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- Herausgeber: The O'Brien Press
- Kategorie: Sachliteratur, Reportagen, Biografien
- Sprache: Englisch
- Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2023
Born in Sligo into a family of travelling entertainers, Sandy Kelly has become one of the top musical performers in Ireland. Sandy was co-opted into the family variety show from an early age. As a teenager she sang on the social club circuit in the UK, playing an ever more prominent role. When she returned to Ireland, she developed initially as a pop performer before following her instincts and concentrating on a music career. Her landmark 1989 recording of the Patsy Cline hit 'Crazy' led her to perform on stages all over the world, including the Grand Ole Opry in Nashville and the lead role in Patsy – The Musical in London's West End. But the music industry can be a tough place. Sandy has dealt with prejudice and financial pressures. Alongside the glamour of show business, she has experienced the heartaches of divorce, family illness and death, and faced the challenges of raising a daughter with special needs. Sandy has stood strong at the heart of Ireland's music scene for over four decades. Here, for the first time, she recounts the highs – and lows – of a lifetime in music, in her own words.
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For my grandson, Frank Juhan: I hope that my story stays with you always and that one day you will share it with your own family and remember me and our family. I love you, Frank. Thank you for shining a bright light on my every day.
Contents
Foreword
I’ve had the privilege of knowing Sandy Kelly since 1982. At the time, a musician and songwriter I rate highly, Dick Keating, asked me if my record company, Crashed Records, would work with a group called The Duskeys to record and release a song written by Sally Keating, his wife. The song was ‘Here Today, Gone Tomorrow’. I’m eternally grateful to Dick for making that suggestion. We entered the song in the Irish National Song Contest, which was held on 14 March 1982, and it won: the Duskeys – Sandy, her sister, Barbara, and cousins would be going to Harrogate to represent Ireland in the Eurovision Song Contest. I’ve been a big fan of Eurovision since the early days of the contest and was more than happy to lend a hand and put the mighty promotions department at Crashed Records to work promoting the Duskeys.
The first step was the famous RTÉ Eurovision song promotion video, which is sent to all Eurovision TV stations to promote the country’s national song. Producer/director Ian McGarry was in charge and the location for filming was Dublin Zoo, but I’ll let Sandy tell you all about that.
Next we had to record the album. We booked the Lombard Studios on Lombard Street in Dublin, which later became Westland Studios, and also 8booked the legendary engineer Fred Meijer. Then the hard work began. I remember sitting in the control room while Sandy laid down her vocal on one of her solos – ‘Our Love is Slippin’ Away’ – and thinking to myself, ‘That voice is superb.’ As The Duskeys were booked out for performances all around Ireland following their success at the National Song Contest, we were in a hurry to get enough recordings done to complete an album to take to Harrogate in time for Eurovision. As a result, a lot of the recordings were completed through the night.
The Eurovision Song Contest took place, hosted by the BBC, on 24 April 1982. It was a splendid event full of glitter and glitz, although we were all worried because Sandy’s baby Barbara was ill. Sandy spent a lot of time on the telephone (no mobiles in those days) to the hospital. It was very difficult for Sandy but, ever the professional, she delivered a tremendous performance with The Duskeys. However, it was not to be their year: ‘Here Today, Gone Tomorrow’ came eleventh when the final votes were counted. The winner, representing Germany, was Nicole, singing the Ralf Siegel and Bernd Meinunger song ‘Ein Bißchen Frieden (A Little Peace)’, which became a runaway success.
We worked with The Duskeys on a number of singles as they performed around Ireland, the UK and Europe, then Sandy went solo and took on a new manager. Although we were no longer working together, I always admired her work and loved that voice.
A few years later, in 1988, I went to work for K-tel in Ireland and had the opportunity to record some Irish artists. I got in touch with Kieran Cavanagh, a friend and colleague, who was Sandy’s manager at the time, and told him I wanted Sandy to record four Patsy Cline songs for me – I’d been a fan of Patsy since Maisie McDaniel introduced me to the 9music of Patsy Cline and Hank Williams as a fourteen-year-old – and I loved Sandy’s voice and how she interpreted and performed every song with emotion.
But when I explained my plan, to my horror, she was having none of it. She felt the songs didn’t suit her. I had already engaged Frank McNamara, musical director of The Late Late Show, to arrange and produce the songs, so this was a big disappointment. After a long meeting with Sandy where she tried to get me to consider other songs, we agreed not to fall out, but she was steadfast: she would not record the Patsy Cline songs. I said I would look for another singer but I didn’t have anyone else in mind, as I hadn’t expected Sandy to turn down the chance to record these great songs.
About two hours later, I got a knock on the door. It was Sandy. She said she would record the Patsy Cline songs if it was the only way she could get signed. So we went into the studio (Sandy says she was brought in ‘screaming and shouting’) and recorded ‘Crazy’, ‘Sweet Dreams’, ‘I Fall to Pieces’ and ‘Faded Love’. Very late one night I was in the studio while Sandy was doing her vocal on ‘Sweet Dreams’ and she said from the studio floor, ‘I can feel that woman [Patsy] like an angel on my shoulder, while I’m singing this song.’
