It’s fair to say I didn’t have the relationship I wanted to with Dad when I was at secondary school. Something had changed and I couldn’t put my finger on what it was. He felt distant and always pissed off about something, and I’d end up taking Mum’s side in arguments. Dad also had a big personality – he played for laughs – and, while there were always a lot of laughs, sometimes when we were out it didn’t always leave a lot of space in the room for anyone else. It was easy to see that life at Butlin’s would have been perfect for him as he was always ‘on’. Even now with his illness, he tries to make conversation with everyone and crack jokes. On the contrary, he could easily fly off the handle when things didn’t go his way.
Looking back now it makes me sad that we wasted so much time back then when his head was clear. He had a great sense of humour and was never short of a story. I think about all the conversations we could have had, the laughter we could have shared, where I could have found out more about him and he could have been the one to tell me. It’s a perversity of life that only when things are taken away from you are you able to realise how valuable they are. For someone so attached to his dreams, Dad also turned out to be an exceptional carer. That’s something I remember now as Mum and I both care for him.
Dad lost Maurice and Hilda suddenly, but my mum’s parents aged slowly in front of our eyes living, as they did, nearby. One lunchtime in 1988, Dad popped round to Nan and Grandad’s on his lunch break. When he got there he found that Nan was in bed ill. This was a big shock as she was never ill. He called the doctor, who came round and couldn’t seem to find anything wrong and so just diagnosed exhaustion from planning her forthcoming fiftieth wedding anniversary, but I think we all knew that something was very wrong. I was still going to Nan and Grandad’s after school for tea, but now in the evenings Nan would sit next to me on the sofa with a big bucket from under the sink. Every now and again she would leave the room and be sick – one time I saw her standing with her head over the kitchen sink being sick and I felt terrified at seeing this strong woman looking so frail.
Things slowly got worse and Mum and Dad became concerned. Mum looked worried all the time and went to see Nan every day after work. One night a few weeks later she came home and I immediately knew something was wrong. She sat there in silence as Dad served up the tea and she picked at her food. Eventually he asked her what was bothering her and she burst into tears, saying sadly: ‘She’s just given me her engagement ring.’ It was clear to everyone that Nan obviously knew she didn’t have much time left.
On the weekend of Nan and Grandad’s fiftieth wedding anniversary, we all went down to the Three Fishes pub in the Ribble Valley. Mum’s older cousin Mavis and her husband Jack came over from Stockport and we were all determined to celebrate. Just as we sat down, Nan got up to go to the toilet, and after about ten minutes, a man came over to our table looking anxious.
‘Is that old woman with the red hair with you lot?’ he asked.
‘Yes she is,’ said Mum.
‘She’s sat outside being sick.’
It was the earthquake that was to shake the foundations of my childhood.
Mum and Dad dashed from the table and the next thing I remember is an ambulance being called and us leaving the restaurant without eating a thing. Nan was taken to Blackburn Royal Infirmary and she stayed there for a few nights while we waited to get test results and find out what was making her so ill.
One night we all went in to see her – Me, Mum, Dad and Grandad – and tried to cheer her up as best we could. As we said our goodbyes, the doctor appeared and took Mum and Grandad into a side room while I sat outside with Dad. When the door opened Mum was bawling her eyes out and Grandad just looked blank.
‘They say she’s got three months,’ Grandad said.
We all got into the Mini Metro in silence, Grandad and I in the back and Mum and Dad in the front. We stopped at the top of Tintern Crescent, just opposite Grandad’s house.
‘Why don’t you come to ours tonight, Dad?’ Mum said.
‘I’ll be fine,’ he replied, and then put his arm over his face and started sobbing for what seemed like hours. I didn’t know what to do as I’d never seen my grandad cry before; watching him cry for the woman he loved set us all off, apart from Dad who consoled Mum.
