Anne's Song

• Title
  
• Title Page
  
• Copyright Page
  
• Dedication
  
• Prologue
  
• Chapter 1 An Irish Childhood
  
• Chapter 2 Abandoned
  
• Chapter 3 The Ultimate Betrayal
  
• Chapter 4 Suffer the Little Children
  
• Chapter 5 Walking on Eggshells
  
• Chapter 6 Sister Act
  
• Chapter 7 Losing It
  
• Chapter 8 Hits and Highlights
  
• Chapter 9 Amy Makes Three
  
• Chapter 10 On the Road Again
  
• Chapter 11 Arrivals and Departures
  
• Chapter 12 The End of an Era
  
• Chapter 13 Letting Go
  
• Chapter 14 When Love Goes Wrong . . .
  
• Chapter 15 Staying Alive
  

Anne's Song

ANNE NOLAN

with Richard Barber

This eBook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author's and publisher's rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

ISBN 9781407005317

Version 1.0

www.randomhouse.co.uk

Published by Century 2008

4 6 8 1 0 9 7 5 3

Copyright © Anne Nolan 2008

Anne Nolan has asserted her right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work

This book is a work of non-fiction based on the life, experiences and recollections of Anne Nolan. In some cases names of people have been changed to protect the privacy of others. The author has stated to the publishers that, except in such respects, the contents of this book are true.

This electronic book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher's prior consent in any form other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser

First published in Great Britain in 2008 by Century
Random House, 20 Vauxhall Bridge Road,
London SW1V 2SA

www.rbooks.co.uk

Addresses for companies within The Random House Group Limited
can be found at:
www.randomhouse.co.uk/offices.htm

The Random House Group Limited Reg. No. 954009

A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

ISBN: 9781407005317

Version 1.0

To John Kent for his initial help and encouragement in writing this book.

To my Auntie Teresa for her love, for always being there when I needed her and for giving myself, my daughters and the dog a home when we didn't have one.

To my mum for her unconditional love and sacrifice throughout all her life.

I dedicate this book to my two wonderful daughters Amy and Alex for their understanding, for their love, for giving me a reason to go on when I was at my lowest and for giving meaning to my life

We'd just finished a performance at the Brunswick Working Men's Club in Blackpool. It was 1967. We were known as the Singing Nolans then. There were my mother and father, my elder brother Tommy, me, Denise and Maureen, my younger brother Brian, Linda and Bernie, and Coleen – although she wasn't yet three at that point.

The three youngest girls went on first, did their act and were then taken home by my Aunt Teresa in a taxi. Then the rest of us performed our act: although we'd all join in on most songs, each of us also had a solo. Mine was 'It Had To Be You', Maureen's was Nancy Sinatra's 'These Boots Were Made For Walking'. We got a great reception. We always did. People would whistle and clap and cheer. The audience loved us. We always got a standing ovation.

Normally, at the end of the evening, I'd share a taxi or a lift of some sort with my brothers and sisters. But, on this occasion, my father drew me to one side and asked if I'd wait behind and go back home with him in his car. There was something, he said, he wanted to discuss with me. I did as he asked but I wondered what on earth he wanted to say that couldn't be said in front of anyone else.

It was only about five minutes from the club to where we lived, but suddenly he took a wrong turning and then another. We seemed to be going on some sort of a detour.

I said, 'What are you doing?'

Dad looked sideways at me. 'I just want to have a word with you,' he said. 'In private.'

I wasn't scared but I wondered what was going on. He slowed down, parked the car in a side street and turned off the engine. Now he was facing me. He didn't bother with any preliminaries.

'I was thinking,' he said, almost matter-of-factly, 'why don't the two of us run away together?'

I laughed, half embarrassed, half not understanding what he was on about.

He said, 'Because you know I love you, don't you?'

This was beginning to scare me. I said, 'Yes,' trying to keep my voice sounding as calm as possible. 'You're my dad.'

'Oh no,' he said, 'not like that.'

I was getting panicky. I said, 'Why are you saying this? What about Mum? Don't you love Mum?'

'Yes, I do love your mum,' he said, 'but in a different way.' I was staring straight ahead at the street in front of me. I wouldn't look at him, I didn't want to, but out of the corner of my eye I could see he was still gripping the steering wheel with both hands.

I didn't speak. It was as though my mind couldn't take all of this in. Was my own father really suggesting that we should suddenly disappear and set up home together as a couple, effectively as man and wife? It was beyond my comprehension.

