Hear Me Out

by Sarah Harding

  It was also here that I met a boy called Jake, who I used to go for a sneaky kiss with behind the rec. Once we’d finished our homework, we were allowed outside to mingle between houses, so it was the perfect opportunity for a quick bit of snogging. The trouble was, I was horribly shy. In fact, I could hardly look at Jake, despite thinking of him as my boyfriend. I felt very uncoordinated, and I was very self-conscious about my looks. I wanted to be that blonde, pretty girl that guys like but that girls liked too, but back then I didn’t feel I was that. For this reason, I’d only agree to see Jake when it was dark so I didn’t feel so exposed. This meant that we had to be quick with any snogging we did, as there was an 8pm cut-off point as far as mingling went, so you couldn’t hang around.

  At military school, I did shooting, assault courses, and took part in horse parades, but once again, it was fairly short-lived. I just couldn’t cope with the strict discipline. I lasted six months before I was back at my old secondary school, Salesians, all ready for Year 9 into 10.

  Unbelievably, that still wasn’t it. It was options year, and I was still getting excellent grades, but that’s right when Mum and Dad decided to move to Manchester. My mum’s family were there, and she felt like she wanted to be closer to them. Looking back, I think that’s when Mum and Dad’s relationship started to flounder. It put a strain on their marriage. Dad’s work as a musician was mostly based down south, so he ended up being away from home a lot. That certainly didn’t help matters.

  I remember preparing for the move, feeling miserable. I went into my room and started packing all my belongings into boxes: my CDs, my clothes, all my bits and pieces. This wasn’t going to be easy, and I knew it.

  One of the reasons it was so tough on me was because I’d only just started my GCSE options, and in my new local school the classes I wanted to take didn’t have room for me. I guess I just lost interest after that and ended being stuck in the lower sets for every subject. By then, I was so fed up with being dragged out of different schools and the constant change that I just gave up. I know I wasn’t always the easiest kid, particularly with my condition, which I wasn’t on any medication for then; sometimes I felt like people didn’t take that into consideration when dealing with me.

  Being insecure meant that I’d pile on the make-up for school, but that, of course, was against the rules. I was always either in detention for wearing too much slap, or getting sent home to wash it off. My poor mum just didn’t know what to do with me.

  During my time at that final school, Dad was commuting down south for work, and Mum seemed to have lost all control over me. I was wagging off school, uninterested in the lessons because I was stuck in the bottom sets, not really being stimulated. I still played a bit of basketball, but I missed working with and riding horses, which I’d done throughout my time at the other schools.

  The worst part about moving is that not long after we left, my gran, Dad’s mum, was diagnosed with cancer, which took her quite quickly. The speed of it came as a complete shock. I knew she was very ill, but I just wasn’t prepared to lose her that quickly. Luckily, my dad was able to be with her a lot of the time, but I didn’t really get to see her. After she died, I was heartbroken and full of regret but also angry at everyone, including myself. I was angry that we’d moved up north, angry that my gran had died, and angry that I was messing up in yet another school.

  In the end, I lost interest in any subjects that weren’t music, drama or sports. I told myself my GCSEs in all the other subjects were going to be a washout because of the classes I was in, and I literally folded and gave up. I spent most lessons drawing pictures of horses and sticking pictures of Damon Albarn from Blur on my exercise books. The phrase rebellious teenager might be overused, but that’s what I’d become, I suppose. Having moved around seven different schools, I always felt like I was starting from scratch; starting at the bottom. This was frustrating, with people always telling me how bright I was.

  What’s the point? I thought. Why bother to settle in and buckle down when I’ll probably be uprooted soon and have to start all over again?

  One lunchtime, I walked out of the school gates and went to the chippy with some mates, and it suddenly dawned on me that I just couldn’t face going back inside the gates. So, instead of heading back to lessons, I walked home after lunch break was over.

  Mum was there when I got home, wondering what on earth I was doing back home so early, probably imagining I was ill or something.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ she asked.

