LORRAINE: My mum was 17, my dad 18 when they had me, and I can’t
imagine how they managed. I remember myself around that age, and I was an
eejit. If someone had put a newborn baby in my arms, I wouldn’t have had a
clue what to do. They brought me home to a “single-end” tenement in the
Gorbals, which was incredibly deprived in those days. It was like the black
hole of Calcutta.
Until I was 13, all four of us — me, my brother and my mum and dad — lived in
the one room. In one corner you had your sink and your cooker, and there was
a recess where your bed was. Then there was an absolutely disgusting outside
toilet, and you went to the public baths to have a bath. My mum kept our
place immaculate — which is where I get my tidy gene from. To this day, I
can’t leave washing up in the sink, because I think the tidy police are
going to arrest me.
A truck used to come to school with portable showers, and my mother was
appalled that people might think I’d need such a thing. I was sent off in
the morning, practically gleaming, with a brand-new bar of Pears soap and a
little dolly bag. She was mortified by the whole thing. But then there were
other kids who wet their pants every day and had to be taken away for extra
nourishment, so we were just very lucky.
My brother, Graham, was born six years after me. He was so beautiful, he
looked as though he had been beamed down from central casting and I
absolutely loathed him. I was a vile sister. We fought all the time, which
must have been hard for my parents.
We moved to a tenement in Bridgetown in the East End of Glasgow and my dad
built a partition down one side of the room to give us a little kitchen, but
there was still no hot water unless you boiled the kettle. What Dad wanted
for me and my brother — and strove for, every day of his life — was
something better than he’d had. He should have gone to university but even
if there’d been any money, further education wasn’t even considered for
people like him. I feel very passionate about not going back to those days.
I know it’s a big loss for him, but what he achieved for his family was
amazing. He took me and my mum and my brother out of a very, very deprived
background through sheer hard graft.
Dad used to go on courses and to night school. He would work all day, come
home, have his tea and be out all night doing home jobs. “Oh, Mr Kelly, the
telly’s gone off. Could you come over?” He was constantly saving so we could
have a better house. I worked pretty hard at school and I was supposed to go
to university, but I saw a job with the East Kilbride News and
I went for it. My parents must have been gutted, but they didn’t say anything.
It was only years and years later, when I was made a rector of Dundee
University, that my dad beamed with pride and said: “That’s you done, then,
Lorraine.”
Thank God my brother did go on to university, because in Calvinistic
working-class houses in Scotland you’ve got to have the photograph with the
scroll to go on the wall.
When I left East Kilbride for the BBC, Dad thought I was mad. I took a drop in
salary and ended up working as a waitress at night to pay my mortgage.
I was incredibly driven and I suppose I still am. It’s the work ethic. I still
have this fear of saying no to anything in case I’m not asked again. The
thing I’ve got from my dad is that I can talk to absolutely anybody. And I
don’t take any nonsense either. I can’t be bothered with the silliness you
get from some stars. Don’t ask me to go and find you a scented candle — get
over yourself! There are no frills at GMTV. You wouldn’t be in it for the
glamour. I share a tiny dressing room with Fiona [Phillips] and Kate
[Garraway], and it smells of cat wee. When you see me sitting on that sofa I
think you know I’ve spent about 30 seconds deciding what to wear.
I don’t go to many celebby events, but my mum loves them. She’s an absolute
hoot. She hoovers up all the gossip, and you can see her storing it all up
for her and her best pal, Betty Crawford, to howl and cackle about
afterwards. The up side to my parents having me so young is they’re still
fit and very much part of my life. They’ll pick my daughter, Rosie, up from
school and look after the house. And when I come back, Dad’s washed the car
and Mum’s done all the ironing.
Dad has only said “I’m so proud of you” the once. It was on my wedding day and
we were in the house, just me and him, waiting for the car to pick us up. It
was followed by a lot of coughing and changing the subject. But it was
totally sincere and from the heart. My parents are not the kind of folk to
toot their own horn. They’d never say: “You were wonderful, Lorraine.” But
they watch me on TV every day, without fail, God love ’em. It’s cast in
stone. I prerecord one of the shows on a Tuesday, and I’ll be running
around getting dressed at home on Wednesday and Dad’ll say: “For
goodness sake, Lorraine, sit down. You’re on in a minute.”
