When they walked into their first ever council flat, the Marriott family couldn’t believe their luck. Compared to the accommodation they were used to, 9 Daines Close, Manor Park was stunning. Located on the third floor of a four-storey building, the flat had three bedrooms and a front room that measured twelve by twelve. On the wall was a serving hatch, behind it the small kitchen, and then, to the left – and they couldn’t get over this – their very own bathroom. Thirteen years after the end of the Second World War and life for the Marriotts was better than any of them had ever expected.
There were four members in the family, Bill and Kay, the father and mother, Steve and Kay, the son and daughter.
Mother and son were the dominant characters. Between them existed a tight bond that they would both tug on all their lives, forever seeking to impose their iron will upon the other. Even fighting simply drew them closer and closer together.
The son was talented; extremely so. At thirteen years of age he had already left formal education and was now paying his way through the prestigious Italia Conti drama school in Brixton.
The whole family was behind him. They knew he had talent, knew he was destined to be somebody. It was a given in the Marriott family.
As they settled into life at Daines Close the signs of this talent became clearer. Take that night, that cold night in October 1963, when the young Marriott came out of his bedroom and walked into the sitting room to find his mother and father watching the nationally popular variety show Sunday Night At The London Palladium on their small black and white television. Round his way – round most people’s ways at the time – everyone stayed in to watch this show. It meant they could go in to work the next day and have something to talk about.
Not Steve Marriott. He has little time for light British entertainment. His kicks come from the American R&B records he has been collecting these past few years. That’s why he is dressed up to the nines tonight. He is off to a club to listen and dance to the records and sounds of black America.
Music falls out of the television. Instantly, Marriott turns, studies the screen intensely. Four young men from Liverpool are playing their latest disc and in the process busy changing lives across the country. After a minute, Marriott’s face relaxes and he screws his nose up.
‘Load of rubbish,’ he sneers in his fresh, Cockney voice. His father looks round at him. He doesn’t confront his son a lot, that’s his mum’s job. But, he is not standing for this slice of insolence. Son or not, this young man needs taking down a peg or two.
‘Steve,’ he says, ‘when you can sell out the London Palladium like the Beatles have done tonight you can make such judgements, but until then, you’ll do well to keep your opinions to yourself.’
‘Yeah,’ Steve Marriott retorts, buttoning up his coat. ‘Well, one day I’ll sell out the London Palladium and then you’ll see.’
Most families would have laughed at such a declaration from one of their members. The Marriotts knew better. So did their son. Nearly ten years later, in March of 1973, Steve Marriott sold out the London Palladium. Just like he said he would.