When we released ‘Crazy’ the critics loved it. Sandy’s voice was exactly right, the public showed their support and the record flew up the charts. Every radio show played the song and Sandy was a media success, becoming the new Patsy Cline! One day, during a break in recording, Sandy and Frank McNamara went into the studio and recorded what I think is the simplest and most emotional version of ‘The Wind Beneath My Wings’, just Frank on piano and Sandy on vocal.
10The following Christmas we released a K-tel TV-advertised album with Sandy’s ‘I Need To Be In Love’. It was a big hit, with lots of sales and radio plays. After a lifetime on the road and several versions of Sandy Kelly, this new Sandy Kelly was an overnight success!
We went on to record some more great songs in Nashville at Bradley’s Barn with producer Harold Bradley, a gentleman and a friend, who played guitar on many great artists’ albums, including Johnny Cash, Willie Nelson and the legendary Patsy Cline herself. Sandy recorded duets with Johnny Cash (‘Woodcarver’), Glen Campbell (‘As We Danced (To the World’s Greatest Song)’) and Willie Nelson (‘Crazy’ and ‘Everytime You Need a Friend’). ‘Everytime You Need a Friend’ was written by Ben Peters (a song I brought back from Nashville) and became the theme song for Sandy’s television series. Sandy was produced by the same Ian McGarry of Eurovision fame and many great RTÉ television productions, and a very dear friend to myself and Sandy. On one of our trips to Nashville, Ian and Kieran Cavanagh were travelling with us to produce a documentary for RTÉ about Sandy called The Showman’s Daughter. On the drive into Nashville, our taxi driver was impressed with Sandy, this Irish singer coming to record an album, and he sang us some of his own compositions. Everyone in Nashville is a songwriter or singer! We really enjoyed that moment.
The rest is history: Sandy was the star and presenter of two 13-part TV series with RTÉ. The series welcomed a star-studded list of international artists as Sandy’s guests and provided RTÉ with Sunday night prime-time viewing. The show also contained a weekly tribute to Patsy Cline in which Sandy would sing one of Patsy’s songs. As the title of her album puts it, The Voice of Sandy Kelly, the Songs of Patsy Cline has been the cornerstone of Sandy’s wonderfully successful career.
11Through all the different directions her career has taken, the drive, positivity and (most of all) the special voice that Sandy possesses have guaranteed her place in the annals of country music worldwide.
Here we are forty years later, best friends and confidants, always available to one another, still recording together and wondering ‘How did that happen?’ Recently, I was with Sandy recording in Nashville, with her son, Willie, and John Carter Cash producing, and I wanted Sandy to do a particular song. I couldn’t get her to record that song either, so the battle continues even now. I know it will happen some day and, who knows, it may be another big hit!
Shay Hennessy
Crashed Records12
Introduction
Shannon Airport, August 2019. I settle into my seat on board an American Airlines flight to Nashville, the home of country music and the Ryman Auditorium, the mother church of country music. A wave of nostalgia fills my heart as I prepare myself physically and mentally for my return visit to a place that always welcomed me with open arms and helped me realise some of my hopes and dreams over many years. I am returning to Nashville with my son, Willie, to go to Cash Cabin, Johnny Cash’s personal recording studio on the Cash estate in Hendersonville, Tennessee, where Johnny made some of those wonderful last recordings. It has been many years since I recorded an album myself, between this and that – I’ll be explaining ‘this and that’ to you in my story. It was Willie who convinced me to go back to Nashville to record and also to document my life’s story in a book.
As we leave Ireland, I am full of anxiety and sadness, thinking back on all that has changed since I last made this journey. Weighing heavily on me is the loss of members of my family who joined me previously, especially my sister, Barbara, who travelled with me many times to Nashville. Also, I am very aware that some of the wonderful people I befriended and worked with in Nashville are no longer there. On all previous trips there had been 14a familiar smiling face in the arrivals hall to meet me: George Hamilton IV, Harold Bradley, Frank Oakley (Willie Nelson’s assistant), or someone from the Cash family.
When I get that very rare opportunity to actually sit down for a long period of time, unless I drink a glass of wine or watch a movie, I’m forced to think about things that mostly I’d rather push to the back of my mind. Today, though, I’ve brought a pen and notebook and I’ll try to write it down. For one thing, just to get it out of my head; and for another, my son Willie is sitting right beside me and this is a project he and John Carter Cash planned together. Maybe Willie is right: if I revisit the ghosts of Nashville and make some new music, my heart will be lighter. Losing people that you love so dearly, family or friend, is a pain like no other. I will try, as I have always done, to channel that into the songs. My life has been a roller coaster of events, some great, some bad and some I never wanted to talk about.
It’s a strange thing, but maybe it’s how everyone is: I’ve always measured my life and achievements by where it all began and my thoughts frequently bring me back to that little girl who was mischievous, always in trouble, in second-hand clothes and shoes, lovingly cocooned by her family in a travelling show, all singing, dancing, magic and more. When I put my foot on the stage at Eurovision, won the Country Music Gold Star, sang ‘Crazy’, looked into Johnny Cash’s eyes when singing ‘Woodcarver’, introduced the first guest on my RTÉ TV series Sandy, I was still that little girl from my grandfather’s show. Johnny Cash once said that I had humility, honestly the biggest compliment he could have given me. I never strove to be in show business or to be a recording artist; that’s just the course that was already laid out for me and, in the end, it’s the course I followed. It’s what I’d been 15trained to do from the day I was born into Dusky Dan’s Variety Show. Although long gone, my travelling-show family are always with me on my musical journey: flashbacks, their enormous sense of humour and fun, and my grandfather’s words of advice. I’m never alone on the stage; my heavenly choir are always out there with me, with a warm feeling of support and love.
