Where do I begin? It was a shock to receive the phone call on Wednesday to say Candy Devine had died. She was the sort of woman you expected always to be there, always in the public eye and always in the lives of those she cared for.
It seemed I’ve known her all my life. She was a friend and a mentor, she had the God-given ability to listen and gently respond.
I have two special pictures amongst my memory souvenirs. At an Arts Theatre late night show, wearing black with a pink feather boa, she sang Bring in the Clowns: ‘Rows and floes of angel hair, and ice cream castles in the air, and feather canyons everywhere, I’ve looked at clouds that way’. It was magical, slow and powerful.
The other memory was visiting her in Dublin when she was appearing in the Gaiety Theatre. I stayed with her and her dear mother and in the morning I popped into her bedroom to say goodbye.
Candy always had her hair tied back in a chignon – “Pull it tight and you get a face lift!” But that morning her hair was all round her, spread over the white pillowcase, and she looked so beautiful, like a little girl rather than the sophisticated woman of the arts.
Artistic director Roy Heayberd worked with her many times and recalls when she played Caiaphas the high priest in Jesus Christ Superstar.
“Before opening night she hurt her ankle but still went on stage, a crutch supporting one side and her young son the other. She was a joy, a lovely outgoing lady.”
Candy was awarded an MBE in 2014 for services to broadcasting and the community in Northern Ireland. Broadcasting we know about, but her charity work not much.
Apart from other things she was a Lady Taverner, fundraising to help support young people with special needs and from disadvantaged backgrounds. I’ve watch her present buses to youth groups, getting down to play skittles with children, and publicising the charity using curling equipment donated by the Knights baseball club.
When Kenny Elliott worked for Save The Children she travelled with him to Angola and was horrified that the land mines they saw were made in Sheffield and designed to jump out of the ground and hit soldiers’ knees – but with children they hit the chest and face.
“She was very upset to see so many young people on crutches but she gathered them round her and they sang and danced. The same in Bulgaria where we visited the street children; even though we were told they might be violent she said, ‘Come on, darling, don’t be afraid.’
“It was the only time I saw her cry. We witnessed the children affected by cerebral palsy, teenagers, tied into cots and just looking up at us with no life in their eyes. It broke her heart.”
Born in Cairns, Australia, Candy came to London to follow a career in music but found it difficult to get digs because of her skin colour and suffered abuse on many occasions.
She was in fact a Torres Strait Islander of both Polynesian and Danish heritage and it’s ironic that when she appeared on Australian TV in Skippy The Bush Kangaroo, she had to have dark make-up and a wig because she was nothing like the Aboriginal character she portrayed.
In the late 60s she was spotted by Ulster impresario Donald McLeod who persuade her to come to Belfast, fell in love with her, married her and remained her manager until his death in 2012.
A year after Don died, Candy decided to return to Australia to live with her family in Brisbane. We were sad to see her go but she didn’t leave us – emails and Facebook messages flew back and forwards until last week.
One of her closest friends, Jill Ellis, flew to nurse Candy when she was in hospital and for two weeks they talked and talked.
“I balanced a tape recorder on Candy’s chest and recorded everything. We laughed and cried and shared our long and happy friendship. She asked me what I would like by way of thanks – nothing was my reply and then I thought, she’s a talented painter what about a self-portrait. It now hangs in a place of honour in my home.”
Despite being in a nursing home, her messages were always positive and her first question was “How is the family?” Then she’d go through each one until she was happy she’d caught up with the news.
I’d a phone call on Thursday from my teenage grandson asking is it true that Auntie Candy was dead. They had a charming friendship and she always mentioned him and sent love. She did that with everyone she cared about and she cared about everyone.
I once asked her for her abiding memory and she didn’t need to think twice. It wasn’t appearing in Skippy, not even the ground-breaking programmes on Downtown, but her appearance at Sydney Opera House when, in amongst big band numbers, accompanied only by piano, she sang Danny Boy.
She always made a glorious impact.
Singer David Hamilton summed her up: “A lady who was graceful, spirited and, as her name suggests, divine.”
With much love and sympathy to Fiona, Gordon, Ian and her chef son Alistair, her grandchildren and her great grandchildren.
Anne Hailes