I thought my head would explode and then the most curious thing happened. I seemed to be vacating my own body, as if I were somewhere else, as if I were no longer in the car with him. I suppose I was, quite literally, going through an out-of-body experience. I'm not sure, but I may even have fainted for a few seconds. I can only describe it as a feeling of no longer being there.

I couldn't hear my father any more, although I was somehow aware he was still talking. I couldn't make any sense of his words. My mind must have been insulating me from their full implication. I just couldn't bear to take on board what he was suggesting.

It was then I began thinking that either he was mad or perhaps just terribly ill. I started to feel physically unwell. I thought T was going to be sick. Was my own father serious about the suggestion that he and I could have a life together as partners? It was the most horrendous thing I'd ever heard. I think I started to cry.

In time, he must have realised that I was traumatised, that I was in a state of complete and utter shock, because he switched the engine back on and, without further ado, we drove home in silence. He never referred to this incident again.

Dad was forty. I was sixteen.

Of all my brothers and sisters, Brian is the one who most minds about my writing this book. He feels – and I respect this – that the image of the Nolans should be left intact. However, I feel even more strongly that I want to tell
my
story. I've lived with the shame and the guilt of what happened to me for long enough. I'm not a vengeful person, and I'm genuinely sorry if a few illusions are shattered in the process, but I've kept my secret to myself for too long. Now it's Anne's turn.

Everyone knew my father by his first name, and everyone knew Tommy Nolan. Whether in Dublin or Blackpool, he was hugely popular, both as a performer and as a man. He was easy to talk to and naturally charming, but it was more than that. He had the kind of personality that made people gravitate towards him. There was something magnetic about him. Men liked him because he was one of the lads and women were clearlv attracted to him. I didn't understand the implications of that when I was little but, in my mind's eye, there were always women around him.

Despite the big public persona, though, he chose to keep his private life private – but then, he had plenty to be private about.

My mother was christened Mary but was always known as Maureen. (My sister, Maureen, was christened Marie. I have an elder brother, Tommy, named after my dad and that's as much a tradition in Ireland as girls called Mary often being known by another name!) Mum was eighty-one when she died just after Christmas 2007. She'd been in the grip of Alzheimer's, lying in bed in a home and unable to follow anything that was going on or to recognise even members of her own family. Now and then, she'd seem to have a lucid moment when she'd say a word that made you think she might know who you were, but the moment soon passed

She was a real beauty when she was young, very slim with dark hair and dark eyes, only a little over five feet tall. She had the most beguiling voice, and at seventeen she won a scholarship to a music college in Dublin. She could have trained as an opera singer, but she wanted to do musical comedy – and have babies. As it was, she never took up her place.

She met my father when he was singing at a corporate event in Dublin. One of the female singers was ill, so, at the last moment, my mother was booked to take her place. Although she was only twenty, her regular job was at the Capitol cinema where she'd come on stage between movies and sing to the audience. My father was the same age as my mother and obviously the attraction was mutual. A year later, they were man and wife.

She was a warm, caring woman, although not the sort who'd kiss and cuddle her children for no reason. While she was naturally gentle and soft, if we pushed her – and we did – she could be fiery, but it was always soon forgotten. Her bark was worse than her bite and she'd hardly ever smack us; and yet, it would have been understandable if she were short-tempered. She must have been exhausted most of the time. She had eight children in the end, five of us under the age of six at one stage. No one could have been kinder if you were ill. In fact, I sometimes used to wish I was just ill enough because then Mum would make a fuss of me. She'd wrap you in a blanket on the couch and bring you hot drinks. I loved that.

Like my mother, my father had dark colouring, but he had an angular face. It's difficult for a child to judge, but I'd say he was a good-looking man. He was strict, someone who liked things done his way, and he had about him an extraordinary presence. My mum would rant and rave and scream at us if we were playing her up – and we just ignored her. My dad didn't have to say a word. Just one look from him and you stopped what you were doing. You might imagine that we were frightened that he'd lash out at us if we didn't do as we'd been asked, but it wasn't like that at all. He never hit us. He didn't need to. The man possessed innate power.

What hung in the air was the unknown possibility of what he might do if one of us stepped seriously out of line. Some people have the ability to let you know that, without having to raise a finger in anger, they can only be pushed so far and woe betide. My father was one of them. So, while part of me was pleased to have a strong provider and protector looking out for his family, there lurked in the depths of his personality something unseen. And, had I been able to articulate it back then, it scared me.

