by Jo Wood
‘Yep.’
‘How much?’
‘Three and a half grams.’
Fuck . . .
By this time the Customs man had finished checking my suitcase, leaving the contents heaped in a huge pile on the table, and had started on Ronnie’s.
‘Where is it?’ I muttered to him.
‘In my pocket.’
‘Okay, try and get it into my bag,’ I said.
I turned to the Customs officer, all sweet and innocent. ‘Excuse me, sir, have you finished with this suitcase?’
He grunted that he had, so Ronnie flicked his little package right into the top of the suitcase and I quickly zipped it up. They then took us off and strip-searched us but, of course, found nothing. Yet again, we’d had a lucky escape.
After two years of rocking, the fire department closed down Woody’s On the Beach – for noise pollution, unsurprisingly. But it was great fun while it lasted. All Ronnie’s mates appeared on that stage – Ray Charles, Fats Domino, Jerry Lee Lewis – a succession of music legends. At the time Jerry Lee was hooked on some downer and refused to go on stage until we got him his weird drug. Cue frantic calls round all the dodgy doctors and pharmacists we knew. We eventually got it and he went on stage and just smashed it. It was a fantastic night.
I’d met Jerry Lee a few years previously and we’d really hit it off, though Jerry was an undeniably dark character. One day he took us to see his apartment in his Cadillac, with a number plate that read ‘NO WIFE’, and he was showing us around when I noticed a huge hole in the wall by the stairs.
‘Hey, Jerry Lee, what happened here?’ I asked.
‘That’s where I missed her.’ He smirked.
Another time we were hanging out in Jerry’s Winnebago when, to Jerry’s obvious delight, three very young and pretty fans came in.
‘Hey, Jerry,’ one said, in a sweet Southern drawl. ‘You smell niiiice. What’s that you got on?’
To which Jerry replied, ‘I got a hard-on, but I didn’t know you could smell it.’
I loved watching Barbara Hulanicki designing and bringing together Woody’s and it stirred something in me. In a way, I suppose I was a little bit jealous that it wasn’t me who had the chance to work on it, even though I knew I wasn’t qualified. I’ve always had a love of design and architecture from those early years watching my father in his studio, and I started to think how fabulous it must be to be able to do that for a living. But I had three kids to look after – I was a mum. Nevertheless, I was now in my early thirties and wanted to do something for myself again – not that I knew what that something was going to be. Besides, Ronnie would never have been keen on me going out to work. When we got together, he became my job. Ronnie was a demanding guy and useless at looking after himself and, as I’ve always been quite a motherly person, I happily took on that role and made him the centre of my world, putting my own career and interests aside. At the time it suited me just fine, but looking back I wish I hadn’t let myself get so consumed by him and had focused more on my own ambitions.
On our first New Year’s Eve back in England, we threw a big party and invited everyone we knew. Among the guests was the Monty Python star, Graham Chapman, whom we had first met in LA many years before. Back then he had invited us to his home to see the first edit of The Life of Brian and Lil Wenglas Green – who was with Keith at the time – laughed so hysterically throughout that in the end Graham had to ask us to leave as we were disturbing his mother, who was trying to get to sleep upstairs. Graham was producing a lot of films at the time and while we were chatting at our party I seized the opportunity and asked if I could have a role in one of them. It started as a bit of a laugh: ‘Come on, Graham,’ I begged. ‘Put me in the movies, make me a star!’
I didn’t think he’d take me seriously, but at the end of the night he came over and handed me a piece of paper. ‘These are the details of an audition on Monday,’ he said. ‘I’ll call the casting director and tell him you’ll be coming to do a reading. Okay?’
When I bounded into the film company’s Soho production offices a few days later, I was sure the most I’d get out of the audition would be a funny story to tell Ronnie and the kids. On discovering I was up for the role of a drug addict my confidence picked up a bit – after all, I’d been around enough junkies in my life to play one convincingly. Still, I couldn’t have been more stunned when the director turned to me at the end of the audition and asked if I would be free for filming in Devon later that year.