Nan died in winter that year, a week before my Uncle George, his wife Sylvia and my two cousins, Kate and Rachael, came over from Australia. Even though George was devastated that he hadn’t been able to see his mother before she died, his arrival for a few weeks was just what we all needed – we spent time as a family reminiscing about Nan and telling stories, sitting up late, laughing and crying. Dad was great, as he always was in a crisis – he could take the edge off any stressful situation with a few stories and a song or two. He had been the same after Maurice died, entertaining his brothers and sisters, and he did the same here. Having an audience brought out the best in him.
But the differences between myself and Dad were showing themselves by the week. I had no interest or aptitude for sport or singing, so we had very little common ground besides the greenhouse effect, which we’d argue about.
I used to wonder if Dad had always found everything so easy. He wasn’t afraid to talk to anyone and seemed to have bags of confidence, while I was painfully shy and buried myself in my schoolwork. It was particularly obvious at family parties – massive events where they’d have to hire out school halls because of the numbers. Dad would be chatting to everyone, and without fail he’d end up singing a few numbers along with his brother Fred. Meanwhile I’d be sat frozen at a table, scared to speak to anyone. The whole family was outgoing and sociable, but Dad just shone.
At the same time, going to QEGS I was surrounded by boys from wealthy backgrounds. When I first started at the school there were a couple of them who were talking about their dads owning companies, so I made up an entire story about how Dad owned Premier. Little did my classmates know he worked there as a machinist. I was never embarrassed about him or my family, I just wanted to fit in.
This awkwardness continued throughout my secondary school days and wasn’t helped by Dad doing more shows locally to bring in some extra money. He started focusing on retirement homes and did a show at one home owned by the mum of one of the guys at school.
‘Oi! Is your dad a singer?’ he shouted one lunchtime.
‘No, he’s a stripper. What do you think?’ I said, thinking I was being funny.
It was a huge mistake. He was part of the smoking group and had a gob on him. Lee laughed then walked away and I knew straight away that what I said would go right round the school. Indeed, by lunchtime the next day the news had spread that my dad was a stripper. Disaster!
I guess as a young teenager all you want to do is fit in with the norm, which, ironically, is something Dad had never sought or thought about. Not caring what people think is a trait that I wish I’d inherited; it certainly would have made my school days easier to handle. I was so embarrassed about Dad being a singer and, looking back now, I have no idea why as it was pretty cool. I must have been 12 or 13 at the time and during one music lesson, Mr MacKenzie went around the room, asking each of the boys what musical instrument our parents played. There were oboes, flutes, pianos and saxophones. As it was getting closer to my turn I just wanted the ground to open up.
‘Nothing, sir,’ I said and the class all sniggered. ‘They don’t play anything.’
The teacher calmed everyone down and the lesson continued.
Afterwards, I was walking alone through what was called the Ginnel – a small path through the school – to my next lesson when the music teacher came bounding up behind me.
‘McDermott, there’s nothing wrong with your parents not playing any instrument. What else do they do? Do they play sport?’
‘Well, my dad sings…’ I said.
‘What! Why didn’t you say anything?’
‘Because it’s not a musical instrument,’ I said.
‘McDermott, that’s
one of the best musical instruments anyone can play. You should be proud.’ And he bounded off with his cape flapping.
I suppose what I didn’t see was how much courage it must have taken for Dad to keep performing, especially as it required him to change with the times and find new ways to keep getting up in front of people. I have so many memories of him lugging all his backing equipment into the back of the Mini Metro to drive halfway across Lancashire to do a gig. When I think of it now, I just wonder how much courage it must have taken to do that – to suddenly turn up at a place, on your own, set up your own equipment, do an act, including bantering with the audience, sing and then head home. Each time he did it, he would never know what audience was waiting for him.
But things were changing and by the early 90s, a new recession had hit and money became tight in the venues that Dad would sing in – hardly any of them wanted to pay for musicians any more. Rather than giving up, Dad decided to get some backing tracks made so he could sing along to them. It’s not how he wanted to perform but taking his own backing meant he could get more gigs.
