by Ross Welford
She was born Miranda Enid Mackay to a middle-class family in south London. Her salesman father, Gordon, and her mother, Belinda, later divorced.
By the age of seven Felina was attending drama classes locally, but it soon became clear that music was her first love. Rebellious instincts surfaced in her early teens: at fourteen, by her own admission, she was smoking cigarettes and had acquired her first tattoo, a cat on her upper arm. ‘My parents couldn’t control me, and that was that,’ she said later.
Her singing teacher passed an MP3 file of her singing to a record company. Aged just seventeen, she signed a deal with Slick Records, but her rebelliousness had already caused a rift with her parents, and she moved out of the family home, beginning a relationship with fellow musician Ricky Malcolm.
Her first song, ‘Say You Can’, was released just after her nineteenth birthday. As ‘Felina’, she burst onto the scene, and her ‘cat’ make-up and costuming was immediately both mocked and admired.
It certainly got her noticed. Headline appearances followed, plus a string of hits, including the song that will now be forever associated with her, ‘Light the Light’. That song began a US breakthrough that was to be cut short by her death.
The hits continued, although it was becoming clear that the showbiz lifestyle was taking its toll. A string of cancelled concert appearances led to rumours – strongly denied at the time – that she had drug and alcohol problems.
Paparazzi were soon following her around the streets of London. She seldom appeared in public without her trademark ‘cat’ make-up, usually accompanied by upswept sunglasses.
Felina won a Brit Awards nomination for Best Female Artist, and was nominated in the same year for a Mercury Music Prize and the Ivor Novello Award for Songwriting.
She unexpectedly married Ricky Malcolm, and a child soon followed, a girl whom they named Tiger Pussycat.
Motherhood did not seem to come naturally to Felina and she attracted hostile comments when she embarked on a world tour, leaving six-month-old Tiger Pussycat to be looked after by her grandmother.
After an apparently drunk Felina was photographed on the street at night with her young daughter, record sales plummeted.
At the time, her mother laid the blame squarely at Ricky Malcolm’s feet, blaming him for ‘leading my daughter astray’ and ‘infecting her with the virus of instant fame’.
At the time of her death, Felina and Ricky Malcolm had separated. He was on tour in New Zealand and returned to the UK yesterday.
Felina’s body was discovered in her home by police on Saturday morning. The official cause of death has not been established, although a drug overdose is strongly suspected. In a view that many will share, however, her mother has said in a statement that the talented Felina had been ‘killed by celebrity’.
Miranda Enid Mackay, ‘Felina’, is survived by her parents and her daughter.
It has taken me ages to read this, and I’m staring at the page, sad and confused.
It’s more than the story of a singer’s life ruined by celebrity excess. It’s more than ‘Tiger Pussycat’ – the words that Great-gran whispered to me that time – turning out to be some poor kid’s name. There is something – several things – about that story that touch me in a place I can’t identify.
I replace the newspaper in the tin, and start looking at other items. There are reports of Felina winning awards, stories of Felina coming out of a nightclub with Ricky Malcolm, with his long hair and all-over tattoos, and in all of them she’s in her cat get-up.
I’ve got to hand it to her: she did very well at concealing who she really was – or anyway, what she really looked like. It was a façade, a disguise. Always wearing – at the very least – the dark, feline glasses, and lashings of crimson lipstick.
I want to know more. I keep rummaging in the metal box, there on Gram’s bedroom floor. More photos, more cuttings.
I’m checking the clock on my phone. Gram’s been gone an hour, and I don’t want to risk being caught, so I’m putting everything back the way I found it when one last article catches my eye.
It’s taken from the Daily Mail and the headline is:
Felina – The Unseen Pictures of Pop’s Tragic Princess.
I open the folded paper, and in that second my whole life changes.
Felina – Miranda Mackay – is my mum.
So.
Felina is my mum, my real name is Tiger Pussycat (for goodness’ sake), and Gram has been keeping this secret all my life.
