9781529936919

Also by Jane McDonald:

Riding the Waves

Follow Your Dreams

Lessons learned through life, love and laughter

Jane McDonald

Ebury Spotlight, an imprint of Ebury Publishing

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First published by Ebury Spotlight in 2024

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ISBN 9781529936919

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‘I want to do a knee slide into death with a bottle of champagne in my hand, saying “What a life that was!”’

PROLOGUE

We’re all on a learning curve, our whole life long. Some take the slow and steady road, carefully stepping over potholes and avoiding hairpin bends. Others strap themselves in for a big dipper ride through dizzy highs and crashing lows. And then there are the trapeze artists, learning to fly while walking on wire. No matter how many times they fall and hit the ground, how hard the wind is blowing or who knocks them off course, they always get back on.

What’s it been like for me? I think writing this book is going to give me more answers than I have right now, but my current thinking is ‘flying the trapeze, in a hurricane, on board a ship’! What’s kept me going is the sunshine on the horizon, because no matter how tough things get, the sun does always rise again. And every time I see the morning sun, it’s through clearer eyes, because the day before has taught me something new.

I’ve experienced more rejection than acceptance. This builds up resilience and makes you improve, so don’t give up.

I’ve had more doors slammed in my face than opened. If there’s a wall in front of you then find a way to either go over it, under it or around it. Don’t just walk away.

I’ve experienced more heartbreak than love in my relationships. Rejection in your personal life is okay, as it makes you appreciate love when it arrives.

I’ve lost touch with more friends than I’ve kept. I truly believe we meet people for a reason and I also believe they leave us when the time is right. Some stay the course and some don’t, and that’s okay too.

I have earned more money than I’ve ever had to show for it. Being hungry for your passion makes you work even harder.

I have failed more times than I’ve won. You must fail to be a success, you must lose to win. That’s called learning the craft.

FOREWORD

Five years ago, when I wrote my autobiography, I didn’t imagine I’d be putting pen to paper again. After 20 years in show business and surviving some very stormy waters, I was on the crest of a wave, cruising the world making my own BAFTA-winning TV series and looking forward to a soldout tour with the best band I’d ever worked with. To complete the dream, I had my lovely partner, Ed, waiting for me back home in Wakefield.

The next chapters of my life were already glistening on the horizon, but nobody would read about those. Me and Ed were going to spend more time together (to be fair, I had been on 45 cruises!) and after the tour ended in 2020 I was looking forward to drifting into retirement. ‘Leave the party while you’re still having fun’ is one of my mottos in life, and that’s exactly what I was planning to do, so that me and Ed could enjoy our golden years at our own, leisurely pace.

Tragically, fate had other plans, and instead of sailing into the sunset with the love of my life, I had to say farewell

to Ed in March 2021. His untimely passing broke me, completely.

The title of this book is borrowed from one of my songs, and ‘Let the Light In’ means a great deal to me for lots of reasons. First of all I’m very proud it’s become one of my biggest hits with fans in recent years. They say the song lifts their spirits and inspires them, whether they’ve had a bad day at the office or are dealing with something far worse. That is music to my ears, because to me there is no greater reward than cheering someone up, putting a smile on their face and spreading joy and positivity. It’s what I go to work for.

A lot of people thought I wrote ‘Let the Light In’ during tough times in lockdown, or as a way of coping with losing Ed, but in fact I wrote it more than 20 years ago, at another very low point in my life. I’d expected 15 minutes of fame after appearing in the BBC docusoap The Cruise in 1998, but instead I was catapulted to instant stardom. Nobody was more surprised than me. My debut album shot to number one and over the next four years I was caught in a showbiz whirlwind, hosting my own primetime TV shows and performing in theatres of my dreams, including the Blackpool Opera House, London Palladium and MGM Grand in Las Vegas. When it all went wrong in 2002 I lost everything  –  my

marriage, my career, my glamorous life in Florida and every penny I had ever earned. I moved back in with my mother in Wakefield, hiding away in my bedroom, smarting with pain and humiliation and feeling terrified of what the future held.

