Anne's Song (9 page)

It was the first time we'd been to America and I'll never forget it. We stayed at a five-star hotel, the like of which we'd never seen before. Mum and Dad came with us and it was like the realisation of a family dream. My father may have been fiercely patriotic about Ireland, but he loved the States. As we were growing up, he was forever telling us that it was the best country in the world. And now here we all were. It was a huge thrill – and I didn't mind him being there. I was secure in my relationship with Brian, something my father must have seen for himself, and that gave me real strength.

We didn't get to know Engelbert well. We'd chat to him and he was pleasant, but, unlike Tom Jones who was natural, down-to-earth and hadn't lost his Welsh accent, Engelbert had acquired something of a mid-Atlantic twang to his voice and seemed very caught up in the whole showbiz razzmatazz. You got the impression, without being unkind about it, that he rather believed his own publicity, as they say.

Like Tom, he had a reputation for liking the ladies, but he certainly didn't flirt with any of us. Anyway, he had enough beautiful women throwing themselves at him. There's also another reason why we'd never have crossed his radar in that way. Because we were five sisters – this was before Coleen had joined the group – we were seen as a family act and somehow were never allowed to grow up in people's eyes as individual adult women. I was twenty-seven by then, but still I felt I needed my father's permission to do anything. Having said that, and although she did nothing to encourage it, all the men fell in love with Maureen, no matter where we went. You could see why: she was the prettiest of all of us, a striking brunette with a lovely personality.

In the spring of 1978, fifteen months after we'd first met, Brian and I got engaged. It happened during one of our interminable telephone conversations. In fact, I was the one who asked Brian if he'd like to get engaged and he said yes, he would but, if that were the case, he didn't want a ten-vear engagement. 'If we're getting engaged,' he said, 'we're getting married.' My instinctive reaction once we'd finished our conversation was to call my Aunt Teresa. She was thrilled. Then she told me my mum and dad were with her. Did I want to tell them? I told her no, I didn't, but she could. As it was, Aunt Teresa told my parents my news, but they didn't bother to pick up the phone to congratulate me. To tell the truth, I was quite relieved because I was worried about my father's reaction. My childhood experience at his hands had frightened me in all my dealings with him. The abuse may have happened a long time ago, but in my mind it had never gone away. So at what should have been a moment of uncomplicated happiness and joy – telling my parents I was going to marry the love of my life – I shied away, the thought of breaking the news to my own father instantly becoming an obstacle I wanted to avoid. That man cheated me out of so much in my life by what he did to me and I can never forgive him for that.

I don't think I spelled out my feelings to myself quite as clearly as that at the time, but my emotions were wobbly and it wasn't too hard to work out why. It was then that I decided to tell Brian the secret I'd hugged to myself for all those years, but this was something that couldn't be done over the phone.

When Brian made a rare visit to our home in Granville Road, Ilford, just a matter of days later, I knew that the moment had arrived. We were sitting on the stairs leading to the first floor – it is as clear to me now as if it had happened yesterday – and I remember feeling overwhelmed with apprehension about how I was going to broach the subject. In the end, I just blurted it out.

'My dad sexually abused me when I was a child,' I said.

'You're kidding,' he exclaimed. I don't blame him for being so shocked. We sat together quietly, and then, after a long pause, he said, 'What did he do to you?'

I did my best to explain what had happened. I told him it was one-sided, that I was, quite literally, an innocent victim, and it was only as I moved into my teens that I understood how wrong it had been. I explained that my naivety was overtaken by incredulity and anger as the full impact of how my innocence had been exploited fully hit me. Brian was thoughtful for a very long time.

Then he said, 'So you never had intercourse?' I told him no.

I think he was in shock. He didn't ask me how I felt about what happened because he was obviously finding it hard to absorb what he'd just been told. I could see it was almost too much for him to take in. I didn't blame him. In fact, my overwhelming emotion was one of relief. I was just glad that at last I'd been able to share my secret with the one person I loved and trusted more than any other in my life.

