Singer Vince Hill has chosen Third Age to exclusively feature extracts from his book, “Another Hill To Climb”. In part three we meet a character vastly removed from the world of show business and glamour, but who has played a large part in Vince’s career and battles against illness…Doris Duck!

Doris Duck

Sagamore has a landing stage which adjoins the side of our garden. This leads onto a terrace and is my favourite place.

It has a canopy in case of rain and we often eat out on the terrace and watch the river world go by.

Today I stood with my customary offering of a bowl of bread for the ducks and watched with my usual fascination as they approached from different directions. As unlikely as it might sound I recognise many of them and have dished out daft names along with the bread; today there was one I hadn’t seen before.

It was for sure I wouldn’t have difficulty recognising her again. Had she been human she would almost certainly have been homeless or an orphan, and undoubtedly this was the scruffiest looking duck I had ever seen. It was hard to ascertain whether they were battle scars or whether she had fallen out with her hairdresser, but the term dragged through a hedge backwards comes to mind.

Her head resembled that of an aging punk, some bits stuck up, some stuck out and her body looked as though the feathers had been stuck in by hand. For a moment I felt a kinship, a kind of alliance that might exist between the condemned, but I shook myself out of anything that would lead to self pity and made sure “scruff” had the lion’s share of my gift.

“Don’t worry Doris,” I said aloud, “me and you’s gonna make it.”

“What was that Dad?” My son Athol had sneaked up quietly behind me, as he always did on pay days, presumably in case I tried to escape.

“Nothing son,” I said, “Just talking to Doris.”

“And you reckon I drink too much,” I heard him say as he wandered off.

Athol was born on a rainy day in 1971 after Annie had previously suffered several miscarriages; as a contrast to the weather our joy had been profound, nevertheless the pregnancy had not been without trauma.

At the three months stage Annie confided her fears that the stomach swelling was not entirely baby. It turned out to be a tumour which had to be removed immediately. Thankfully it was non-malignant but she had to stay in bed for three months. The only concession from the doctor was that she was allowed out of bed for one occasion. So she could be at London’s Talk of the Town for my opening night.

Towards the end of the four week run I heard the news that Annie had given birth and we named him Athol after a dear friend of ours who ran a hotel in Rotherham. The Brecon was a Mecca for pro’s on the cabaret and theatre circuit. Dickie Valentine, Roy Castle, Frankie Vaughan and Matt Monro were all regulars.

I turned away from the river and gazed momentarily as he disappeared from view at the end of the driveway. He was such a lovely guy when he was away from alcohol and drugs. When he was on one or both, well that was another story.

Annie and I felt pain, shame and blame when he had to appear in court as a result of a fracas with an ex-girlfriend. It was then we realised he was in all probability the classic example of the offspring trying to find a way in life while following in famous footsteps. For the millionth time I pondered on whether we could have done more, or if we had in fact done enough.

In later years Annie and I discovered that while we were paying expensive fees for a boarding school to educate and care for him, at the age of 12 our little boy was smoking cannabis having discovered a drinking habit even earlier.

He was a hugely talented drummer with a great sense of rhythm and there was a time I thought he would make the breakthrough. Sadly alcohol and drugs played a destructive part and I believe his commitment and concentration were impaired.

He was right, I did think he drank too much, but in mitigation he was quick to claim that I was “always on a plane” when he was young, and often played the abandoned child card. Annie and I discussed it into the wee small hours of many a miserable night, but never failed to come up with anything other than the same conclusion, even if it did have a tendency to be callous.

We had doted on him and provided for all his needs and then some, but the cold hard fact was never going to change. If you wanted private education, the trappings that go with houses worth millions of pounds and top of the range cars, there was a price.

Rarely can this lifestyle be accommodated while sat at home doing nothing. My conclusion is that there are no households that come perfection guaranteed, no matter what stratum of the social scale you are fortunate or unfortunate enough to be part of. Aristocracy, bourgeoisie or proletariat, they are all flawed.

The other ducks became bored with me giving all the good bits to Doris and had decided to swim to currents new; she seemed content to listen to my ramblings and cocked her head comically. The bowl was empty now and I had ceased to address her. She swam around in a circle and having decided that her lunch and my need for a confidante was at an end headed for the opposite riverbank. I watched, eyes narrowed, and was just noting that for a battered bird she was moving quite well when she began to slow. After swimming on the spot getting nowhere she decided to float downstream with the current instead. I knew what it was like to tread water and hated it.

I walked back to the house thinking back to when The Raindrops died.

As provided by Graham Smith exclusively for Third Age.

©Nick Charles and Vince Hill 2008. All rights reserved.

Chapter One – Remembrance.
Chapter Two – Vince’s Longest Night.