I don’t remember how or exactly when, but somewhere in that very dark period in my life ‘Let the Light In’ was taking shape inside my head, as songs have a habit of doing. When I eventually sat down at my old piano again, something went ‘whoosh’ and all the lyrics came tumbling out. ‘Life is what you make it,’ I sang. ‘Happy endings are for making . . . It’s up to you to take one step and make a start.’

I don’t believe we are meant to live in misery or sadness; finding joy is our purpose in life. Whatever I’ve been through and however many doors have been slammed in my face, that belief has always been there, deep inside. ‘Let the Light In’ was a reminder to myself that my life was in my hands, and it was up to me to climb out of the doldrums and into the light. After Ed died, I had to find the strength to do it all over again. It was the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do, but that song helped me get back to where I am today, embracing life and looking forward to my next adventures, whatever they may be.

When I sang ‘Let the Light In’ on my 2022 tour it was absolutely fantastic to look out into the audience and see smiling faces as my fans sang the words back to me: Look inside your heart and tell me what you see. Close your eyes and dream of who you want to be . . . Stand up and be counted, be who you want to be.

One night after a show, I turned to my best friend, Sue Ravey, and said, ‘You know what? It’s been like my career, has that song.’

‘What are you on about now?’ Sue said, as she often does when I babble on.

‘What I mean is, it’s been through hell and high water to get to where it is today!’

We both laughed like drains.

‘Well, if we didn’t laugh we’d cry,’ Sue said dryly.

I vividly remember the first time I played ‘Let the Light In’ to a musical director, probably sometime in the mid-2000s.

‘I want to record this song,’ I said. ‘I think it will go down well.’

‘No, Jane,’ he said firmly, shaking his head. ‘It’s not your best. Let’s look at something else.’

I was frustrated and disheartened, but there was nothing I could do. For years I tried again and again with the next musical director and the next, suggesting it for album after album and show after show.

‘No,’ each one said, shaking his head and refusing to budge.

‘I know I’m not the best songwriter,’ I said. ‘I’ve never claimed to be. I’m not even the best singer. But I feel so strongly that I know my fans, and I’m telling you they will love this song, because it comes from the heart and it will lift them up.’

‘It’s still a no, Jane. Sorry. It really isn’t good enough I’m afraid. We’re doing this cover instead . . .’

I got more riled every time. I knew in my gut that ‘Let the Light In’ was not just good enough to record, but had the potential to be a fan favourite. Still, for the best part of 15 years I stupidly handed my power to all these men, letting them have the final say and telling me ‘no, you can’t do it’.

It’s just as well I’m not a quitter. In 2018, when Seán Barry came on board as my new musical director (MD) and a new tour and album were in the offing, I still hadn’t let it drop.

‘Please give this a listen,’ I said.

As always, I couldn’t help having a smile of my face as I sang the song, because the lyrics make me feel so positive and joyful.

Let the light in, make a difference, be somebody . . . Nothing in this world is gonna stop you now. Baby, take my hand and I will show you how. When I looked up from the piano I saw that Seán was smiling too.

‘Mmm.’ He nodded thoughtfully. ‘It could be great, Jane. We just need to slow it down and that will give it a really good gospel feel.’

‘Really?’ I thought. ‘Did he really just say that?’

It was a fabulous moment. Seán got me! He is a man with incredible talent and such great vision, and he got me! I could hardly believe it. Seán was treating me like an artist and not just ‘that girl off The Cruise who’d done well but really shouldn’t still be here’. I can’t tell you how happy and grateful I felt, because that’s what it had been like throughout my career, it really had.

‘Let the Light In’ is a song that will always remind me of how much I’ve learned, how far I have come and, most of all, how good things happen when you open up your heart and keep

holding on to your dreams. You’ve got to get yourself out of the darkness when you find yourself there. I have been in the deepest depths, but every time I refused to go under, as hard as it was to keep myself going. After losing Ed it seemed impossible, but here I am, back living my best life, just as he would have wanted me to.

