Pick Up the Pieces

By Didi Dundee

In a tale as timeless as love itself, a girl and boy from the most modest of origins find their souls intertwined.

Their shared passion wasn’t just for each other, but also for music. Rising from the depths of obscurity to the zenith of music stardom, they navigated the wild and unpredictable landscape of the 1970s. Their bond was unshakeable, even when faced with the myriad temptations of their newfound fame.

However, fate had a different plan. A devastating twist threatened to shatter their world.

This is the true story of Robbie McIntosh, the drummer and founding member of the legendary Average White Band (AWB).

• Language: English
• Publisher: Austin Macauley Publishers
• Release date: Feb 2, 2024
• ISBN: 9781035832859

Didi Dundee

Born in St Lucia, child of the Windrush generation, schooled in London UK. At times in convent school due to a childhood illness, Didi Dundee met and later married a Scottish musician who reached the highest success in the music business globally. Then unforeseen tragedy struck. Devastated, she fled to Spain reinventing herself. By chance, she found herself again involved in the highest levels of the music and entertainment world, performing in Spain, USA and Latin America.

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About the Author

Born in St Lucia, child of the Windrush generation, schooled in London UK.

At times in convent school due to a childhood illness, Didi Dundee met and later married a Scottish musician who reached the highest success in the music business globally.

Then unforeseen tragedy struck. Devastated, she fled to Spain reinventing herself.

By chance, she found herself again involved in the highest levels of the music and entertainment world, performing in Spain, USA and Latin America.

Dedication

To my darling husband, Robbie, whose loving and everlasting memories are etched in my soul.

Copyright Information ©

Didi Dundee 2024

The right of Didi Dundee to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by the author in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers.

Any person who commits any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

The story, experiences, and words are the author’s alone.

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

ISBN 9781035832842 (Paperback)

ISBN 9781035832859 (ePub e-book)

www.austinmacauley.com

First Published 2024

Austin Macauley Publishers Ltd®

1 Canada Square

Canary Wharf

London

E14 5AA

Acknowledgement

To Cynthia Collins; my good friend and mentor.

Chapter One

I descended from a helicopter on the rooftop of this magnificent building in Manhattan, New York. It was the month of September, 24 September 1974, to be precise. I do not remember when or where I boarded that thing, all I can say is that I was in Los Angeles the day before, and now I was more than a thousand miles away here in New York City.

I remember my body covered from neck to toe with a wonderful coat, which was almost black, thick, and warm, but as I walked down the steps I felt as if a gigantic bar of ice pierced my body. I felt I was falling and held tightly to the banister, unable to go on.

It’s ok, go on, you don’t have to fear. A soft female voice urged me to proceed. I let go of the banister and clutched my coat, is it my coat? I don’t remember seeing that coat before, it was freezing. Why am I protecting myself? What from? I wondered, Am I dead? Does it matter, anyway?

That’s my baby, one step at a time! encouraged the sweet voice.

I must be alive, I concluded, otherwise, I would not feel the cold. I should make the effort to get to the people walking towards me, and so, I started moving in their direction. I became aware of two other people standing behind me; altogether we were five on that rooftop. Words were spoken between them and hugs exchanged, their faces seemed sad with tears in their eyes. They ushered me through big sliding doors that opened silently into a spacious, well-lit, and warm office. They all wore black, I could hear classical music playing softly, and their voices were hushed.

My entourage and I finally arrived at a very luxurious space and someone dimmed the lights. In front of me, was a display of the finest of coffees and their aroma made me think about food, I was hungry, but the thought of eating made me apprehensive, could they poison me?

Mamette, my personal nurse, Miss Chanel—as I would call her because she was always dressed very Coco Chanel in a two-piece suit, collarless with a four-pocketed straight jacket and fluid skirt. She must have known that I was starving for she offered me a plate full of succulent delicacies. I ate it all, but soon I started vomiting, feeling nauseous and dizzy. She took me to a comfortable sofa to lie down, it faced the big sliding doors; noticing I still had the coat on, she took it off very gently giving it to someone saying, Get this cleaned, then moving me to another office on the same floor, she gave me a cup of black coffee and fled.