It’s the picture in the article: it’s Felina without make-up, in the days before stardom, and it’s the same one as we have downstairs on the mantelpiece. I don’t even need to go downstairs to check.
It just is.
She’s pretty, probably about sixteen, with an optimistic smile and a cheeky look. I can easily see the resemblance. It’s there in the pale, bright, grey-blue eyes, exactly like mine. Her hair too: strawberry blonde – or as Gram likes to call it, ‘spun gold’.
There are even some spots on her chin that her concealer has not quite succeeded in concealing.
I pick up the photo of Felina in full make-up and sunglasses, hair dyed deep auburn, and hold the two pictures side by side. It’s obvious, once you know. It’s in the shape of the face, the slightly pointed chin.
But if you didn’t know? No way could you tell.
I read the accompanying article as quickly as I can, but there’s nothing new in it that I haven’t read before. It’s just that picture, and the caption: In happier times: a teenage Felina.
I turn the page, and my stomach lurches.
There’s a headline:
Did This Picture Cause Felina’s Downfall?
And there she is: snapped by a paparazzi photographer, looking startled. Her hair is wet and hanging in strands. It’s night-time, and the roads are wet from rain. Her left hand is holding a cigarette, and her right hand is gripping the wrist of an unhappy-looking child of about three.
The caption to the photo reads: Felina last night with her daughter, Tiger Pussycat.
That’s what Great-gran was saying: Tiger Pussycat.
My name.
Me.
I look at the pictures in the articles of the man with the long hair and unkempt beard – Ricky Malcolm, my father.
I don’t even need to get my own photo from my room, which has been on my shelf since for ever, because I can see it in my mind.
In it, I’m a baby, Mum is holding me in her arms and looking down at me, a half-smile on her contented face. Obviously, she’s not in her Felina outfit for a baby picture. Sitting on her left is a bearded man in a polo neck, his long hair held back in a ponytail, and he’s looking at Mum. His right arm is round her shoulders, and he’s smiling too, but his shoulders are turned away.
It’s as if he can’t wait to get out of the picture. I’ve always thought that, actually, although I have never, until now, put it into words.
There is no doubt it is the same man, though. The same man who features in the newspaper articles in Gram’s tin. In those, he is usually snapped leering aggressively at the camera, angry at being photographed by the paparazzi, or holding up a hand to block the camera’s lens.
There is only one photo of him doing his job – as a musician. He’s onstage, head down, playing the bass guitar, wearing a denim shirt open to the waist, and he looks exactly like what he is.
My dad. The rock star.
Well, not so much the star, actually. The caption below reads: Ricky Malcolm: reclusive failed rocker.
I read the accompanying article cut from Heat magazine. It’s very short, and dated five years after my mum’s death.
Where Are They Now?
Ricky Malcolm, husband of tragic star Felina, has not been seen in public since the inquest into his wife’s death five years ago.
Cleared by the court of any involvement or blame in the death of Felina, New Zealand-born Malcolm is believed to have returned to his homeland, where sources say he has cleaned up his life a
nd lives as a recluse near the remote community of Waipapa on the country’s sparsely populated South Island.
I scrabble urgently through the rest of the cuttings in the box, searching for more articles.
There are none – this is the most recent.
But there is a card at the bottom. One of those greetings cards that people use for thank-you notes – except Gram, of course, who has a special box of expensive writing paper with matching envelopes.
On it is a picture of a stormy, grey sea, and right in the middle is a tiny lighthouse being bashed by the waves. The words on the front read: You are my calm in the storm. Inside, in big, loopy handwriting, is a message.
Thank you, Mum, for everything. I have made mistakes that were not your fault. If it all goes wrong please take Boo far away from ALL of this. M xxoxox
Carefully, I replace all the cuttings in the metal box, fasten the latch with the combination padlock and put everything back exactly where I found it.
I’m back in my room when I hear the front door go and Gram come back in with Lady.