In no way did Brian blame me for what had happened. He saw me, quite properly, as a victim, but I often wonder whether he always thought I should have done something about what was going on, that I should have spoken out at the time. When I eventually made the decision to tell Brian my story, I warned him there was no point saying anything to anybody else because I'd always deny it. I can only think I was still frightened of my father. Why else would I want to protect him? It must also be true that I wanted to protect myself. Nor did Brian try to persuade me to speak out.

A part of me wishes, though, that Brian
had
taken matters into his own hands. He was the man in my life now. He could have confronted my dad, and then maybe I'd have felt strong enough to confirm the whole story. And, even if he didn't say something when I first told him my story, I sometimes wonder if he wanted to speak out when our daughters were born. To this day, I think Brian feels guilty about keeping quiet.

My revelations changed his relationship with my father, of course. He would never have made a scene because he simply wasn't that kind of person, but he became very cold towards him. 1 can't prove this but I'm sure my dad sensed the difference in Brian's behaviour. Brian was good at putting on a front in his dealings with my father if other people were around, but virtually ignored him if ever he and I were alone with him. When he first knew my father, they might go to the pub together for a drink. Not any more. Brian always found an excuse to get out of it. No one else would ever have known that my father had spotted the subtle change in Brian's attitude towards him. But I could. I'm certain to this day that he'd worked out I'd told Brian about the sexual abuse, not, of course, that I can ever prove this because my dad, as ever, never acknowledged that anything had happened.

If I had thought that Brian would in some way cool towards me as a result of what I'd told him, I needn't have worried. Not long afterwards, he bought me an engagement ring off his own bat, a solitaire diamond. I'd described what I wanted, but a lot of men wouldn't have gone out on their own and chosen it. We were appearing at a club called Talk of the North, between Blackpool and Wigan, and decided to make one evening there our engagement party, so we hired a coach and all our friends came over, watched the show and then celebrated afterwards. John Lloyd was going out with Maureen at the time and I remember him turning up in a white suit. Unfortunately, someone spilled a glass of red wine over him by mistake, but he didn't make any fuss about it at all. He was a very nice man – much too nice for Maureen, she always said!

Then I discovered I was pregnant.

I missed two periods before I took a pregnancy test which proved positive. We'd used no protection when we'd made love so what did I expect? On the other hand, I'd never seen a condom in my life. Still, Brian might have worked out it would have been a good idea to use one! I knew by then that he was the one for me so at first I wasn't as upset as I might have been, but that mood quickly passed. There were other things to consider.

I may have been nearly twenty-eight, but the shame it would have brought on my family, and on the image of the squeaky-clean Nolan Sisters, was something I couldn't contemplate. Also, although we were engaged, Brian and I weren't ready to start a family. However, easily the most terrifying thought of all was the prospect of telling my father. I shook with fear when I thought of his reaction. I was also concerned about what my mum would think. Brian and I agonised over the best course of action, but we could see no other alternative: I decided an abortion was my only option. We phoned a clinic in Manchester to find out all the details involved and how much it would cost.

Then fate took a hand. We were appearing at the ABC Theatre, Blackpool, with The Bachelors topping the bill, and I must have been about three months into the pregnancy. I was in a restaurant with Brian one evening when I was suddenly gripped by the most excruciating pain in my abdomen. I was so naive, it never occurred to me that I might be losing the baby. We were staying at my Aunt Teresa's at the time, while she was away on holiday, so that we could be together. The pain subsided, but later, in the middle of the night, I woke up and I was bleeding. I assured Brian that it wasn't too bad and that we ought to wait until the morning to see what to do next.

The following day, I was on stage performing a song called 'Be A Clown'. We were all dressed in appropriate costumes as we leap-frogged over each other's backs. The pain started again and this time it was really unbearable. I just about made it to the interval and then went back to our dressing room where I slid down the wall in agony.

'What's wrong, Anne?' Maureen said, her face etched with anxiety.

'I think I'm having a miscarriage,' I replied, between agonised gasps.

There was a stunned silence. Brian had been the only other living soul who'd known I was pregnant. Maureen was the first to come to her senses. 'We'd better get you to the hospital,' she exclaimed.

'Don't worry,' I said, with more conviction than I felt, 'I'll be all right.'