I was about to have the third sip of my hot coffee when the door at the far end of the room opened and in walked an elderly, well-groomed gentleman. He walked up straight to where I was sitting without taking his eyes off me. He did not have a smile on his face and neither did he have tears in his eyes, unlike everyone else around. I still can smell the fragrance of his perfume as if it was yesterday: woody and spicy; it filled the whole space. When he finally got to where I was seated, he stretched out his arms, picked me up and brought me to my feet. As he embraced me, he looked around the room, signalling all to leave, leaving the two of us alone.

The elderly gentleman did not waste time to take his position, as the business mogul he was, the fatherly figure had soon gone.

We are here to protect you. You are one of us, and anyone who hurts you, hurts us. We’ve been hurt…hurt very badly. No pain comes close to the one we´ve been inflicted with…we are family and we must act as such. I felt as if I was drowning, desperately trying to keep my head above the water. At times, his words seem muffled by the water.

First, he continued saying, no messing about, You are going to talk to no journalist, no one at all. We are going to tell you to whom and when to talk. You will accept nothing from anyone, nothing at all, do you understand? We can offer you more, and better than anyone else can.

Will I be able to sleep with my husband tonight? I interrupted. I saw pain and sadness on his face for the first time.

That, I can’t give you. Nobody can give you that, for it is impossible. But I can give you a house on Wiltshire Boulevard, in Italy, anywhere in Hollywood, cars, absolutely anything that you want. I only ask for one thing in return, and that is… He put down on the desk in front of us the sheet of paper he was holding in his left hand.

All you have to do is to state in your own handwriting whatever it is you might want. As you can see, I have already signed it in my own name and that of the company I represent. On hearing those words, I realised that they must be in big trouble too.

By that time, I had lost faith in everyone and everything and did not believe one single word coming out of the gentleman’s mouth; instead I was suddenly enraged, and I will have to deserve all of that, won’t I? I asked with the most-controlled voice I could master.

Sign here, he ordered firmly, putting in front of me a different piece of paper, you are agreeing that you will not talk to the press or anyone without one of us being present. Then he said, Better yet, I have this other contract, which is more detailed than the one in front of you. Instead of having to sign twice, we sign this one instead…with witnesses, like it should be. In this one, we will ask you not to talk to the press, period, until we know who is on our side. Only then we will agree to you talking to the press, but only the ones we choose. Let’s sign this document in the presence of others, and we will start getting all those things you want as from this moment.

Even the moon and the stars could be added, I asked in an ironic tone.

If that’s what you want, he replied, without changing the tone of his voice. Oh, last, but not least, there is also a substantial sum of money in cash for you too, my dear. We can open an account in your name wherever you want with that money, Scotland, England, you say where and we make it happen. These are extreme moments for us, and we must make decisions to match our present situation.

I never loved a man, the way I love you, I said, slowly and as clearly as I could looking him straight in the eye. He looked confused.

I have no intention of talking to press, I added, all I want is Aretha Franklin’s album called ‘I Never Loved a Man the Way I Love you’. As I cannot have my man, I want to hear a track on that album called ‘Baby, Baby, Baby’ over, and over again. Keep your riches, for nothing could make me whole or happy again.

Child, don’t be a romantic! Take what you can now for it is never… He went silent, looked around the room, and took a deep breath, That album’s been out of circulation for some years now…but if that is what you want, I will get it for you. Do you see that helicopter out there, the one that brought you here? It’s taking off to turn this city upside-down. If there is a copy of the album anywhere in New York City, he will come back with it.

I realised that someone else must have been in the room because the helicopter took to the skies as if struck by a magic wand.

Sir, I said, as he started to leave, I want you to know that I will accept no financial arrangement for my silence. I am numb and will not be able to talk freely about this heinous experience for a long time, but let me tell you this, my man was never for sale, nor is his woman. There’s nothing cheap or dirty about Robbie the love of my life, nor our union, for that was planned in heaven. I saw he had tears in his eyes as he left the room.

The thought of listening to that song again filled me with strange emotions and I felt I was going to faint. All along, we must have been watched from another room because I found myself in my nurse’s arms, as she rocked me to-and-fro like a baby. Every time she was near me, I ended with a feeling of wellness, like floating in space, or like being immersed in water, with the people around becoming distorted silhouettes, their voices muffled, and not understanding what was being said, but knowing I was not alone became quite comforting.

