Memoirs of the Brightside of the Moon

by Ginger Gilmour

  He sat still in thought, when he came up with the idea that we should make a plastic brassiere, which could hold milk with nipples. The idea would be so that the dads could wear it and feed the baby. One of the bonuses would be that the milk would stay warm at body temperature. He paused for a moment, and then added, "Darling, it must be pink, of course! What should we name it?" I was not good at naming these sorts of things so I shrugged my shoulders putting my focus back on Clare. He then said with the glee of insight, "I have GOT IT! We shall call it PINK FLOOD!" We so laughed at that one. How great... PINK FLOOD! During the evening, he asked David if he would let me go shopping with him. We shared a love for Art Nouveaux. Cheeky, Andy said, "Don't worry David I will only take her to the best antique shops! Hee Hee." I reassured David that I would just buy little things. In the end, Andy and I never had the opportunity for our adventure.

  We did meet up in the helicopter going to the gig on the night that we gifted him tickets. Clare came with me in her Moses basket and surprisingly slept through the sound of the chopper. The gig was outside of NYC in Nassau Coliseum. It was initially booked for two dates 25-26 February, but there was such a demand that two more dates became necessary. We took the helicopter from the New York City Heliport. It was my first ride in a helicopter and it was exciting! I was so grateful that we did not have to sit in rush hour traffic to get there. We just hovered over it.

  Things were different back stage. There was a Sushi Bar! Traveling with the band was becoming more civilized. No more dried cheese sandwiches and potato chips. Even the road crews enjoyed a fabulous spread. There was a time when they all took alcoholic beverages out to their stations. Now they took Evian Water. In the last shows, I spent more time backstage with our little Clare for the volume and the subject matter was getting to me. It had been an amazing journey in many ways, but I was tired. I needed to get home. Lyrics repeated in my head as "Wish You Were Here" was playing and penetrated through the walls of the dressing room.

  I was beginning to know Heaven from Hell and this was my life. This was all of our lives. Wish You Were Here! Our marriage began during the "Wish You Were Here" recordings. Now it had become truly our journey. Sitting backstage on the large couch breast- feeding Clare, I asked myself, "Where will this journey lead? Or are we two lost souls?"

  CHAPTER 37

  HOME AGAIN

  LITTLE NAOMI

  I flew back to the UK alone on Concorde with Clare in her Moses basket for David had to finish his year of tax exile. The flight was amazing and my first. It would be the last for many because Concorde was to be taken out of the air soon after. We arrived in just over three hours without a feeling of jet lag. The plane is testimony of grace in aerodynamics. Sadly, it no longer flies and if it did, I would have to ask for the seats to be rectified. They were very uncomfortable, like metal lawn chairs. However, I am truly grateful to have had the experience.

  David and I decided that with our growing family, we would buy a new house. So I began our search in the UK with the help of Perry Press. Eventually, we bought Hook End Manor, the home of Alvin Lee in a village called Checkendon in Oxfordshire, which was six miles west of Henley-on-Thames. It was a Tudor farmhouse from the 15th century with many outbuildings and a pool. Just right for David, he could have plenty of room for his studio. And certainly lots of room for a growing family. David had always said he wanted six children. Well, wishes do come true and sometimes become eight.

  We were familiar with the area for we had visited George Harrison's home, (Friar Park), in Henley with Terry Doran the year before. Friar Park will be an experience I shall never forget. I felt so honored to be there. As we entered the large gallery hall, I just didn't know where to look first. There was so much beautiful art everywhere. The walls were carved with images of friars by the original carpenter. An original Tiffany standing lamp stood near the high back couch before the large fireplace. The dining room had William Morris stained glass windows and wallpaper with peacock reliefs. My eyes and mouth were in awe. Even the light switches were the faces of monks in brass, the switch being their nose.

  We had stayed the night and in the morning, while having breakfast, there was Ravi Shankar music playing through the speakers. George entered since he had come home in the night while we slept. I complimented him on the music, for Ravi Shankar was one of my favorites, when he said, "Would you like to meet him?" I said in amazement, "Sure but how?" He said, "Come with me." We had finished our breakfast and got up to follow him. Room after room we followed him, my head spinning in all directions, taking in all the artwork and beautiful lamps while the music got louder and louder. Finally, we reached the last room. As George opened the door, my face took on a rosy glow with the reality of what I was seeing. There, sitting on the floor all in white was Ravi Shankar and his entire band. That was a moment to remember.

  Once the purchase agreement was complete and Hook End was ours, we took Warwick on board to help with re-decorating. We trusted him enormously. The majority of the house had wood paneling and 15th century lead light windows, so it was mainly the painting of Alvin's color palette and installing an electric oven in the kitchen. In the midst of it all, one of the builders installing the cupboard for the oven approached David and Warwick. He had sought them out in another part of the house and in his Irish accent said, "Excuse me Mr. Gilmour, Mr. McCreddie, I couldn't help but overhear you wonderin' who had built the property. And may I say I 'dink I know. Come along with me. His name is written on a board I was removin'. His name is Mr. K. Itchen." They both said, "Really? Can you show us?" They followed him to the kitchen where he showed them the board. There on the back of the board it read, K... itchen.