But I wasn't. My sisters phoned Brian and he rushed to be there with me. I miscarried that same evening. The decision about what to do with the pregnancy had been taken out of my hands. I was raised a Catholic and I believe to this day that I couldn't have coped with my conscience had I gone through with the termination.

Mum and Dad had to be told I was in hospital, of course, and naturally the first thing they wanted to know was what was wrong with me. To my surprise, instead of judging me they were both more concerned that I was going to make a full recovery, their relief overcoming any embarrassment or, in the case of my father, any show of anger.

For once in his life, my dad had put me first.

Between 1974 and 1978 – the year before Brian and I got married – the Nolan Sisters recorded eight singles for Target Records, a subsidiary of Warner Brothers. All of them failed to make the charts. Looking back now, it's not hard to see why. Our image was designed to appeal to an older generation, not the predominantly young record-buying public. We also recorded a limited edition album for London Room audiences which sold well in the club at the end of each show, but was never destined to make the national Top Twenty.

Throughout our whole career, it was working in a recording studio I liked the least. Live performances were exciting, with all that adrenaline pumping round your body; and I always enjoyed appearing on television, whether singing or being interviewed. When we were recording a new single or tracks for an album, however, Bernie would usually be singing the lead while the rest of us were doing the doo-wops in the background, and when you had to repeat the same line over and over again, it became just demanding and boring. It would have been quite different, of course, had I been a solo artist, but the most I could expect was to take the lead on one song on an album.

'Girls, you're going to Liverpool,' announced Joe Lewis one day. 'I've made arrangements for you to appear twice – lunchtime and evening – at a beautiful club up there. The audiences are wonderful. You'll have a lovely time.' This was to be a one-off engagement only.

We didn't doubt it. Having lived for so long in nearby Blackpool, we'd played more Merseyside clubs than we could count and we'd always been struck by the warmth of the reception. We looked forward to the gig. Playing the London Room was a great experience, but, as any performer will testify, a residency can take the edge off your performance. To have the chance to play another venue was always welcome.

The first thing we noticed as we took to the stage was that there were no women in the audience. The club was buzzing with the conversation of men sitting around, smoking and drinking. 'Something's wrong,' I whispered out of the corner of my mouth to my nearest sister. She gave a slightly nervous smile and nodded her agreement.

Lined up in our virginal white suits, we swung into our sweet Judy Garland medley, all the time puzzling about the crowd in front of us. We could hear tittering from different sections of the audience but, seasoned professionals that we were, we soldiered on. Our harmonies filled the room. The reaction, polite at first, gradually grew in strength and volume. By the end of the set, we'd won them over and walked off to rapturous applause with shouts of 'More!' ringing in our ears. It was only then we found out that, while the male audience had clearly enjoyed our performance, they were more used to ogling female strippers over their Sunday lunchtime drinks.

In 1977, WEA, our record label's mother company, came up with the idea of picking twenty of the most popular songs of the day and then canvassing opinion throughout the UK to choose who would record them. Our TV appearances had lodged us firmly in the popular imagination and, to our surprise and delight, we topped the poll. In February the following year,
20 Giant Hits
was released and quickly rose to the top of the charts. At last we had our first gold disc and the bona fide recording success we'd craved for so long.

That's when we left Hanover Grand. I didn't know the details at the time because our father did the deal. It was only later I discovered that it had cost us an enormous amount of money to terminate our contract, a move that, while winning us our freedom, almost put us back on the breadline. I never did find out how much we had to pay, but, considering that we received not one penny's profit from the £300,000 generated by sales of the album – that all went, perfectly legitimately, to Hanover Grand – I can only think it must have been a very substantial sum.

Any misgivings over this move were soon dispelled when Dad explained that WEA were offering us a long-term recording contract and CBS were also making their interest known. My father was still advising us, but, although we'd listen to him, ultimately we made our own decisions. He was no longer singing at the London Room. He'd left shortly before us and, although we still all lived in Granville Road together, his influence on us was receding. We were so busy, we saw very little of him, but, if I ever found myself alone with him, I'd still leave the room, even though I'd have been able to deal with any nonsense if he'd ever tried anything. My relationship with Brian had altered my life. I now felt confident and able to look after myself.