I didn’t know how long I had been out of it, but I found myself lying on the sofa and seeing the helicopter land. I saw a man alighting from it carrying something in his hand. I knew it was the Aretha Franklin album with my song. I rushed to the bar and poured myself a stiff whisky—no ice and no water, just like my man liked it—and gulped it down in one go. To my amazement, it didn’t taste awful, it didn’t taste of anything, I just felt a warm feeling inside.

Someone entered the room with the album in hand and I saw Miss Franklin’s picture on it, the colour was the right one, sort of bluish purple I seem to remember, and my heart started pounding heavily, I was impatient to hear my song. The man kissed my right hand and put the record on, without saying a word. I do not know when the lights were dimmed to resemble candlelight or if I was left alone, all I know is that when I heard the first few bars of the song, I was transported back to the Mac Uno again, and dancing in the arms of the love of my life. So much love between us, within us that it transpired to everyone in the concert hall; they all rejoiced with the new love that was given birth, right there in front of them. That had been the happiest day of my life.

The track kept playing over, and over again, and I kept dancing and drinking whisky.

Baby, baby, baby, this is just to say how much I am going to miss you, but believe while I am away that I didn’t mean to hurt you, don’t you know? He was there with me; I could feel his body against mine, his arms holding me tightly.

Baby, baby, baby think of me sometime… Tears flowed unstoppable, tears of intense joy, tears of an excruciating and unexpressed pain.

Mamette, Miss Chanel, the ever-present nurse, stepped in and ended my rendezvous with the other world.

It is 5 a.m. Time to sleep some. We have to catch a plane to Los Angeles at 9 o’clock. I never seemed to be awake much when she was around. She gently laid me on the sofa and covered me with my coat all cleaned up and smelling nice again.

Please, I begged, I have something important to say to the CEO (That was the business mogul.)

No one must have slept that night, for the gentleman was soon in my presence. Sir, I said, devoid of any emotion, sitting up with difficulty as I saw him coming in, do you know my husband was murdered? I know, because I was there, and because he died in my arms. No sum of money, planes, houses, or contracts could ever make up for my loss. Thank you for shielding me from the press, I have no intention of talking to them ever. I had probably never finished the last sentence when I sank back into oblivion.

Ma wee hen, Ma flower, Ma sugar, I’m lonely and loveless without you to hold my hand.

Chapter Two

On a Caribbean island, a canoe moored a little way off a beach rocked dangerously. In it, a woman screamed. The man attending to her was silent, sweat running down his face as if he’d been caught in one of those fifteen-minute hot showers which the islanders know well. Quickly moping his face with the woman’s skirt, he spoke to her sharply, urgent indeed. Instantly, there came another voice, high pitched and piercing. A momentary silence and then a soft sob subsiding into tears of joy.

The man proceeded with the task at hand, making sure he did everything correctly. He was about to put the wailing and fighting little thing in the sea to clean it when he changed his mind. Instead, he wrapped it into the lady’s skirt and rested it on her breast. The white sand was now just a short distance away, he tied the umbilical cord with his shoe lace and headed for the beach. With the baby girl now happily suckling, he was about to give in to exhaustion when he remembered they were still on the Caribbean Sea, and the quicker all got ashore, the safer he and his new family would be.

The slightly-built fellow found strength he never knew he possessed. The smell of blood on those waters is a menace, and in that fragile vessel, danger was lurking everywhere. He rowed as fast as he could until he brought his family safely on shore. About to break down, he realised, he still could not have the luxury of self-indulgence. Again, he did what was needed to protect his family. After he made both as comfortable as he could, he searched for twigs to start a fire. Born of American Indian stock, Arawaks to be precise on his mother’s side, and Scottish from his father, he knew how to start a fire with bare essentials and erect a make-shift tent.

With the fire now in full swing, he still would not show weakness in front of his much younger partner, so he swallowed deeply, went back to the canoe to find something to drink, something strong, and found that the provider had stocked the canoe with everything, God bless the old girl. Looking over to where mother and baby were asleep in the tent, he panicked in case something had gone wrong. He picked up the box with the food and drinks and ran to join them.

