Authors: Anne Nolan
This was the first time we'd been back to Ireland since we'd started having hits in the UK Top 20. In Dun Laoghaire. we performed in a large pub where the punters were literally hanging off the rafters. People were fighting to get inside to see our act. The conditions were pretty basic: we had to change in caravans, I remember, because there were no dressing rooms, and no toilet facilities except in the pub. We couldn't very well fight a way through the crowds in our costumes to go to the loo, so Bernie and I peed in pint mugs and threw it out of the window!
We were fortunate that our summer season that year was to be in Blackpool at the famous Opera House. Cannon and Ball were again topping the bill and a young, up-and-coming comedian, Brian Conley, was also in the show. Brian was no stranger to us as he and his band, Tom Foolery, had supported the Nolans once before and we'd become good friends. 1 was under strict instructions, as my pregnancy progressed, not to join in any of the choreography. In fact, a joke was made of my condition and 1 did all my singing from the comfort and safety of a wrought-iron garden chair.
Our second daughter, Alex, was born on 18 October 1987 in Blackpool Victoria Hospital. Two days before her arrival, I'd started suffering stomach pains, and as a precaution, I was ordered into hospital. Mild labour pains continued until about eight hours before she was born, at which point everything started in earnest. Because of Amy's traumatic entry into the world by emergency Caesarean section, I had no experience of acute labour pains. Oh boy! But, as any new mother will tell you, the moment you hold your baby in your arms for the first time, the pain instantly becomes a distant memory.
I'll never forget letting Amy hold Alex for the first time. She gazed and gazed at her and then said, 'Hello, I'm Amy, your big sister.' So sweet. Once again, Brian rose to the occasion of new fatherhood with his customary loving attention. It was just as well because, for some reason, I was taking longer than I'd have liked to get over Alex's birth.
Two weeks after her arrival, we decided to have her baptised, part of a dual christening with her two-year-old cousin, Tommy, son of my brother Tommy, grandson of my father Tommy. (It's an Irish tradition!) The day went really well although I was aware of a sort of dragging feeling in my legs. I put it down to tiredness after the rigours of labour. The following day, though, I was presented with the explanation. I'd gone to the bathroom to use the bidet when I suddenly felt I urgently needed the toilet. Before 1 could move across the room, I felt as though I was on the point of giving birth all over again, although this time without the accompanying pain. When the feeling passed, I looked down into the bidet. There was a blood clot lying there the size of a side plate. I struggled to my feet and phoned for the doctor. Touch nothing,' she said. 'Cover it over. I'll be there straightaway.' True to her word, she was at the house in minutes. After examining the clot, she explained that it was part of the placenta that must have been missed at the hospital.
With the extreme anxiety of Amy's birth, three miscarriages before Alex's safe arrival, and now this latest episode, Brian put his foot down.
'I've made a decision,' he said. 'I'm going to have the snip.'
I asked him why.
'Because you had a terrible time with Amy's birth. You've just been through this trauma with Alex. You've had three miscarriages. We've been blessed with two beautiful daughters. I love you and I'm not prepared to stand by and put your life in danger ever again. Enough is enough.'
I might have dreamt of a large family, but Brian was adamant. Part of me was sad that Alex would now be my last child but, on reflection, I think it was the right decision.
Six months after the birth, I gradually started returning to work but, luckily, we travelled less during 1988. This was also the year both Maureen fell pregnant by her partner Ritchie, and Coleen by her first husband, Shane Richie. We cut back on travel and tried to confine ourselves to television work. We appeared on Rod Hull's TV show, for instance, and managed not to get savaged, as Michael Parkinson most famously had, by the vicious Emu. But we did get our bums pinched!
We also guested on Lena Zavaroni's show. She seemed sad somehow and yet she should have been happy: she'd realised her dream by winning
Opportunity Knocks,
her career was going well, the public clearly adored her. But who knew what demons were tormenting her? Eleven years later, at just thirty-six, she was dead, the victim of long-time anorexia nervosa and, ultimately, bronchial pneumonia. So tragic. She'd been an only child. It made me realise how lucky we were to have each other.
