boy was met with sarcasm and verbal abuse. I clearly remember catching the eye of a boy in a club in Wales. We came off stage and I could tell my father was seething. In front of everyone, he rounded on me.

'I see you're happy to behave like a little slut,' he said, without raising his voice. 'I didn't realise I had a slag for a daughter.'

I was a young woman who'd smiled at a young man she liked the look of. My father's reaction was ridiculously out of proportion, the foul thoughts of a twisted man. He had a very disturbed attitude when it came to sex. There was his private behaviour with me when I was still a child, but now his cruel public comments made me feel that what men wanted was something a young woman should have nothing to do with. The hypocrisy of it all still takes my breath away.

To be honest, I was scared by the whole idea of sex. Kissing boys was nice, but I never wanted to do anything more than that. Deep in my mind lurked the memories of what had happened as I sat on my father's lap when I was twelve, but along with them I had his words ringing in my ears: girls shouldn't have sex before marriage, he'd repeat, over and over again, you might get pregnant which would be a terrible thing. You should only have sex once you're married to the man you love. Sex, he implied, was something dirty and, in my experience, in his hands, he was dead right.

Either way, he'd instilled the fear of God in me. With hindsight, I question his motivation in extolling the virtues of virginity in young women. Part of me believes that he was trying to keep me pure and unsullied, for him. Put simply, I don't think he liked the thought of me being with another man, any other man. Certainly, I know that when I met the man who was to become my husband, my father was jealous of him. He'd bad-mouth him behind my back (I was later told) for no better reason than he was a male competing for my affections.

Of course, saving yourself for the right man, if a little old-fashioned, wasn't necessarily a bad piece of advice, had it come from anyone except my father – but here was a man who'd impregnated his own girlfriend before they'd become man and wife and who'd repeatedly sexually abused his young daughter.

As it transpired, my first sexual encounter at the grand old age of twenty-five, on the dressing-room floor of the London Room in Drury Lane, was far from a pleasurable experience. I was frightened. It hurt. This particular chap had been flirting with me, telling me he loved me even though he had a girlfriend. I was keen on him and I didn't want to become the world's oldest virgin. My experience with Gene was at the back of my mind but, while I was still anxious, I felt it was time to face down my demons. I can't say I enjoyed it, although it did prove one thing: my father had never had full sex with me. That may sound like a strange thing to say, but when you're an innocent who's been abused, it messes with your mind. I didn't know about sex when my father started his campaign of molestation, so I couldn't be sure exactly what he'd done to me. I was pretty certain penetration had never taken place, but then maybe he'd done something to me when I was asleep. All doubts were removed, however, the first time I had full intercourse because I bled. I must have been a virgin.

I went to the man's house a few days later and stayed the night. We had sex again, although I wouldn't take off all my clothes, and it was the first time I'd ever slept in the same bed as someone of the opposite sex. The next morning, however, I heard him on the phone, talking to this other woman and saying the same things to her he'd said to me. So that was the end of that.

Luckily, there was the Nolan Sisters' burgeoning career to take my mind oft my private life. After our weekly spot on Cliffs Saturday night TV show and then the unforgettable experience of touring with Sinatra, we landed our first summer season the following year, 1976, in Eastbourne. Ronnie Corbett – such a nice man – was the star of the show and impressionist Janet Brown was also on the bill. We barely stopped laughing all summer and it was so different from the sorts of season you get now. There was real money up on that stage. For our act, we had our own scenery and we were also involved in a routine set in a gambling den with dancers dressed as jockeys. It was all very sumptuous, no expense spared.

Our dressing rooms overlooked the tennis courts. I've always been mad about tennis, so I could sit and watch all the top stars playing in the tournament there in the run-up to Wimbledon. I had a grandstand view. It was during our season in Eastbourne that Maureen met John Lloyd, a top British player at the time, so good-looking, and they started going out together. We used to be flown by helicopter to do our show on a Sunday at the London Room by special request from a group of Americans who'd booked the place out and had specified they wanted us to do the cabaret. It was very flattering and exciting, too. We all felt as if we were living a glamorous life in the fast lane.

It was also the same year that we toured South Africa with Rolf Harris. The scenery was breathtaking, but the temperature was going through the roof. To cool down, we'd take dips in the hotel pool and sip long iced drinks. We'd also visit the sauna as part of our beauty routine. On one visit, we bumped into the almost nude figure of another hotel guest, Tom Jones. He was tall, tanned, with a great physique, just like he looked on TV – and very sexy, a really manly man. We sat and talked music like true professionals before Tom stood up to leave, his towel accidentally falling to the floor as he did so. Stupidly, we all averted our eyes.

Hanover Grand would also loan us out for corporate gigs. I remember once going to Italy to entertain the delegates after some conference or other. It was the first time I'd ever been to Rome. Tommy Cooper was the star turn. We went on first, did a forty-minute act and went off again to warm applause, but as we exited into the wings there, lying on a stretcher backstage, was Tommy; he'd had a heart attack. It was such a shock. He was breathing but he was deathly white. The organisers told us to turn around and go straight back onstage. We hadn't really rehearsed any more numbers, but luckily we were being backed by our own band, so we'd call out the title of a song and off they'd go. In the end, we did another half hour as poor Tommy was rushed to hospital. He pulled through, but as all the world knows, it was a heart attack on live TV that killed him eight years later.

Life-changing events seem to happen to me at Christmas and 1976 was no exception. That was the day I first set eyes on Brian Wilson, a professional football player with Blackpool and the possessor of the most indelible blue eyes I'd ever seen. He was sitting among a group of footballers in the Bloomfield Working Men's Club near Blackpool FC's ground where my brother Tommy was the resident drummer. My younger brother Brian was a good friend of this other Brian, as it turned out.