Tears fell at last as he opened a bottle of Mount Gay Rum, and poured some down his throat, rewarding himself. They had escaped the uncles and brother-in-law who had joined forces to kill him. Now, in the wee hours of this morning, 7 September, somewhere south of the Island of St Lucia, he felt happy and safe. He was cautious not to get tipsy in case he should have to pick up and run, so he made some coffee. As he was about to drink the hot liquid, the woman stirred; he went over to her, put the hot coffee in the sand, took the baby from her and, for the first time, rocked his daughter in his arms.

The new father was already a married man with two children. It is understandable that his wife and family wanted some kind of justice, and hatched a dreadful plot. Hearing of it from the young mother’s brothers, who were outraged on her behalf, a senior member of the family took matters into her hands and quickly arranged a canoe, fit for an Arabian princess gliding down the Nile, with everything her money could buy. She had the canoe ready in two days, and hid in a ravine close to her home, knowing that the man with her daughter understood that body of waters better than anyone else.

Now, 2.30 a.m., the sun would be up in two hours or so; by that time the young woman would be ready to face the world. After the baby was removed from her side, she continued to sleep for a while knowing her little family was safe and on dry land. While the second pot of coffee was being made, she woke up, breast-fed the baby, and set about searching the survival box her mother had prepared. She took some linen out, made some kind of clothing for the baby and went to the sea to wash herself, throwing the after-birth and the rest of the umbilical cord into the sea. The older and wiser man saw her entering the sea still covered in blood; he knew he had to put the child down and run to her, because the sharks were not far away. He could see their movements, even in the early hours of dawn; he knew them. He put his hand over his partner’s mouth, and silently moved back to the shore. It was too shallow for sharks but he was taking no more chances with the sixteen-year-old girl who had just gone through the ordeal of giving birth to his daughter in these shark-infested-waters. He vowed to dedicate his life to this woman and his child.

That young girl was Vera, my mother, born to Madame Teresa, who was known to have lost five husbands to death by natural causes.

Grandma was the grand-daughter of a slave, never went to school, never learnt to read, or write, she signed her name with an X. She was a very tall and slender lady, some six foot six inches in height and walked in the most peculiar manner. Her heels never touched the ground, she walked on her toes and was quite a sight to see when amongst others. She was older than most, no one knew her exact age, not even she herself. Her age was judged by her multiple legal marriages. She was born in the late 1800s, and gave birth to my mother at a very late stage of her life, hence everyone thought she had special powers. Life expectancy was very short at the time, but Grandma looked as if she would go on forever. She was regarded as a ‘medicine woman’ in her own town; everyone knew her, loved her, or was frightened of her. Therefore, when she needed a favour, everyone jumped to accommodate her, so she was able to prepare the get-away vessel with ease an efficiency.

My dad was not around much after my birth, for he had to find a new way to support his new family. With fishing not profitable anymore, he was anxious to impress my mother, his young common law wife. Born in 1912, by 1947 he was seen by most of the town as an old man. Rumour had it the Motherland (The British Isles), was recruiting young men, strong and healthy Commonwealth men to go there, and help rebuild the country. He decided to be one of those.

First, he meant to sell his canoe. He knew that the waters where he fished before had a new kind of catch these days which had nothing to do with fishing. Being in the right place at the crack of dawn when the big ships were using the sea as a dumping ground, profit could be made because the merchandise floating in the waters was better than that in the stores of St Lucia at the time. World War II was recent, life was tough all over the world, and as usual the richer countries fared better than the rest. The Merchant Navy was too busy working with war issues, and could not stock shelves in stores with the goods needed.

No one called my dad by his real name, instead he was called by something that sounded like ‘BayChe’ which means red in the local Creole dialect. He was called so because of his freckled face, and brownish-red hair, a good-looking man but few knew his real name. He made money selling fridges, mattresses, radios, coffeepots, all the goods he sold were debris from the sea. He found help from an old friend who was an expert electrician, British war veteran who had lost his legs in the recent war and was sent home with a pension. This man helped him with his documents, and the procedure to follow in order to enter the UK without a hitch. When my dad had accumulated enough money for his travel, as well as subsistence for his family, which now includes his mother-in-law my gran, he would be ready to go. As Dad was not at home regularly, Mum and her mother had freedom to do as they pleased, and Grandma wanted to make me the medicine she received in a dream for me, the one which would cure me of the asthma that