  Fortunately, they waited until leaving the room before bursting into laughter. I never quite understood the way the British had Irish jokes, nor did I ever understand the Polish jokes in the States. But I think I was getting the drift, though I still do not favor making fun of others. In a way, the story was quite charming and precious. I hope he wasn't local for it did go around later at our local pub.

  There was an Aga cooker, which took a little adjusting to, but it wasn't long before I fell in Love with it. I think the baked potatoes were the best! But baking cakes was another matter, one that I never mastered, at least in the Aga. I had to have a larger oven for we really needed one to manage the HUGE turkey for Christmas. There just wasn't enough room in the smaller oven. We fed many over the holidays.

  Our first Christmas was a very special time and we were planning to celebrate our new home in a classic Victorian style. Many friends and family would be coming to share in the festivities. Miv Watts with Naomi and Ben, her children, came and stayed with us for a few weeks. She helped me decorate the whole house with garlands of evergreen, Victorian ornaments and red ribbons galore. Dried red apples and holly decked the hall. Miv was always amazing in finding special baubles to add to my collection. My children, now grown, have already decided which ones they want, if I ever let go of them.

  Each day the fires were lit casting a glow of warmth in every room as we ate mince pies, stilton on crackers, and the occasional cob nuts with our tea. The children played with the dogs and cats in the garden while we decorated with Joy. What a family affair it was, always.

  One morning Naomi, who must have been eleven, came up to us after breakfast with a pout. "Mom, I so need to earn some money so I can buy some presents. But I have no idea how I do that?" Miv and I looked at each other, and I came up with an idea. She could help wrap my Christmas presents, which were hidden away upstairs in the attic. Her eyes lit up with excitement and relief that a solution had been found.

  I took her up the many stairs into the attic rooms where piles of presents lined the walls with rolls of wrapping paper and ribbons. David and I always gave presents to all our friends, family and business associates not to mention our children. So you can imagine the size of the task. Though I had not expected for her to do it all nor did I think an eleven year old would have the stamina. As I
closed the door the last image I saw was her blue eyes sparkling and a smile that revealed the sweetness of her heart.

  The day passed by with all the decorating and preparation keeping us occupied. Our nanny kept an eye on the children but at some point, around eleven in the evening, Miv and I decided to put our feet up in the telly room. As relaxation took hold Miv suddenly said, "Ginge', have you seen Naomi?" I shook my head "No." "Where do you think she could be?" "Oh, no. She couldn't still be in the attic!" We bounced from our comfy chairs and went swiftly to find her. What we discovered was heartwarming. There she was covered in bits of ribbon, sitting amongst scraps of wrapping paper, cellotape stuck in her hair, engulfed amid a pile of presents that Santa's very own team of elves would have taken a week to get through.

  It was so touching. She had worked all day, determined to get through a room full of presents the size of the gift-wrapping department in Harrods. Resisting defeat, she confessed that, curiously she had not yet discovered her own gift in the milieu! Perhaps this was her motivation, but never one to lose focus, she finally conceded it was off to bed for her. And so, with a hug from Miv she wobbled off to bed... with the picture of the sugar plum dance in her head. Tomorrow was another day and there was a good deal of shopping to be done. Her own present sat wrapped and ravishing, already under the tree.

  As spring arrived, we were to discover the beauty of the garden. Flowers appeared around every corner, little snowdrops, crocuses and primulas silently waiting for the daffodils and tulips. A wall garden in the back lined with herbaceous borders, full of perennials (especially Dahlias), greenhouses full of vegetables, and a forest of pine trees next door. We took on the service of a fantastic and jolly couple named Jack and Rita, who had worked for Alvin Lee, as well as Henry, the gardener. They soon became part of our family. Joe, Lisa and our cats eventually adjusted to all the space. Unfortunately, Blue, our peacock did not. He flew off when we let him out of his cage. We had been advised to give all the animals a period to acclimatize but in this case, it did not work. I often wondered if he found a safe home somewhere for we could not find him. I hoped to hear his call on my morning walks but such was not to be. I did love those long walks in the forest with the dogs each day and the family bicycle rides down the country lanes once the snow cleared. Winter was full of wonder too as the white snow fell onto the hedges. With the cool air full of the children's laughter, frolicking, throwing snowballs and sometimes lying in the snow flapping their arms and legs making angel impressions. All the seasons touched our hearts with its beauty unveiling the changing faces of the English countryside. Our new home suited us well.

  CHAPTER 38

  THE CLASH OF THE TITANS

  The Floyd had moved on to making The Wall movie with Alan Parker. Well, really, it was Roger, Gerald Scarfe and Alan Parker in the end. The stories that filtered back were like the clash of the Titans. David did not agree with the whole way things were developing during the making of the album. Little by little, he saw a democratic relationship in the band change to "You are working for me. I am your leader." There was no space for anyone to contribute under those conditions. It was really a Roger Project and David withdrew from having much to do with the film. Until one day, Steve O'Rourke called and asked if he would be a referee.