Over the years as a performer, it almost felt like someone had reached into my cot, lifted me out and placed me centre stage in front of a microphone and a spotlight. As weird as that sounds, that’s exactly how it felt and that’s what I’m still doing – stage, microphone, spotlight, audience. There’ve been times when I’ve loved the stage and times when I’ve resented it. I’ve loved working with amazingly talented and kind people, the loyal fans who have always supported me, my friends. I’ve resented the times that I had to leave my home and family, times when I was hurting or had a sick child or a bereavement. But I still put on my happy face and did what I’ve always done. I don’t believe that I have ever gone on stage and brought my personal troubles with me. I’ve never made excuses, just got on with connecting to my audience. They paid good money, as my granddad Dusky Dan would have said. I can tell you truly, no matter how I’ve felt stepping onto that stage, I’ve always felt better when I stepped off. We Duskys are made of tough stock and that’s why I’m still here to tell my story.
1
The Showman’s Daughter
One of my earliest memories is of being cosy and warm, and through the bars of my cot I see my mother and father, Babs and Frank, sound asleep in their bed. If I reach out far enough I can touch them. But then, if I reached out far enough I could touch almost everything, for this was our wagon, small but adequate, homely and built from scratch by my father with his own bare hands. I knew from a very early age that my father could do anything, always my hero. When I think back, I feel very lucky to have had such a wonderful and magical childhood, filled with laughter, colour, excitement, mystery. I surely must have been the luckiest girl in the whole world. If there was ever anything missing in this fairy-tale world of mine, well, then I’d just imagine it. Imagination is one thing 17I most definitely possessed in large quantities, sometimes too much.
Dad made sure when building our home that we would be as comfortable as we could possibly be. A small space with a double bed built at the back and running the width of the caravan, it was not very big at all but it did the job and, although basic, to me it was beautiful and served as my play area during the day. My cot was beside Mum and Dad’s bed and beside me was a tiny kitchen area, all just one room. My dad knew open plan before anyone. When I say ‘kitchen area’, I mean a basin and a press. A little Primus stove, much like a camping stove, sat in the middle of the floor and would provide heat and also be used to cook small meals. We used it until we could afford a gas ring, which was a huge luxury. For light, an oil lamp hung from the ceiling and provided a warm glow. Even after all these years, it is a lovely memory for me of happy times.
So here I was, Philomena Bridget Marion Ellis, the newest member of Dusky Dan’s Travelling Variety Show, born into a dynasty of musicians, singers, actors, magicians, Ireland’s Hollywood stars of the day. Rolling into your town or village to present to you a beautiful and colourful programme for at least the next seven nights and longer, if you wanted. To alert people to this wondrous attraction, my dad and I would visit a week in advance, with posters and paste in hand, to advertise our imminent arrival. Dad would put up the posters anywhere he could and would ask shopkeepers to display them in their windows in return for complimentary tickets to the show. As my grandfather Dusky Dan had been returning to these places year after year, our family had made many friends along the way and people always welcomed the show back.
My days were packed with fun things to do. Dad usually made breakfast, such as it was, the extent of that meal depending largely on how much money 18had been taken on the door the night before by my grandfather, which he then distributed amongst the family. At that time, the Dusky family show consisted of my parents and me, Dad’s brothers Pat (the youngest) and Jack (who was married to May), Dad’s sister Lizzie (who was married to Simon) plus my grandparents, Dan and Maggie. I had several other uncles and aunts but they weren’t ‘on the show’ at that time. After breakfast I would go on my travels from caravan to caravan, wanting to know what was going on everywhere. Wagon doors wide open, the women would be busy hanging out washing and doing other chores. The men always seemed to be busy repairing something, with their head under a bonnet or legs sticking out from under a truck, repairing stage curtains or backdrops with a large needle in hand – there was always something torn or broken. One of my favourite chores was helping Dad paint scenes on backdrops for the plays and sketches, huge canvases with an array of colours and scenes. Creating even one scene took quite some time. For the play The Wild Colonial Boy, the scene was an Australian bush landscape. Dad would draw and paint the main part and it was my job to paint in the big spaces. That could be desert sand, the sky, the sea and so on. We would spend hours on it, with Dad telling stories and funny jokes all the while. It was never very funny, though, when I’d get back to our wagon to Mum, covered in paint, and she’d have the task of cleaning me up in readiness for the show. That’s right: I was also part of the programme. Quite a big part, in fact. At three years of age, I was singing, tap-dancing, taking part in plays and also assisting Uncle Jack with his magic tricks. If you’d asked me back then, I’d have convinced you that I was the star attraction. In fact, my grandmother Maggie O’Dea was the real star of the show, with her stunning voice, delivering the most heartfelt ballads. ‘Teddy O’Neill’ stands out in my mind as one of the great 19favourites. To this day, people still talk about her voice. Everyone on the show had to take part in the programme and so it was very much expected that all of Dan and Maggie’s children would marry other show people who could perform and add to the cast. Granddad had very strict rules about this. All of Dad’s family were good looking and talented, so it’s no surprise that, during performances, they attracted a lot of attention and not always from other show people.