And now I have to work out what to do with this information.
I do not know which new fact has stunned me the most.
Is it that my mother was a famous singer, who died in tragic circumstances?
Or is it that my dad was a bass guitarist who is probably now living in New Zealand?
There’s another that I’ll add: that my grandmother has been lying to me all my life? And possibly my great-grandmother too, for that matter?
What would you do?
Whatever it is, it shouldn’t be what I do. Really.
I’m lying on my bed. Downstairs, I can hear Gram pottering around. There’s the chink of teacups, and I remember I’m supposed to be making supper tonight.
Do I tell Gram what I know?
That would involve admitting to snooping around her room, but on the scale of ‘crimes of deception committed in my house’, a spot of bedroom snooping comes in way down the list compared with ‘lying to my granddaughter for her WHOLE LIFE’.
What difference will it make?
Why has she lied?
Can I ever trust her again?
Will she be angry? Upset? Hurt? Sorry? Defiant?
What about me?
Will anything change?
What about Great-gran?
All these things are swirling inside my brain. The tuna and pasta bake that was supposed to be for supper seems pretty insignificant. No wonder I forgot it. Perhaps I can just stay up here all evening?
‘Ethel!’ comes the call from downstairs. ‘Will you come down, please?’
I decide to postpone the big confrontation until I have had a little more time to work out what it all means. Until then, Gram and I will be living in a state of complete dishonesty with each other.
She is lying to me about what she knows, and I am lying to her by not telling her that I know what she knows.
I’m not supposed to know about my mum. Nor about my dad. Nor about Gram’s toyboy boyfriend.
Gram can’t know – yet – about my snooping, nor about the invisible stuff.
It makes for a tense evening at the kitchen table.
‘Sorry, Gram. I fell asleep.’
She doesn’t seem to mind at all. Her mood is light, even – dare I say it? – playful.
‘Never mind, dear. We’ll just have sandwiches. How does that sound?’
I busy myself making tuna sandwiches, replying as believably as I can to Gram’s questions about school today.
‘You’re back late,’ I say, hoping that her response might reveal something about the man she met earlier.
She doesn’t look at me when she says, airily, ‘Oh, you know – these meetings can go on for ever! Honestly! Tsk!’
She actually does that – says ‘tsk’. I probably wouldn’t have noticed before, but now? I’m looking out for every little bit of evidence that will reveal my gram to be a serial liar.
When we’re done, she gets up from the table and starts clearing the plates.
‘We’ll just clear these away now, shall we? Thank you for making the sandwiches. Goodness, look at the time – it’s almost time for Robson Green’s Country Walks, eh? I’ll just pop this in the fridge …’
She’s giving a running commentary on what she’s doing in order to avoid more questions.
Now I get it. She’s nervous. She is acting carefree because she’s hiding something. I know then that I will not be able to raise the issue of my mum and dad with Gram. Not now, at least.
I feel almost sorry for her. Yes, I am angry and confused, but I can see that there is confusion and conflict inside her too.
It’s going to have to wait.
Besides, I have just received a text from Boydy. Which changes EVERYTHING.
Call me call me call me. Big prob re. twins.
I’m in my room, phone on speaker, fingers tap-dancing on my laptop keyboard as I speak to Boydy.
‘I can’t find it.’
‘Just take my word for it.’
‘I want to see for myself. Are you absolutely sure?’
‘Sure as sure.’
And there it is on the school website, but it’s not what I feared when I nervously put the call in to Boydy. I thought he was going to say that the video was already posted online, especially when he said, ‘Have you seen the school website?’
Whitley Bay Academy Trip to High Borrans Activity Centre
14–19 June
The following students have paid and submitted their consent forms to Mr Natrass …
There follows a list of about twenty names – including Jesmond and Jarrow Knight.
‘They’re goin’ to be away for six days from Wednesday,’ says Boydy.
‘And …?’
That’s all I can think of saying for the moment.
