Touching from a Distance Read online

  We were married on 23 August 1975 at St Thomas’s church, Henbury, followed by a reception at the Bull’s Head in Macclesfield market place. Ian chose Kelvin Briggs as his best man, which surprised me as I thought Oliver Cleaver was a closer friend. However, his choice was a good one as Kelvin was more dependable and responsible. Ian wore a peach-coloured pinstripe suit from Jonathan Silver in Manchester and looks terribly dated in the photographs. He worried himself silly about how he would look in a suit. He had visions of Oliver outshining him by turning up in black leather, which I suspect was what Ian would have preferred to wear. The event seems to have had little meaning to Ian or his friends. Oliver told me that he was surprised when Ian got married and commented, ‘The wedding was almost secondary to what we were all going to wear on the day.’

  Despite all this, everything went according to plan. Ian looks very handsome in our wedding pictures and his face is full of expectant pleasure – a mien which would gradually be lost. Young and stubborn, we were determined to prove people wrong. We were out to put the people who predicted an early divorce firmly in their place.

  We spent our wedding night at the Lime Tree Hotel near Victoria Station in London. It took so long to wind our way to the top of the building, I was beginning to think it was some kind of joke but, yes, this tiny room was ours for the night. As Ian sank into contented sleep, I lay awake listening to the traffic. In the morning I pounced on Ian, nearly piercing his bare foot with my stiletto heel. His anguish released my apprehensive tension and, gratefully, I sat down on the bed and sobbed at last.

  We stayed at the Hotel Pretty on rue Amelie and the honeymoon was planned with Ian’s usual zealotry – no ordinary visit to Paris. The Crazy Horse rather than the Moulin Rouge, the Modern Art Museum not the Louvre, and so on. He must have scoured every arty magazine to find unusual places to go and yet he missed out Père Lachaise cemetery, where one of his heroes, Jim Morrison, is buried.

  One evening he took me to a mysterious club. On paying to get in we were handed some minute pieces of plastic fruit and led along the corridor to a blue room full of enormous cushions. We sat there alone for about fifteen minutes, totally devoid of ideas as to what would happen next. Eventually a man took away the fruit and returned our money. Looking back I realize we were probably expected to make love. I suspect Ian thought he would be watching rather than participating.

  The rustic Parisian tavern we visited looked extremely inviting. It was called ‘Au Lapin Agile’, (‘jumping rabbit’) but we paid a small fortune to get in. Once inside, we positioned ourselves around a wooden table. So did the rest of the customers, to my surprise. Ian ordered our drinks and then quite unexpectedly, everyone else around our table burst into song. Not conversant with French folk songs I didn’t know whether to mime or slide under the table, but Ian insisted we sit there and listen to the lot.

  On our return from Paris the purchase of our house had still not been completed. We had searched all of Macclesfield for a house we could afford. At the time there were many on the market that needed renovation. Most were the traditional three-storey weavers’ cottages. The top floor was a garret room with a very large window to give the weavers plenty of light. The cottages were riddled with woodworm and had no bathroom. Eventually, Ian’s family found a house in Chadderton. This was on the outskirts of Oldham and a short bus ride from Ian’s parents’ house. We still had to borrow £100 from Aunty Nell, but house prices were much more reasonable in that area. Until our completion, we lived for a short time with Ian’s grandparents in the Manchester suburb of Hulme.

  Ian had always had an interest in reggae music; Bob Marley and Toots and the Maytals already figured in his diverse record collection. Moving into that area of Manchester gave Ian the opportunity to throw himself into the local culture. He began to spend much of his time in a record shop in Moss Side shopping centre, listening to different reggae bands – although, as our cheap record player was packed away ready to move to the new house, he spent very little money there . Once again Ian became obsessed with a lifestyle different from his own. He began to infiltrate the places where white people didn’t usually go. He took me to the Mayflower in Belle Vue, which at best was a seedy version of the Cotton Club and at worst a place where they held tawdry wrestling matches.