Growing up, I often heard the story of how my parents had met. Dusky Dan’s show rolled into a village called Ballintogher, County Sligo in 1951. Great excitement moved through the community as the caravans circled around Mel Lane’s field, which also housed the community ball alley. Mel, the local butcher, had a great fascination for the show. A cheery and colourful character himself, he was also one of Baby Fallon’s best friends. Baby, known as Babs, lived with her mother in a semi-detached cottage on the edge of the village, not more than a stone’s throw from where the Dusky brothers were busy putting up the tent for the show that night. Babs was busy making plans with Mel to attend the show. Mel, of course, had two complimentary tickets for each night in return for the use of his field. They were sure to get the best seats in the house and that they did, sitting right up front. Babs cut a fine figure, with shoulder-length brown wavy hair and in her finest attire.
Beside Mel in the packed-out tent, Babs listened to the excited chatter of neighbours while they waited for the dark-red velvet curtains to part. Smoke filled the air as men drew on their cigarettes and pipes. The women smoked too. Dusky Dan stood to attention, brown leather bag over his shoulder, collecting the admission fee and carefully counting people as they filed through. Every man, woman and child was greeted with a great big 20smile and a joke, all helping to set the right atmosphere for the night. There was much movement and organising going on backstage in a very confined area in the wings, it being the opening night at this ‘tober’, a name given by show people to fields and the like where we set up the ‘fit-up’. All the props, scenes, costumes and musical instruments had to be at the ready, for once the show started there was no stopping, except for a short interval to sell raffle tickets. Prizes galore to be won, and if you were lucky enough you could be going home with a brand-new set of sherry glasses. Suddenly, the lights dimmed and you could hear a pin drop. Then a loud drum roll, the curtains rolled back, and the whole cast in full costume launched into ‘There’s no business like show business, like no business I know …’
Cheering and clapping, feet stomping, as everyone tried to keep time with two accordions, a guitar, a homemade upright bass and drums, then it was straight into ‘Happy days are here again, the skies above are clear again …’
With everyone raising the roof, the tone was set for the night.
Babs and Mel hung onto every scene, song and emotion that came before them. It didn’t take long for Frank Ellis to notice Babs, who looked like a movie star and not a lick of make-up on her, a big contrast to the ladies on the stage. And when Frank gave her the old glad eye, she didn’t disapprove. Babs was a popular nineteen-year-old, known for her sense of humour and her independence.
Frank’s older brother, Jack, played accordion, sang, acted in sketches and plays, as well as being ‘The World’s Greatest Hypnotist and Magician’. Frank played drums, sang, was the comedian and acted in the sketches and plays – all that same night. Everyone fell under the spell of the entertainers. There was much to talk about: where exactly did that Wild Colonial Boy come from? How in the world did Maggie O’Dea learn to yodel like that? 21Where did they get those sparkly shoes? Who will enter the talent show tomorrow night? Wouldn’t you love to know how the hypnotist put the chicken to sleep? And on and on.
Some of the younger ones hung around to smoke and chat, including Babs and Mel. The craic was mighty and all were in high spirits. As the lights glimmered from the caravan windows and the women set about making supper, the men were putting away the props and instruments for the night. You’d imagine that would be enough, but Dusky Dan was a tough taskmaster and money had to be made. It was well known that Jack could fix clocks and watches, which was no easy task; Frank was an excellent mechanic, and both experimented with various inventions. Jack was forever receiving books and props for new magic tricks to invent and practise. Frank, covered in grease and oil, would be dissecting engines and cars to come up with an original version of what the family humorously called a ‘Frank Special’, and over the years there were many of them.
Show finished for the night, all packed away, Jack and Frank relaxed and chatted with the locals. Frank already knew Mel and so it was easy to get an introduction to Babs. The pair found it easy to talk. Both had a great sense of humour and a colourful personality, and their laughter rang out till the wee small hours. For sure, Babs secured a front seat at the show every night that week.
Babs’ mother was not a bit happy, noticing that her daughter was spending far too much time with the ‘show crowd’. After all, there was plenty of work to be done at home, with no man about the house. Frank Fallon, Babs’ dad, like a lot of men at the time, had gone to the building sites in England to find work and, after returning home on only a couple of occasions, had abandoned the family. Bee Fallon was now a ‘deserted 22wife’. Babs’ only other sibling, a brother, Seamus, was ten years her junior. The Fallon household was run in military fashion. Bee became increasingly bitter and hard-natured. A hard-working, good-living, God-fearing woman, her purpose in life was to keep her tiny house spotless. She turned out her children in clothes mostly altered or made by herself, all hand-stitched or knitted sitting by the fire. Her nights were filled with these rituals, her days busy with cooking and tending her flowerbeds and vegetable garden. She worked hard and expected no less from her daughter, who carried out a lot of the chores. Babs, having lived her life so far finding ways around Bee’s rules and regulations, was determined not to miss one night at the show, keeping her comb and hair clips well hidden under a loose stone in the wall of Jimmy Sommer’s field next door to Bee’s cottage. Night after night, Mel and Babs sat in their front-row seats and laughed and cried at all the different productions and after each show, Babs met with Frank.