From everything I have experienced, including all the mistakes I’ve made over the years, I’ve always moved forward knowing something more about life and how to make the most of it, come what may. If sharing all the lessons I’ve learned on my journey can help other people to keep chasing their dreams, conquer their fears and find more joy in life, I’ll be so chuffed.

I hope you enjoy reading my book.

CHAPTER ONE

CONQUERING ANXIETY

‘There’s always a solution’

‘What’s

gone on?’ I thought, feeling my phone buzzing in my pocket.

I was at the wedding of two members of my band in Croatia in June 2023, enjoying my first proper holiday in eight years.

The phone buzzed again. And again.

My family and friends knew I was at the wedding, most of the band and Sue were out there too, and work knew not to contact me. Who could it be?

When I felt the phone vibrate yet again I started to think somebody must have died, and as soon as the ceremony was over I slipped away to look at my phone. There were umpteen missed calls, all from the same number –  my agent. I called him straight away.

‘This better be good,’ I said.

‘It’s the Soap Awards,’ he replied. ‘They want you to present them, on Saturday.’

‘Flipping hell! The Soap Awards ! Yes, please. Get me on a plane!’

It was already Wednesday. I’d need to fly home the next day, do the rehearsal on Friday and present the show on the Saturday night. ‘That’s how I like a job!’ I thought. The wedding celebrations would be over by then, and so I’d only be missing out on a few days on a sun lounger. Then I could fly back to Croatia to finish my holiday on the Sunday.

‘You’re a national treasure, Jane!’ a couple of close friends said when they found out what I was up to.

‘Give over,’ I replied, pointing out that ITV had to find a replacement for Phillip Schofield at the last minute. ‘They’re desperate,’ I joked, ‘that’s all this is!’ But really and truly, who was I trying to kid? Last-minute replacement or not, this was a huge honour, and I was over the moon to be asked to step in.

I’ve been a lifelong soap fan, but this was about much more than presenting awards to so many actors I admire. It’s been a fight all the way up with me and my career, both in music and TV, but that was all firmly in the past. Now I had people at the top who championed me and rated me, and I can’t tell you how validating that feels.

The Soap Awards were being held at the Lowry theatre in Salford Quays, one of my all-time favourite venues and a place that always feels like home when I perform there on tour. Usually the first four rows are packed with faces so familiar to

me it’s like performing to members of my family. ‘Why don’t you go to Barbados instead of following me around?’ I tease. The fans know I don’t mean a word of it. I love them to bits, my shows would not be the same without them, and every time I see them I feel so grateful for their loyalty. Despite always feeling so well supported on stage, by my band as well as the audience, I still get nervous before I go on, my throat drying up and perspiration prickling the palms of my hands. Backstage, me and the band have a little ritual, all getting in a circle, putting our hands in and going ‘wooooooooooh’, before throwing our arms up in the air, giving a high five or a cheer and saying ‘have a good one’. It helps settle my nerves, because it’s a reminder we’re all in this together, and we have each other’s back.

I used to have a drink before a show, knocking back a Drambuie or a brandy in an attempt to stop the nerves snapping like knicker elastic all around my body. But those days are gone. Seán, my MD, has banned alcohol before a show. We can do what we like afterwards, and I do like a glass of wine from time to time, but the rule now is not one sip beforehand. I totally support this. Not only is it the professional thing to do but the alcohol didn’t even work, because whatever you do there will always be nerves before a show. And that’s precisely how it should be.

‘Nerves are the respect I show my audience,’ I’ve said many times, because if I just bowled up without a tremor, what would that say? The day that happened I’d have to pack it in, because it would mean I didn’t care.

Over the years I’ve learned to embrace the nerves as a vital part of the build-up and the show. It means my adrenaline is pumping and I’m gearing up to give my all on stage. When you’re putting on a show you have to have the right energy, or what my mother used to call ‘good vibrations’, in order to connect with the audience and put on the best possible performance. And making sure everybody has a fantastic night is what it’s all about.