‘You won’t let us down, Jo?’ he said. ‘You can really do these dates?’
I nodded enthusiastically.
‘Okay,’ he said. ‘We’ll be in touch tomorrow with more details.’
I wandered back to my car on autopilot, trying to take in what had just happened. It looked very much like I had just landed a role in a movie.
The film was Love Potion, a low-budget horror flick about a heroin-addicted girl, whose parents send her to a rehab clinic for treatment where, as the poster put it, ‘the mystery cure is more dangerous than the addiction’. My character, Lottie, was one of the other patients at the clinic. As the movie unfolds all these terrible things start to happen, like a guy sneezes during a meeting and blood starts gushing out of his face. In another scene one of the patients dies horribly during a party. There was plenty of sex and gore – your classic B-movie material – but with a twist. The girl is so shocked by the horrors at the clinic that she gets better. Then, at the very end, you see all the other patients sitting behind the scenes, putting on their makeup, and you realize they were actors employed to help the girl clean up.
We were on location in Devon for five weeks, all the cast and crew staying together in a big house. I missed Ronnie and the kids, but it was a brilliant experience. I didn’t have that many lines because my character was so out of it the whole time, but at the end the director told me he wished they’d given me a bigger part because I was so good, which gave my confidence a real boost.
It was after we’d filmed a graveyard scene in which we buried one of the clinic’s patients that I got back to the house to a phone call from Ronnie telling me his dad, Archie, had died. Ronnie didn’t cry – neither did he shed a tear when his mum and brothers passed away (in fact, the only time I’ve ever seen Ronnie cry out of grief was when our Great Dane’s puppy died)–but I knew the two of them had been close. For my part, I’d always got on fine with Archie. He was quite a character. The first time we’d met I’d leant over to give him a beer and with a grin he’d pinched my bottom. ‘I could give you three yet, girl.’
‘Archie!’ I giggled. ‘You’re a very naughty boy.’
When I first met the Wood family, I found it fascinating to be around them. A quiet night in at the Wood house was like a rowdy night down the pub. They would always be drinking, singing and entertaining – a really boozy bunch. My dad would have one or two drinks at Christmas, maybe a nice cider when it was hot in the summer; but Ronnie’s family cracked open the Guinness in the morning and the booze would flow until early evening when they would move on to vodka, brandy, whisky or whatever else they had in their little bar. As I said, I was fascinated at first; but later, when I saw how badly Archie treated his wife, Mercy, when he was drunk, it started to worry me. He had been so horrible to her over the years that she refused to go to his funeral.
I was beginning to worry Ronnie might be going the same way as his dad; his drinking was getting out of control. We had gone on a really wonderful holiday with Keith and his family, sailing around the Caribbean on a huge motor yacht. On one of our first days we pulled into a harbour and Ronnie came back to the boat carrying a bottle of local Pusser’s rum that was nearly 100 proof. In other words, about the strongest alcoholic drink you can buy. Settling himself on deck, he downed glass after glass after glass, like he was on some sort of mission. I tried to get him to slow down – even Keith told him he was nuts – but that afternoon he polished off the whole bottle. Ronnie gave himself such severe alcohol p
oisoning that for the next few weeks if he had even a sip of booze he was violently sick.
I tried to sit down with Ronnie and explain to him how worried I was about his drinking, but he’s a hard man to talk to. If he didn’t want to face something, he’d somehow twist the conversation until we ended up talking about what he wanted to talk about. Either that or he would go off and have a drink – and if I kept trying to force the issue he’d get angry, and suddenly I was the bad guy. Instead I’d pour out my emotions in my diary in the form of poems.
I found him in bed with a bottle
Gently licking the rim
I found him in bed with a bottle
Whispering, ‘Oh such a sweet, sweet thing.
I love you, I want you, I need you
With me every day.
I’m gonna keep you near me,
Come whatever may.’
He held the bottle close
With tears in his eyes
I found this quite romantic
To my complete surprise.