The week was coming to an end, though, and as usual, the show would be moving on. That last night was very sad and difficult as Frank had to say goodbye, telling Babs that they might not see each other for at least another year. Back then, it must have sounded like an eternity, as they would have little or no communication and Babs wouldn’t know where the show was. She was heartbroken, but they said their goodbyes. You can imagine how happy Bee Fallon was to see the back of Dusky Dan’s show. She must have thought all would be back to normal and her daughter could rid herself of any daft notions. It was bad enough being a deserted wife, but to have her daughter mixing with the show crowd would disgrace the family altogether. After all, she was one of the Cartronhugh Lynches, small farmers and proud of it. There were standards to be kept.
23The next morning, Babs made her usual daily visit to the creamery. It was just across the road from Mel Lane’s field and next door to Gilmartin’s shop. The farmers were arriving with a click-clack of donkeys’ hooves and churns of milk clanging off each other against the sound of machinery in the creamery and smoke bellowing out of a chimney, a hive of activity. Babs’ morning ritual was to wait, bucket and shovel in hand, until the creamery closed up at lunchtime, when she would pick out the best cinders from the coal that had fired the machinery, for the fire at home that night. Across at Mel Lane’s field, the tent came down, the wagons lined up and the show slowly made its way up through Ballintogher and on to the next place. Compared to the glamour of the stage show, Babs couldn’t help but think how mundane her life was. Later that evening, Mel came to visit. They got to talking about how much they were going to miss the show that night. Then Babs, the eyes popping out of her head with excitement, said ‘I’ve an idea. Sure they’re only over in Ballinagar, the next parish. It would only take about an hour to walk it and a lot less to cycle.’ She convinced Mel to bring his bike and carry her on the crossbar. Before her mother could bat an eyelid, herself and Mel were flying up the village to catch the opening of the show that evening. For weeks to come and as long as the show was within cycling distance, Mel and Babs went as many nights as they could. Bee was getting increasingly annoyed and worried, for she had thought surely once the show left Ballintogher, that would be the end of it. She had underestimated Frank and Bab’s love for each other, and was shocked and dismayed when her daughter announced that Frank had asked her to marry him and she had said yes.
‘Over my dead body will you marry that fella and go away with the show crowd, travelling the roads of Ireland, living in a caravan, you’ll disgrace the whole family.’ Her face red with rage, veins sticking out on her neck, she 24banged the kitchen table with her fist and said, ‘Let there not be one more word about it and that fella is not to darken my door.’ From Bee’s point of view, not only was her daughter marrying well beneath her status, but also who would do all her work around the house if she left? There was nothing good about any of this, as far as Bee was concerned. Babs was devastated, running to the back door, making her way to the back fields where she could cry. Bee shouted after her, ‘You’re not of age, you’ll go nowhere.’ And she was right. So Babs waited just over a year, till the following June when she turned twenty-one, free to marry whom she liked, and eloped with Frank. They got married in Ballinagar parish church with two witnesses. Her mother was furious, but eventually realised that nothing could be done, so she cooked them a wedding breakfast. After all, she wouldn’t give the village the satisfaction of being able to say she hadn’t known that her only daughter was getting married.
It was an awkward and frosty reception for Frank, to say the least, and I recall that Bee’s frosty attitude to my dad lasted all her life. When you consider that she lived to the age of 106, that was a long time. She was often heard to say, ‘I hope that fella dies roaring.’
Wedding breakfast over, Babs gathered her few things and set off with Frank for a life on the road. It would be a huge change for her for; as small as the Fallon household was, at least it was warm and they had regular meals, as much as her mother could afford, and of course they had their own vegetable patch, with potatoes, carrots, parsnips, cabbage and spring onions, or scallions as they were called, and fresh hen and duck eggs every morning. There wouldn’t be any of that where she was going. Bee was heartbroken as she and little Seamus stood by the gate to wave goodbye, not knowing when she’d see Babs again.
25The newly-weds arrived back to the show just in time to be ready for that night’s performance. It was all wonderfully romantic and happy. Babs helped Frank prepare for the opening numbers and followed him out to watch the show. Not as a member of the audience, this time, but as Mrs Frank Ellis Dusky. Dusky Dan and Maggie and the rest of the family were delighted for them. Dan immediately got chatting to Babs about what she could do and how best to incorporate her into the programme. Certainly, Dan thought her good looks would enhance the chorus line. Babs was very unsure of ever being brave enough to get up on a stage, never mind be part of the show. It was a great surprise to her that, after just a few months, she was singing a solo, had joined the chorus, taken small parts in sketches and plays and was even learning to play the clarinet. (It was essential that everyone play an instrument, as part of the programme.) And so Frank and Babs were welcomed as husband and wife into the Dusky family show. Frank built a wagon for them and I can only imagine how strange it must have been for my mum to live in a wagon and move from town to town, meeting new people all the time. She would certainly have loved the company of Frank’s brothers and sisters and the great stories and laughter they all shared.
