by Lola Jaye
“Don’t let me stop you. You carry on singing. Please. It was so nice. Plus I should tell you, the last verse of that song is my favorite,” said the man. Pat had never hummed for an audience before, let alone a stranger, and definitely not a man.
She shook her head slowly.
“Please… It’s too lovely not to be heard by anyone.”
Enjoying his plea, she let out a quick hum—then thought better of it.
“Please?” he reiterated, and her resistance began to thaw again. She hummed and felt a bit silly, but she bravely carried on for a verse.
“I can’t!” she protested as the queue slowly inched forward.
“Yes, you can. You can do anything you want to do,” he said. Pat covered her mouth with her hand, hoping he hadn’t seen the smile forming on her face or the butterflies doing “the Lambeth Walk” in her tummy.
“I can see you’re not married then. Good. At least tell me your name?”
“It’s … it’s Patricia Smith. Pat. A bit ordinary, really,” she said as a droplet of rain landed on the tip of her nose.
“There’s nothing ordinary about you, Pat Smith,” he said, lightly brushing the droplet from the end of her nose. Her whole body tensed up at the audacity of his touch.
“I can see it and I can hear it in that voice of yours. You’re special.”
Pat realized that this was the second time someone had referred to her as special in her entire life. First her mother two years ago and now this strange man. Maybe it was true or maybe they were all talking out of their arses. All she knew was that it was “out there”: the suggestion, which seemed to be enough to kick-start the thought that she was perhaps on to something life changing where her voice was concerned. Perhaps.
“Pat, that last verse of ‘Wings of My Love’…?”
“Yes…”
“I have a feeling it’s going to come true.”
Pat felt an unexpected explosion of joy in every bone and in every crevice of her body as the sky opened up to more rain. This was to be a special day, she knew it.
A day, she hoped, that would catapult Pat Smith straight out of who she’d once been and straight into a life less ordinary.
Chapter 5
Pat
1972
Barry Reid wasn’t the type of name Pat would have associated with someone posh, so perhaps he wasn’t so posh after all. But he was certainly a man with manners and so far removed from the burping, swearing, loudmouthed brothers she’d been used to. Barry possessed a gentle streak tempered with a quiet strength that, although unfamiliar to her, she liked. For their first date, he’d picked her up in his Ford Cortina, making sure to open the car door for her; and once inside the restaurant, he stood whenever she got up to go to the loo. And he took time out to recommend and explain the dishes she’d never heard of, which was about 99 percent of the menu, without making her feel stupid and “uncultured.” In fact, it had been the first time she’d set foot in a restaurant before and made such a welcome change from the noisy and cluttered pie and mash shop.
They were walking up Portobello Road one night with Pat carrying a lurking suspicion that something had changed in their relationship. They’d become closer. She felt him all around her, even when they were apart, and she hoped it was a mutual feeling.
“Are you happy, Pat?” asked Barry. He was constantly asking her questions—about her day, her hopes and dreams. She’d never had one person be so interested in her. At first it felt peculiar and she’d mistrusted his interest, remembering her mum’s daily rant of “men can’t be trusted, can they?” Pat was unsure of why Barry would want to know so much about her, anyway. But since accepting this as the kind of man he was, she’d allowed herself to accept it as something good.
“Yes, I am happy,” she replied robustly as he turned to her. The feel of his hand as it brushed against her own was like a soft silky feather against her skin, causing a slight chill to course through her body along with a momentary fear that she might not ever see him again. Was this what it felt like to really love a man? This feeling of fear and helplessness? If so, then Pat didn’t bloody well need it. But then she needed Barry. She was sure of that now.
As they strolled on, they came across a man and a lady both with big Afro hairstyles, headed in their direction. Like Pat and Barry, the couple seemed to be deeply engrossed in each other’s company and Pat wondered if they, too, were enjoying something special. The lady smiled politely in their direction when suddenly a car drove past and angry voices shouted obscenities.