  ‘I’m not going back, Mum,’ I said. ‘I’m done with it.’

  Digging my heels in about not attending school caused a lot of stress within the family, especially with my dad not being around much. The school even got social services involved, but nothing seemed to work. It was even suggested that I go in once or twice a week, just to keep up my studies.

  ‘What’s the point?’ I said. ‘Because I started late, I couldn’t take half the options I wanted to take, and I’m stuck in the lower grades.’

  In the end, I did nothing at all. I was sitting around on my arse, desperate to go to performing arts college full time, which wasn’t an option because I was only fifteen.

  Looking back, I feel guilty for what I must have put my mum through. One minute she was dealing with a kid who was super energetic, and the next I was too tired to do anything at all. It was a real struggle for her, and what made it worse was that, with Dad away, she was doing a lot of the worrying on her own. As well as that, the marriage was strained. It must have been an incredibly difficult time, and I wasn’t making things any easier.

  For me, the worst part about moving from school to school so many times was how very hard it was to form friendships that lasted. I might make a friend or two at one school, but then I’d have to start all over again at the next. I think, because of that, I have always been a little socially awkward, which sometimes made being famous and in the public eye hard for me.

  You might imagine that it would have made fame easier, continually meeting new people and going into new situations. However, for me, it had the opposite effect. I also feel that it affected my ability to make and keep friends. After all I’ve done and all the situations I’ve been through within Girls Aloud, I can probably count my real friends on one hand. I’m sure that’s the case with many people my age, but at one time I had seemingly countless friends. Some of them just drifted away, as is the case with certain friends over the years, but there are also others who took advantage of my friendship, and who weren’t real friends at all.

  CHAPTER THREE

  These days my concentration is all over the place; my mind feels like it’s everywhere. It’s almost like being back at school again; not being able to concentrate in class. In fact, even sitting down to watch a movie can take an enormous amount of concentration. I think it’s all to do with the treatment and what it does to me: the chemo, the steroids, all of it. What’s worse is that we’re in lockdown and I have to be extra vigilant. I can hardly go out of the house or do anything. So, on top of everything else, I’m bored. At the moment, concentrating on stories from the past is something to focus on, rather than cancer, MRIs, CAT scans, radiotherapy, blood tests, not to mention all the various pills I have to take.

  As well as the prescribed medical treatment, I’ve been keen to try out alternative therapies too; not as a replacement for traditional medicine, but as something that can go hand-in-hand with it. I’ve always been a big believer in the power of the mind and the power of healing, so it can’t hurt, right? Things like Reiki and CBD oil, which you can get at most health store-based pharmacies, are both things I’ve tried during this time. My friend Duncan James from Blue was the one who suggested I try CBD oil. He’d used it after he suffered a massive back injury, while he was doing drag and wearing heels in the UK tour of Priscilla, Queen of the Desert. The poor guy ended up in so much pain, almost paralysed down his left side. In fact, he almost died when fluid from his brain leaked out of a surgical
wound. I figured that if it was something that could help Duncan in that situation, then I should definitely give it a go. Duncan’s been an absolute angel since my diagnosis went public, sending me lots of voice messages and words of support and encouragement.

  Towards the end of my time at school, everyone gave up on trying to make me go. I was only interested in sports, music and drama, so perhaps that was the way forward. I’d had a spell attending Stagecoach performing arts classes when I was younger, where, among other things, I’d got to act in a production of Bugsy Malone, playing Tallulah. I was good at it, I enjoyed it, and I wanted to do more of it. So, instead of going back to school, I went to North Cheshire Theatre School, part-time, which scratched my wannabe performer itch, and also kept me out of trouble.

  I went on Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays, doing dance, acting and singing. The singing classes included lots of gospel singing, which I adored; the blend of different voices within the various groups and the harmonising really appealed to me. I’d never thought about singing in a group before; all I knew was that I loved singing, and the idea of becoming a professional singer.

  One of the things I discovered at theatre school was that dance wasn’t for me. I should have known really. When I was very young, Mum took me to ballet and tap classes, but in the end, she had to pull me out of them because I was a nightmare. I always wanted my mum to stay and watch and even join in the classes, and hated her leaving me there. Once she’d gone, more often than not, I’d end up throwing a tantrum and causing mayhem in the class. I guess not much has changed since then; I’m still a bit of a tantrum queen sometimes.

  Anyway, the dance classes at North Cheshire Theatre School were equally challenging. I may not have been lying on the floor, but I just couldn’t seem to get to grips with choreography. Most of the other pupils had danced all their lives, and I was so far behind them, it seemed pointless. I was certainly nothing like my future bandmates Cheryl or Kimberley in that respect: Cheryl had attended the Royal Ballet’s summer school, at the age of nine, and Kimberley had also gone to theatre school, singing and dancing from a young age. Even down the line, when I was in Girls Aloud, it wasn’t unusual for me to have a meltdown while we were all trying to learn the choreography, which there was plenty of.

  Luckily, in Girls Aloud we had the most fantastic choreographer in Beth Honan. She worked with us from very early on in our careers. She’s gone on to become the most amazing creative director. Beth always knew how to handle me. Like me, she has always been a bit of a tomboy, and she understood my struggle and often worked overtime with me. Sometimes I would go in an hour early to work with her before the other girls arrived, or we might carry on learning a routine through our lunch breaks; anything to help me catch up with the other girls, who were much faster at picking up Beth’s sharp, slick choreography than I was.

  I remember once when she was teaching me this pas de bourrée-type step, which is a ‘back-side-front’ step used in jazz dance. Beth had a unique way of helping me remember the steps by reciting the phrase ‘kick that bitch, kick that bitch!’ over and over as I did it. There were other funny little rhymes she gave me to remember various steps, and they would always come into my mind while I was performing. So while the rest of the girls were naturally giving it some on stage, I’d probably be muttering a memorable phrase under my breath between my singing lines. Amazingly, I never said any out loud over the mic in the middle of a song. Can you imagine that booming out over an arena? ‘Kick that bitch, kick that bitch!’ Everyone would have wondered what the hell was going on up there.

  It was around this time in 1998 that my dad had an affair, and my parents’ marriage came to an unhappy end. Although Mum tried to save it, they finally ended up divorcing in 2002. To be honest, I think she’d been trying to hold the family together for quite some time. With my dad in bands and on the road so much, she’d become a musician’s widow, but when Dad left, she didn’t cope too well. It was at this time that I moved out of home, which I’ve never forgiven myself for, because, in many ways, Mum needed me then more than ever.

  I was devastated when Dad left. I missed him so much because we’d been mates, but at the same time, those feelings were all mixed up with the disappointment and anger I felt towards him. I’d tried to go on pretending everything was OK, but I found the fact that he was no longer in our lives heartbreaking and emotionally draining.

  Sometime after he left, I arranged for him to visit me in Manchester. I found a bed and breakfast for him to stay in for the duration of the visit, and I was looking forward to it.

  The night he got there, we went to a Chiquito Mexican restaurant in Salford Quays, and everything seemed to go OK – at least I thought it did. Dad went back to his B&B, and we planned to meet up the next day. That never happened. Dad left a note for me, which said: ‘Sorry, I can’t do this’.

  He’d then driven back to where he lived without saying goodbye. I was still only about 17 at the time, so it was pretty hard to take.

  It was only a couple of years ago when Dad finally came back into my life. I suppose by then I was ready to give him another chance. Time moves on, and we were all getting on in years. I wanted to know my family. By then, his second marriage had ended – a marriage which had given him two more sons and me two more half-brothers.

  It’s funny, I suddenly found myself building studios to make my music in, and wishing Dad was there to help me and share in the experience. That’s the kind of thing we would have enjoyed when I was little; me hanging out in studios with him.