Things continued to get tough when Premier closed down and he was made redundant. He’d been there for seventeen years. ‘The best job I ever had,’ he says to this day. Part of me thinks that this was because it was right outside the back of our house, meaning he could wake up at 7.15 and be there by 7.30. After a few weeks of not working he soon got a job at a firm on Philips Industrial Estate, where he made wooden picture frames. It was an easy job for Dad – I remember him coming back every day with loads of offcuts that he would either use to build something in the shed or burn them on the wood fire.
GCSEs came and went. I got As in every subject, which boosted my confidence during my final year of school. Strangely, just as Dad loved a crowd, I started to enjoy speaking in front of the whole class, which was a massive shift for me. But A levels were a different matter – despite gaining As in my other subjects I obtained an E for Attainment and U for Effort in Economics. I knew full well he would go ballistic when I went home.
And he did. He screwed the results into a ball and threw it right back at me. ‘What the pissing hell is this?’ he said. My confidence took a nosedive. Then there was the realization, in the middle of it all, that I was probably gay, despite hanging round Blackburn town centre every Friday night, trying to pull girls. I had no idea how Dad would react if he knew the truth, so I ignored the reality and carried on trying to be the son I thought he wanted.
Chapter 12
When I started at university in Manchester, I rarely went home, and when I did, I’d spend my time going out in Blackburn or working at a local bar called Toffs.
I was more preoccupied with my own life than what Mum and Dad were doing. At university, I was a Britpop kid wearing jumble-sale clothes and dancing like I was having a fit. There was a gulf between me and Dad – I don’t think he knew what I was studying or where I lived half the time, but it didn’t really bother me.
At Manchester I met Oliver, Rob and Emma, and they became my good friends. They got on with Dad like a house on fire. ‘Your dad’s great, Si!’ they would always tell me. I couldn’t see it at the time, but now of course, I’d do anything to have a normal chat with him. I think perhaps part of the problem was that when he was great with everyone else, it only highlighted the relationship that I felt we didn’t have. They all loved that Dad sang and still did the occasional charity gig. One of the biggest ones was for the 50th VE Day Celebrations at King George’s Hall in Blackburn in the summer of 1995. He did one of his famous medleys and it brought the house down. At the time, though, I thought it was all naff, because all I could see was others getting his best side. I thought I knew it all, but in reality I knew nothing about life, or him.
Dad continued to do the occasional gig at old folks’ homes around Blackburn. In those days his shows were less about him having the limelight and more about providing entertainment to those who needed it. He wouldn’t charge much – he never did learn that lesson about making money from his music – but he didn’t care as long as he was singing. There was one Easter in particular, at an old people’s home in Accrington, where Dad’s singing blew the place down. All the patients ended up getting drunk and there was an Easter bonnet parade. One lady who hadn’t spoken to anyone for months got up and started singing and dancing. She was having the time of her life when, dancing the conga with a party hat on her head, she suddenly collapsed backwards: she was dead.
Dad was devastated that someone had died at one of his shows and apologized to the woman’s family, who were also there. ‘Don’t worry, mate – she hadn’t moved from that chair in months! She died having the time of her life. Thank you,’ the son said. Dad was booked to come back for their summer party.
His musical knowledge was vast – he could go way back to the 1920s and 30s and had a massive selection of backing tracks that he made from old records he’d pick up from car boot or jumble sales. I used to hate it. Some of these songs were so twee and, well, old-fashioned. I didn’t see how spectacular it was that my dad could remember the words from so many songs from so many eras.
Looking back now, Dad’s time at the old folks’ homes became more important than we could ever have imagined. I am sure, deep down, his shock at the way some of the residents were treated has meant that Mum and I are determined to keep him at home as long as we can. One of the homes offered him the job of in-house entertainer. He would do a few days a week, chatting to the residents and performing some shows. He loved it – all the old women loved him and couldn’t get enough of him.
Over time, he became very upset by what he saw as a lack of care and attention. He started making a list of what was going on:
• ‘Patient left calling for help – no nurses answering calls for help.’