Backstage at the Lowry, dolled up in a glittering gold gown, my nerves were biting just enough to set me up for the show, but I wasn’t feeling anxious. In fact I was surprised at how calm I was. I’m used to performing live, and I told myself I had nothing to be worried about. Presenting the Soap Awards involves a lot of reading Autocue. I’d do a bit of ad libbing of course – I can’t help myself – but really this would be a walk in the park compared to putting on my own show, performing beneath a 30-foot-high sign on stage that says JANE in a blaze of silver lights.

If my inner dialogue makes me sound overly confident, I make no apology. I don’t like cockiness or arrogance; nobody else needs to hear the conversations we have inside our heads to gear ourselves up. But it’s so important to believe in yourself, because when your doubts and worries are under control your self- esteem rises, and that’s when the magic happens.

‘If I were a bar of chocolate I’d eat mysen’ is a phrase I’ve thought to myself many times, and I deliberately use the Yorkshire word for myself, because I’m so proud of who I am and where I come from. When I say it out loud, as I have on occasion, it always makes people laugh. But it’s not a joke. We all need to love ourselves. So many people in the music and TV industries have tried to change me over the years, and it’s been an uphill battle just to stay being me, but I persevered and I’ve done it. It had to be done, because if you’re not allowed to be yourself, what chance have you got of loving the person you are, and living your best life?

Looking out from the wings at the sea of famous faces packed into the Lowry, I took a deep breath and had a little moment to myself, drinking it all in.

Who’d have thought I’d ever be here, doing this?

Images of myself as a sickly, skinny little girl, trembling with nerves, flickered across my mind. If you knew me as a child you would never have believed I’d make my living performing on any stage, let alone this one tonight, surrounded by the gods of British television and some of the biggest names in TV drama. As for presenting my own TV shows over the years, being a Loose Woman, travelling the world making holiday shows and playing to packed arenas, who would have wagered on that?

I was a child who ‘lived on her nerves’; that’s the way people described me when I was growing up. I’ve never really understood why I was like that, although looking back on my childhood, and writing about it here, has helped me shine new light on it.

Despite the fact that my mother was a fabulous cook, I always struggled to eat the food on my plate. I was painfully thin, constantly sick and I’d jump out of my skin whenever I heard loud noises, or even when the telephone rang. I also suffered terribly with travel sickness. My brother, Tony, couldn’t believe it when I vomited over the handlebars of my new bike the first time he took me out on it. Dad had found the bicycle frame dumped at the back of our house and he sprayed it gold, added wheels and gave it to me for Christ-

mas. I was so thrilled, but I barely went round the corner before I started throwing up. ‘I just don’t believe this,’ Tony said, slapping his forehead. ‘Nobody gets bicycle sick.’ Well, I did, and my delicate stomach was so debilitating I much preferred staying indoors to going out anywhere, because at least I could be sick in our toilet if I needed to be.

Nobody could explain where this anxious, queasy little girl had come from. My parents had moved from their native Scotland to Yorkshire for work in the mid 1950s, along with my sister Janet, a baby then, and several other members of the family, including my mum’s mum. By the time I arrived on 4 April 1963, Janet was nine, my brother Tony was five and our family home was a big Victorian house in Eastmoor Road, on the posh side of Wakefield. The coal fire was always lit and the smell of fresh laundry and home- cooked food filled the air. It felt like a safe haven, and it was the place I loved to be more than anywhere in the world. As the baby of the family, I was doted on, and I was in no doubt I was loved and cherished by both my parents.

Dad was a miner, working at the coalface so as to earn the best possible wage in the pit, but even so our large home doubled as a boarding house to help pay the bills. Mum had pushed for this step up the property ladder. She was always aspirational, was my mother, while Dad would have much

preferred to stay in the smaller house they had before, pay off the mortgage and have a quieter, simpler life.

Gran moved in with us and helped Mum look after the constant stream of lodgers who came and went, and in my earliest memories I’m sitting alone in the parlour, listening to music on the radio and waving from the window to people waiting at the bus stop below. I was no more than a toddler, but I remember being perfectly happy on my own while Mum and Gran washed the linen, changed the beds and prepared every meal from scratch. Whenever they checked on me they were always amazed at how quiet and contented I was.

