KATH: Dan was such a happy little boy. He was always very musical. One
of his first toys was a baby guitar: he spent hours trying to play it. He
asked us for a piano when he was four. He did tap dancing and won a gold
medal. By the time he was 14 he had started forming bands — his first one
was called Lad.
I thought it was great he was prepared to put himself out there and have a go.
Dan wasn’t even born when I had the injury that left me disabled. I was a
sister at Barnet general hospital, and one day when I was on the ward I got
a splinter in my hand. It led to a virulent infection, similar to MRSA. I
was married to Keith then, and he took me to casualty where I was treated.
But I didn’t wake up the next morning — I was in a coma for days. I had
full-blown septicaemia. I lost a finger; it took two years of operations to
get my hand working again. My immune system wouldn’t recover. After I had my
first child, James, I began losing the feeling in my legs. They kept giving
way. The doctors couldn’t find the cause. And then, when I was pregnant with
Daniel, I tumbled downstairs, and I could have lost him. By the time he was
two I had constant back pain and was in a wheelchair. They operated and
found this big, wretched, web-like cyst on my spine — a condition called
spinal arachnoiditis. It was terrifying.
I began to realise, too, that I felt wrong in my marriage. There was an opera
singer living next door, and her partner was a woman. I thought: “What a
nice life, two women together.” It triggered something in me. It was very
difficult. I was brought up a Catholic, and I talked to my priest. He said:
“Go home to your husband. The feelings will go away.” But they didn’t.
I couldn’t nurse, so I decided to do a teacher’s certificate. My teacher was
amazing, and we had a bit of a thing. It made me think: “I can’t pretend to
be something I’m not any more.” I told Keith. He must have been wounded, he
was my best friend, but he just said: “You need to find out.” I went to this
gay club in town, and I did meet somebody, although I was too upset to have
a relationship. I left our home, and moved into a squat in Dalston. It was
grim. I was very sick, and it was lonely.
Then I met Dilis, the woman Dan calls his “other mum”. She was Irish, a GP,
and very understanding about my boys. We moved in together, and I could have
Dan and James to stay, so it was a lot happier. We had a son, Taisce. Dilis
had the baby — the father was a friend.
We’d go as a family to Gay Pride every year, and I found there wasn’t enough
access to festivals and events for people like me. So in 1990 I started
Regard, which became a national campaigning group for gay, disabled people.
Dan has worked solidly at his music since his teens, but back then he didn’t
know where to channel it, and he always felt a bit of an oddball. When he
went to the Brit School [of performing arts in Croydon], though, he found
other kids like him, who only wanted to make music. His sexuality was coming
out, too. He didn’t tell us he was gay, but he was flamboyant, effeminate.
He hadn’t brought anybody home, whereas James had a girlfriend at 14. One
day, Dilis said to Dan: “I’m assuming you’re gay.” He said: “Course I am.
Why ask me such a silly thing?” He maintains we didn’t provide him with a
closet to come out of.
Dan formed the Feeling when he was 16. It’s been great, and I’m his biggest
fan. His gayness has been more of an issue since the band’s been a success,
though. I read a tabloid headline, “His mum’s a lesbian, his dad’s a
hippie,” which made me laugh. I only see myself as Dan’s mum. I used to
worry about him, thinking: “Is he one of these gay men who ends up on their
own?” Then he met Ryan, and he’s a lovely boy. He was a model, so he’s not
fazed by pop fame. Dan is so grounded I can’t see him going off the rails.
You can’t afford to start believing the hype. If Dan did, I’d slap him and
say: “Wake up, you idiot!”
Dis and I split a few years ago, and I have a new partner, Maureen. She’s very
caring. I still have no feeling in my legs, and managing the pain is a
battle. We did try to fight my case, but back then it was: “You can’t take
on the NHS.” I feel cheated, but being angry makes you bitter, so you just
have to rise above it.
