No Ordinary Woman

by Valerie Byron

  Les Davis and Val – “Coronation Street” cast party

  Val with Jean Taylor (right)

  CHAPTER NINE

  Les and I had wonderful times together, especially when he took me with him on Outside Broadcast shoots to the Yorkshire Races. It was so much fun being able to spend quality time together without the speculative eyes of everyone at Granada upon us. Being married, he was never able to spend the night with me, although he had no compunction about staying out all night gambling in the clubs, and then bunking down in a rehearsal room at 4:00 am, stinking of beer and cigarettes. We argued a lot, broke up many times due to his jealousy, and yet always came back to each other. I loved him, but didn’t “like” him.

  His gambling, smoking and drinking were taking their toll on me as I found the lifestyle unpleasant and exhausting. We would spend many an evening at the Brown Bull pub in Manchester, where most of the actors would congregate. I found the atmosphere stifling, and since I was not a drinker, became bored and eager to leave. I remember George Best, the soccer player, who was a regular in the Brown Bull. He always had an entourage and seemed quite happy to be the centre of attention, with nothing much to say for himself. Sure he was a super star soccer player, but so what? In my eyes, he was dumb and boring, and I hadn’t the energy to fawn over him, like everyone else did.

  Actually I had given a soccer celebrity a try once. Just to get away from the actors, to see what it would be like to date a sports star. I had been approached by Mike Summerbee in a Cheshire pub one night. Mike played for Manchester City and asked me out for a drink. I remember meeting him at a local train station and going for drinks in the country. The evening was a disaster. I found him boring, uneducated and totally unattractive. No more jocks for me, I thought, and I never repeated the experience.

  I tried time and time again to break off with Les Davis, and dated many actors who came and went at Granada, hoping to find a more suitable boyfriend. Naturally, Les was insanely jealous and would verbally attack me. One time, when I arrived home from a date late at night, I heard my mother cry out “Valerie, don’t come in, he has a gun.” I nervously opened the living room door to find Les sitting on the sofa, crying. He had the nerve to pour his heart out to my mother… yet threaten to kill me. No, there was no gun and of course I made up with him again.

  Nick Bond, Val and his friend

  I had been with Les about six months, when I received a phone call from Nick Bond, whom I had met on the plane from Copenhagen. He asked if I would visit him in London and I was intrigued by his deep, sexy voice with its slight American accent. There was no doubt in my mind that I would go, rationalizing that Les was married, and I was a free agent.

  I was excited and full of anticipation, but nervous, so asked if I could bring my girlfriend with me. He said “Yes, of course. I have a friend for her.” I asked Pauline if she would like to come with me, and she agreed. Not letting Les know where I was going, Pauline and I took the train to London, and Nick and his friend met us. We spent the weekend at his flat, Pauline pairing up with his friend, and me with Nick. I had sex with Nick ONE time only. Afterwards, as I restlessly slept in his bed, I dreamed of Les and woke myself up crying. I realised that my life was spiralling our of control and I regretted what I had done. I felt as though I had cheated on Les, and of course in a twisted way, I had.

  At breakfast that morning, I could hardly speak for the lump in my throat and the tears in my eyes. Pauline and I left for home on the Sunday night, and I was determined never to see Nick again. There was something about him that made me feel ashamed and cheap. I had good reason to feel that way. He had impregnated me.

  I returned home to Les and my former life, and we continued to see each other as often as possible. When I discovered I was pregnant, I absolutely knew it was Nick’s baby. However, being the truthful girl that I have always been, I had to tell Les that I was pregnant. At first he thought it was his, and was full of pride and happiness. I could have let him think it was his baby, but my heart would not allow me to be so deceitful. I knew he would have left his wife and children for me, but I could not do that. I had to tell him the truth and when I did, he was devastated. Full of anguish, I broke off with Les and decided to let Nick know what had happened.