If you had a headache, my mum was the one who'd come and put her hand on your forehead. She was kind and lovely, always there for us. We all adored her – in fact, we took her for granted, I now see – but if something was wrong, if there was some sort of a crisis in your life, my dad was the one you'd go to. He was indisputably the head of the household, the person who would sort out any trouble on your behalf. He was strong, protective, a man of the world, a natural leader.

Wherever he went, everybody loved him. If he had any enemies, I was never aware of them. Even now, I might be speaking to someone who knew him and they'll tell me how much they admired him. He was the life and soul of any-gathering but never loud, never a show-off. If people asked him to sing when he was out somewhere, he'd always oblige in his deep, rich voice. He was always the pivotal person in any group, the man to whom people listened when he spoke. He had natural authority.

I was never worried he'd say something foolish when we were out with him. He'd never embarrass you because he always somehow knew the right thing to say. He was also generous. If he went out anywhere, he'd always be the first to stand a round of drinks. At home, he was quieter. You'd often find him, alone in a room, listening to the radio or his record collection or reading. There was an introspective side to him that you'd never have known if you met him in a public place.

There were plenty of good times. At meals, for example, he'd often tell us stories from his childhood or about his time in show business when he first started out. One of my favourites was about when he was twelve and was out with his two best mates. They were cycling in Dublin and headed off down to the Liffey where my father failed to brake in time and plunged straight into the river. He couldn't swim and had to be rescued by a passer-by, otherwise he might well have drowned. That always seemed very dramatic to me and he told the story so well.

He was also a naturally witty man, like his mother before him, with a wonderful sense of humour and an original way of looking at the world. He'd have us all laughing. He was well educated. He'd been taught by the Christian Brothers who were extremely strict and who expected complete concentration from their students. They instilled in him a great love of history, and particularly the history of Ireland which he passed on to us. He was fiercely patriotic and not a great fan of the English, of course. He gave us our love of reading – in particular Charles Dickens – and music.

He adored his family almost, I would now say, to the point of being obsessed by us. My mother was a huge part of my father's life, but 1 always got the impression he was more bothered about his children than he was about his wife. Certainly, he never showed her any affection in public, although that was partly explained by the fact that most adults weren't openly demonstrative to each other in public in those days. I think he loved her in his way, but I never even saw them hold hands. I don't ever remember them arguing when we were young.

He was more obviously affectionate towards us, his children. He certainly didn't like it if he felt anyone was rivalling him for that affection. We were extremely close to our Aunt Teresa, my mother's youngest sister who was only sixteen when I was born. I think he was a bit jealous of how fond we were of her. She was almost like a big sister to me, but then, because she's never had children of her own, I think she regards all of us as her surrogate children. She's always been kind and protective and loving as well as extremely pretty, with the same colouring as my mother's. I regard her as my rock and have done all my life.

My father was a smart man, always neatly dressed. His trousers were never without a crease and worn either with a short-sleeved shirt in summer or a meticulously ironed long-sleeved one in winter. He shaved every day without fail. His hair was worn short and brushed. He had lovely nails that he kept spotlessly clean and clipped. He'd polish his shoes until they shone and taught us to polish ours, too. He spoke well, and he cut a figure even though he can't have been more than five foot eight and very thin at that. He never put on weight throughout his whole adult life, although he loved his food and drink.

As I was to discover, however, there was another side to the man, a dark, disturbed side.

Looking back now, I realise I didn't really get to know my father properly for the first ten years of my life. He worked all day as a bookkeeper for a glass company in Dublin and then he'd be off at night, singing in a local club called the Royella or travelling with The Morris Mulcahy Band, a jazz group well known in Ireland at the time.

There was no one my father liked better than Frank Sinatra. He played his records all the time so that there wasn't a Sinatra song we didn't know inside out. In fact, on the radio he'd be introduced as Ireland's Frank Sinatra and that's also how he'd be billed on posters. He was a crooner with a great range and a natural baritone voice. Sometimes, he'd be called Tommy 'Cool Water' Nolan after a song called 'Cool Clear Water' that was popular at the time. When television came to Ireland, my dad and The Bachelors, Ireland's top male vocal group, were on the very first show broadcast by Telefis Eireann, the national TV station.