At the end of 1988,1 decided to tackle my first pantomime. Linda and Denise were seasoned panto performers by now, while Bernie had two to her credit. As a family, we'd always tried to keep the Christmas holiday free of work but, when I was offered the part of Robin Hood in
Babes in the Wood
with Les Dennis, I admit I was tempted. When I was told it would be at the Theatre Royal in Newcastle – Brian's home city – it seemed to have my name on it. Then I was told how much I'd be paid. No contest! I was on £1,200 a week for eight weeks, the most money I'd ever earned. What's more, I'd be able to stay with Norma and Walter, Brian's parents, and Alex could be there with me. Amy would remain in Blackpool with Brian because she had to go to school.
There was to be just a fortnight's rehearsal, during which I had to learn the art of sword fighting. My opponent, the evil Sheriff of Nottingham, was played by Basil Soper. We must have looked like David and Goliath. Basil is over six feet tall and almost as wide. I didn't come up much above his chest and there was nothing of me. I also had to learn how to use a bow and arrow convincingly. For both skills, I was taught by Jonathan Howell who was cast as one of my band of merry men, but his chief role was that of stunt coordinator. Without him, I wouldn't have been able to tackle either task.
On opening night, kitted out in a little green jacket and hat, my legs encased in nothing but tights, my feet in stiletto-heeled boots, I concentrated on not looking daft while also summoning up the spirit of Robin Hood, best bowman in the land. The target was set up on stage in full view of the audience. I picked up my trusty longbow, loaded an arrow and slowly brought the bow down in front of me to train it on the bull's-eye just as Jonathan had taught me. A hush fell over the audience as I drew back the string. I released my grip – and the arrow fell to my feet. Cast, musicians and audience gasped as one and then everyone rocked with laughter. I was mortified. It must have been first night nerves because it never happened again. Most nights, I hit the target; on a good one, I got the bull. The local paper wasn't kind, though. Their critic said I was the worst principal boy ever to have trodden the boards of the Theatre Royal. He was absolutely right!
We were a couple of weeks into the show when it became apparent that Norma was finding it hard to cope with Alex who was now an active fourteen-month-old toddler. Norma wasn't strong physically: she was a diabetic with only one kidney and she'd recently suffered from a hiatus hernia. Alex was also a drain on her emotionally: she would become very clingy before I left the house for the theatre each day and then she'd sob when 1 was gone. Norma was feeling increasingly stressed and hated seeing her granddaughter so upset. Brian and I talked through the options and decided in the end that Alex ought to be with her sister in Blackpool, although it did mean he'd have to manage both the girls on his own.
A few weeks later, Brian brought them up to Newcastle to see the pantomime. I put out my arms to take Alex from him, to give her a cuddle. Although she came to me, it was with some reluctance and it was clear she wanted to be back with her dad. It was a horrible feeling for me to realise that, because she was so young, the few weeks she'd spent with Brian and away from me had been sufficient for her almost to forget me.
In later years I would never find it easy being away from home over the panto season, and particularly while the girls were caught up in the magic of Santa Claus. I always insisted, though, on travelling home – from however far away I might have been – so I could spend Christmas Eve and Christmas Day with Brian, Amy and Alex. It was so lovely waking up in my own bed and spending Christmas with Brian and the girls.
That first pantomime season, we met up with the rest of the family for Christmas dinner which we celebrated by taking a private room in the Savoy Hotel in Blackpool with our own bar and waitresses. We stayed for hours, eating, drinking, talking and, of course, singing. Leaving home again on Boxing Day was such a wrench, but the money was good and we badly needed it following my enforced break after Alex's birth when I wasn't working. Brian, though, was still bringing in regular money from his job working in insurance.
The following Christmas 1 was in pantomime in Liverpool, thankfully much nearer to home. I played Cinderella opposite Peter Howitt, famous for his role as Joey in the hit TV sitcom
Bread.
He was my Buttons and 1 don't mind admitting that, as the season progressed, I found myself growing more and more attracted to him. He was tall, blond, slim and very confident. We'd go for coffee together and chat for ages. He sang and played the guitar which I liked. On our opening night, he asked if he could escort me to the after-show party, but I turned him down.
'But the leading man traditionally accompanies the leading lady to the party,' he said.
'Well, not on this occasion,' I replied. 'You've got a girlfriend. I've got a husband. I'd feel awkward.' He looked at me as though I was mad, but I wouldn't budge, even though I fancied him. So I went to the party on my own.