JOHN: I was a child, really, when we found out Anne was pregnant, and I
was scared. Relatives suggested that Anne went to stay with an aunt in
Cheltenham, have the baby there, then it would be put up for adoption. The
idea was that I could walk away and no more would be said about it. But it
never crossed my mind to go along with that. We thought we knew it all back
then. It’s only now that I realise I knew nothing.
The day Lorraine was born, we took a trolleybus up to see Anne’s mother,
Margaret, in the East End of Glasgow. We hadn’t a clue that Anne was in
labour. When we realised, we got a taxi up to the hospital and, 40 minutes
later, there was Lorraine. No problem at all.
I worked pretty hard. I saw that as my obligation, and my wife stayed at home.
She taught both children their letters and their numbers religiously every
day before they went to school, and she was always there when they came
home; they were never latchkey kids. Wherever Lorraine went, I’d pick her
up. As she got older, she’d say: “You don’t have to, Dad.” But I was always
there, waiting outside.
She argued like mad with her mother. If Anne said black, Lorraine would say
white. But never with me. I think that was because with me she knew the line
was drawn, and I wouldn’t be moved. When she had a boyfriend I’d be sat
about humming: I wouldn’t leave them on their own. Then about 10 o’clock I
couldn’t stand it any longer. I’d say: “Come on, I’m taking you home, son.”
“But I only live up the road.” “Never mind, I’m taking you home.” I must
have driven her mad.
I always wanted my children to have a better life than I had, and that meant
getting a better education. I’m pretty well self-taught, but I’ve always
felt I could have done so much more. I made sure I took time to take an
interest in their lessons and their homework.
I couldn’t go on to higher education, but both of my kids did and that’s given
me a great deal of pleasure.
Lorraine had a place at university to do English and Russian, and at the last
minute she decided not to go. I was disappointed. She would have been the
first person in our family to go to university. But I didn’t pressurise her
— she seemed to know what she wanted to do. There’s a wee bit of steel there
in Lorraine all right. There’s a hunger and drive, as well as ability.
She started out on a local newspaper, which she left to go to the BBC as a
researcher. I said: “Are you sure you know what you’re doing, Lorraine?” In
my day, if you had a good job, you held on to it until you collected your
pension. As it turned out, it wasn’t a very good job. They said they’d only
have her on camera if she got her accent changed. But Bruce Gyngell, who ran
TV-am, was a great one for regional accents and he gave her a job on the
sofa straight away. Before that she had been reporting from the middle of a
field with an anorak on. She always was very photogenic and a born
extrovert. There’s nothing shy and retiring about our Lorraine.
She was the first reporter on the scene at Lockerbie. She was there when the
emergency services arrived. It had affected her very deeply. I picked her up
in the car to take her home for Christmas and she talked and cried nonstop
all the way from Lockerbie to East Kilbride. I didn’t know what to say
except, “You did the right thing.” Because she did. She reported what she
saw, straight from the heart.
I hoped she’d never have to go through anything like that again, but then she
went to Dunblane, which was the hardest thing she’s ever done. She doesn’t
find it easy to talk about it, even now. Lorraine got very close to a mother
who had lost a child there. I think she trusted Lorraine because she could
see that she was absolutely genuine.
The secret with Lorraine is that she’s exactly the same off screen as on. What
you see is what you get. She’s very straightforward, very down-to-earth. She
can’t be doing with fuss, and she’s quite impatient with all the business
surrounding celebrities. But I think she must quite like the pressure. It’s
not natural being in front of the camera — it’s very high-temperature
stuff in that studio. There’s a lot of shouting and waving about of arms,
everyone is on edge — and then there’s Lorraine in the middle of it all,
calm as a cucumber. It’s very rare to see her fly off the handle. I
don’t remember when I last saw her really, really angry.
I’d never ask Lorraine for money. Never. I’d never borrow money from anyone,
but definitely not my kids. But she’s very good to us — they both are. We’ll
get a call and she’ll say: “Dad! I’ve booked you and Mum tickets to go to
Singapore…” Then our son, Graham, who lives there, will pay for the hotel.
They must organise it between them. We’ve gone down the Nile in a boat;
we’ve had a week in China.
I still do everything I can to support her, and it’s easier to help now
they’re living in Scotland. Door to door it’s 84 miles. If she
rings and says “Dad, can you meet me at the airport?” or she wants me to
collect Rosie from school, I’ll be there. To me, there’s nothing worse than
wondering whether someone will turn up on time. She’s always known she
can rely on me completely.
Interviews: Caroline Scott.
Portrait by Kieran Dodds