  I wrote and told him about the pregnancy, and he immediately wrote back, enclosing some pills that he assured me would bring on a miscarriage. They didn’t work and I panicked. I had to tell my mother what had happened and again she was a rock. She made an appointment for me in London, and I took the train alone to a clinic to have a D & C. Nick showed up at the clinic, after the procedure was over, and we said our farewells. He gave me a little money to cover my expenses and I never saw him again.

  I returned to Granada a new woman, determined never to get pregnant again, and to be very careful in the future. In those days, sexual encounters were the norm and no-one thought much of it. I never used drugs or drank heavily, but I did smoke constantly and I did have lots of sex. I was always looking for Mr. Right, hoping I could find someone who would give me the family I always wanted, but not out of wedlock, and not with a married man.

  Birth control was something I had no real control over. Although men used condoms, there was nothing really available for women – not that I knew of, anyway. Did I ever get a sexually transmitted disease? Absolutely not, so I must have had that guardian angel watching over me.

  Being a fast and accurate typist, I was in demand as a secretary at Granada. I was able to move from department to department and really get to know the workings of a television station. One week I would be in the News Room, and another in the Press Office. Sometimes I would be working for individual directors or producers, and other times I would be in the heady atmosphere of the Light Entertainment office. It was fascinating and exciting to meet new and different people each week.

  Life at Granada Television was not only magical, but the best years of my life. Every day, someone new and interesting came to the studios but I only got to meet them when I was at lunch or on a break in the canteen. In 1965, when I was twenty-three years old, all that was to change.

  I was sitting at my desk on one of my temporary assignments, smoking as usual, when the phone rang. My friend, Jean Taylor, was on the other end.

  “Valerie, meet me in the green room” she gasped. “The Beatles are here.”

  I had no idea who the Beatles were, but sped down to see what all the commotion was about. I learned that Johnny Hamp, head of Light Entertainment, had decided to produce a “television special”, featuring a new group, “The Beatles”. He had great power in those days, making or breaking talent. The Rolling Stones were also one of his finds and we secretaries took great delight in racing down to the small studio in the basement to watch them gyrate in front of the cameras.

  Months later I was excited to be temporarily sent to Light Entertainment for a couple of weeks. I felt quite sophisticated sitting in Johnny Hamp’s office, surrounded by a multitude of 45 rpm records which had been submitted by new, unknown artists. Johnny decided which records would get air time, placing them in his “Goody Box”. As well as discovering the Beatles with his notable special, “The Music of Lennon and McCartney,” Johnny also produced a documentary special about Woody Allen, and another called “The Bacharach Sound.”

  On one occasion, I remember sitting in a Granada conference room with a boyfriend of the moment, who was the designer of the Woody Allen Special. We all sat round a huge table staring at a small television set hanging from the corner of the room. Those were not the days of huge television monitors, even though we were in a first-class television studio. Woody and his entourage watched a playback of the special, and everyone except Woody roared with laughter at the genuinely funny monologue. Woody sat there with a straight face, looking quite miserable and upset. His sycophants tried to humour him, telling him how wonderful he was, but he just sat there with no expression whatsoever. I hated to leave my temporary job in Light Entertainment when the per
manent secretary returned, and went back to the Typing Pool in a funk.

  CHAPTER TEN

  The day came when I was finally offered a permanent position, with more money… but it was in the Colour Television Research and Development department. Colour television was just starting in Britain in the mid to late 1960’s and, although I would be in the forefront of technology, I knew it would be dull. I reluctantly accepted the job, working for Derek Tilsley, who was Chief Engineer of the department. Boring was not even adequate to express how much I hated working for him. He certainly didn’t appreciate my sexy good looks, and there was no point in flirting, as he was a small troll of a man, with acrid breath. I took the job to get out of the Typing Pool, away from the eagle eye of Mrs. Dickson. As head of the Pool, she was always telling me not to pull at my girdle and to act like a lady. Fat chance!

