Carol Decker: Moving up into the world of rock stars

It was now 1983 and I had got a job in a low-rent boutique called Fashion Flare, in Shrewsbury.

It sold cheap fashion on circular rails under ugly strip lighting. I earned £57 a week. Ronnie, my partner and other half in the band, could do half-a-day's overtime on a Saturday – he could earn £60.

Ron really liked his job as a BT engineer so it didn't bother him at all to do a shift on a Saturday and it stopped me whining and moaning about having to work there. So I gave up Fashion Flare and got a job working as a barmaid in a pub called The Three Fishes. It was a really popular central pub and I enjoyed the contact with the regulars.

It was an exciting time to work there as a movie crew was in town and it was filming A Christmas Carol, with Edward Woodward and Suzanna York. The crew shot a lot outside the pub and all the crew would come in for their lunch.

A lot of them had just come off the latest Indiana Jones movie and they were all telling me these cool stories about Harrison Ford.

I always think that the crew are the most interesting people on a movie, or a tour. They know where all the bodies are buried and they know all the stories. People like me can come and go but they work for years.

Our flat at The Pengwern was perfect for us. We had no neighbours so we could make as much noise as we liked. Initially, we had a small studio in the box room.

Eventually, when we had a bit more money, we punched through the wall into the big bedroom and put the drum kit in there so we had a live room and a control room.

Underneath us was a large social club. They used to let us rehearse for nothing. We got a lot out of it but so did they, because we used to look after the place for them. It used to get broken into a lot until when we went there but we also had some great parties.

Often it was 'all back to ours' after the pub. One night a gang of us were watching a late-night horror film. We had turned out all the lights to get a spooky atmosphere.

At a critical part in the film and with several of us already watching the film from behind cushions, all Ronnie's home brew exploded. It took about half-an-hour for everyone to get their hearts back in their chests. I heard swearwords I did not know existed! They were gloriously happy and very funny days.

One time, however, we had our car pushed into the river. The car had been parked by the club, close to the river bank car when Ronnie and I went to bed.The next day I got up and was having my morning cuppa. I looked out of the lounge window but the car had gone.

I said: "Where did you put the car last night, Ronnie?"

He said: "I parked it."

"Well, there's nothing there."

So we jumped into our jeans and ran down. No car. It's been nicked! I looked towards the river and I saw tyre tracks and a big gouge in the bank. I shouted: "That's where the exhaust hit, that's where it got shoved in."

Carol Decker's autobiography Heart and Soul is published on Monday, January 25, for £16.95.

Readers of the Shropshire Star can order copies at a reduced rate of £15.95, including free p&p from here.

We called the police. We told them that somebody had pushed our car into the river. They told us that couldn't have happened even though there were tyre tracks to the river. The police told us that we'd obviously left the handbrake off. But Ronnie insisted he hadn't. I said in passing, while the police were there: "Well I hope whoever pushed it in went down with it."

They looked at me like I was Myra Hindley. The next thing, the frog squad were called from Birmingham and scuba divers went down looking for it. They found it then threatened to prosecute us for polluting the River Severn!

We had to get it out and we'd got no money. But we had had a mate with a truck and some scuba gear and he dived down, hooked a chain on to the car's bumpers and we somehow pulled it out of the river. It stayed on the riverbank for six months. It was all green and slimy and smelly. Eventually it dried out a bit and a tramp moved into it.

We kept apologising to the Pengwern committee but we didn't have the money to have it towed away to a scrapyard. After months of being patient the guys from the rowing club knocked on the door and said: 'We're terribly sorry but it's rather an eyesore, the council has been on to us and we need to push you to have it removed.'

So I called my Dad and asked if he'd lend us some money again so we could pay for the car to be removed. The tramp kept his belongings under the front seat of the car. So I had to knock on the roof of what was now the his home and say: "I'm so sorry to disturb you, but the car's being moved in 24 hours." And the tramp was really polite. "Thank you so much for letting me know, I'll be on my way."

I felt so sorry for him. It was tramp heaven! He'd been living peacefully right by the river, he'd got a roof over his head, the ducks were quacking and the daffodils were growing. It was a prime location.

Not long after, we hooked up with a studio called Rockfield, in Monmouth. Monmouth cast a spell over me. For a while that little town in Gwent was a hub in the international music scene with many famous and influential musicians coming and going.

Kingsley was great friends with Andy Fairweather-Low, from Amen Corner, Nick Lowe, from Rockpile, and Dave Edmunds. Like Kingsley, they were all local lads from South Wales. Kingsley had been a keyboard player in various bands with them, before setting up Rockfield.

Robert Plant lived nearby, as did his guitarist Robbie Blunt and bassist Paul Martinez. Dave Charles, Ray Martinez and John David were in a signed band called Airwaves who'd had a huge hit with New Day. It was like being part of a big collective. They were the South Wales Massive.

I had to be nonchalant whenever I bumped into Robert, pretending it was an everyday occurrence. We had a really nice chat in Victoria Wine once. He was a lovely guy.

I didn't actually like Led Zeppelin when I was younger so for a while, I didn't even know who he was. I just thought he was some geezer who liked a drink and a bit of a chat. I didn't know that he was a bona fide Rock God.