Touching from a Distance Read online

  In fact Rob was short tempered because Ian and Annik had been sitting in his and Lesley’s flat when I rang. They’d run out of money and landed themselves on his doorstep, asking him to solve their financial problems. Ian had suddenly gained an insight into how it felt to have no money at all. It still irritates me intensely that this fact had eluded Ian for so long.

  The next morning my father rang Ian’s parents and told them what had been happening. They were astonished as they’d had no idea that we’d been having problems. Annik caught the train back to London and the episode culminated in Ian’s parents, Rob and Lesley watching Ian pace up and down our living room in Barton Street. He refused to speak to anyone. I knew he would be angry with me because I had ‘told’ or ‘informed’ on him to our parents, as we had an unspoken agreement to keep it all a secret and sort it out between ourselves, like naughty children.

  I took it for granted that once the secret was out I would lose him for ever, but it was different now. It was clear I would have to lose him in order to start living again, and deep down inside he must have wanted to lose me too. I suddenly felt angry with Annik. She had a sexy accent, a job at the Belgian embassy and seemingly enough time and money to follow Joy Division around Europe. I felt that as Ian’s wife and the mother of his child I deserved more status, but it hadn’t worked out like that. I had been well and truly ousted. In an attempt to redress the balance I rang her at the embassy and screamed at her that I was divorcing Ian and would be naming her as co-respondent. She falteringly replied that she would do whatever I wanted. Having worked at Macclesfield county court, I regarded being named as co-respondent terribly shameful.

  It was difficult initiating the divorce, but once I had made the decision it felt wonderful. It seemed as though a huge weight had been lifted off my shoulders. For that short time, I honestly believed that Ian was not my problem any more. As far as I was concerned, I could leave Rob, Tony and Annik to try to sort out Ian’s life. I believed I had done him a favour by eliminating one of his biggest worries – me. If Ian didn’t have the guts to concede the end of our relationship, I did. I admitted to myself that I had made a hash of my life and began to make plans to wipe the slate clean and start again. I borrowed a dress from my sister, rang Jeff, told him what had happened and arranged a date for that very evening. At the age of twenty-three, for the first time in my life, a man called for me in his car and took me out for a drink. It felt fantastic. I was young and I began to feel wanted again. He treated me as a human being, a feeling person and provided the much needed shoulder to cry on. Not that we had a wonderful or romantic time, as I needed to talk and couldn’t help discussing the previous events. He was there to listen.

  One of the girls tried to persuade me to drop the divorce application. She told me I should hang on for a while as Joy Division were about to make a fortune and it would be more lucrative to divorce Ian when he was rich. I decided my pride was too valuable an asset.

  Ian stayed with Bernard Sumner and his wife for a short time. To Sue Sumner he appeared quiet and depressed, but he did talk to Bernard a great deal. When Bernard commented on how fortunate it was that he had not gone through with his suicide bid, Ian said, ‘I didn’t go through with it because I heard that if you didn’t have enough tablets you get brain damage.’

  Ian would stay up very late at night while he lived with Bernard and Sue, but that was something he had always liked to do. He suffered from dizzy spells and a rash, which may have been shingles. Talking was useless. He would agree with whatever anyone said and then fall into another depression.

  Before Ian died, he returned to live with his parents for a while. Even before his illness, Ian had never been mentally equipped for living alone. He had lived with his parents up until our marriage and afterwards with friends. Daily, routine life never touched him. Although he seemed to enjoy solitude, it was not a state in which he could exist as he was incapable of fending for himself. It’s not surprising that the restrictions of epilepsy depressed him and exaggerated his dependency on others.

  *

  Eventually it was time for Ian to attend his psychiatrist’s appointment. This time Terry Mason was dispatched to drive Ian and Rob Gretton rang to tell me so that I could be there. Terry was shocked at my arrival at the hospital, but I felt I owed it to Ian to make this one final attempt to help him. I requested to see the psychiatrist alone, before Ian’s appointment, as I didn’t see how he could be properly assessed if no one knew the details of his behaviour. I tried to explain coherently what had been happening in our lives – the lies, the contradictions – but by now I was weeping uncontrollably. My wailing and raving made it seem as if I was the one who needed treatment. To make matters worse, when Ian entered the room he was so cool and calm one would have thought we had never met before. When asked if he was going to return to live with me he replied: ‘I might, I might not.’ I left the room and sat outside with Terry. This was Ian’s chance to break down and tell a professional how he really felt. This was the best opportunity he’d had to get help.

