Even though it was a very hard and sad time, there were lots of little laughs and smiles.
I wouldn’t have got through it without my faith in the Sacred Heart. Despite the fact that I was having arguments over the cruel hand that had been dealt to me, I still turned to Him for help.
Ian was improving and constantly asking to go home, and eventually we found a wonderful rehabilitation centre called The Janie Heppell in Prudhoe that had five or six patients on one-to-one care.
We were blessed to get a place there.
And Ian went home.
* * *
We weren’t long back in Prudhoe when Manuele Orto and his wife, Pam, from the Il Piccolo restaurant, took both Ian and myself under their wing. Somehow through the grapevine they had heard that something had happened to Ian while we were away in America. They were terribly upset, of course, because they were both very fond of Ian.
When we arrived back in London from the States, Pam got in contact by phone, and then she and Manuele came down to visit Ian in hospital. Even though they had busy lives running a restaurant and rearing their gorgeous son, Stefano, they still took the time to come and see us.
They were so kind and so supportive.
When Ian went to the rehabilitation centre in Prudhoe, Manuele and Pam became a constant presence in our lives, and I’ll never forget their friendship and practical support during that period. They would regularly come down to the rehab centre in the afternoon before their restaurant opened and take Ian out for a walk around the beautiful grounds attached to it.
Other times they’d bring Ian for an afternoon drive, visiting places like the Angel of the North, the largest angel sculpture in the world, which is located a few miles from Newcastle.
Every evening Manuele would arrive in to the rehab centre with a special meal that he had cooked for Ian. Then he would personally feed him the lovely food, displaying the patience and love of a true carer.
Manuele and Pam were angels sent to me from Heaven. I will never be able to repay their kindness.
There were many times that Ian took a turn in the nursing home and had to be rushed to hospital. Each time I feared the worst, but he battled through like a resilient soldier.
Ian eventually got his wish to go ‘home’ that Christmas in 1997. His house was only three miles up the road from the nursing home. We pulled out all the stops to take him to his own home, and we fulfilled his wish.
I’m not sure if Ian realised that he was back in his own house, and we knew very quickly that he really wasn’t up to being out of the nursing home, so we took him back two days later.
Ian was well enough the following 31 January for a trip to Il Piccolo where we gathered around him to celebrate his birthday.
‘Romeo and Juliet’ were back in their favourite restaurant – together.
Manuele and Pam organised a family table and everyone came. So Ian was surrounded by his family and people who loved him for his sixty-sixth birthday, even though he wasn’t fully aware of what was going on.
Manuele and Pam wrapped their arms around me in so many ways. They could obviously see the toll that Ian’s ill-health had taken on me. As a distraction, they arranged to take me to the theatre in Newcastle one Sunday night in March. They picked me up at the house and we popped into the nursing home on the way to Newcastle.
Ian was sleeping, and I gave the nurse on duty my mobile phone number, explaining where I was going. I think something or somebody was telling me that Ian’s time was coming, because I remember having a strange feeling.
Sure enough, when I phoned the nursing home from the theatre at the interval, they told me they were just about to call me.
Ian had taken another turn and they were moving him to hospital.
Manuele and Pam drove me to the hospital straight away. The doctor who examined Ian informed me that he had pneumonia. They had given him antibiotics, so then it was a case of waiting to see if they had any effect.
Like the wonderful man that he is, Manuele stayed with me the whole night. He left the next morning to freshen up and change his clothes. Then sometime later he returned with fresh clothes that Pam had organised for me.
I sat by Ian’s side all day that Monday, but he was unconscious and there was no sign of any improvement in his condition. That evening I looked down the corridor and I thought I was hallucinating. I could have sworn that I saw Maggie Stapleton walking in my direction. But Maggie was in London – or so I thought.
Sure enough, it was Maggie now standing by my side, with that lovely smile of hers.
‘I just had a feeling and I had to come,’ Maggie said, giving me a hug and kiss.
Manuele had contacted Barry, and he came down with Kim.
My brother, Brian, came over from Ireland with his son, Colm. They were all quite shocked to see how low Ian was at that stage. He drifted in and out of consciousness over the course of the week and into the following weekend.
Then the doctors came to me, Barry and Kim and told us that they were going to move him into a room of his own. It was at that moment we realised Ian’s time was getting close.
We were now in a small but lovely family room. Ian wasn’t conscious, and you could see the ominous signs: his hands were swelling and his colour was bad. But he was peaceful and surrounded by people who loved him, as we were all there with him over the next couple of days.
On the Wednesday night, as I was sitting by his side and resting my head on the bed, Ian suddenly opened his eyes, lifted his arm and patted my head. Then he closed his eyes again.
I believe in that strange but very special moment Ian was saying ‘goodbye’ to me.
It was the last time he was conscious.
At around five in the morning the nurses suggested that we adjourn to an adjoining room while they changed him and tidied up his bed.
They returned shortly afterwards and said, ‘It’s time to come in.’