I liked his style. For example, I confided in him during rehearsals that there was a particular song which didn't suit me and that I wished I didn't have to sing it.
'Well, tell the director,' he said.
'But I couldn't do that,' I told him.
'Of course you can,' he insisted, 'and if you get any trouble, just tell the director I said it was OK.'
So that's exactly what I did. Apparently, the director did go ballistic – but not in front of me. I only learnt about it afterwards – and Peter had stood up for me. He was very protective. The two men who played the Ugly Sisters would sometimes get a bit short with me if I didn't cotton on quickly enough about what I was expected to do and Peter would always pitch in on my side. 'Leave her alone,' he'd say. 'She's new to this. She'll get there in her own good time.'
During the second week of the run, Peter appeared in my dressing room one day before the show. We were chatting away and then we found ourselves kissing, a proper French kiss. It was lovely. I felt terrible afterwards, so guilty. It didn't stop me from doing it again, though, more than once. But kissing was where it began and ended. We never did anything more serious.
It was the only time in my marriage when I was fleetingly tempted to cheat on Brian. I never did and I never told him about Peter, although I think he suspected something might be going on. He turned up at the theatre one day, unannounced, with a small gift: a soft toy with the words 'Mad About You' printed on its stomach. There was clearly a chemistry between Peter and me which a number of people commented on when we were on stage together. However, I'd been propositioned a few times down the years, and I always resorted to the famous Paul Newman line, asking why I'd choose hamburger when I could get steak at home? This stood me in good stead. I loved Brian and he loved me. Why rock the boat?
Over the many years Brian and I had been together, we'd never had the opportunity to have a proper summer holiday. We'd manage the occasional long weekend, or a few days when we could relax in each other's company, but the Nolans were always working a summer season each year and the winter had been hopeless for Brian because of his football commitments. However, in 1990, we decided to go to Disneyland, Florida, with the two girls, as soon as I'd finished appearing in a summer season split between Great Yarmouth and Skegness. We had to take out a small loan to pay for the trip, but I knew I had lots of work on my return and Brian was in regular employment.
We were all so excited as we headed off to Manchester Airport. We reached the front of the queue, loaded our luggage on the belt and handed over our tickets and passports to the check-in assistant.
'Do you have a visa?' she asked me.
'Visa?' Brian echoed.
'Mrs Wilson has an Irish passport. She'll require an entry visa to be allowed into the USA. Didn't your travel agent tell you?'
We were dumbstruck, but there was nothing to be done. Our luggage was removed from the belt and returned to us. We called for a taxi to take us home, with me crying and Brian vowing he'd sort something out with the travel agent. And he did. He was on the phone to them first thing the next morning and he stayed on it until the afternoon, by which time he'd discovered he could get a visa for me if he was prepared to drive to Liverpool and apply direct at the Irish Embassy. The travel agency admitted their error and got us four seats on another flight the following day. After the fraught stop/start, we enjoyed a magical family holiday.
My panto that Christmas was at Nottingham with Frank Bruno, by his own admission no Laurence Olivier. He was still UK heavyweight boxing champion at the time. I played Aladdin and he played the genie. I'd be in the cave, rubbing the lamp and waiting for the genie to appear. Before the audience saw him, suddenly that distinctive basso profundo voice would come out of the loudspeakers. They would erupt. 'Bru-no! Bru-no!' they'd shout. I'd have to stand there for at least a minute until all the commotion died down, and then Frank would appear through the floor of the stage – and everyone would erupt again. We'd then do a duet together, during which he always forgot his words and just started chuckling in that familiar way. It didn't matter. Everyone loved him. The Theatre Royal was full to overflowing every single night.
By the beginning of the nineties, the Nolans were still much in demand in clubs and bingo halls, but the music scene had moved on and we weren't having hit records any more. We always did a summer season, though, and there were overseas tours. In Japan, in 1991, we were presented with the Tokubstsu Kikaku Sho award, the Japanese equivalent of a Grammy, for best foreign recording artists. The previous year, we'd been given English lyrics to songs that had been popular for other artists in Japan and recorded them in London over the original soundtracks. It wasn't a bad idea and obviously the Japanese really liked what we'd done; hence the award. But you should have seen the lyrics! I still remember verses from two of the songs. The first was called 'Looking For Love' which included the following: