Michele Monro - Matt Monro: The Singers Singer

THE SINGERS SINGER:

THE LIFE AND MUSIC OF

MATT MONRO

ISBN: 9781848569508

Published by

Titan Books

A division of

Titan Publishing Group Ltd

144 Southwark Street

London

SE1 0UP

This edition September 2011

1 3 5 7 9 10 8 6 4 2

The Singers Singer: The Life and Music of Matt Monro 2011 Michele Monro

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A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

Printed and bound in the United Kingdom by the CPI Group.

Michele & Max

This book is dedicated to my father

I wanted to honour his life and tell his story

It is not about my life with my father

It is not written from my point of view

But that of many family members, friends

and fans around the world.

This book is also for my son Max,

who never knew Matt Monro.

It is an integral part of life to know

your origins and family roots.

I hope this book brings insight into the man, the

singer, the husband, the father and makes Max

proud to know this then was his grandfather.

To my beautiful mother: who always enabled me to live

out my dreams even though hers were temporarily adrift.

They were joined in life and are now at last as one.

No goodbyes. Just passages of time. Until later.

xxx

AUTHORS FOREWORD:

C romwell Hospital:

Tossing and turning, then stillness, a vision begins to form, a room, stark, white, clean, clinical, almost virginal in its sterility. The odour of disinfectant is overpoweringly noxious with its undiluted presence. A clock, its only function to make the minutes pass too quickly, draining the body of life each time the second hand moves, an eternity. A stricken face lying on top of the sheets, like a dressmakers dummy, unstirring and as white as the linen itself. The inevitable drip attached to the mannequins arm, in perfect synchrony with the motion of the timepiece. Time itself has become the enemy, the judge and the ultimate hangman.

Genderless people move in and out between the life support systems as if on a crudely man-made obstacle course, each one careful not to intrude on the others duties, carefully playing with a myriad of dials and instruments on bleeping and blinking electronic meters. A game: if played in the right sequence, the ultimate prize life itself one false move, a splinter of error, then the booby prize.

Malignant cells spreading their vicious poison, a failed hepatic transplant because an extensive spread was not found until after the incisions were made a bit bloody late to realise that, dont you think? Thirty-two nameless people in a remedial tag-team who just lost the relay race against the devil. Someones vital organs now lying discarded and useless, thrown into a sterile tray marked for incineration.

A hand reaches out and touches, contact, warmth, feeling, sympathy, pulling me down an endless corridor of clinical detachment. Hundreds of people, faces merging together in an infinite maze. Everyone looking, peering, staring, their eyes boring into mine, searching for answers to unanswerable questions, heads tilting in mock sympathy.

Claustrophobia, a pressing heat, parched throat, cold clammy droplets of sweat dribbling from the creases of my brow, utter panic, legs moving, running faster than they can possibly go. Eyes blink, a mirage, doors, no, two doors, quite normal looking in their appearance but disguising the escape route I desperately crave, a trick of the light or a cruel optical illusion? Pressing, pushing, opening, falling and then the wonderful night air enveloping me with its coolness, the breeze embracing me with its fingers. The stars ablaze with compassion and understanding, their inner peace, calmness and serenity engulfing me with their tranquillity. A deep laboured breath, then another, each one urging my soul for the courage to face the clock. His scars will heal, but will mine?

Minutes, hours or days, no difference, still that same hospital room to be faced each time. I sit looking at the clock, wondering if yesterday has gone or is it already tomorrow. My eyes are heavy, weary with the hypnotism of the stillness. Holding the mannequins hand, sharing our sorrow with each others touch, without having to say the painful words. Sleep, an end to the nightmare of consciousness. My eyes open, just a fraction, just in case the set has changed. If things have altered I will close them again, maybe forever. Everything is exact, as before. I can wake to face reality. I glance down at the motionless figure, our fingers as entwined as a spiders web. Our hearts no longer beating as one, mine: pulsating with youth, vitality and eternal love, his: slower with age, riddled with disease and lost vigour, but with no less love.

Movement, just out of the corner of my eye, rubber soles connecting with stone floors. It is lunchtime at the zoo. Hands reach to reconnect the new drip, tubes like spaghetti junction, sending the sterile saline solution, infused over thirty minutes, on its weary travels. Not too fast, not too slow, just at the precise speed. Do not pass go, do not collect 200, go directly to jail.

Tick tock, tick tock. I think they have turned the sound up on the clock; the monophonic pitch drowns out my thoughts. I must turn the volume down or think louder. I love you, I need you and love conquers all, doesnt it? Even the evil spirits of the timepiece? Where there is life there is hope, what else do they say? Nothing, words are but empty letters formed together in vague meaningless sentences.

No single person can speak and cure the emptiness inside, the numbness that engulfs my limbs is all consuming. There is but a void, full of hot air, rage and bitterness. Is life that unfair that just when I am old and wise enough to understand the power of love and to have learnt what it is to be able to return it with complete unselfishness, it is taken away? The final gift vanishes before it has been given. The pupil is unable to show the teacher what she has been taught. Empty lessons... No, that is not what is required. The lessons must continue but from a different tutor. The lesson must be acknowledged from life itself. Hard or easy, the road must be travelled, wheels in motion towards the unknown. Not too fast, not too slow, just the precise speed, do not pass go... STOP, Ive played that game before, rewind, the synapses are working in reverse, like a video in backward motion, the incessant celluloid holding vital caches of information. Memories of happier times, smiles, laughter, tears but this time with joy, running, talking, holding hands, unity, togetherness and love. I feel pain, heart pumping faster, breaths coming more quickly, tears welling up, panic. STOP. Buttons pushed, fast forward. The video stops at the required position, the present. I will concentrate on the present, on the future; I must not give up hope. We have been through worse, I think. Was there anything worse? Cant think straight at the moment, the cameras have stopped, the video has broken... NO only the pause button was pushed for a split second relief.