  The Britons’ Protection, in the Knott Mill area, was also a regular haunt. That particular spit-and-sawdust establishment did not serve women – I was thrown out. Rather than take me somewhere else, Ian stood with me in a dingy corridor which ran alongside the bar. It seems that women were allowed to imbibe in this tight spot. The main reason for our visit was that we were waiting for the club next door to open. The Afrique Club was a small, dark place up steep, narrow stairs, not far from where the Hacienda now stands. The tiny dance floor was empty and a few black people stood around the makeshift bar drinking from bottles. The eye-opener was that they were not served from behind the bar, but from a crate on the floor in front of it. I felt like an invader and very conspicuous, so I was glad to get away.

  It was clear that we still had a lot to learn about each other. The next time Ian took me there with Kelvin Briggs and his girlfriend Elayne. The club was busier, the crate had disappeared and our drinks came with glasses. As we stood around, the disco started playing George McCrae’s ‘Rock Me Baby’. A girl stepped on to the dance floor and began to take off her clothes. I squirmed with embarrassment. After a few seconds I was furious with Ian for taking us there and I marched out. Kelvin and Elayne followed me, but Ian stayed put. When he eventually came out, we had a screaming match in the street. He was very angry with me and accused me of objecting to the stripper because she was white and most of the men watching her were black. I explained to him that I simply objected to having to watch a stripper, full stop, but he said I’d changed since our wedding.

  *

  The parties in Macclesfield petered out. Oliver Cleaver and Peter Reid went to Oxford, John Talbot moved down to London, as did Helen Atkinson Wood, who had a place at Goldsmiths College.

  It was extremely tedious for us, as a young married couple, to share a home with Ian’s grandparents and at times they must have felt equally uncomfortable. For me, the main problem was trying to study for A level English Literature on day-release and, naturally, I needed to read. For the sake of privacy, their curtains were never opened more than an inch or two and Ian’s grandfather would not allow me to have the light on during the day. Living like a mole made it very difficult to study and, as winter approached, we huddled together in the same room every evening to keep warm.

  However, Ian felt at home there. Even when we had signed the contract to our own house, he continued to find reasons why we could not move in, but I was keen to set up my home as a new wife. The atmosphere at Stamford Street, Hulme, became stifling – only pride prevented me from packing my bags and going ‘home to mum’. Ian’s grandparents treated us too well, running around catering for our every need. I found myself being cosseted to the point of insult and felt less independent than when I had lived with my parents. There were two round-pin electricity sockets in the entire house. This meant that, among other things, we could not have a washing-machine. To my embarrassment Ian’s grandmother wanted to hand wash all our clothes herself in the kitchen sink. We weren’t allowed to contribute towards our keep – not a single penny. Although Ian seemed not to care, I felt ill at ease with the imposition we were making. All our feelings towards each other became stifled – from holding back on our love-making to keeping a lid on our disagreements. One evening we went up to our room to argue in privacy. Ian’s grandmother came into the bedroom and sat between us on the bed. One way of getting out of the house was to walk the streets of Hulme collecting money for the pools coupons that Ian’s granddad usually sent off.

  Eventually, we made the transition to Sylvan Street, Chadderton. Ian was determined to turn it into the home he had imagined, but it was hard to realize his dreams on a civil servant’s salary. He had extreme ideas abo
ut decor – for instance, he didn’t want us to have any wardrobes. After using suitcases for a while, he conceded and let me have an old single wardrobe which I had used as a child. It was painted white to blend in with the walls. Rather than have a carpet or rugs in the bedroom, the floorboards were painted gloss black and our bedspread had to be black and white with only a hint of grey. Later, on a return visit to Butter Lane market, we bought a pine chest of drawers – with black handles, of course. Ian knew he would not be able to write without a room of his own and logically he chose the second bedroom. I pointed out that he would not be able to play his music in there as it was next to the baby’s bedroom in the adjoining terrace. Undeterred, he painted the walls of the room what was supposed to be blood red. He painted and painted, the walls soaked up the paint and remained a deep pink.