In the end, it was CBS who signed us but insisted we change our name to, simply, the Nolans. I think they felt it was a bit snappier, a bit less old-fashioned than the Nolan Sisters. We were euphoric. Then came a bombshell: Denise wanted to quit the group and go solo. She'd always hated having to learn choreographed dance routines; I think she also relished the opportunity of tackling big, dramatic numbers on her own. We understood her reasons for going but it made us apprehensive as she was a very popular member of the line-up. In the event, we regrouped and felt we were still capable of making more or less the same sound. The brand that was the Nolans was bigger, it seemed, than any individual member.

As it turned out, Denise got lots of work and, although she never had solo recording success, she was happy. We loved her, we missed her, but we respected her decision. Being sisters always came before the music, but we were still individuals. Denise was the first to follow her dream and, even though it was painful, no one tried to stand in her way.

The second setback of that year was losing out on our chance to represent Britain in the
Eurovision Song Contest.
Many people poke fun at
Eurovision
for being too cheesy, but that was a charge also continually levelled at us, something we'd long stopped minding about, and we knew how important it was to have the chance of exposure to a television audience in excess of 500 million people. Appearing on
Eurovision
would really put us on the map.

We'd been rehearsing a song called 'Harry, My Honolulu Lover' for weeks before the ultimate UK
Eurovision
entry was to be chosen by a panel of judges. Our appearance would be of vital importance, and we looked great (or so we were told) in Hawaiian-style mini-skirts and garlands of flowers round our necks. We had a tightly choreographed dance routine, and felt our chances of being chosen were good, but all hopes were dashed when a strike by BBC technicians made it impossible for us to perform live. With only the record for the panel to listen to, and no visual presentation, we were denied our chance to shine, ending up fourth.

There was a big compensation round the corner, though. We were invited to appear on the
Royal Variety Show
in November 1978 at the London Palladium in the presence of the Queen Mother, with Gracie Fields topping the bill. We had just the one song on that occasion – 'I've Got My Love To Keep Me Warm' – but Alyn Ainsworth had arranged five-part harmonies and there were intricate dance steps to remember. It was a dream come true; five years earlier, we'd been singing in Blackpool clubs. We were dying with nerves before we went on so the choreographer gave us each a glass of wine, which didn't make any difference at all. I needed the whole bottle just to myself!

While there were peaks and troughs on the professional front, in my private life I could not have been more happy. Brian and I set a date in June 1979 for our wedding at the Sacred Heart Church in Talbot Square, Blackpool. My sisters were thrilled for my personal happiness but a little apprehensive, I think, about the potential impact of my marriage on the act. They did nothing to try to dissuade me from marrying Brian, of course, and they were almost as excited as me about the June wedding. But, equally, it must have been pretty clear that the prospect of my marriage was more important to me than a singing career – and supposing I wanted a family? Might I also be on the point of leaving the act?

They were quite right to be worried, of course, although Coleen was waiting in the wings. She was then fourteen. Give her a few more months to learn all the words and dance routines, they said, and then I'd be free to make any decision I wanted. I agreed. What were a few more months? Brian and I had our whole lives together. Or so I thought.

As it turned out, it was a wonder I got married at all. The big day dawned. My wedding dress had been made specially for me by Jo Quill, who'd designed our stage wear. It was her wedding gift to me and I couldn't have been happier with it. The problem on the day itself, however, was one of logistics: my hairdresser, Delma, agreed to do my hair, but it would be easier, she said, if I came to her house.

'Are you nervous?' she asked when I arrived. I said I wasn't, but she ignored me and handed me what she described as 'a little drink', which turned out to be more like a treble Martini. We were nattering away and I was becoming more and more relaxed, a warm, mellow feeling spreading through my body as she titivated my coiffure. It was only when Delma was applying the finishing touches that she casually asked the time of the service.

'Two o'clock,' I said.

She squealed. 'Well, it's already half past one!'

How I made it from her house to my parents', threw on my bridal gown and got into the landau to travel – at snail's pace – to the church before everyone packed up and went home, I'll never know. I didn't have time to put on any make-up but luckily we'd been working on a Caribbean cruise just two weeks earlier, so I was nice and brown. In the end, I was only twenty minutes late.

