Ella Mottram is a writer of non-fiction from West Yorkshire. She is currently completing a collection of humorous personal essays on the struggles of female millennial life. In 2021 she was longlisted for the #Merky Books New Writers’ Prize launched by Stormzy and Penguin Random House.
Email: Ellamottram1@gmail.com
Drugs, Divorce and Dolly Parton
Growing up I was a fairly shy kid, being an only child meant that I mainly hung out with my parents, and thanks to the fact they were pretty cool cats, I spent most of my pre-teens content at home. Mum and Dad met in 1984 at a Valentine’s Day gig in Leeds University Union, and amidst talk of bringing down Thatcher, locked eyes. A decade later I was born after being induced by a deep-pan pepperoni pizza courtesy of my uncle Keith. Every year I get told the same story, how Dad nearly missed the delivery because he was busy getting a Mcdonald’s. How, when I came crashing into the world, Mum, desperate to know the sex, shouted “what is it?” to which, stunned, he replied, “bloody massive!” I was named Ella Molly Mottram on account of the fact we were living with my Grandparents at the time. Dad was one of six and seeing as they were pros at procreating he thought it rude not to acknowledge their help in raising yet another kid. I remember when I got older I asked if they were Catholic. “No”, he replied dryly. “Just stupid.”
It sounds dramatic but my childhood was eerily perfect. My parents loved one another greatly, and me even more. We were the three musketeers, the best BLT, the ultimate three-piece band. We did everything together, travelling around in our Fiat Multipla, an eyesore of a car that was bought due to the novelty row of three seats in the front. Blasting Bowie, we’d speed down the M62, Dad at the wheel.
“ I, I will be king!” he’d sing, shoulders a shimmy.
“And you, you will be queen!” Mum and I pointed to one another.
“But nothing will drive them away!” We erupted together. “We can be heroes, just for one day!”
Track after track we’d perform to the windscreen as if at Wembley. Our family spaceship, we sailed through life without a worry in the world, Dad’s dry humour and mum’s sharp wit making everything fun. Dad taught history at the local comp, and like Grandad, he was a natural performer. His ability to entertain meant he could make even the most boring subjects fun. It wasn’t unusual for us to be stopped in Asda by a pupil who hailed him as their favourite teacher and I’d swell with pride, knowing just how lucky I was.
There was only the rare occasion where his enthusiasm wouldn’t translate. One weekend he dragged me and Mum to a tank museum and we followed as he went from vehicle to vehicle like a kid in a model shop. When I complained of being bored Mum flashed me a conspiratory smile. Grabbing my hand we ran back to the entrance and I watched as she persuaded the receptionist to let her send a message over the tannoy. “Can Mr Mottram make his way to the exit immediately, his wife and daughter are leaving for Pizza Hut”. Dad appeared minutes later, and laughing, we all piled into the car. Years flew by in peace, we bought a kitten, went on a family holiday to Greece and attended our first gig together, Hear’Say at Manchester MEN.
So at the age of thirteen, when I woke to the sound of Mum crying, I thought it was a dream. At first, I didn’t know what it was, that odd guttural moan, almost animal in its ululation. A heaving and gasping that could only be born from physical pain, I sat bolt upright craning my neck to study the sound. As a child I’d mastered the art of slinking silently down the stairs, testing each floorboard with a searching toe before choosing the perfect spot. Often I’d see how far I could get before the groan of plank betrayed me and my parents knowingly told me to go back to bed. But something about the noise that night scared me, its unfamiliarity, its churning whine wrenched from the darkness. Wondering if this was one mission I shouldn’t undertake, I started down the stairs, Dad’s hushed tone quickened my pace. Peering over the bannister the sound wound down to a sniffle as they both looked up from the kitchen table. The light above cast exaggerated shadows on their faces and for a second we hung there frozen, time stretching like an elastic band. Staring back at me they looked different, like strangers. It was Dad’s face I remember the most. The way I searched his eyes for reassurance, the way he couldn’t look at me when I finally understood there was none.
I don’t remember much after that, to be honest, I think I blocked it out along with the death of my guinea pig and the first time I whitied. I only know that I must have had it explained to me. That they were getting a divorce, that Dad had been having an affair with a woman from work. I didn’t understand. How could this woman be better than Mum? I wanted answers. but like a bruise that’s painful to touch, what use was it to prod and poke? It didn’t matter how it got there, the damage was done, the blow delivered. All I remember is that I cried myself to sleep thinking about all the ways we were inseparable, worrying about how I might not be able to stomach two Christmas dinners or do my homework without them both there – Dad was good at history, Mum English.
The weeks following were a blur, I got to be off school but ached to be back in the stuffy corridors rather than trapped in a house with two mourners. I hadn’t cried since that night and my parents were concerned I was “bottling it up”. Days were spent pleading with me to talk things through, but each time they were met with a sharp “I’m fine!” In hindsight, the lack of conflict in our household had left me ill-equipped to deal with such emotions. I didn’t know what I felt but the thought of being demonstrative repulsed me. I didn’t want to be told that I was loved, to be kissed or cuddled. The sadness, the betrayal, the helplessness, all of it made me feel sick.