• ‘Patient’s clothes thrown across room and left there all day.’
• ‘Patient left in wet bed clothes all day.’
Dad mentioned this to the manager. A week later they said they didn’t need him to work there any more.
Mum had also begun to cut down the number of hours she was working so they could go on much longer summer holidays, taking themselves to a caravan in France. They loved it. It reminded them of their courting days, driving around with the trailer attached to the back of the car, windows open and singing songs. Dad would talk to anyone and everyone and soon they had a fantastic circle of friends – Gloria and Alan, Derek and Pauline.
It was a great time for Mum and Dad – they didn’t have to worry about money or work much and could just laze on the beach during the day or go out dancing at night in one of the many beach bars. Despite Dad not being able to speak French, in typical Dad fashion, he’d often manage by acting everything out. They also got to know Francis – a French guy who played piano and sang in the Octagon bar on the beach. Of course he couldn’t speak a word of English but they ended up communicating – though each of them could have been having a completely different conversation for all they knew. One night Francis let Dad sing and it was like he’d stepped back in time to his Butlin’s days. After that night he always called Dad, ‘Mon ami Edward’, and Mum and Dad would always get fussed over whenever they arrived at the bar.
Dad hadn’t lost any of his shine onstage and one summer stands out. There was an awful performer onstage, in a big white suit, face covered in dark fake tan, a gold medallion hanging down his chest, singing terribly and ruining the Rat Pack classics. He was weaving his way through the crowd, encouraging people to join in with his song.
‘Please don’t come near us, please don’t come near us,’ I prayed to myself. I hated the attention that Dad could attract in these situations and I just knew what was about to happen.
Dad sat there quietly in his chair, taking the occasional sip of wine, and the singer came dancing over to our table, singing in French and leaning into our seats. As he popped the microphone in front of Dad’s face, there was no doubt that he was trying to show us up, thinking Dad wouldn�
�t know the song. But Dad took the mic and responded by singing the next line in perfect French. The guy’s face dropped and the next minute Dad was on his feet finishing the song – he’d upstaged everyone. The audience stood up and started applauding and cheering so loudly that Dad could have been singing to his old crowd at The Cora. At the time I was dying of embarrassment, though I do remember us getting a free round of drinks, and it was probably the first time I also felt quiet pride for my dad, even if I didn’t want to show it.
It was a happy time for Mum and Dad. Their arguments had finally ceased to be as dramatic as they’d been when I was growing up. Dad had acquired an old bike from one of his friends on the campsite, and used to cycle down to the shop every morning to buy baguettes. Other days, Mum and Dad would take the boat over to St Tropez and shop at the market, buying vegetables, living the Riviera lifestyle. They were halcyon days and ones I know my mum looks back on now with great affection, particularly as Dad doesn’t remember so much of them. She has a beautiful painting hanging in the living room of the pretty French village Cogolin and I know it must be a bittersweet reminder of carefree days that seem a lifetime ago now.
But they weren’t to last. Out of the blue, Grandad was diagnosed with lung cancer. It was a blow, as he seemed to have started to rebuild things after Nan’s death. Much like Hilda after the death of Maurice, when Nan died, Grandad had isolated himself and shied away from his friends as he sat at home dealing with his grief on his own. But Mum persuaded him to go back to dancing and there he met Gladys. It was fantastic to see him happy again and we were delighted when they married. Grandad’s illness, however, meant that Gladys found it increasingly difficult to look after him, so it was decided that he would come and live at Mum and Dad’s.
During this time, Dad was Grandad’s main carer. He cooked for him while Mum was working and would take him for drives out in the countryside. They became very close. The irony isn’t lost on either Mum or me that Dad was a true star when anyone was ill. He could be incredibly caring and thoughtful and, when patience was required, he would always step up. Now, as we sit and endlessly try and persuade him to take a bath or change his clothes, it’s hard to remember the hours he invested in Grandad and how he just got stuck in because he hated seeing anyone in distress.
The Songaminute Man Page 13