Then he drank the liquid with lust and put the bottle to his heart
It was then I lost my trust
And decided to depart.
His drinking was getting so bad I was worried for our relationship, but most of all I was worried for Ronnie’s health. As it turns out, it should have been my health that I was more concerned about.
By 1989, Mick and Keith had called a truce and another Stones tour was on the cards. With a long-overdue payday approaching for Ronnie, Nick Cowan suggested we rent a place in Ireland for a year to lessen the tax hit. We ended up in County Kildare, looking around a beautiful old house called Sandymount. As we explored the outhouses, stables and acres of lush grounds, I turned to Ronnie and said, ‘Forget about renting it. We should buy it!’ So we did.
We did a lot of work to that house. Ronnie turned the stable into a pub and the cowshed into recording and art studios. I designed and supervised the building of a swimming-pool, with a steam room, sauna and Jacuzzi. I used to love swimming laps or having a steam and sauna while listening to music.
There were some mad parties too, of course; it wouldn’t have been a true Wood residence without them! To celebrate the opening of the pool we got in an Irish fiddle band and laid on serious amounts of food and drink for the guests, who came from far and near to see us. The actor, John Hurt, stripped off to christen the pool with a skinny dip, swimming lengths sedately on his back.
It was great to have Sandymount as our refuge in the country and a place we could share with friends. The sleepy pubs of County Kildare had never seen anything like it. The Stones recorded there a few times, U2 dropped by and we had Guns N’ Roses guitarist Slash to stay with his first wife, Renee; they became great friends after the band supported the Stones on tour. During one of our visits to their home in LA there was an earthquake and as the four of us cowered under a doorframe (apparently one of the safest places to be in a quake) my main concern was that Slash’s extensive collection of giant snakes might escape out of their tanks. I’m still very close to Slash and his second wife Perla, who conceived their son at our house and named him London accordingly.
Back in 1989, there weren’t many great restaurants in Ireland, but one night we found a fabulous little Lebanese place and went there for dinner with the horsy crowd. Our main courses had arrived and the wine was flowing freely when I was suddenly struck by an intense wave of nausea. I had a sip of water and tried to carry on chatting, but within moments I was feeling even worse. Excusing myself from the table I went outside to get some fresh air. An agonizing pain shot through my stomach, leaving me bent double and dry-heaving in the street.
It had come on so violently that my first thought was food poisoning, but as the pain grew unbearably intense I began to worry that it was something serious.
That night Ronnie took me to hospital, where the doctors started muttering about appendicitis. The thought of surgery made my heart sink. Not because I was nervous but because I was due to fly to Morocco with the Stones in two days’ time: the boys were going to perform with the Jajouka band, a team of traditional Moroccan musicians, that they had last played with in the sixties. I had been looking forward to it and there was no way I was going to miss it because my appendix was playing up.
‘No, it’s okay. I’m sure I’m fine, really,’ I said to the doctors. ‘In fact, I think I’m beginning to feel a bit better!’
The next morning they discharged me with some tablets for the pain and strict instructions to return immediately if it got any worse. Off we went to Morocco. I felt okay on the trip – not totally back to normal, although there was no way I was going to admit that in case Ronnie sent me home – but when we got back to Ireland I had another attack. I went back to the hospital where I was eventually diagnosed with Crohn’s disease, an inflammation of the intestine. It was incurable, the doctors told me. I was put on a cocktail of steroids and anti-inflammatories to keep it under control. It was two years before they found out what was really wrong with me.
21
Sitting at my dressing-table, I stared miserably at my reflection. Who was this woman in the mirror? I didn’t recognize her any more. The high doses of steroids might have been keeping the Crohn’s under control, but they had wreaked havoc on my appearance. My face was red and bloated and my skin felt weirdly bumpy. I had tried hard to put some life into my hair, but it was hanging dull and lifeless around my fat little face. I tried out a smile, but it didn’t reach my eyes. I was 35 but looked at least ten years older. Worse than the physical changes, though, was that the steroids had destroyed my spark. Little by little they had eaten away at the life in me until I was just a cardboard cut-out of a woman. I didn’t want to laugh or be silly, but I wasn’t feeling depressed either. I wasn’t feeling anything. The steroids had taken my soul.