We were all around him, friends and family, including his son Barry and daughter Lynda, as Ian passed away.
I felt that Ian’s death was the most peaceful sensation in the world. I was holding his hand, saying some prayers and, maybe I was hallucinating, but I believe I sensed his soul leaving his body and going upwards. When I looked at him, Ian had a big smile on his face and he was very peaceful.
It was a very special and holy moment, and I felt very privileged to be there.
Afterwards, of course, I had to face the terrible, stark reality that my darling Ian was gone forever.
It was like the end of the world to me.
The Last Goodbye
Ian never realised the impact he’d made in the world of Irish dancing during the five short years he’d been in my life.
The teachers and dancers were all familiar with Ian Messenger, the dashing man who had swept Marie Duffy off her feet at the age of forty-five. Those who met him were charmed by his lovely, gentlemanly nature. They could also see the genuine love and passion he had for the dancing.
Not to mention how he adored me.
Flowers and messages came in from all over the world as the news spread that Ian had died. A lot of people were so shocked and upset for me. They knew that I had waited so long before I found happiness in my personal life, and then it had been so short-lived.
It would be two weeks before Ian’s funeral took place, as is the norm in England. I was in a daze for most of that time, but I had good people in my life to guide me and to help me take care of the arrangements.
When we were together and before he’d had the heart attack, Ian and I had often talked about dying. He always said that he wanted a big hooley and a big send-off. So I asked everybody to help me grant Ian that wish.
Another great passion of Ian’s during his life was collecting malt Scotch whiskey. He had quite a collection of bottles and they were worth a lot of money. Ian had also said to me that he wanted them opened and enjoyed by family and friends at his funeral if he went before me.
Ian, as I mentioned
earlier, loved coming to Mass with me in Crawcrook, the little town next to Prudhoe, on a Sunday morning, so I went to see the priest there to ask if it would be possible to have Ian’s funeral Mass in that church called St Agnes’s. The priest welcomed us with open arms.
The funeral service was everything that Ian would have loved and wished for: it was sacred, intimate and personal. We had our families and close friends there. Dance teachers came from Dublin, all over England and even America.
Our friend Manuele had insisted on hosting the reception after the funeral service, and afterwards we all went back to Il Piccolo to have a good old-fashioned hooley in Ian’s memory.
Manuele had said, ‘Just leave everything to me, I’ll take care of it.’
I knew then that I didn’t have to worry about how the day would go. Manuele laid on such a great spread in his restaurant, which he closed to the public that day. Ian’s prized bottles of Scotch were opened and everybody drank a toast to him as the stories and memories flowed and laughter filled the room.
Afterwards people who were there would tell me that it was such a great funeral party.
So Ian had his final wish fulfilled.
* * *
I fell to pieces after Ian’s death.
Even before he died, I wasn’t in a good place. It’s only now that I think back with horror to what I put people through at the time. I used to bore everyone to death talking about Ian, and the injustice and unfairness of what he was going through and how it had destroyed our lovely life together. I’d go on for hours and hours to anyone who would lend me an ear.
There was a therapist/psychologist in the rehabilitation centre in Prudhoe who recognised that I was in a bad way. ‘I think you should come and visit me,’ she said while Ian was there. I never did, but she could obviously see how much anger there was inside me.
My friend Mary Lyndsey knew a counsellor priest in Durham and she eventually persuaded me to see him after Ian died. At this stage I was crying day and night and I couldn’t stop, so I agreed to seek this counsellor’s help.
It was about an hour’s drive from Prudhoe and Mary came with me the first time. After that visit, I decided to persevere with the counselling and I would travel on my own. But I’d spend the entire hour at the counselling session just crying.
One day, as I drove home to Prudhoe after seeing the counsellor, I heard police sirens. My instant thought was, ‘Oh my God, there has been an accident!’ Then I realised that the police car was behind me with flashing lights and trying to get me to pull in to the side of the road.
I stopped, and the policeman came up to the car. He looked at me and I was in floods of tears. He told me that my car had been swerving all over the place.
I had no idea that I had been driving erratically because I was lost in my world of grief. I was in such a bad state that I couldn’t even remember the journey I’d just taken home from Durham. I couldn’t stop crying, but I managed to explain to the police officer what had happened, how my husband had just died and how I was trying to deal with the heartache.
God love him, the policeman was really sympathetic and understanding. He was very kind and offered to lead me down to my house, which wasn’t very far from where I had been stopped. But I then composed myself and assured him that I would be okay to drive the rest of the way on my own. And he allowed me to complete the journey.
* * *
I remember my brother Seamas asking Lord of the Dance manager Martin Flitton on the day of Ian’s funeral to ‘keep her busy’.
Seamas believed that thowing myself back in to work would help me through the dark days.
Within a month, Martin was on the phone to me saying: ‘We have to get another troupe together for Las Vegas.’
Then he added: ‘I know it’s early days, but would it help if we found a studio up there in Newcastle?’