My mother was a soprano with a beautiful, clear tone. She favoured songs from shows like
Oklahoma!
or
Carousel,
but she'd also sing arias like 'One Fine Day' from
Madam Butterfly.
Later on, when the family moved to England, she and Dad would sometimes sing together in the working men's clubs and hotels in the north-west. They were billed as Tommy and Maureen, the Sweethearts of Song. They might sing 'My Heart and I', for instance, and people would go mad for them.

Mum was slim when she married my father but, after eight pregnancies, her figure began to fill out. She always dressed up if we went anywhere for the evening or if she was on a singing engagement, but at home, she'd just wear a frock. She had too much to do to bother with appearances if she was indoors. When we were young, she wouldn't have dreamt of going out without wearing make-up, but, as she got older, she seemed to mind less. However, we weren't having any of that. We'd always persuade her to put it on. She had lovely skin – she still has now – and I think she thought she could get away without make-up, but she always looked better if she'd made the effort. The same was true of her hair. By the time I was in my twenties, she'd let me do her hair and make-up for her.

Even allowing for the way he later treated her, my mother loved my father until the day he died. He was certainly fond of her, but whether he was in love with her we'll never know. He wasn't a man who was free with his emotions. She was pregnant with my brother Tommy when they married. Marriage would have been insisted upon; it would have been judged shameful in Ireland at the end of the forties to have a child out of wedlock. They were both only twenty-one.

I was born at Hollies Street Maternity Hospital in Dublin on 12 November 1950, and christened Anne Barbara Maria. I was the second child; Tommy had been born in July of the previous year. Eventually, there would be eight of us: six girls and two boys. My mother and I spent my very early childhood living with my maternal grandparents, Miles and Kathleen Breslin. My parents couldn't afford a house of their own at that stage and hadn't yet been allocated council accommodation. I'm sure they longed for us all to be together under one roof, although I never remember them saying this to us. Adults wouldn't discuss something like that in front of children back then.

I loved living with my grandparents. My grandmother called me her Madonna. I was the first granddaughter in the family and she made a tremendous fuss of me, as did my Aunt Teresa. I was spoilt to death. I saw my dad and brother every now and then, but I can't say I missed them. My mum would sometimes go and stay with my father at his parents' house on the other side of the city. I don't suppose they found it ideal, but I was perfectly happy.

Nana Breslin indulged me from dawn to dusk. I remember being fond of beetroot, for example, which she used to buy fresh from the market. She might be preparing it for a meal and I'd sit beside her and eat as much of it as I could, but she never told me off. My mum might come into the kitchen and say, 'Don't do that. It's Nana's,' but my grandmother would reply, 'Oh, leave her. She's fine.'

Tommy and my dad lived with his mother, Mary Nolan, in a flat above a corner shop in Clontarf, quite a smart seaside resort to the north of Dublin. She was lovely and would always make me laugh. She'd wander round the house humming with a cigarette hanging out of her mouth. However, I think she'd been spoilt when she was young. Certainly, she wasn't happy if she didn't get her own way. She was given to throwing tantrums; she'd flounce out of the room and go and sit on her own in her bedroom.

Her husband Thomas, by all accounts a kind, caring man, had died when my dad was twelve, leaving Tommy as the only male in the household – he had two older sisters, Shelagh and Doreen. I think his mother put a lot of pressure on him too young to transform himself into the man of the house, and I've often wondered whether what was effectively the loss of his childhood shaped the character of the person he later became.

Gran Nolan and my mother never really got on. I don't think she thought Mum was good enough for her son, but then I don't think any girl would have been. Even so, she'd taunt my mother by talking about my dad's previous girlfriends. There was a particular one called Maud Quinn who was quite posh and belonged to the local tennis club. I think Gran Nolan would have preferred her as a daughter-in-law. Not that my mother took any notice of all this: it was water off a duck's back.

I was four when my parents were given a terraced council house on the Ballygael Road in an area of Dublin called Finglas. Denise and Maureen had been born by then. Denise is two years younger than me and Maureen three and a half years younger. I'm as close to Denise as I am to Tommy, probably because they were born either side of me.

Tommy's always been very extrovert, very funny, but if he has something on his mind that's worrying him, he'll either ignore it or blurt it out, pretending it's a joke when we all know it isn't. He's been like that for as long as I can remember. We fought like cat and dog when we were young, but we've always been very close. One Christmas, I remember, our parents bought each of us boxing gloves and we'd spar with one another. I usually won, not because I was stronger but because I hit Tommy with all my might while he held back because I was a girl. He's always been protective of me.