We were briefly introduced and the second thing that struck me about him was his Geordie accent; he seemed like a character straight out of a Catherine Cookson story. He was nineteen although he seemed much older because he'd been signed to the club, I later discovered, at fifteen and had lived away from home since then. I was twenty-six but, despite my show business experience, still rather immature and naive for my age.

There was a party at my Aunt Teresa's house on Boxing Day evening. Brian was playing football in the afternoon and then he came to join us when the match was over. To my disappointment he spent the whole night talking to Linda Gallagher, who was back in Blackpool for the Christmas break, but by the end of the party we'd managed to have a short chat and he asked me if I wanted to go out for a drink with him the following day.

We got on from the start. He was quiet and thoughtful; he had a gentle nature, and talked a lot about his upbringing and his family in Newcastle. He used to say that, later on in his life, he'd like to be a lumberjack in the wilds of Canada. He was attracted by the simple life. He also dreamed of taking off round the world in one of those big camper vans. He never shirked his responsibilities, but I think a part of him yearned for the open road. He was one of those people everybody liked; he was a good listener and always willing to help anyone in a spot of bother.

He was fond of playing the guitar, just sitting in the corner at a party on his own. He couldn't sing, but he'd pick out the tune for John Denver's big hit, 'Annie's Song', and I'd sing while he played. If I had a day off, I'd go back to Blackpool to see him. We'd meet and I'd always fall into a pattern of teasing him. I don't know why; maybe because it was all so pressured, having to meet so infrequently, and this was a sort of nervous reaction. In time, he'd walk me back to where he lived. We'd pass someone's garden and he might pick a rose and present it to me.

Brian was quite tall – just under six feet – and broad-shouldered, lean rather than thin, and strong. His legs were muscular, as you'd expect with a super-fit professional football player. When we first met, he had blondish, slightly mousey hair which he wore to just below his ears. He'd only wear smart clothes for a special occasion, but he looked great in a suit because he had such a good physique. Being sporty, though, he tended to go for leisurewear the rest of the time: tracksuit bottoms or jeans with a T-shirt. In the summer, it was always shorts. On his feet, he liked to wear trainers or moccasin-type slippers; I remember on one occasion that he came to meet me off the train in those slippers. People were pointing at him, but he didn't care.

He was always scrupulously clean. He'd shower and wash his hair twice a day because he'd be training a lot. He had nice hands and his nails were always clipped and clean. One of the things I liked best about him was his arms. They were toned rather than too muscular – I don't like muscle men – but they were strong. When he put those arms around me, I felt safe and protected. Even after he gave up football, he still continued to train two or three times a week and coach amateur teams. He used to run a lot and go to the gym to use the treadmill or the bike or the cross-trainer, so his physique didn't really change.

I know there's six and a half years between us, but you'd never have known then that Brian was younger than me. We looked right together. Ours was turning into a serious relationship and I started staying the night with Brian at his digs if ever I was in Blackpool. I didn't particularly advertise the fact to my father, but I wouldn't have cared if he'd known. I was twenty-six now; I could please myself. I'd had a pretty chequered sex life, to say the very least, and I certainly wasn't relaxed with Brian in the beginning. Understandably, I was apprehensive – I'd never had an open sexual relationship with anybody; I didn't really know what to do; I might just as well have been a virgin – but I knew it would be all right in the end because Brian was so gentle, so considerate, so patient. If I flinched or displayed any hint of anxiety, he'd ask me if I was all right. He was the person who turned sex into making love.

It was an unusual courtship, conducted almost entirely on the phone. With him travelling all over the country with his football team and the increasing popularity of the Nolan Sisters causing us to tour extensively, it was always difficult for us to find time to be together. On one occasion, we arranged to meet in the less-than-romantic setting of a motorway service station, but what was the choice?

Brian was absolutely dedicated to his football. I later learned that scouts for Manchester United, Everton, Liverpool and Nottingham Forest had all wanted to sign him up, but, for some reason, his father had decided that Blackpool would suit him better; it was a smaller club, he was a young lad and he wouldn't be overwhelmed by the experience. Initially, he lived in miserable digs opposite the football ground with no hot water throughout a freezing winter. His mother came up on a visit and insisted on seeing the club's manager. Either he must find somewhere better for her son to live, she said, or she'd be taking him home. He was quickly rehoused. Clearly, he had talent but, unfortunately, at seventeen, he'd suffered a bad injury which resulted in the cartilage being removed from his knee. Then he damaged his ankle. In the end, these injuries meant he had to finish his career before he reached thirty.

Against the odds, given the clashing demands on our time, we grew closer and closer. We'd always start our daily phone conversations – often three or four every day – by saying how much we were missing each other. We were getting more and more open about our feelings. One day, at the end of the conversation, he suddenly said, 'I love you.' It was the sweetest moment. I immediately repeated the same three words back to him. From that moment on, we never ended a conversation without saying, 'I love you.' We'd also exchange letters in which we said how much we wanted to be together for ever.

As my relationship with Brian deepened and matured so my career with my sisters flourished. We were still appearing regularly at the London Room, but Hanover Grand, who effectively owned us, would release us from our engagement there if something prestigious and lucrative enough was offered. In 1977, just such an offer was forthcoming with the invitation for us to appear in New York at the Westchester Premier Theatre for two weeks as the support act to Engelbert Humperdinck. He was an enormous star in the States at the time, although no one had the first idea who
we
were. It didn't matter. There was a real buzz around him and that rubbed off on us.