At a wedding early in 1965 Webb’s eye fell on a pretty young ballet dancer turned television presenter called Nerida Nicholls, sitting in the sunshine in a rocking chair. When he approached to introduce himself she smiled coolly and said, ‘I think you’re supposed to fall at my feet.’ He then did precisely that.
‘I think we pretty much decided there and then we were going to be together,’ said Nicholls. When Nicholls suggested they move on from the party together Webb had admitted his involvement with Kiri, with whom he had a date later that night.
‘We were keen to go on somewhere but he told me he was supposed to take Kiri out somewhere,’ said Nicholls. ‘I told him to call her, and if she was in then he’d have to go, but if she was out we should carry on. We drove off in Peter’s Mini, stopped at a phone box and he rang. She was out. We went to a jazz club called the Montmartre and two weeks later we were engaged.’
The first the Te Kanawas knew of the unfolding drama was when Webb suddenly announced he was moving out from Mitchell Street. ‘Peter just upped and packed his bags one day,’ recalled Susan Smith. ‘There was no discussion, he just left, whoosh, end of scene.’ For Kiri the humiliation was made even worse when she turned up at a party she knew Webb was attending soon after his sudden departure. She arrived to find him there with Nerida Nicholls and her parents.
‘We had decided that afternoon to get engaged. We hadn’t even told my parents and then suddenly we were up in front of everyone saying, “We’ve got something to tell you all …”’ recalled Nicholls. Amid the passion of her new romance, Nicholls had learned little about Webb’s now discarded girlfriend. ‘I didn’t know how serious it had been with Peter and her, otherwise maybe I would have taken off. Peter didn’t tell me much about it,’ she said. The party offered her her first glimpse of the girl she had now replaced in Peter Webb’s affections. Amid the excitement of the celebrations that followed her announcement, she can recall nothing of Kiri’s reaction.
Webb and Nicholls were married in Auckland in June, three months later, with Kiri in attendance. The two girls were to meet frequently, appearing together on television. The subject of Peter Webb, however, was never mentioned.
Instead Kiri reserved her displays of anger for friends like Susan Smith. ‘I don’t know if she particularly wanted Peter for being Peter,’ said Smith. ‘But she wanted a partner and she always felt that she offered so much no one would dare let her go.’
In March 1965, around 300 people packed the Eden Roskill War Memorial Hall in suburban Auckland to celebrate Kiri’s twenty-first birthday. The black tie gathering amounted to a ‘Who’s Who’ of New Zealand’s musical talent. Radiant in a shimmering, low cut dress, her hair piled high in a voguish French twist, it was a new, sophisticated Kiri who monopolised the limelight.
Nell had done all she could to make the party one of the social events of the year. Resourceful as ever, she had persuaded Cliff and Billie Trillo, owners of Auckland’s premier restaurant Trillo’s, to provide free catering. The mayor and mayoress of Auckland were present, as was John Waititi and a representative of the Maori King Koroki. The numbers were also swollen by people who barely knew Nell, let alone her daughter. Susan Smith recalls turning up with an aunt and uncle who had never even met Kiri.
A few formal presentations ensured the Auckland press had their photo opportunities. Kiri was presented with a greenstone pendant by the King’s representative. Johnny Waititi delivered a speech and an elaborate scroll addressed to ‘Dearest Kiri’ on behalf of the Maori Education Foundation.
In the years since he first offered support, Kiri had become increasingly close to the quiet, dignified Waititi. In ‘Uncle John’, as she often called him, she saw a younger version of her father. Yet it was Tom who provided the emotional highpoint of the evening with a powerful and heartfelt speech. ‘We didn’t know he had it in him,’ said Don Hutchings, who like everyone else in the hall had grown used to Tom’s almost invisible presence.
In the time he had known the Te Kanawas, Hutchings had been touched by the quiet devotion Tom had shown his daughter. ‘He would sit there and look at her and not say a word. His eyes would twinkle and you knew what was going through his head,’ he said.
For the first time he expressed those feelings publicly. ‘He called her his jewel and said this was the magic part of his life because he had been gifted both the time with her and Kiri the person. Kiri was his gift from whoever was looking after him.’ Kiri’s tears were not the only ones shed during Tom’s oration. ‘It was a magnificent presentation, a very moving address,’ said Hutchings.
Kiri, naturally, was asked to sing at one point in the evening. Her performance opened at least one guest’s eyes to the true extent of the talents she had, as yet, barely tapped. ‘Everyone was asking Kiri to sing and eventually she said “Alright.”,’ remembered Neil McGough, her old conductor from Uwane. ‘Everything went quiet and she sang a lovely aria. As Kiri came to this great, glorious moment in the aria and everyone had their mouths open, Lou Clauson and Simon Mehana, the popular radio comedy duo, tiptoed in the door and stood quietly at the back. She stopped in mid-phrase and shouted “Hello Lou! Hello Simon! Be with you in a minute”, and then finished the song.’
McGough was stunned by Kiri’s seeming disconnection from her singing. ‘It was one of the most amazing things. You’d think that to sing like that would have taken complete focus. But she could have been thinking about whether there was enough pâté in the fridge at home,’ he recalled.
For McGough, at least, it was the most revelatory moment of the night. ‘That really made me realise Kiri had no idea how good she was.’
Kiri ended the musical interlude by inviting Lou and Simon to join her on the stage. Her hammy performances with the duo had become hugely popular at Mitchell Street. ‘The three of them would have us all in tears of laughter singing “There’s a Hole in My Bucket, Dear Liza”,’ recalled Kiri’s niece Judy Evans-Hita. That night, however, they played it straight, linking arms with Kiri for an emotional version of the Maori favourite, ‘Pokarekare ana’.
It was clear that Kiri was having the time of her life. ‘She had an absolute ball that night,’ remembered Hutchings, who had done more than most to contribute to her high spirits. By now the best-selling success of ‘The Nun’s Chorus’ was transforming Kiri into a new musical star.
Hutchings had begun the job of chivvying and charming ‘The Nun’s Chorus’ on to the New Zealand airwaves early in the year. At first the record’s sales had been sluggish. Over a friendly beer Hutchings had persuaded Les Andrews, an old friend of Tony Vercoe and the host of the country’s most popular radio show, on the ZB station, to inject a little interest with a few, contrived early plays. Hutchings smiled at the memory. ‘Obviously, we dreamed up a few requests. It was marketing ploy people are not reluctant to use today either.’
In its two-hour Sunday lunchtime slot before New Zealand’s television service cranked into life at 3 p.m., Andrews’s show drew an audience any Royal wedding or cup final would be proud of. It may only be a small exaggeration to say that, with the whole country listening, the gift of stardom was his to confer. ‘It was the most popular programme in the country. It had the market to itself,’ Hutchings recalled.
After three weeks of false solicitations Andrews suddenly began to receive genuine requests for the record. ‘There was a trickle at first and then an avalanche,’ recalled Hutchings. Soon ‘The Nun’s Chorus’ became the most requested record Les Andrews ever had. It was perhaps an indication of New Zealand’s curious musical taste that the only record that remotely rivalled it was Spike Milligan’s quirky ‘Bad Jelly the Witch’.
Kiri’s popularity was soon being translated into record sales.