  In those days we wore stockings with garter belts, panty girdles to hold in our non-existent tummies, high heeled shoes and always skirts or dresses. No trousers were allowed at work, as we had to be dressed in a ladylike fashion. My underclothing was always uncomfortable, and I was constantly tugging at myself in a most unbecoming manner. To my delight, “tights” were soon invented and we were able to toss out our garter belts and enjoy more comfort. When mini-skirts came into style, I was one of the first to be daring and wear them as short as I could, being careful not to bend over too far for fear of being attacked by a sex-starved actor.

  The only good part of working for Derek in Engineering was that my office was next to the rehearsal room. I got to see all the actors as they came in each day, and my married erstwhile boyfriend, Les Davis, was often to be found next door, usually suffering from a hangover.

  My relationship with Les was on and off from one day to the next. We could not stay away from each other, yet managed to fight constantly. There were days when he would totally ignore me, which pushed my buttons immediately. He promised to leave his wife and four children for me, but never did. I tried to get back at him by dating other men, and of course his jealousy always flared up when I did that.

  One day I was sitting at my desk typing, when the telephone rang. It was my father, phoning me for the first time at work. He was calling to tell me that he had heard from my mother, who had been staying at Alan Aitchison’s house in the Lake District for a short holiday. She had called my father at work, from Alan’s home in Windermere, to let him know that Alan had died over the weekend. My heart almost stopped when I heard the news. I knew this would be devastating for my poor mother. Apparently, they had gone to the Lakes, intending to finally get married. Alan knew his health was failing and he wanted to make sure my mother was financially protected. They had called their friend, the local Canon, to come to the cottage to marry them, but Alan had died moments before Canon Murray could arrive.

  I picked up the phone and dialled the number I had for my mother.

  “Oh, Mum, I am so sorry,” I whispered. “Come home soon, I’ll look after you.”

  She eventually returned home, after making arrangements for Alan’s body to be taken away, and closing the house. Upon her return, she climbed into bed and didn’t come out of it. Her nervous breakdown lasted for months, and it was always sad and disturbing to come home after work each day to find her still in bed. She could not pull herself out of her depression, and I wondered how on earth she would manage the rest of her life without Alan in it. He truly had been the love of her life. Fortunately, he had left her the house in the Lakes together with shares in his company. It was cold comfort.

  For me life went on, although it was troubling to deal with my mother’s lack of interest in anything. One evening, Moira called to invite me to visit a fortune teller, which sounded like fun and an excuse to get out of the flat, away from the depressing atmosphere.

  We took the bus, and arrived at a two-storey house in a suburban neighbourhood. After knocking on the door, we were shown into a middle-class, nondescript living room. After a few moments, the lady returned, and beckoned for Moira to follow her into an adjoining room. I waited in the living room, skimming through magazines to kill time. I was sceptical, but when it was my turn to have my fortune told, I did so with an open mind. The “gypsy” asked me to give her a piece of my jewellery, which she held in her hand for a moment, with her eyes closed.

  After a few minutes she said, “Valerie, someone is going to die soon who is close to you. But don’t worry – you won’t be too affected by it.”

  I was startled, and immediately tried to think of who it could be. She went on, “You will have the opportunity to travel overseas. You should do it. Life will be good. All your dreams will come true.”

  I took her predictions with a grain of salt, and promptly forgot all about them.

  A few months after Alan’s death, I received another call at work. This time it was my mother, informing me that my father, age fifty-seven, had had a heart attack. His son, young Robbie, had found him lying on the floor of their flat when he came home from school. My father was dead. The gypsy’s prediction had come true. My father may have been close to me biologically, but certainly not emotionally. I did not shed a tear.

  Val – Granada TV 1967

  My mother contacted my father’s estranged wife, Barbara, who journeyed to Sale to collect any valuables she could find, including his car. A service was held at a local church, and Barbara showed up with Robbie and John in tow. The service was short, and the minister made no mention of my brother or me. My mother and I sat in the back, and I kept my eyes averted from Barbara. My sister Julie, whom I had never met, was not present.

  Later that evening, without warning, Barbara showed up at our flat with Robbie, and my gentle, kind mother, invited them in and offered refreshments. Barbara wanted to know if my brother, Alan, would take Robbie as she felt she couldn’t handle him. Alan had recently married Jackie and was in no position to take on the responsibility of a younger brother. My mother told Barbara that there was no way Alan could do this and left the room to prepare a tray of tea.