  When Ian finally came out he looked down at me with all the hate in the world and said, ‘I’m never coming home.’ I thought he was referring to the fact that I had brought his behaviour and his illness out into the open, that he believed I had betrayed him and his staying away was my punishment. I was sorry for him and completely helpless. I couldn’t understand why he wasn’t taken into hospital where he could be put under the care of one professional person, rather than be pulled in different directions by a bunch of amateurs. I began to question my own sanity, to wonder if perhaps I was the one who needed help. I thought people might see me as the jealous wife, insisting that her husband was mentally ill because he had dared to find another woman. The hierarchy at Factory made me feel like some kind of obstruction to Ian’s imminent fame and, more importantly, fortune.

  Joy Division played their final gig on 2 May 1980 at High Hall, Birmingham University. It was there that Tony Wilson had his last conversation with his protégé. They discussed what Tony considered to be Ian’s tendency to use ‘archaic English language and nineteenth-century grammatical constructions’. Talking like two elderly scholars was one way of avoiding the real-life issue. Perhaps this helped to take Ian’s mind off his personal problems, but the climax to the scenario could only be postponed, not cancelled altogether.

  Rob Gretton tried to forestall any difficulties that may have come up during the American tour by appointing Terry Mason as Ian’s minder. It would have been Terry’s job to look after Ian, making sure he took his tablets, didn’t drink and got plenty of sleep. All the fun and games bands on tour have would have been out of bounds for him.

  Three months in hospital would have been a better idea. When someone close to you needs that kind of help, it’s very difficult to recognize and even harder to admit. Any attempts to change the direction in which Ian was going would have been thwarted by his inability to accept responsibility for his own actions. No matter whom Ian was speaking to at the time, he was always able to name a scapegoat for his problems. Unable to face making decisions himself he asked friends, notably Bernard Sumner, what he should do. Quite rightly Bernard declined to choose between Annik and myself on Ian’s behalf. Bernard also walked Ian through a cemetery one day and pleaded with him to realize that this was where he would have ended up had his first suicide attempt succeeded.

  Ian would have made a gifted actor. He convinced us all that the conflicts in his life were caused by outside influences and that the stress he was suffering was a direct result of the lifestyle he was leading. Truly, as his own judge and gaoler, he had engineered his own hell and planned his own downfall. The people around him were merely minor characters in his play.

  Ian had his last appointment at the epilepsy clinic on 6 May 1980. As fate would have it, he saw a different doctor than usual and left an overall impression of a man who was finally getting his life together and looking forward to the future. Terry Mason and Rob Gretton accompani
ed Ian to Macclesfield on this occasion and he brought them to the house to collect a few things. He gave Terry Mason much the same impression that he gave his doctor that day. He told Rob and Terry that he had sorted everything out and we were going ahead with the divorce. He gave Terry a sleeve for his copy of An Ideal for Living as he didn’t have one. Terry was also offered some of Ian’s records, including his copy of the Sordide Sentimentale single ‘Atmosphere’/‘Dead Souls’, which had the serial number 1106. Ian’s sudden whim to give away his possessions might have provided a clue to his intentions, but his generosity had been legendary in the past and could sometimes be overwhelming if he was in the right mood.

  Living with his parents and having little or no contact with me must have been good for him, because he had not had a fit in four weeks. On Tuesday 13 May, Ian came to Macclesfield to see me and Natalie. When I came home he had already let himself into the house. He had washed up and put fresh irises and freesias in his blue room where he used to do his writing. I was puzzled rather than pleased and thought this would be the last time I saw him before he went to the States. I also thought Joy Division would be hugely successful there and that Ian would forget about his family in Macclesfield. Before he left I insisted on taking one last photograph of Ian with Natalie. She lay on her changing mat kicking her legs and rather than pick her up, he leant down and put his face next to her. The picture shows him pale and haunted. When I collected the photographs from the developers after Ian’s death, that shot was missing and I had to ask them to reprint it.