It was a miserable time, but my kids helped me through. I would never have dreamt of complaining to them, but Leah and Ty could tell when I was unhappy and would kiss and cuddle me and tell me how much they loved me. Ronnie felt sorry for me, I could tell, but there was no way he wanted to be stuck at home with the boring, bloated housewife I’d become, so he’d head off clubbing in Dublin most nights. He never told me I looked ugly – although he didn’t reassure me I looked okay either – but my confidence had taken a beating. In later years I asked him if there was ever a point he’d thought of leaving me, and he said immediately, ‘Yes, when you were ill.’ Gosh, that would have been awful. Thank God he didn’t go through with it then, as I really don’t know how I’d have coped.
We’d had the house in Ireland for nearly a year when my dad came to stay while Mum flew to South Africa to see her relatives, the first time in many years. As I drove her to the airport, I had a really weird feeling that her plane was going to crash, and that I’d never see her again. That week in Ireland with Dad in November 1990 was one of the few high points during what was a pretty awful year. I remember it especially fondly because he was unusually affectionate. We were sitting by the fire one evening and I’d brought him a cup of tea, when he said, ‘Thank you, Josephine. I love you.’ I was stunned. I knew he loved me, of course, but he’d never been one for actually saying it! At the end of his visit we all flew back to London together, to stay at our Wimbledon house for a few days, and during the flight he was proudly boasting to the air stewardess about Ty and Leah. It was unlike him to be so emotional.
The night we got home Jimmy White and a bunch of Ronnie’s mates came over to the house, and when I got up the following morning to take the kids to school they were still boozing. Dad had woken early and was now in the living room, sharing some joke with the boys – although he was on nothing stronger than tea. After the school run I went back to bed and was just dropping off when one of Ronnie’s friends, Brian, burst into my bedroom.
‘Get downstairs, Jo, quick! It’s your dad.’
I raced down to the living room to find Dad lying on the floor, with Ronnie and Jimmy trying to resuscitate him. The
boys later told me that Dad had been sitting there with them, laughing and joking, when suddenly he just choked and fell to the floor – and that was it. Talk about sobering them all up . . . Within minutes the paramedics arrived, tried to get his heart going with a defibrillator, then rushed him off to hospital.
We knew that Dad suffered from an enlarged heart because of all the chemical fumes he had breathed in during his years of model-making. The doctors had told him he could have an operation to help the condition, but he had refused.
I was sitting in a hospital waiting room with my brother Vinnie, struggling to take in what was happening, when the doctor came in. ‘Where’s our father?’ I said, jumping up.
‘I’m afraid he’s passed away,’ said the doctor.
‘Well, just give him a new heart!’ It had all happened so shockingly suddenly I wasn’t thinking straight.
‘I’m sorry,’ said the doctor, kindly. ‘There’s nothing more we can do for him.’
It’s the weirdest feeling when someone dies, like a sort of vacuum. The crushing grief would come soon enough – I would cry for days – but right then I just needed air. I pushed past the doctor and went out into the hospital grounds. It was cold, but the sky was bright blue and cloudless. Whenever we get weather like that now, it always reminds me of that day.
The phone call my brothers, sister and I had to make to Mum in South Africa to tell her Dad had died was the hardest we ever had to make. I was so distraught I couldn’t speak.
The funeral took place in Devon, near my parents’ home. It was a wonderful affair: a beautiful horse drew a carriage with the coffin to the sound of a jazz band. If a funeral can be nice, this was as nice as it was going to get. We drove down there on the day and had intended to stay the night but Ronnie wanted to get back to London and, stupidly, I agreed. As he had been drinking, I had to drive, with Leah and Ty in the back. It was dark and I was totally drained and emotional from the funeral, so it’s little surprise that as we sped down the motorway in the pouring rain I swerved to miss a traffic cone and lost control of the car.