Boydy breaks the silence.
‘That means it’s got to be tomorrow, Eff.’
‘If they’re away it’ll make breaking in easier.’
‘They’ll have their phones with them when they’re away. And on a school trip, can you imagine the temptation to show everyone?’
‘But if we agree to pay them …?’
‘Have you got the money, Effow?’
‘Well, no. Obviously not.’
‘So there’s your answer. There’s no way you can pay them, and they know that. Unless we get ahold of it, that little film is goin’ viral – if it hasn’t already.’
I think about Jarrow and Jesmond on the school trip. Boastful, cocky. On the coach, in the dorm, with everyone still talking about the ‘ghost’ in the school.
I swallow hard.
Boydy’s right, of course. It would be shown around, there’s no doubt, and then what? I have no idea how much newspapers or websites pay for stuff like that, but it’s definitely the sort of thing you see on dailymail.com or BuzzFeed, under a headline like:
Haunted School: Is This a Ghost Caught on Camera?
My heart is fluttering with nerves. I had thought we had days to plan it, to work out the best way to achieve this. Basically, to summon up the courage to do it.
As Boydy and I talk, and dither, and try to work out reasons why we shouldn’t go through with the plan, my phone pings with a text from Jarrow Knight.
First payment: 24 hours from now.
I read it out to Boydy and we both know what that means. It’s tomorrow – it’s got to be – and I feel sick with nerves. I look at the clock. It’s just gone nine.
‘Can you get to the back lane behind my road in five minutes?’ I say. ‘We have to do a recce tonight if we’re going to do this tomorrow.’
‘If I pedal hard enough.’
‘Get pedalling, Boydy – this is crucial.’
Five minutes later, Boydy, Lady and I are heading towards the back of the Knights’ house, and Boydy is looking at me intensely.
‘You OK, Eff? You look a bit, I dunno, pale?’
I haven’t said anything to him about what I’ve
just learned. I mean, what would I say? ‘I just found out my mum was really famous. Can you guess who it is? And by the way, my name’s not Ethel. It’s Tiger Pussycat.’ It’s not the kind of thing you just come out with, is it? Besides, I need to focus on stopping the Knight twins making me famous, and in the worst way I can think of.
Gram is watching her favourite TV show, in which some bloke goes for a walk in the country, and it’s on the BBC so there are no ad breaks. She won’t be moving. I tell Gram that I’m taking Lady out for her nightly wee and she nods absently at me.
There’s a back lane that runs behind Eastbourne Gardens, then turns left, and a hundred metres further along it’s the back of the Knights’ rear garden. There’s a high wall with a door in it.
‘I can’t get over that,’ I say, craning my neck to look up. ‘Besides – look!’
All along the top of the wall are lumps of broken glass set into concrete – jagged edges and shards sticking out of it at all angles – an oddly vicious-looking form of home-made barbed wire.
I try the handle of the door. As I expect, it’s locked. I try it again, then leap back in fear. On the other side, there is a thump as a dog – a massive dog, at a guess – hurls itself at the door and snarls.
Lady yelps and jumps back, jerking my arm with her lead.
Boydy sucks his teeth and says, ‘Hmm. That’ll be Maggie, their, erm … tosa cross.’ He says the last bit quietly.
‘Their what?’
‘Just their, er … tosa cross.’
I look at him, eyebrows raised, waiting.
‘It’s a dog. A tosa crossed with something else.’
‘You mean, the Japanese fighting dog? The Knights own a dog that’s a banned breed in Britain because it’s so vicious and you didn’t think to tell me? How do you know it’s a tosa?’
‘I’m sorry, Eff, I just didn’t want to worry you. I heard Jesmond boasting about it. Apparently she’s got a heart of gold and their dad rescued her from a shelter. And she’s crossed with somefing else, so she’s not actually illegal. Probably not as dangerous.’
He says this as if that makes it safe. We can still hear Maggie snarling, and Lady’s pulling on her lead.