‘She’s such an intelligent bairn,’ Mum said proudly the first time they saw me waving to the people outside. ‘Aye,’ said Gran, ‘there’s something a wee bit special about that one, and it could well be she’s preparing for her destiny.’

My Gran was a member of the Wakefield Spiritualist Church and had a gift for clairvoyance, and by God, you really did need psychic abilities to predict my future back then! I was never one of those kids who got up on the coffee table at Christmas and sang to the family. I didn’t have that in me at all; my nervous stomach would have done somersaults just thinking about performing to an audience of any kind.

Despite whatever it was that Gran picked up on, all the early evidence suggested that my destiny was to have a very

quiet life indeed, doing something that didn’t push me out of my comfort zone, require me to travel or eat anything but the plainest of foods. I was sick on the coach every time I went on a school trip, sick at the fairground, sick on the bus and sick just looking at the food on my dinner plate. My parents couldn’t even tell me when we were going on holiday to the caravan park in Bridlington, because I’d immediately feel nauseous just thinking about the drive there in Dad’s clappedout old van.

When my brother and sister got up to mischief, it made my guts twist with worry. I desperately wanted to shout ‘stop it!’ but I was too timid and anxious to do anything but keep my mouth shut. One time, very unusually, I joined in a water fight with squeezy bottles and ruined the brand new wallpaper in our extremely tall hallway and landing. Even though I was the one who caused the damage, Janet and Tony took the flack, because I’d never done anything naughty before and Mum and Dad would never have suspected I was to blame. I didn’t have the courage to own up and I had a sleepless night over that. Janet was seething (and I’m sure she’ll be delighted that I’ve finally confessed after all these years –  sorry, Janet!) but it seemed impossible for me to speak up then; I would have gone to pieces, completely, if Dad told me off.

‘You’re such a bore,’ my sister often taunted. She was right, although compared to our Janet it was difficult not to be seen as the boring one. She was a stunningly beautiful teenager, crowned Miss Wakefield at the age of 16, and just like our Tony she was very spirited, popular and full of personality. As a young girl I was in awe of their grownup ways and teenage clothes and friends, but at the same time, whenever my brother and sister caused trouble, I somehow found myself feeling more grown- up than they were. As weird as it may sound, whenever I heard Dad shouting at them in another room I would picture myself sitting on the rim of a soup bowl, watching the chaos my siblings were causing and wondering why on earth they behaved like that. That’s how it was every time. I was always the one on the outside looking in, and that’s exactly where I wanted to be.

Unfortunately, Mum and Dad were no match made in heaven. They would argue until the cows came home, or fall out and not talk for days. I hated any kind of disruption and hearing their cross words just made me all the more determined to keep the peace, and stay away from any heat.

My mother took me to the doctor many times, worried about the fact I ate so little and was so thin and prone to

vomiting. Thankfully, we had a very wise GP and he told my mother not to worry about it or force me to eat.

‘She’s just a very shy child,’ he said. ‘It sounds like she’s just a bit wary of food, but she’ll eat when she’s hungry.’

When I look back, I’m so grateful to that man. In today’s world I might be sent for tests, given medication or even booked in for counseling sessions. And I almost certainly would have ended up with some kind of unhelpful label. As it was he didn’t even call me a fussy eater, and Mum just took me home and carried on as we had before.

Sitting around the dining table with the whole family was a daily ordeal for me, though I never complained. Mum had a habit of giving all the best cuts of meat to the lodgers, who were mostly strapping big blokes attending courses at the nearby West Yorkshire Police College. ‘You know my rule: “Don’t ever skimp on shoes and meat”,’ Mum always said. Luckily for him, Dad loved all the cheaper cuts of meat Mum served up to the family, like belly pork, brawn, brisket and even pig’s trotters. I was the opposite. I hated anything with fat on it and my stomach would turn over as I pushed the food around my plate before forcing down a couple of chips soaked in gravy.

The teachers in my middle school tried to force me to eat the boiled potatoes, meat pies and bullet-like beans and peas