“Are you all right?” called Pat.
“Thank you,” called the man as he and the lady disappeared hurriedly into the distance. It had all happened so quickly. The moving car, those horrible hateful words.
“Why would anyone say such things?” asked Pat, turning to Barry, feeling a mixture of anger, helplessness, and naïveté.
“Just some very ignorant people about,” said Barry, clutching her hand tightly. Pat immediately felt safe again, yet so sorry for that couple; she’d conjured up enough empathy to actually feel their distress. She’d often heard her brothers talk about people in a way she’d never, ever agree with. She’d heard about how some people were constantly treated in this country just because they were deemed to be different. But what was different? People bled the same, hearts beat the same. None of it made sense to Pat, still reeling from what she’d just witnessed, her heart beating intensely. They both discussed the incident on their way back to Pat’s, and as she sensed the evening drawing to a close, she felt determined it would end positively.
When Barry kissed her full on the mouth, it was loaded with sincerity and warmth—genuine and thoughtful just like Barry. When he took her hands in his, it was the moment Pat knew that no matter what evil lurked in the corners of Portobello Road, or indeed on the moon now that blokes had stood on it, she was safe.
She would forever be safe.
Barry and Pat were married at the registry office, with Pat dressed in a long cream halter neck jersey dress and Barry in a very smart light blue suit with a cream ruffled shirt. Pat’s mother beamed with pride, at times mumbling something about “your good-for-nothing dad not even having the good grace to give his daughter away” while Pat’s sister seemed more concerned about fueling the gossip surrounding Pat’s “pregnancy.” But Pat was able to eliminate the surrounding negative vibes and downright ungratefulness on her big day (considering Barry had paid for everything) and instead focused on what she now had. A future, a husband.
Barry Reid may have been ten years older than her, clever, almost posh, and liked to talk about cricket on occasion, but being with him made her feel loved, listened to, and wanted. More than that, she was able to just be herself with him. Barry was never one to judge her or anyone else for that matter. She loved that quality about him because it reminded Pat of herself. She also felt comfortable honing her vocal skills in front of him, accepting constructive criticism and useful advice and all in the privacy of their own home—a small two-bedroom flat in Slade Green—where she utilized every inch of their living space to practice without the fear of ridicule. Prancing around the house with a mop as a microphone as she cleaned or a hairbrush as she watched television, her singing at last was allowed to flourish into a passion that had always really been there, deep down inside her, but never allowed to bask in the sunlight.
Barry never tired of listening to “his Trish.” The wife who sings—that was how he introduced her to friends in the pub or to anyone who’d listen, joking how he’d one day help turn her into a big, big star. At least Pat had assumed it to be a gag, until overhearing him explain to his brother, Brian, that he’d do whatever it took to get her heard by others. Indeed, when Barry mentioned a mate at Abbey Road studios, she’d thought he was kidding. But Pat quickly found herself in that very recording studio familiarizing herself with the microphone and finding it hard not to imagine a spotlighted moment on stage giving the Beatles a helping hand when they were still togethe
r. Unfortunately, Barry’s contact, one of the studio cleaners, soon got fired and, in Barry’s own words, they were “back to square one.” But the excitement grew daily, feeding off this new need to succeed, to make her husband proud and most of all to partake in something she actually loved doing. Because once she’d got over the fact she’d been touching things the Beatles had once breathed on, she’d really enjoyed the feeling of listening to her voice come to life, imagining the backup singers and musicians onstage as their sounds blended into sweet melodies. She wanted more of it. She wanted it all. So, for the very first time in her life, Pat knew exactly what she wanted to do with her life.
Pat was going to sing, and she wanted people, lots of people, to hear her do it.