Dad continued to live with us for a month, helping do up the house so that mum could sell. Home wasn’t fun anymore and with the divorce coinciding with puberty, the rebellious teen within came crashing out. A switch had been flicked, I had nothing left to lose. With my parents busy debating who’d get the Cold Feet box set, my weekends were soon spent downing WKD and razzing around the moors in my friend’s beat-up Corsa.
Unfortunately, living in the countryside meant that there were limited means of entertainment, and Wednesday night Woodcraft Folk provided the perfect place to test out our new bongs. The hippies answer to Brownies, rather than swear allegiance to the queen and country, instead we learnt how to build fires, feminism and falafel wraps. Life revolved around having a good time, with the ultimate party being the summer holidays. As the seasons changed so did we, the heat bubbling inside us with the anticipation of a month of merriment. Summer was sacred, a time when we could sing, shag, smoke and sway.
Eventually, Dad moved in with the woman from work and Mum found a new place to live. The day we left the family home I carved my name into the skirting board of my room with a knife. I wouldn’t remember this until years later. With Mum now unable to afford holidays abroad, festivals soon became my yearly “getaway”, Bestival the new Barcelona, Secret Garden Party my Spain. Often I worked for glamping companies putting up tents for the rich and famous as a way to get free tickets – my pal once pitched Lily Allen’s tipi and left her a love poem under her pillow.
By the age of eighteen, I was well accustomed to travelling from field to field, carousing my way across the country without a care in the world. Each year brought a new tale to tell, as we relished a life of unashamed fun. There was the time I took acid and went to watch Iggy Pop, his leathery torso morphing into a handbag as he danced across the stage. The year it rained non stop and I dressed as a giant penis, nearly setting myself aflame after resting my “balls” on a fire to dry. I attended a stranger’s wedding in a blow-up church, saw Pussy Riot stick it to the man and tread so much mud one year that I had to gaffa tape my broken boots to my feet. I spent three nights sleeping with my legs outside the tent.
Life was a constant disco and in that space and time, I felt unstoppable, far from an angst-ridden youth, I was a hormonal heroine – fearless, free, on fire. There was no past or future, just that day, that hour, that moment. An alternate universe where nothing mattered, it was glitter, lights, sequins and sparkle. I wasn’t sure what I was doing or where I was headed but I didn’t care, as long as I was having fun.
Then in 2014, we made our second pilgrimage to the holy grail of the season, Glastonbury. Just as expected we partied our way through the week, popping pills and prosecco as we went. Sunday arrived, and nursing a hangover, my pals and I followed the procession of bright blonde wigs to the pyramid stage to see the queen of country, Dolly Parton. Battling through the throng I realised I wasn’t entirely sure who the southern belle was.
“This better be worth it,” I shouted as a WELCOME TO DOLLYWOOD sign smacked me in the face.
Suddenly the crowd erupted and onto the stage strutted a tiny woman dressed in a white diamonte trouser suit like the ones Elvis donned in the 70’s.
“Howdy Glastonbury!” she hollered.
From the moment she opened her mouth the entire crowd’s jaws fell open too.
Spellbound, I watched as she broke into a hoedown, strumming a diamante studded banjo with her famous acrylics before swapping to a rhinestone fiddle.
“You can’t say I ain’t stoned today” she yelled with a yodel.
Sweet lord, I thought. I’m in love.
The next hour of my life was probably the closest I’ll come to having a religious experience. It’s hard to describe how it feels to sing shoulder to shoulder with a hundred and eighty thousand people. How quickly you forget about yourself, your headache, or the fact you just pissed in a cup because leaving is unfathomable. To be moved by the intangible feeling that music provides, creates a transcendence, an awareness that you’re part of a larger whole. By the end of her set we were weeping with joy. Dolly had found a way into all our hearts.
Like a pastor giving a sermon, she spoke of courage, hope, dreams and doubts, regularly praising the heavens and shouting “Amen!”. With a wicked sense of humour and a thirst for success, I felt a strange alliance with this wild woman from the smoky mountains of Tennessee.
“I grew up in the country so this mud ain’t nothin’ new to me” she giggled.
I had seen the light. Found my Messiah.
The following morning reality crept back in as we packed up the tents and began the long journey back to Yorkshire. Surrounded by inflatable dolphins and unopened pot noodles, I hung my head out the car window as we blasted Tennessee Homesick Blues. “It’s hard to be a diamond in a rhinestone worlddddddddd,” we sang with our Texan twang. I shut my eyes and as the wind swept across my face suddenly Dolly’s lyrics rang true. Maybe it was time to look beyond the sparkle of the summer and the small town I grew up in. There was an entire world out there, waiting to be explored. It was time to be brave, to do something new. To go someplace else.