I told Martin I would be happy with that arrangement.
We did find a suitable studio in Newcastle, where over the following couple of months I drilled a new troupe of dancers who joined us for the next stage of Lord of the Dance – a residency at the New York-New York Hotel and Casino in Las Vegas. This would further consolidate the brand as the biggest dance spectacular on the planet.
It was a really exciting opportunity for all the young people who joined me in Newcastle as we prepared for that adventure. They were so pumped up and full of the joys of life, as young people should be going out into the world.
Immersing myself in the dancing, the choreography, the coaching and the show blotted out the pain while I was engaged with all of that. But, of course, there were quiet, solitary times when I was at home; that was when the tears would come, as I replayed the memories over and over in my mind.
Outside of my work I really was completely lost, but I had two angels in my life, Manuele and Pam, who made it bearable. They basically adopted me and were absolute gems.
I would be sitting at home alone in the evening and the phone would ring.
‘What are you doing?’
The voice on the other end was Manuele.
‘I’m on the computer,’ I told him the first time.
‘Stop it now and you come down or I go and get you,’ he said in that lovely way he formed English sentences in his gorgeous Italian accent.
‘Oh, don’t worry, I’m fine, Manuele,’ I lied.
‘You be up in five minutes or I come down to collect you,’ he insisted.
So I went up to the restaurant and he and Pam just engulfed me with affection and love and friendship. Their home was an open door to me, and still is to this day. Every evening at around 8.30 my phone would ring with the same invitation. And every evening I would join them in Il Piccolo.
I felt very comfortable in their company because Pam and Manuele were now like family to me. Manuele would make me laugh as he has a great sense of humour. I remember how one time, when Ian was alive, Manuele drove me to a feis. Some of my Irish dancing friends, Eugene, Brendan and Dan, who didn’t know him at the time, saw us rolling up together at the venue in the car.
Manuele looked like a movie star behind the wheel, with his handsome features, leather jacket and dark glasses.
You could see them thinking, ‘Who has Marie got on the side?’
During the feis one of the guys who was judging obviously couldn’t contain his curiosity any longer.
He sidled up to Manuele and asked, ‘So, who are you?’
‘I am the bodyguard,’ Manuele replied in a deadpan manner.
I burst out laughing.
Prudhoe and my friends anchored me during that awful time in the months after Ian died. I was glad to be there, and so grateful for the wonderful people who gave me support beyond the call of duty. They included Maggie and Pierce, who regularly came down to see me from their home in London.
People going through bereavement are always advised not to make any big life-changing moves for a while. I could have run away from Prudhoe, and even Lord of the Dance, but I realised later that that would have been a disaster for me. It was so important to stick close to my network of friends and to occupy myself with work that I enjoyed while I slowly worked my way through the grieving process.
Even though I had lost both my parents, the pain was nothing like I felt when Ian died. It was virtually unbearable grief, and I was told by the counsellor that while I could be living with it for a long time, this was quite normal. Grieving can take years because of all the stages you go through, from sorrow to loss, anger and even guilt.
I dealt with it over time thanks to a series of things, including the support of good friends, a job that I loved, and my religion. My faith and my devotion to the Sacred Heart played a big role. On visits home to Dublin I would go in to Whitefriar Street Church and spend hours in there praying, reflecting and doing my best to find a new sense of peace and happiness in my life.
Then suddenly I found myself caught up in a whirlwind as the offers for Michael Flatley shows started arriving from all quarters.<
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Naturally, Michael was keen to capitalise on the demand for his dance shows.
As new deals were struck for Lord of the Dance performances of different shapes and sizes to be staged in a variety of venues, from Las Vegas to London’s Hyde Park and Disney World in Florida, I didn’t know what hit me due to the demands of training up the troupes.
This was the busiest time in my life, and the timing was perfect. I didn’t have a minute to feel sorry for myself as life took over.
In a way, my prayers had been answered.
The Prince and the Clog Witch
The young dancers queuing up for auditions to join our new shows came from all over the world. But they had one thing in common: Michael Flatley.
To them, he was the face of Riverdance at the Eurovision Song Contest, and he was the star they aspired to be.
I heard from young hopefuls time and again at auditions that Michael Flatley was the guy they wanted to work with.
But in order to get to him, they had to get past me.
I was their first port of call. Every single dancer that we have had went through my hands. And I demanded total dedication, good discipline and a strong work ethic from them because of the standard of excellence that we required.
As a result of that, I did get a reputation for being strict and demanding. And I discovered at one point that the crew on Lord of the Dance had nicknamed me ‘The Clog Witch’.
They would declare as I entered a building, ‘Watch out, here comes The Clog Witch!’
But I would argue that any criticism I ever dished out was constructive and fair and for the benefit of the individual and the show.
There were times when I would be cross and tearing my hair out trying to get dancers to go the extra mile to achieve what we were looking for, and what I knew they could produce.
Lady of the Dance Page 15