  I really don't remember much of what went on because I had become pregnant again with our third child. I had to focus on my health, as my kidneys were weak from what happened during Clare's pregnancy. We were still settling in the new house and something about it was unsettling. I did worry about the house becoming our home for I felt uneasy. Normally, an energetic sparkle appeared shortly after redecorating. It wasn't the case at Hook End. The sparkle never came even by the time we had our open house party. How could I say to David that there was no sparkle? We have to move? He probably would think I was mad.

  At our party, Alvin Lee shared with me that he felt there was a hex on couples who lived there. I wish he had told me that before. Historically, since the 15th century every couple either met their death, divorce or separated. Gosh. Why did I not see that? Dr. Sharma came often and said there was a ghost that walked around the garden and another upstairs. I have to say I had to put those stories away.

  Until one evening, just outside the doorway where Alice and Clare slept, our white Alsatian, Joe, started growling into the air in the Hallway near the door. His hair raised and it was hard to get him to move. The girls awoke and I took them into our room to sleep. David was working so I asked Michael Skipwith if he could assess the situation the next day. It was spooky.

  David would often return from a day filming with photos of the war scenes. These images often triggered off memories of Vietnam for me. Roger revealed his father's story and this reminded me of the only war story in my life. My stepfather was a medic in the Coast Guard and was on isolated duty during "Nam." He was away for a year. We could not avoid hearing stories on the news as to what was going on over there. We watched the anti- demonstrations and the world's disapproval. While we, one of the soldiers families, suffered and worried at home suspended in the emotional dilemma.

  On April 4, a year before his assassination, Martin Luther King spoke about the war at the Riverside church in New York. King stated:

  "Surely this madness must cease. We must stop now. I speak as a child of God and brother to the suffering poor of Vietnam. I speak for those whose land is being laid waste, whose homes are being destroyed, whose culture is being subverted. I speak for the poor of America who are paying the double price of smashed hopes at home and death and corruption in Vietnam. I speak as a citizen of the world, for the World as it stands aghast at the path we have taken. I speak as an American to the leaders of my own nation. The great initiative in this war is ours. The initiative to stop it must be ours." (1)

  But the war went on and on. Demonstrations and protests continued. One thousand women marched on the White House. Students were arrested for being conscientious objectors. Students for a Democratic Society, demonstrated in Chicago and I watched in disbelief as the police on National Television, hit the cameraman who was filming them beating the students. I watched. I saw it happening! And I just couldn't believe that there was nothing about it in the News the next day.

  While at a White House luncheon, singer Eartha Kitt, spoke out against the war and its effects on the youth, exclaiming to her fellow guests:

  "You send the best of this country off to be shot and maimed. They rebel in the street. They will take pot... and they will get high. They don't want to go to school because they're going to be snatched off from their mothers to be shot in Vietnam." (2)

  But the war went on. No one was listening in power. My mother prayed each evening for his safe return. She waited each day for a letter, which did not tell us much except we knew he was alive. He kept the truth away from us. He had to as a soldier in combat. He was a Chief Petty Officer, a leader of men. The only way for us to keep our sanity was to stay away from listening to the news about the war. It is only now I realize how he often must have walked on land in the aftermath caring for the dying and the afflicted.

  Seeing the images now I just wonder how he dealt with the atrocities he witnessed, especially in the night when he got home. Agent Orange did not discriminate. It not only destroyed the underbrush, but maimed children, mothers and the elderly. It destroyed their homes, all the people in the way. In addition, pregnant women gave birth to deformed children. I still don't get why we were there. How does one live with those images? I cried today as I looked at them. Ron was there. He breathed the air. He was a witness of the devastation of a people, of his men.

  Over the years after he returned, Ron would often have lung problems. My mother kept on him to stop smoking cigarettes, but he didn't. On 19 MAY 2002, he passed over diagnosed with Lung Cancer. It was not until afterwards, when my sister, Donna, was helping my mother with the financial closure that we discovered something which made us weep. Apparently, he died, luckily they said, just a year before th
e government's allowance for families of servicemen, dying from Agent Orange could claim compensation. What? Oh My GOD! He really died from Agent Orange. It was too late to question his treatment. It was his time to pass over. But families still are in a process with the government to get more help. Tragically, they are being ignored.

  And so it is today. The War goes on amongst men. Why do we not value the preciousness of life? The love of power seems to be more in favor than the power of Love. As an artist and as a human being, I constantly seek to question the ripples I create with my images, or forms or even with my actions or my voice. As much as I tried to understand Roger's vision of the Wall and as much as I can see how art sometimes must shock to awaken the sleeping dinosaurs it is not my way, for I know we become what we contemplate. I choose Divine Beauty. I choose Love.

  CHAPTER 39

  PONJI DIES

  Spring 1981

  Andrew Warburg's company had crashed and potentially taken almost all of our investments with it. Other issues compounded the pressures we were living under, ourpersonal life and the shifting ground with the band. It wasn't until March 1981 that the full extent of our losses became apparent. Until then, the top floor of Britannia Row was full of accountants working hard to reduce our enormous tax exposure. I don't think any of us knew or could have possibly predicted the outcome. The pressure was enormous. Our lives seemed to be held in a precarious balance, waiting.