  While all this was taking place, I was in my bedroom with my ear pressed to the door. I was never good at confrontations, and could not bear the thought of actually having to speak to the woman who had stolen my father from me, never mind look at her. So I hid in my bedroom and didn’t come out until they had left. My mother later told me that while she was in the kitchen, Barbara took the opportunity to pocket several valuables, including silver and ivories given to her by Alan Aitchison, and then left with the goodies stashed in her handbag. She and Robbie were never seen again by my mother or me.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Life went on, and my mother tried valiantly to pick up the pieces of her life. We continued to share the flat together, and I spent the next year enjoying the variety and excitement of the television industry in the 1960’s. Les Davis was still a part of my life, having forgiven me for my lapse, but I managed to keep all my options open.

  My twenty-fifth year was to hold more significance than I knew at the time. On February 19, 1967, in Gibraltar, a child was born to a German woman and a Danish man. The baby was named John Eric and I would not meet him for forty more years. This person was to play an enormous part in my future life, but of course we have not got to that part of my story yet.

  In 1968 my mother finally came out of her nervous breakdown and made a decision to return to the United States. Because of Alan Aitchison’s generosity, she had enough money to make a fresh start. She would sell the cottage in the Lake District, and use the proceeds to finance a new life. Her brother and sisters agreed to sponsor her, and she seemed to have renewed energy at the prospect of starting over in California… again. There was no suggestion of me joining her in America. I was in love with my job and my life, and I intended to stay put.

  Once the decision was made, it didn’t take long for my mother to pack up her things and move back to Los Angeles. She was to stay with her sister, Betty, until she found a job and an apartment of her own. Déjà vu? This left me w
ith the prospect of finding a flat-mate to share expenses with, as there was no way I could do it on my own. I put an ad in the paper and immediately received a response.

  Christine Dale was about my age, from Hale in Cheshire, and was a very proper young lady. We hit it off immediately and chattered like magpies at our first meeting. She was excited about leaving her domineering parents, and becoming an independent adult. Chris and I talked and smoked non-stop, and became instant friends. She moved in the next week and filled my mother’s bedroom with her personal belongings, while I kept the twin-bedded room I had always had.

  It was nice having a girl my age living with me, and we shared the chores, cooking elaborate meals together, and spending many a night playing Scrabble and talking into the wee hours. I had made plans to take a trip to America later in the year to visit my mother but in the meantime was revelling in the freedom of finally being an adult, living without her for the first time in my life.

  Looking beautiful was of paramount importance in those days. I went to the hairdresser every week to have my hair shampooed and set, and then back-combed into a beehive of magnificent proportions. I would place toilet paper around my head at night to preserve the shape and style, never washing my hair until I saw the hairdresser the following Friday. Make-up took almost an hour to plaster on, my eyes receiving the most attention. Black eyeliner on the top of my lids, four coats of mascara and I was ready to go. Bosoms were not in vogue in the ‘60’s, so most emphasis was placed on legs. I was in my element with a wardrobe of bottom-skimming mini-skirts and dresses, which showed off my long, slender legs to advantage.

  One of the great pleasures of working for Granada Television was the “canteen”. Located in the basement of the multi-storey television studios, the canteen provided meals almost 24 hours a day. Everyone would arrive for a meal sooner or later – actors, cameramen, floor managers, directors, secretaries, even lowly maintenance personnel. There was no class system in the canteen – everyone was welcome. Of course we secretaries made sure we had tea breaks twice a day, as well as lunch. The phone would ring in my office several times a day – “Valerie, meet me in the canteen in ten minutes”, and off I would race, cigarette in hand, down the elevator, through the halls, past the dressing rooms and into the hot, welcoming warmth of the basement dining room. Of course I would have stopped in the ladies’ room along the way, to make sure my long eyelashes were thick with four coats of mascara, and my lipstick was fresh and dewy.