  The bathroom was on the second floor. One night, I was in a giggly mood. I waited until Ian went to the bathroom and hid in the red room at the bottom of the stairs. When Ian passed the door, I leaped out and gave a loud cry. I was stunned when he scurried on all fours to a corner of the landing and cowered there, whimpering. Seconds later he was up on his feet again. He descended the rest of the stairs as if nothing had happened and resumed his television viewing. I wanted to ask him about the incident, but I could tell that he was completely oblivious to what had happened. I sat and watched him for a while and soon even I was scarcely able to believe what I had seen. I pushed it to the back of my mind once the moment had passed.

  Although Ian did speak about applying for jobs in London once or twice, he had abandoned his plans to leave the North. I didn’t want to move to London and all I had to do was to point out the difficulties of selling our house and finding somewhere else to live. This was always enough to put him off making a move, as he knew he wasn’t capable of focusing his mind on it without my support.

  Starting a new life in Oldham wasn’t easy. We had no friends there and the pubs in Oldham had a peculiar atmosphere. When we walked through the door all eyes were upon us. It was obvious to the rest of the customers that we were not Oldham-born and the bar staff were reluctant to serve newcomers. Our existence had become boring and the fact that we both hated our jobs didn’t help. While Ian contented himself by continually ‘nipping out for sandwiches’, I became very depressed. Sometimes I was unable to stifle the tears on the long bus journey home. We had mistakenly saddled ourselves with a mortgage and a stability we weren’t ready for. We were still only nineteen years old and Ian’s ideas of a musical career didn’t seem like extravagant dreams at all. They gave us something to look forward to; a way out of the hole we had dug for ourselves.

  Practicality was not one of Ian’s strong points, so I took on the role of ‘carer’. I looked after the finances and as long as Ian had his cigarettes he may as well have been living with his parents. The main drawback about Ian’s attitude was his inability to say ‘no’ to anyone. People knocking on the door to con or coax money out of us were invariably invited in. Ian would sit and listen to their spiel and was incapable of telling them we didn’t want or could not afford their goods.

  Ian told the Liberal candidate in a local council election that we would both be voting for him. On the day of election the poor man appeared at the door with his car to take us to the polling station. Ian accepted the lift and voted Conservative as he always would do. He argued that as his wife I had to vote the same way, otherwise I would cancel his vote!

  It didn’t take long to realize that married life was not going to be as comfortable as we had expected. We had very little spare cash for socializing and trying to keep the heating bills to a minimum meant that only the living room was warm. There were storage heaters in the house, but Ian refused to use them; in fact he disconnected one of them and lugged it into the back yard. The only thing he didn’t economize on were cigarettes. As a non-smoker, I was exasperated.

  Ian found it difficult to continue with his writing because there was nowhere he could find a comfortable solitude. The restrictions of living with relatives were lifted and our relationship would have been stormy if not for Ian’s refusal to communicate with me. This was one way in which he would avoid confrontation. One night he turned his back on me in bed once too often. I bit into his back in desperation. Shocked by the faint tinge of blood in my mouth, I was rewarded by being kicked on to the floor.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  WHERE FANTASY ENDS

  Once our home life had settled into a routine, Ian became frustrated with his lack of involvement in the music business. Tony Wilson had already presented What’s On on Granada TV, and it was clear that something was beginning to bubble right under our noses. Unknown to me, Ian placed an advertisement in the music press in the hope of getting a band together. He signed himself ‘Rusty’ and had only one reply. This came from a guitarist called Iain Gray. He was a gentle figure, who enjoyed cracking jokes and for most of the time managed to cover up the fact that he was still grieving for his mother who had recently died. Ian began to see him on a regular basis, initially to exchange ideas about song writing. The two of them began searching Manchester night-spots and pubs for others to join the band, and met Peter Hook, Bernard Sumner and Terry Mason in the process.