Although I’m sure it wasn’t an easy life on the road, I know she was really happy in those early years and loved every moment spent with Frank. They did everything together. My dad couldn’t have been happier. He’d married the love of his life and they made themselves a nice cosy home. I suppose, for my father, life wasn’t that different, but for my mum it was a complete contrast to her life before. The biggest change was that she’d gone from gathering cinders at the creamery, gathering wood, feeding chickens, ducks and turkeys, to wearing sequins and performing on stage.
26Two years later, Babs was just a few weeks away from giving birth. The show was making its way towards Sligo, so that Frank and Babs could go to Sligo General Hospital for the birth. On 27 February 1954, Babs went into labour. She later told me that it was such a long and difficult labour she thought she would die, and at one stage the pain was so bad, she didn’t care if she did. Eventually, after many hours and my father outside walking up and down the car park at his wits’ end, I was born. Congratulations, Mrs Ellis, you have a fine baby girl! Frank and Babs were delighted. ‘We’ll call her Philomena, after the saint I was praying to, Bridget after my mother, and Marion for the Marian year.’ My mother added, to everyone’s amusement, that when she looked into the cot all she could see was eyes and ears. My mother brought me to stay with Granny Bee in Ballintogher until she recovered and I was a lot stronger, while my father returned to the show. When Bee looked at me, lifting me from my makeshift cot, it was the first time anyone had seen a tender and loving side to her. It was like all her guards were down and she was filled with joy and love. Her first grandchild, she’d make sure I was brought up right, with none of that show stuff. Bee Fallon’s granddaughter would be a respectable, well-mannered Catholic girl, if she had anything to say about it.
After a week or so, back to the show we went. I’d say my mother was glad to get away from the nagging. Granny always meant well, but she had a very tough way of getting her message across. Dan was happy his company of players was expanding and who knew what great talents this addition would bring when the time was right. Frank and Babs had never known such happiness, and from what I’ve heard, it was a delight to see how Frank would take care of their new baby and just how good he was at it, better 27than Babs even. I suppose, though, he was used to helping with his brothers and sisters growing up. Every day he’d bring me out to the tent with him and put me lying on a blanket beside him as he took care of his work. I’ve heard it said that children are like sponges for soaking up stuff around them. If that’s the case, I got a very early education in life on the show. The sounds, the colours, the music. Our wagon was parked as close to the tent as possible, and, lying in the cot Dad made for me, I could hear the show every night until I’d fall asleep. Because this lifestyle was what I was born into, it was the most natural thing in the world for me. However, Granny Bee was convinced that I’d die of neglect, cold or hunger, saying every time she saw me that I was thinner. Mum and Dad just laughed, paying her as little heed as possible.
Though quite eerily, Granny’s concerns were justified. I don’t remember much about my brother Francis’ arrival, as I was only three years old and busy working on the show, but I remember him as my adorable baby brother. Everyone was in love with him and he was a joyful baby, always happy. Mum had him in a Moses basket and she would brush his blond hair to the top of his head every day and twist it round her finger to make a long sausage-like curl along his head. His basket was on a stand in the middle of the floor of our little caravan. I recall an awful panic one day, hearing Mum shouting, ‘Francis, Francis!’ Dad came flying out the door with Francis’ basket and all under his arm. The caravan had somehow caught fire. I don’t remember how, but thankfully Francis was fine and they managed to save the wagon.
The show always seemed to pick up guys along the way to help with the work setting up the tent and suchlike. They would generally be young lads who wanted to travel Ireland and liked the idea of being with a show. At 28this time, we had a young lad who helped us out and who was enthusiastic but maybe not the most talented. When Francis was five months old, Mum and Dad decided to visit Granny in Ballintogher and brought me along. Francis had a bit of a cough, so this young lad offered to mind him in our caravan until we got back that night.
It was raining hard and, for some reason, he decided to take Francis in his blanket to visit one of the other wagons. Well, of course Francis got wet and over the next few days developed a really bad chest infection. All I can remember is a slippery, mucky embankment to reach our wagon as a result of the heavy rainfall. Dad went to fetch a doctor, who didn’t seem to be in that big of a hurry to come out. Dad was furious and Mum distraught. Eventually the doctor arrived. It was obvious, my parents said later, that he had no respect for us and treated us like we counted for nothing. Francis was really chesty and you could hear his every breath. The doctor examined him, then closed up his bag and told Mum and Dad to keep Francis comfortable and warm and to give him plenty of fluids to keep him hydrated. There really was nothing else he could suggest that might help.
Francis got worse through the night and was finding it hard to breathe. Dad, although a very quiet man, when pushed, was like a lion in protecting his family. He got into his car, went back to the doctor’s house and pleaded with him to do something to help his son, but to no avail. His reply to Dad was, ‘There is no point in me going back to see your son. I can’t help him.’ My father, full of anger, fear and pain, returned to my mother and Francis in our wagon. They sat up with him, as did some others in the family. As the hours passed, so did Francis’ life and the next day he took his final breath, aged five months. Dad was heartbroken, but tried to stay strong for Mum, who was inconsolable as she held Francis in her arms.