  Ian, Bernard and Paul Dawson (an old friend of Bernard’s) played pool in a pub in Manchester on the following Thursday. Paul, the Amazing Noswad, would-be magician, was able to make Ian laugh. It was the first time Bernard had seen him laugh in a long time, so it was arranged that they should all meet again on the Saturday.

  Peter Hook saw Ian on Friday, when he dropped him off at his parents’ house. They both spoke excitedly about the American trip.

  ‘He killed himself on Saturday night. I couldn’t believe it. He must have been a pretty good actor. We didn’t have a bleeding clue what was going on. You tried to help him with your limited experience and you did what you could, but as soon as you left him he went back, you know?’

  Peter Hook

  Rather than ringing to confirm the Saturday arrangements, Ian rang Bernard and said, ‘I can’t make it. I’m going to see Debbie, I want to talk to her. I won’t be able to make it. I’ll see you on Monday morning at the airport.’ He sounded calm and Bernard wasn’t worried about him, but that was the last time they spoke to each other. I also heard that he told Rob Gretton he was coming to Macclesfield to watch a film on TV which he felt would upset his father if he watched it with him. This turned out to be Stroszek, a Werner Herzog film about a European living in America who kills himself rather than choose between two women. The last line of the film talks of a dead man in the cable car and the chicken still dancing, which is why the run-offs to Still include ‘The chicken won’t stop’, ‘The chicken stops here’ and chicken footprints walking between the grooves.

  ‘The week before, we went and bought all these new clothes; he was really happy.’

  Rob Gretton

  ‘I don’t think Ian was worried about the American tour.’

  Bernard Sumner

  ‘If he was depressed, he kept it from us.’

  Steve Morris

  I believe Ian chose his deadline. It was important to keep up the charade in front of the band in case they tried to dissuade him. The only reason he was no longer worried about the American trip was because he knew that he wasn’t going.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  MY TIMING

  I recall the events of that final weekend and it’s as if I am watching a video that someone else had produced in my absence. I have run it through so many times, looking for a point to break and insert some other sequence of events. I do know I am not the only person to feel like this, to spend time thinking ‘if only’, making the mistake of believing there was one single action which could have saved Ian’s life. Now I am grateful he died at home and not while he was on tour in America. Tony Wilson was quoted in Select magazine as saying, ‘Ian Curtis’s death was the worst thing that ever happened to us. If only he’d survived for another thirty-six hours and got to America.’ In reality, Ian looked towards that particular trip with some trepidation. He feared the American reaction to his epilepsy in certain States and he was terrified of flying. He longed to travel by ship, but mentioned it to no one but me, as he knew this was an illogical and impossible idea. I don’t believe he had any intention of going to America. If he had, I doubt if ‘being there’ would have prevented his suicide.

  That weekend was particularly busy for me. There was the usual disco on Friday night, a wedding reception on Saturday afternoon and a further disco for the wedding in the evening. I was pleased to have the opportunity to earn more money. Then Ian rang unexpectedly and announced he would be coming ‘home’ on Saturday before flying on Monday. Sunday was to be the only day I had free that weekend and although I was apprehensive about seeing him again, I thought perhaps his visit indicated a desire to talk. I’m not sure Ian understood why I was working as a barmaid and waitress. Rock stars jetting to the States to make a living was far removed from the existence I had led for the previous year.

  I was behind the bar until after midnight on Friday 16 May and also worked the lunchtime bar on Saturday. I slept at my mother’s house because Natalie was staying there. During my afternoon break I rested and then went down to see Ian before starting work again for the evening. I explained to him what my work situation was and that Natalie would be sleeping at my parents’ house that night. ‘Why don’t you bring her here?’ he said, ‘She’ll be OK with me.’ I tried to reason with him. It seemed such a simple request, but I didn’t trust him. Eventually, my mother helped me by making the decision for me and we kept Natalie away. Ian said he wanted to talk to me and I promised to go back after work.

  A friend’s sister was married that day, so there were people I knew at the wedding reception who asked me how Ian and I were. I nodded and smiled: everything was fine; yes, everything was just wonderful. I was eager to keep up the charade, not wanting to tell a wedding party that my own marriage had failed. I collected glasses, stepped over extended legs and dodged waving arms, with my own limbs aching and my head pounding.

