Tom Jones - The Life

5 The Girl with the Red Dress On

6 Senator Tom

7 The Green Fly Boys

Part Two: Tom Jones

8 The Black Hole

9 It’s Not Unusual

10 Pussycat

11 Green, Green Grass

12 A Love Supreme

13 This Is Tom Jones

14 On Top of Miss World

15 The King and I

16 The Slump

Part Three: Sir Tom

17 Kiss-Off

18 You Can Leave Your Hat On

19 My Best Friend’s Funeral

20 Reloading

21 In Search of Credibility

22 The Road

23 The Voice

Last Thoughts (#litres_trial_promo)

Tom’s Stars (#litres_trial_promo)

Acknowledgements (#litres_trial_promo)

Select Bibliography (#litres_trial_promo)

List of Searchable Terms (#litres_trial_promo)

Picture Section (#litres_trial_promo)

About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)

Part One

1

The Show-Off (#u62725f21-d8e7-52b8-9c54-a268af863b50)

Even as a small boy, it was always about the voice. Tom calls it his ‘God-given gift’. Freda Woodward believed her son was musical as a baby when she held him in her arms: ‘As soon as music came on the radio, he would start to move like a jelly. And if you left him in his cot, he would make musical sounds at the top of his voice. I remember thinking, “What’s eating this boy?”’

Tom’s first memory of impressing his mother was when he was a blond, curly-haired five-year-old and she heard him singing the popular wartime novelty song ‘Mairzy Doats’. She asked him to sing it again, and when he had finished, she told him, ‘You’ve got a lovely voice.’ That parental approval was all the encouragement Tom needed to believe that he would be a singer one day. ‘I had this voice and the love of it. So any chance I could get, I wanted to get up and sing.’

Tommy Woodward liked an audience as a little lad. His first cousins, Jean and the twins Ada and Margaret, would come over to his parents’ house on Laura Street for a concert. There would just be time to have a fight with Margaret, which Tommy usually started by trying to stick a spider down the back of her neck, before it was showtime. His doting mother Freda knew the routine, because he used to pester her almost daily to announce him dramatically, in a proper show business fashion.

‘I would be cleaning the lounge and there was a deep windowsill and Tom would get up there and pull the drapes over and he would say, “Mum, call me out now.” And I would say, “Wait a minute now, because I’m busy.” And he would say, “No, call me out now.” So I would say, “Tommy Woodward, he will be out next” and he would jump out and start to sing. Well, I knew there was some talent there. He was never shy.’

Margaret remembers the concerts well. ‘He would be up in auntie’s window, pretending that he was on stage then. And we would all have to clap. He was always very talented, but none of us children were allowed to be shy.’

The Woodwards were originally from Cornwall, but moved to the small village of Treforest overlooking Pontypridd at the end of the nineteenth century, drawn by the prospect of finding work in the mines that were thriving at the time. Thousands of families poured in to transform the landscape of South Wales. Row upon row of small terraced houses were built for the ‘immigrants’ who created the mining communities for which the Valleys became famous. Tom’s father, Thomas John Woodward senior, was the first of his family to be born in Wales.

It is a huge simplification to describe these areas as poor, deprived or underprivileged. Working down the mines was considered a good job and, more importantly, it provided a regular wage. Being a miner was exceptionally hard work, but Tom’s dad was proud to follow in the footsteps of his father and two elder brothers. He earned his first wage at the age of fourteen, when he went down Cwm Colliery in Beddau, three miles across the mountain from Treforest.

For forty years, rain or shine, frost or snow, he would rise at 5.15 a.m., pull on his hobnail boots and go to work to shovel fourteen tons of coal. It was man’s work – hard, physical and dangerous. A year after he began, the General Strike of 1926 saw proud mining families having to queue at soup kitchens because they had no money to put food on their tables. It was the worst of times.

Tom senior was a dapper man, polite and popular with the ladies. He met Freda Jones at a local dance in 1933, when she was eighteen and he was twenty-three. Theirs was a whirlwind courtship. She was much more sociable than her quieter suitor, but those who knew him well would often remark on his dry sense of humour. The vivacious and statuesque Freda was already pregnant when they married on 3 September of that year. Their first child, a daughter called Sheila, was born on 11 March 1934. She was a quiet child, taking after her father by being more of a listener than a talker.

A further six years had passed and the Second World War was raging before a much wished-for son was born on 7 June 1940. He was given the same name as his father, Thomas John Woodward. As many babies were then, Tommy was born at home, 57 Kingsland Terrace, Treforest. When Tom was one and a half, the family swapped houses with his father’s widowed mother and moved into her larger house at 44 Laura Street.

Treforest was spared the worst of the German bombs, but the village didn’t escape the warning sound of the sirens or the planes rumbling overhead. Mothers used to tell their children that it was thundering outside, before ushering them under the stairs or the kitchen table until the ‘all clear’ was sounded. If you looked out of the window, you could see the searchlights illuminating the night sky over Cardiff, twelve miles to the south.

The house in Laura Street had a cellar, so Tom’s family would shelter under the steps leading down to the basement level. The village wasn’t a specific target for the Luftwaffe, which was seeking to destroy the factories engaged in wartime production on the Treforest Trading Estate a few miles away. There was always the chance, however, that unused bombs would be jettisoned when the planes turned back for Germany, as the pilots needed to lighten their load so they would have enough fuel to make it home.

These were dangerous days. One older boy had his leg blown off by stepping on a mine that had ended up on the recreational area known as the White Tips, where schoolchildren played rugby and football. Nobody escaped the blackout, or the eerie sense created by the darkness when the street lamps went out at sunset.

Tom was too young to remember much of the rationing, the long shop queues or the nights lit only by the moon. The noise of it all stuck with him though: ‘I can remember the searchlights and there were always guns going off. At the time I thought that’s the way the world was.’

There were no supermarkets in the post-war days when rationing was still enforced. You could, however, get everything you needed for your family, without leaving Treforest, at the grocer’s, Hale’s the butcher’s or Howells the baker’s. All the housewives bought their groceries in a little shop and post office called Marney’s in Wood Road.

Tom Marney, a bustling, popular figure, had run his store for as long as anyone could remember. The shop was a bit like the Valleys’ equivalent of Open All Hours. It was the place to go to catch up with your neighbours, while the shopkeeper in his trusty brown overall leaned on the counter and amused everyone with the latest gossip. He’d heard Freda telling a friend what a talented singer her little boy was, so he wanted to hear for himself.

He persuaded Freda that she should let the lad give everyone a song the next time they went in. Sure enough, the waiting queue was transfixed as Tom clambered on to a crate and burst into his then high-pitched vocal. According to local legend, Mr Marney told the small crowd that had gathered to put their hands in their pockets and ‘give the boy a few coppers’. Despite Freda’s protests, Tom’s hands were filled with pennies, much to his delight. It was his first paying gig.

Tom was always encouraged to sing by his extended family in and around Pontypridd. He was by no means the only good singer among the Woodward and Jones clans, but he was the only one taking an interest in the popular songs on the radio. Others, like his Uncle George and Uncle Edwin, his father’s brothers, had magnificent voices, but stuck to the more traditional hymns and ballads.

Uncle George gave Tom an early piece of advice, which he always followed. One Saturday, when everyone had gone back to Laura Street for a last drink and a sing-song, he told young Tommy, half asleep and wanting his bed, that he should always sell a song to people’s faces. Never stare at the floor or the ceiling or close your eyes, because then you are trapping the song and keeping it prisoner. ‘Let people see what you are singing about,’ said George.