29My only other memory of Francis is travelling back to Ballintogher with Mum and Dad in the front of our car. I was sitting in the back seat and beside me was a white box. I kept asking Mum and Dad, ‘Why did you put my brother into a box?’ Christ, it must have been an agonising journey back home to Granny Bee’s. Francis was laid to rest with Granny’s family, the Lynches, in the graveyard in Kilross, just opposite where Granny Bee went to school and also where she would be buried. In all the years after Francis’ death, we never passed Kilross graveyard without my mum crying.
2
My Magical Childhood on the Show
At three years of age, I was fondly referred to as ‘The Elf’ by my family because of my small, round face, big eyes and rather large pixie-like ears. Often, I’d hear someone calling out ‘Did anyone see The Elf?’ or ‘The Elf is on next.’ They meant well and thought it was cute, but it wasn’t at all cute to me. After all, I saw myself like Shirley Temple or Judy Garland, a star in the making surely, not the creature they referred to. My days were so full of excitement, anticipation, things to do, tricks to learn with Uncle Jack the magician, scenery to paint with my dad, songs and scripts to learn, how 31would I ever get it all done? Always moving, new places to discover and more interesting people to meet. That was the best thing about having your home on wheels: we were always on the move and I loved that. With my granddad Dan’s help, I had perfected a lovely Shirley Temple song-and-dance routine to delight the audience:
‘On the good ship Lollipop, it’s a sweet trip to the candy shop.’
I put every ounce of my being into that routine, believing I might even be better than Shirley Temple. One of my favourite songs to sing was ‘Sailor’, which was very popular at the time. The audience was sure to join in on every chorus, cocooning me in a warm musical feeling. It’s a feeling I can still conjure up on the stage today with the right song. I can still hear my granddad Dusky Dan’s voice in my head saying, ‘Invite the audience to sing with you, they do love to hear themselves sing along.’
Of course, any child parts in a play or in sketches were also my job, even being carried on when only a baby, if that was needed. It has always amused me over the years when I’m asked in an interview why and when I decided to take up show business. The truth is I never had that choice to make; it was made for me from the day I was born. You know what, though? I wouldn’t change a single moment of it. In a very short time, I learned all about the stage. Performance, preparation, delivery, and how to get the audience’s attention.
We moved from village to village, townland to townland, in small, brightly painted wooden wagons made by the Dusky brothers themselves and towed by very old beaten-up cars, also always painted in a bright array of colours. ‘Dusky Dan’s Variety Show’. One by one, the wagons would be placed around where the tent was pitched, Dan and Maggie’s wagon always in pride of place, wherever that was in a mucky field. I usually travelled in 32the wagon, peeping out as we went along at a slow but steady pace. I could see the whole world from that little window and so I built a picture of how ‘real people’ lived. Children and their parents would walk behind cattle, hitting the ground with a stick and calling ‘Hup, hup, hup, come on now’. We would just roll slowly behind. The cattle seemed to know exactly which gap to go through, and I’d think how clever that was. Watching farmers and their families working the fields, children playing in their school yards, smoke rising out of chimneys, I figured that they must just stay in one place and thought what a terribly boring life they must have. Passing through towns and villages, shopkeepers busy about their business, housewives with their shopping bags. All the while, though, they took time to stop and look at us as we rolled in. Wagons all in place in the new tober, Dad and his brothers, with a little help from a few of the local young lads, set up the tent, or the booth as they called it in more recent years, when they could afford to buy wooden sides, again painted in vibrant colours. It was quite a vision, to me anyway. We were certainly different.
Once settled, booth up, stage in place and curtains hung, it was time to eat. The menu didn’t vary that much, except that we always ate better when the show did well. So I was never sure what was coming on my plate. I ate a lot of what my mother called ‘goodie’ and, believe me when I tell you, it sounds a lot better than it tasted. It consisted of bread, a little milk and sugar, all in a mug filled with hot water, stirred and eaten with a spoon. As I got older, I realised that on those nights the show hadn’t done well, we existed on what we could afford. Dusky Dan was a fair and good businessman. If families couldn’t afford to pay admission to the show in money, we accepted food. On those occasions, we ate well. Fresh vegetables, eggs and once even a live chicken, which, as I recall, went missing soon after. I’ve 33often wondered if that chicken wandered off or if someone on the show had a chicken dinner I didn’t know about. I missed that chicken for the longest time.
Myself and my mother would go down to the village before show time to look around. If we had any money, she’d buy a few essentials: milk, bread, butter, sugar, etc. Most people were really friendly – most people! I always knew I was different from them. I didn’t understand why or how. Maybe it was the way they looked at me, or how uncomfortable they were to speak with us. In my mind’s eye, I remember being on stage as a child, looking down at a sea of smiling faces and clapping hands, but off stage, people just looked at me. My mother made as good an effort as she could to dress me for stage, even stuffing second-hand shoes that were too big for me full of paper, because it was all she had. Checked pants and a jumper, or a little floral dress and white socks were my outfits. Except when I was Uncle Jack’s magic assistant. Then I wore a turban and what my dad called ‘gilly gilly trousers’. In cream satin with elastic around the ankles, they made me look like Aladdin’s baby sister. My dad hand-sewed my costume especially for me (he sewed a lot). Once, when everyone decided to go swimming and I didn’t have a swimsuit, Dad made me one out of an old white cotton shirt. Dad would swim with me on his back. I looked a picture in my new swimsuit, going into the water, but unfortunately, I came out of the water without it. The stitching had all come undone and my new swimsuit was floating away in the distance. Did I forget to say that, although Dad sewed a lot, he wasn’t really that skilful?