  In the early hours of the morning in Barton Street, Ian had been watching the Werner Herzog film. When I arrived he had almost finished a large jar of coffee and was helping himself to another mug of the thick, black mixture. He asked me to drop the divorce and I argued that he would have changed his mind by morning. There was no talk of love that night – the last time it had been mentioned was when he told me that he didn’t think he loved me. He told me he had spoken to Annik earlier that evening. Their relationship was still very much alive and I began to feel extremely weary – our conversation was going around in circles.

  Ian was afraid I would meet another man while he was away. As he became more unreasonable I was convinced he was going to work himself up into a fit, so I offered to spend the night with him. I drove to my parents to tell them what I was doing, but when I returned to Ian he had changed his mind again. This time he wanted me to stay away altogether. I could tell by his face that the fit wasn’t going to surface. He made me promise not to return to the house before 10 a.m. as he was catching the train to Manchester then. Any other night and I might have stayed to argue with him, but I was exhausted and relieved that I was allowed to leave.

  I drove the Morris Traveller along Bond Street. Ian would be OK; he always was. I had spent too many nights sitting up with him. It was time to look after Number One.

  After I had gone, Ian made himself still more coffee. In the pantry was the all-but-empty whisky bottle from which he squeezed every last drop. He listened to Iggy Pop’s The Idiot. He took Natalie’s photograph down from the wall, retrieved our wedding picture fr
om the drawer and sat down to write me a letter. It was a long, very intimate letter in the same sprawling capitals he used to write his songs. He did say he wished he was dead, but didn’t actually say that it was his intention to kill himself. He talked of our life together, romance and passion; his love for me, his love for Natalie and his hate for Annik. He couldn’t have hated Annik. I never heard him say he hated anyone. I think he wrote that to try to please me. He told me he couldn’t bring himself to be so cruel as to tell her he didn’t want to see her again, even to save his marriage. The pages were full of contradictions. He asked me not to get in touch for a while as it was hard for him to talk to me. By the time he had finished writing, he told me, it was dawn and he could hear the birds singing.

  I crept into my parent’s house without waking anyone and was asleep within seconds of my head touching the pillow. The next sound I heard was: ‘This is the end, beautiful friend. This is the end, my only friend, the end. I’ll never look into your eyes again … ’ Surprised at hearing ‘the Doors’ ‘The End’, I struggled to rouse myself. Even as I slept I knew that was an unlikely song for Radio One on a Sunday morning. But there was no radio – it was all a dream.

  As it was well past 10 a.m., nearly midday, I dressed and prepared to take Natalie home. My mother offered to come with me, but I refused, confident that Ian would not be there. The curtains were closed. I could see the light bulb shining through the unlined fabric. Thinking Ian might still be asleep, I left Natalie in the car and waved to Pam Wood cleaning her windows. He could have overslept – a chance to talk in the daylight, when I wasn’t tired, when he was calm. Yet, as I stood in the hall somehow I knew he had never gone to bed.

  I didn’t call his name or go upstairs. At first I thought he had left because the house smelled strangely fresh. The familiar clinging stench of tobacco wasn’t there. He must have caught the train after all. There was an envelope on the living-room mantelpiece. My heart jumped when I realized that he had left a note for me. I bent forward to pick it up and out of the corner of my eye I saw him. He was kneeling in the kitchen. I was relieved – glad he was still there ‘Now what are you up to?’ I took a step towards him, about to speak. His head was bowed, his hands resting on the washing machine. I stared at him, he was so still. Then the rope – I hadn’t notice the rope. The rope from the clothes rack was around his neck. I ran through to the sitting room and picked up the telephone. No, supposing I was wrong – another false alarm. I ran back to the kitchen and looked at his face – a long string of saliva hung from his mouth. Yes, he really had done it. What to do next? I looked around the room expecting to see Ian standing in a corner watching my reaction. My instinct that he was playing a cruel trick. I had to tell someone. I opened the front door and saw Mr Pomfret going through his back gate. My lips opened and I mouthed his name but the words wouldn’t come. I turned to Pam and Kevin – they were still outside. Pam heard the urgency in my voice and ran to me, but I couldn’t tell her. What if it hadn’t really happened? Supposing I had imagined it? Kevin pushed past me to the kitchen and back again. In slow motion Pam lifted Natalie from the car, handed her to me and ushered us both along the road to their house.