Barry, unable to even contemplate letting her down (as she had come to realize), eventually began to secure slots in local pubs. The pay was bad but, as Barry explained, gave Pat valuable experience with a band and live audience. After enough time, Pat was finally ready for a shot at something bigger, with Barry securing a regular slot for Pat in a large bar up on Old Compton Street. It wasn’t Ronnie Scots, and it only paid a few pounds, but for Pat it wasn’t about the money. She wanted her voice to be heard by more than her beloved Barry and a handful of drunks.
“You can do this!” encouraged Barry as Pat stood backstage in a light green dress, wearing huge green platforms with a pretty pink base. Barry had bought them for her because he’d seen a couple of “trendy” girls wearing them up West. Although she’d been touched at his thoughtfulness, trying to balance herself on them on what was possibly one of the biggest nights of her life only added to her angst.
“I’m scared!” disclosed Pat as the MC cracked unfunny jokes on stage, the announcement of her name imminent.
“No need for nerves. You are wonderful, love, and you look so beautiful tonight. Just like you always do.”
Pat wasn’t sure she looked beautiful, a bit over made up, yes. Her dyed blond hair fell down in soft curls, and her face was covered in a lot more makeup than she’d ever worn before. But beautiful? No one but Barry had ever called her that before.
“You’ve done this dozens of times!” encouraged Barry as he puffed on a cigarette.
“For you! It’s not the same, Barry!” she pointed out, though in a perverse way liking the nerves percolating in her tummy. They seemed to make her feel alive.
“I’d give you a puff of this, but I know how it affects your voice,” he said as the MC announced Pat’s name and the band literally made a song and dance about her imminent arrival.
That night Pat stepped onto the stage with a slight wobble, thanks to the shoes, and immediately experienced an out-of-body sensation. She became “Trish” standing in front of a small but appreciative crowd of watching, whistling, and applauding people. She belted out covers of the Supremes, Dusty Springfield, and the Carpenters, delivering each song with a genuine raw emotion, a feeling so strong, it rose from her gut and shook her almost out of those platform heels and into the audience. When Trish crooned a sad song, she thought of her father leaving. When Trish glided into an upbeat performance, it was thoughts of Barry that jumped about in her head. With every note, she could feel the intensity of the emotion flow right back at her from those who sat watching. Her audience. What a feeling!
The end of her first-ever non-pub-related performance left Pat covered in a thick cloak of applause, cheers, and happiness; and she was slightly ashamed to admit, she wanted more. The noise was deafening. Tiny beads of sweat trickled down the side of her head, her heart raced, and her face ached with the intensity of constantly smiling. The applause continued. Those lucky enough to have snagged a chair were now on their feet, joining in with the clapping, calling out her name: “Trish!” “Trish” “Trish!”
Pat immediately began counting down to the moment she could become Trish once more and do this all over again. It felt absolutely amazing.
Singing in the heart of London meant Pat was able to meet an array of interesting people from countries and cultures she’d never even heard of. A singer named Maria Tucker and Travis, a drummer from Montserrat who looked remarkably like the man from Boney M with his huge Afro and tight trousers, became her good friends on the circuit. Both were bags of fun to be around and quick to share stories of their time on the road, recount who they’d performed with, and gossip solidly about the “biggest bitches in the industry”—always over a drink and sometimes a bit more. Pat and Barry were never into the “a bit more,” not that Maria and Travis would ever notice. Most of their time was spent stuck to each other’s faces as Pat and Barry looked away with shocked embarrassment.
The one thing blighting Pat’s newfound joy as she sang was that moment her eyes searched the audience for her mum or any member of her family. She would have loved to have spotted them sitting there, puffed with pride. But they never came. Of course, she couldn’t imagine her mother treading the cobbles of Soho with her bunions anyway, but her brothers liked a drink, and free booze for members of her family was part of the perks. But still, they never came. In fact, when she’d first suggested it, their reaction wasn’t as she’d hoped.
“We’re not going and that’s that!” confirmed Pat’s brother as he tore into a hunk of their mother’s homemade bread. Pat’s mother sat on the chair, chin balancing on arched hands. “If the boy doesn’t want to go, then leave him be!”