There’s a sameness that I have with Dan: we have a lot of fun. As a boy, when
he used to play piano at Regard events, I was so proud of him. Now I see him
on stage, and I watch that drama and dance, piano and guitar, all those
pieces of him coming together — it sends me into orbit. I think he has lots
more to come out. He might have to get past his own fears to get to it, but
he will.
DAN: In my street in north London, lots of kids only had one parent,
and it was often a mum. So the fact that I had two mums and a dad didn’t
blow anyone’s mind. I never saw “normal” as having any relevance in my life.
If anyone said I was normal I’d be hugely offended.
My parents split when I was three. But I had a really great childhood. When
Mum moved in with Dilis, me and James spent half our time there, half with
Dad. And I loved both households. At Dad’s we would be messing about in the
garage, building ski-mobiles out of old lawn mowers, stuff like that. Mum’s
house was different, but just as much fun. We’d go to Gay Pride, and women’s
events, like Greenham Common. Dad took us to CND gigs. It was a political
upbringing, but I never felt the politics was forced on me: it was
brilliant, social, and everybody found humour in the causes they were
fighting for.
I loved music. I was obsessed by it. Besides all the music at the festivals
and civil-rights events, there was great music at home too. Dad was into
classic rock: Fleetwood Mac, the Stones, Elvis Costello, Bruce Springsteen.
We listened to Rocky Horror all the time. Mum played lots of Motown, and
androgynous pop: Joan Armatrading, Alison Moyet, Eurythmics, what I’d call
“dykey” music.
I fell in love with pianos when I was four. I then got into guitars. I was an
odd child — not interested in anything except music. I look back at myself
and think: “God, I wouldn’t have spoken to you!”
I was odd-looking too: twice the size of other kids. I went through puberty
early. At nine there was only one other kid in my class with full-on armpit
hair and pubes like me. It was awful! I felt so big, so awkward. I locked
myself in the music room. At 14 I had long hair and Dr Martens boots — that
crusty look.
Then they put Glastonbury on the telly, and suddenly girls thought I looked
cool, and I had loads of female friends. Not that they were interested in me
sexually. I knew I was gay from the age of four or five, really. I was awful
at coming to terms with it. I had gay parents and I knew it was fine, but I
wanted to rebel, and being gay was a nonevent in our house. I didn’t want to
discuss sex with my mum, though she gave me the talk about safe sex. I fell
in love with boys, but I was not confident enough to ask anybody out. I felt
too awkward to have a sex life. In fact, I was dying for somebody in the
family to confront me about my sexuality, but they were all so bloody polite
about it. Then one day I was with Mum and Dilis in a charity shop, and I
bought this eggshell-blue 1960s Poole tea set, and Dilis said to me: “You
are so gay.” And I said: “Of course I am!”
I was a lot happier by the time I was 19. I’d changed my body shape entirely —
lost weight by swimming, and altered my diet. Hence I could date. I also
discovered a more alternative gay scene. I’d hated the gay scene until then.
In fact that was an excuse, really; I was just scared of it, and I love it
now.
We formed the Feeling when I was at the Brit School, and the band went to live
in the Alps and worked there, playing. It’s where we learnt our trade. Three
years ago we got the record deal. Mum saw me as a pop star before I’d sung a
note. She loves what’s happening for us, but I worry she believes the hype —
because I don’t. It’s been going very well, but it can’t always be like
that.
Mum has used a stick, crutches or a wheelchair as long as I can remember.
Access to events or public transport was always an issue. Taking a ferry to
Ireland to see our family was a nightmare.
The Disability Discrimination Act has changed many things, but access still
isn’t great now, and even the Tube is still not fully accessible. I’ve
always had concern for Mum’s health, and to this day I have to keep an eye
on her. But she’s a fighter. She’s from a tough, working-class Catholic
background. She educated herself, became successful, and has been knocked
back, but she’s kept going. Mum is wise and far too clever to ever be mean.
She taught me to make space for all kinds of people. She’s had her battle,
to come to terms with herself. And that carries on — it is one of the
hardest struggles of all.
Interviews: Beverley D’Silva.
Main portrait: Nick Cunard