  It was the late 1990s. I was living in my first studio apartment in Stockport, and my life was suddenly getting hectic. Aside from setting up my first home, I was working in a hair and beauty place on Saturdays, and a local nightclub. On top of that, I was deliver-ing pizzas. Nobody could ever accuse me of expecting something for nothing, that’s for sure.

  It was my first real taste of freedom: my own apartment, my own car and my own money.

  Having no GCSEs when I left school, further education was going to be difficult. I wanted to do a BTEC in Beauty Therapy, but that was impossible with no qualifications, so I ended up on a hair and beauty course. Looking back, I think I was hung up on wanting to be more ladylike. More like a ‘proper girl’, whatever that meant. I still thought of myself as a tomboy, and I wanted to be thought of as pretty. I wanted to learn how to maintain myself and how to look good. This would be especially important if I was eventually going to have a career in performing arts. I had to look the part.

  While I enjoyed the beauty side of the course, I wasn’t interested in the hairdressing side of things. I did do my mum’s hair on occasion, and I got to do ring curls and purple rinses on a few of the grannies that came to the college for a free-do on OAP days, but that was as far as it went.

  Me being me, I started to slack off on the hairdressing part of the course, instead finding myself propping up the student union bar with other girls at the college. That was always fun: taking on some of the lads on the PlayStation, eating hotdogs, and having half a shandy. I had a lot of fun hanging out there.

  I never understood why I wasn’t allowed to just study the thing I wanted to learn. It was all about qualifications and not having the right GCSEs. With that in mind, I wasn’t always honest about what qualifications I did and didn’t have after that. I managed to get a couple of jobs while being economical with the truth and still do the job perfectly well.

  One of my early jobs was working for a debt collection agency. I’m not sure what qualifications I needed for that job, but I ended up getting it anyway.

  In the offices, we all wore little headsets, telephoning people who were behind on their payments for one thing or another. You can just imagine the abuse we got.

  I would have to say things like, ‘I’m sorry, sir. If you can’t pay us at least five pounds a week of your debt, I’ll have to send an agent around to your door.’

  ‘You send an agent round here, and I’ll set the fucking dogs on him
,’ would often be the type of reply I’d get back.

  I always tried to go for the softer approach, suggesting a manageable financial agreement before mentioning the bailiff. Still, I’d often be accused of threatening people.

  ‘What kind of customer service do you call this?’ an angry caller once said to me.

  What I wanted to say was, ‘This ain’t bloody customer service, mate; you’re in debt,’ but of course I could not.

  During rare quiet periods at the agency, we’d sit at our desks, flicking rubber bands at one another. There was one hilarious guy called Dave, who always tried to inject humour into his calls, slipping in witty puns depending on people’s names.

  ‘I’m sorry, Mr Brush, but you can’t just sweep your problems under the carpet,’ was one I remember laughing about.

  God, the jobs I had. I worked for 192 Directory Enquiries, and at All Sports … I even delivered car parts in a Citroën Berlingo van. I certainly wasn’t a person who expected things to fall in her lap, because that wasn’t how I’d been raised. I learned, from a very young age, that I had to work hard for everything that came my way. At one point, I was working four different jobs, just so I had enough to cover the considerable costs of living in my studio apartment. That place gave me independence, and I didn’t want to have to give it up. Looking back, living on my own wasn’t all it was cracked up to be back then. My apartment was in the middle of Stockport, just off the A6, right at the top of the building. It was tough going. Still, I was free to come and go as I pleased, which, after being at boarding school for so much of my childhood, was a luxury.

  My girlfriends would come over of an evening, and we’d swig Lambrusco while we were getting all dolled up to go out on the town. Our nights usually started at Grand Central bar, which we called the ‘Granny Bar’. That was followed by another bar called Lucky’s. Finally, a club called Heaven & Hell, once famously known as Volts, which played club/dance mixes downstairs ‘in hell’, and fabulous cheesy pop music upstairs ‘in heaven’. It was the best of both worlds. One of my extra little jobs during the week was flyering for that particular club, so I usually managed to get us all in for free, which, of course, was a bonus.