“That’s no place for my sister anyway!” he complained.
“I didn’t think you were that old-fashioned!” said Pat.
“Too many foreigners in there,” he mumbled.
“Are you joking or something?” asked Pat.
“You know what I mean.”
“No, I don’t.”
“It’s just not his type of place. Your brothers like to have a pint in the pub. That’s all he means,” said Pat’s mother, as usual defending “her boys.”
Pat decided not to pursue the issue anymore, saddened that still in 1975 her brother’s opinions remained riddled with prejudice. Pat had never been able to take an instant dislike to someone she’d never even spoken to before, especially without teasing out their opinions and having an idea of what moved them, what drove them as human beings. To hate someone based on nothing more than their appearance didn’t make any sort of sense to Pat and was beyond her capability to understand. It just wasn’t who she was, it wasn’t who Barry was, and she’d naively hoped that eventually everyone else around her would feel that way, too.
Pat honed her act to near perfection as time afforded her the confidence to become the type of performer she wanted to be. Her audience grew along with her self-belief, and she liked to engage on a personal level with them before each performance. A short sentence about the song and what it meant to her helped calm down her nerves before each performance.
One night she noticed a man at the front, nearer to the stage. He was smartly dressed in a red bell-bottom suit and wore a brown hat and had shaded dark glasses over his eyes. Pat wondered if he was just passing through on his way to a classier establishment, as he seemed to stand out from the regular crowd. He smiled confidently in her direction, clutching a glass of something, the top half of his body tilted over the bar. The epitome of cool.
“This song was played at my wedding. It was our first dance and it’s called ‘The First Time Ever I Saw Your Face’…”
The applause rang out. The man’s smile remained intact, almost pasted on, until Pat began the first line of the song. As she sang she remembered the best day of her life, marrying the man she loved—that first moment she saw his face. Each syllable represented her thoughts, her joy, and she could see the audience felt some of that too as they swayed from side to side. The strange man may have felt too much because he appeared to be choking on his drink. Pat’s voice never faltered, and the man never shifted his gaze from behind those glasses, and apart from the slight choking, he never moved a muscle.
She managed to block him out as she belted out the next number, with slick move
ments and raw sexuality oozing from her on every corner of the stage. Pat felt the performance had been her very best and, as always, Barry helped her off the stage and through to the dressing room where the man with the red suit now waited, flashing a card and very white teeth.
“Pat, I want you to meet someone,” said Barry excitedly.
The man’s name was Robin. He worked for a record company.
And he wanted to make a record with Pat.
Chapter 6
The little girl, dressed in a pink satin dress with a pretty cream bow tied up at the back, was gorgeous. “Please, can I have your autograph?” she asked.
Pat bent down to sign the crumpled piece of paper in her hand, but as she pressed down, her name wouldn’t appear.
“Here, lean on this, Trish!” said the child’s mother, proffering a newspaper for Pat to rest on.
“Ta,” said Pat as she rested the newspaper on the wall.
Mother and child looked on in awe as the name “Trish” appeared on the paper in slanted writing.
“There you go, young lady,” said Pat.
“Say thank you,” said the child’s mother, herself a bundle of excitement.
“Thank you, Trish! Wow!” she said as if suddenly realizing who was actually standing in front of them. Pat felt a snug warmness inside. She loved the child fans the best, watching their faces light up as she walked onto the stage or signed record sleeves at a shop with Barry and Robin by her side, scarcely believing this was her life now. Over the past twelve months she’d gone from “the wife who sings” to “star”—and not just according to Barry. Her debut single “Do You Want This?” hit number one on the charts, staying put for five weeks. A whole month and a half (almost)! The rise had been swift and totally unexpected. Things like this just didn’t happen to a girl from South London, who for most of her life hadn’t a clue what she’d wanted to do, who she wanted to be, or what she could be.