I knew all Uncle Jack’s tricks. He would put me into a wooden box and secure it with a chain and padlock, which would be inspected by a member of the audience. Then, a few magic words, accompanied by a dramatic drum 34roll from my dad (who was the drummer), the magic box would be opened and I would have disappeared and my cousin would be in my place. The audience applauded with amazement, as I crawled my way under the backdrop behind the box and off the stage. Then it was time for me to carry on and hold a chicken while Uncle Jack hypnotised it, before hypnotising some members of the audience too. It was always funny, because once he hypnotised them, he could make them do really silly things in front of the whole room. Something I’m sure they’d be reminded of for some time to come. They’d make their way through the crowd trying to sell newspapers, some men even being made to get down on one knee to propose marriage to another random member of the audience. When they were once more awakened, the crowd would be in roars of laughter, leaving the bewildered participants wondering what had just happened. I never tired of seeing how silly adults could be!
The highlight of the magic was the Electric Chair, which was terrifying. It was another stunning presentation Jack had received from America and had constructed himself. A big wooden high-backed chair and a frame attached with a metal helmet. Jack would sit in the chair with the helmet on his head, gripping tightly, until his knuckles lost all colour. A surge of electricity that presented itself like a bolt of lightning appeared to pass from one side of the frame, through the helmet and out the other side. Every night you could hear the audience gasp with terror.
As a finale to the magic show, I was invited back out on stage. With my teeth chattering and legs like jelly, I had to stand beside Jack while he sat in the electric chair. I held a small bulb in my left hand as he reached for my right and, as soon as he grasped my hand, the bulb lit up. I never figured out how he did that! I was terrified every night holding that bulb. Shoulders up 35around my ears and eyes closed throughout, I couldn’t wait to get off that stage – alive.
The kind and right thing would have been to tell me how that trick was done, to relieve my fear. But that never happened, because I’d previously been caught out doing my worst. You see, being quite the entrepreneur from an early age, I thought it would be a good idea to run down after all the tricks, sit beside certain people in the audience, especially if they looked rich, and offer to tell them how the tricks were done for a few pence or any gift they might want to give me. It was a thriving business: I’d get money, sweets, once even a tube of red lipstick. It was all going great until I got caught. You can imagine the trouble I was in, but I was constantly getting in trouble for my moneymaking ideas.
Made up as a young boy for one of the plays, The Wild Colonial Boy, in the first scene I was kidnapped. In tan trousers, check shirt and a cowboy hat as the curtains were drawn, I sat in front of the backdrop of a horse corral on a dimly lit stage, whittling away at a piece of wood. A lonesome cowboy song played in the background, then came a loud noise and a gang of bandits dragged me kicking and screaming from the stage. You could feel the tension in the whole room, as people wondered what would become of this young boy. The actors had the audience in the palm of their hands. That is, until I’d run around, as quick as I could, and make my way into the audience to let a willing customer know exactly what was about to happen to that kidnapped boy in the play. At a fair price of money, sweets or whatever they could part with.
I got away with that for a while, until an actor/author called Dennis Franks joined our show’s entourage for a while. Now Dennis Franks was well known as being very professional and serious about his craft. Very distinguished and 36well dressed, he struck an impressive no-nonsense figure. For some reason, I have a memory of him tapping the side of our caravan. I was still in bed and when I pulled back my little curtain, there he was in full dress riding gear sitting on a huge white horse and tapping my window with a riding crop. ‘Time to get up, come on, we have work to do.’ Terrified, I got dressed and rushed out, thinking I’d woken up to Heathcliff from Wuthering Heights. He dismounted and, inviting me to walk along, he said, ‘Now, little Miss Philomena. Repeat after me: How Now Brown Cow.’ So I did, although for the life of me I couldn’t think why we were talking about a brown cow and me not even having had breakfast. ‘No, no, no,’ he said. ‘That won’t do at all. You must open your mouth and roll your tongue to pronounce the words correctly. The audience must understand every single word. Again, repeat after me, How Now Brown Cow …’ After I’d finished repeating that line for what seemed like forever, I didn’t even want my breakfast and could hardly move my jaws.
Anyway, that’s how my business venture regarding The Wild Colonial Boy came to an end. One night, while I was bargaining with a member of the audience, Dennis Franks grabbed me by the back of the collar and dragged me outside. In a raised voice, his face full of anger, he told me that under no circumstances was I ever to leave the stage to take up residence amongst the paying audience. Members of the company should never mix with the audience until after the performance and certainly not just after you’ve been kidnapped. Well, that was it: another of my enterprises gone by the wayside. I’d have to dust myself down and think of a new one. It was fine and well for Mr Franks, but did he not realise the only means I had of getting or buying sweets or any other treats was my little ventures on the side? After all, it seemed only fair as I didn’t get any payment for my work or performances on the show.
37