  As if being summoned to a religious gathering, we all assembled at the Lesser Free Trade Hall, Manchester, on 20 July 1976 to see the Sex Pistols. Ian had missed them the first time, much to his dismay. This was their second gig at this venue. He strode along looking for the right building and as I ran to keep up with him, he hurriedly explained that this band ‘fought on stage’. There weren’t as many people there as history would claim, but everyone who was to become anyone attended.

  Peter Hook, Bernard Sumner and Terry Mason were sitting somewhere in front of us and although Ian spoke to them, he did not introduce me. Four small waifs strutted across the stage dressed like cronies of Oliver Twist. I wondered who was the mastermind behind this plan, but Ian was ecstatic. Seeing the Sex Pistols was confirmation that there was something out there for him other than a career in the Civil Service. Their musical ability was dubious that night, which reaffirmed Ian’s belief that anyone could become a rock star. After the performance everyone seemed to move quickly towards the door. It seemed as if we had all been issued with instructions and now we were set to embark on a mission.

  Ian’s determination gathered momentum. In August of the same year we packed one borrowed rucksack and hitch-hiked to Mont de Marsan for the punk rock festival. For me it was a welcome opportunity to go on holiday. For Ian it was business – part of his career strategy. A bus and a boat-train took us to Paris. As we sat in the square at Saint-Cloud and devoured the last of our packed sandwiches, we didn’t suspect it would take us at least two hours just to get out of Paris. Once on the N10, it was comforting to know we were at least on the right route, but I can’t imagine why anyone ever picks up hitch-hikers. Every time we got into a car with a couple, they invariably had a row. One person would want to take us as far as possible and their partner would want to eject us at the earliest opportunity. Then there were the two German hitch-hikers who insisted we walk behind them. We bowed to their superiority and allowed them to pass us. They were picked up within minutes. I’m afraid to say that at one time we were so desperate for a lift that Ian hid in the doorway of a tobacconist’s and left me alone at the side of the road. When a businessman in a smart car stopped, Ian ran out just in time to jump in.

  After yet again causing an argument between a French couple, we were dropped on the outskirts of Bordeaux. There wasn’t another vehicle in sight and by the time we trudged into the city I was beginning to panic. We didn’t have a tent, it was nearing closing time for the hostel and, worst of all, Ian’s allergy to the sun had begun to take effect. Ian had always told me that he was allergic to the sun, but I had never seen it before. His hands were crimson and had swelled to resemble a huge pair of red rubber gloves. The busy port reminded me of Liverpool and I had visions of us perched on a park bench all nig
ht, afraid to go to sleep. Ian was very calm. He simply approached a young man buying petrol and asked him for a lift to the hostel. Panic over. They bandaged Ian’s hands, although they seemed sceptical of our story that the sun was responsible. When two boys who were sharing Ian’s dormitory came to bed, he closed his eyes and stifled his giggles as they discussed his bandaged hands lying motionless on top of the covers.

  The following night was spent in Captieux. There were two hotels, one on either side of the road, so we chose the cheaper looking one. After battling with the language and the uncooperative waitress, we managed to be served with one omelette and a plate of peas between us.

  Despite all this we did reach Mont de Marsan. The festival was held in the stone bull ring, where we sat and consumed the cheapest wine ever trod while our skin blistered and curled before our eyes. The bill included Eddie and the Hot Rods, Roogalator, Pink Fairies, Nick Lowe, the Tyla Gang and the Gorillas. The most memorable band to play there, and in fact the only band I do remember, was the Damned. I thought Ian would try to talk to them, but he hardly moved never mind spoke to anyone. During the afternoon, several people collapsed from heat exhaustion. In the evening, the music stopped when a violent thunderstorm caused the open-air stage to become electrically unsafe.

  We tried to sleep that night, first on the concrete seats in the bull ring and then on the wooden park benches outside. At dawn we began our way home, but there are many routes out of Mont de Marsan. Even after the early morning mist had lifted, we could not decide which was the correct one. A man and his small daughter eventually gave us a lift to Arcachon and a welcome bag of tomatoes.