Delma's shot of alcohol had steadied me but, nonetheless, I felt a bit strange on the way to the church. Even on my wedding day, when I should have been holding Dad's hand and thanking him for everything he'd done for me, I was conscious of sitting as far apart from him as possible. Fortunately, we were in an open carriage with people lining the streets and waving, so I concentrated on smiling and waving back. I'd have found it much more difficult if we'd been together in a car, in an enclosed space, and having to chat to him. As it was, I don't think we exchanged more than two words. What a relief– and what a sad thing to have to say about your own father on your wedding day.

As we approached Talbot Square, I'd never seen a crowd like it. The whole square had been closed to traffic, there were mounted police everywhere, my ears were ringing with the cheers and applause from fans of the Nolans – and yet being so near to my father meant I couldn't fully savour the magic of this unfolding spectacle. We finally reached the church and I was helped down from the landau. Then I had to link arms with him as we made our way through the scrum of photographers – the papers were full of pictures the next day – to get into the church and begin the walk down the aisle, an iconic moment in any woman's life but tainted for me for reasons only two other people in the world knew about: my father and my husband-to-be.

For all that, my overwhelming feeling was one of happiness. This was the best day of my life and a brand new start with the man I loved and trusted. When the priest reached the part in the ceremony when he asked: 'Who gives this woman to be married?' and my dad said, 'I do,' I thought, 'That's it. I'm free. Now I can get on with the rest of my life.'

My sisters, in true family tradition, had decided to sing a beautiful, intricate, unaccompanied version of The Carpenters' 'We've Only Just Begun', scored by the BBC's Johnny Coleman. The only problem was that the various demands on their time meant they'd barely rehearsed it. To this day, I maintain I heard nothing wrong with their interpretation of the song, but Maureen – she always sang the lower harmony – complained that her part was so down in her boots, she sounded as if she was farting!

Linda, standing just behind her, apparently started shaking with laughter (she always shakes when she laughs), followed closely by Denise and Coleen. Bernie alone is blessed with the ability to control her mirth and managed to keep a straight face. Luckily, none of them was in my line of vision, otherwise I'd probably have been infected by the giggles as well. In the event, and in true professional fashion, they finished the song and I thought it was beautiful.

As the evening wore on at the reception at the St Ives Hotel, guests began asking if I'd sing a song. In the end, I agreed and gave my rendition of 'Why Did I Choose You?' which contains the line, 'If 1 had to choose again, I would still choose you.' As I finished, I looked across at my beloved, my brand new husband – at that moment sprawled across the floor, his back against the stage, in total oblivion and feeling no pain. Brian liked his drink; he was no different from any other young footballer: a few drinks after the match and maybe the next day, too, and then he'd be back in training for the following Saturday's game. He'd booked the honeymoon suite at a local hotel, the Norbreck Castle, and he'd sobered up by then so, yes, it was a lovely night! The next day we went off on our honeymoon to the holy island of Lindisfarne, near Newcastle. We stayed for two weeks in a lovely cottage lent to us by a friend and the weather was terrible. I couldn't have cared less. It had been Brian's choice and a surprise for me. The peace and quiet were a wonderful respite from the hectic existence each of us had been used to. There were only two pubs on the island and Brian said I managed to drink them both dry of wine, so that they had to send to the mainland for more!

He was so loving, so thoughtful, so supportive. He always called me his pet lamb. Whenever we went out for a drink together – this started long before we got married – he'd split open one of the beer mats and write me little poems and love messages on them. I saved them all and then, on our first wedding anniversary, I paid someone to print them all in a book with Brian's initials on the cover.

We'd bought a small, modern semi-detached house in Harcourt Road in Blackpool. It was the first place we'd owned and could call ours, the first place where Brian and I could be alone together. I loved it. There was a tiny kitchen/diner on the left off the hallway and the lounge to the right with French windows leading on to the small garden. There were three bedrooms upstairs and a bathroom and toilet. However, we'd barely returned there from our honeymoon before Brian was back playing football and I was booked with my sisters for a headlining three-month summer season at Cleethorpes on the Lincolnshire coast.