by Pat Stewart
For my husband Johnny, and my children,
Peter, Stephen and Rachel
CONTENTS
TITLE PAGE
DEDICATION
CHAPTER 1 BONNY BABIES AND BARE-KNUCKLE FIGHTS
CHAPTER 2 SCHOOL SCRAPES
CHAPTER 3 HUMPTY DUMPTY AND HIGH KICKS
CHAPTER 4 BLACKPOOL BELLE
CHAPTER 5 THE GIRL IN THE SPOTTY DRESS
CHAPTER 6 DANCING QUEEN
CHAPTER 7 DOUBLE ACT
CHAPTER 8 THE SHOW MUST GO ON
CHAPTER 9 BREAK A LEG
CHAPTER 10 LET’S FACE THE MUSIC AND DANCE
CHAPTER 11 AFRICAN ADVENTURE
CHAPTER 12 GET ME TO THE CHURCH ON TIME
CHAPTER 13 THE BEVERLEY SISTERS AND THE FAR EAST
CHAPTER 14 SHOW ON THE ROAD
CHAPTER 15 BRING ME SUNSHINE
CHAPTER 16 KEEP A WELCOME IN THE HILLSIDE
CHAPTER 17 AGENT EXTRAORDINAIRE
CHAPTER 18 ABERFAN DISASTER
CHAPTER 19 THE KRAY TWINS
CHAPTER 20 WAITING IN THE WINGS
CHAPTER 21 PRISON SHOW AND SEX OFFENDERS
CHAPTER 22 TAP SHOES AND TUPPERWARE
CHAPTER 23 MAKING ENDS MEET
CHAPTER 24 BLAST FROM THE PAST
CHAPTER 25 LOSING JOHNNY
CHAPTER 26 BACK IN THE SPOTLIGHT
CHAPTER 27 TAKE A BOW
CHAPTER 28 ENCORE
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
PLATES
COPYRIGHT
CHAPTER 1
BONNY BABIES AND BARE-KNUCKLE FIGHTS
The deafening rumble outside sounded like thunder as it made its way along the street. I jumped out of bed, just as the noise reached a loud crescendo underneath my bedroom window.
‘Night George,’ a voice called.
‘Night, Arthur,’ Dad replied as I pressed my face hard against my bedroom window.
It was almost impossible to see him because it was dark outside. I wiped the palm of my hand against the pane of glass to try and get a better look, but it was no good because the other side had been smattered with coal dust that had drifted through the air from the nearby pit. I bobbed my face around until I found a clear patch, and that’s when I saw them – what looked like a hundred miners winding their way along the street below. Their wooden clogs clattered against the cobbled stones, making the awful din. I watched as the men proceeded up and along the street like a blackened snake, peeling away, one by one, into various terraced houses. Our home was one of them. I heard the back door slam and the sound of Dad’s clogs as he kicked them off to toast his feet against the kitchen fire.
‘Use t’tin bath,’ Mam’s voice called out.
Dad groaned. Even though we owned a proper bath, Mam always made him use the tin one. His skin was so filthy with coal dust that he’d always leave a black rim around the edge, which took hours to scrub clean. Dad wore something called banickers – a type of big cotton shorts. They were baggy at the bottom, which meant that, whenever he knelt down, the banickers would cover his kneepads. Dad was a ripper – one of the miners who removed rock from above the coal seam and set arches to raise the height of the road as the coalface progressed – so he was always kneeling down. His banickers had big square pockets on the side where he carried his metal snap (lunch) tin. But because he wore them all the time, the shorts would be filthy by the end of the week.
‘They’d stand up in t’corner of room if I put ’em there.’ Mam joked.
Instead, after a week down the pit, she’d scrub them in the same tin bath, using a wooden dolly peg and rubbing board. It was hard work, trying to loosen a week’s worth of coal dust, but Mam was proud and she’d spend ages trying to get them as clean as she could.
My father worked ten hours a day at the pit. He’d leave around midday, returning home well after 10pm. It was tough work, but the miners were a tough breed.
I was born in the village of Featherstone, just two miles from Pontefract, in West Yorkshire. I lived with my mam and dad in a small two-up, two-down house. Unlike other families in the street, I was an only child. Not that it bothered me, because there were always the neighbours’ children to play with. My parents were called George and Sarah Wilson. They were what would be considered by national standards ‘working-class poor’. Despite this, Mam made sure that I never went without. Before marrying Dad, Mam had worked as a maid in service for a wealthy family. Of course, she’d left as soon as she’d married but, unlike other women, she continued to work so she could give me the kind of chances in life she’d only ever dreamed of.
‘I don’t want yer to end up poor like me and yer dad,’ Mam insisted. ‘Yer need to work hard, our Pat. If yer do, yer’ll do well in life.’
I listened intently. I knew Mam wanted me to have a better life. Not that she was unhappy. My grandfather, George Davis, was the groundsman at Featherstone Rovers rugby club. The whole village was obsessed with rugby league so my grandfather was a well-respected man.
‘Why’s Granddad only got one eye?’ I asked Mam one day as she made dinner over a fire in the kitchen.
She stared hard into the bubbling pot of stew and gave it a stir with a heavy wooden spoon.
‘He used t’work down t’pit, like yer father, but he had to give it up when he lost his eye. He were involved in an accident down Mashems’ pit. It were terrible, our Pat. He were never right after it. Yer granny were dead worried about him and how they’d cope, but then he got a job looking after t’grounds at rugby club, so it all turned out alright in t’end.’
I often thought about Granddad and Grandma. My grandmother had been equally maimed at work, trapping her arm in a loom at a cotton mill. But she’d gone on to meet my granddad, marry and have children of her own. I always enjoyed it when Mam told me stories about Dad’s past and his family, because he never liked talking about it or them.
‘Tell me about Dad again?’ I begged.
‘What about ’im?’ Mam said, looking up from the bubbling stew.
‘Tell me about him fighting at the fairgrounds. Go on, please!’
She stifled a smile and began to explain.
‘Before yer were born, all t’miners came out on National Strike. It were tough going ’cause, if they didn’t work, they got nowt,’ she said, straightening up to wipe her hands against her pinny. ‘Any road, yer father decided only way he could make ends meet was to become a prize fighter working at t’fairground.’
‘So who did he fight?’ I asked, my eyes wide as I pictured Dad taking on all sorts of opponents.
‘Well, he fought anyone who asked. That were his job, see. People paid to fight him.’
I held up my hands and pretended to box the air.
‘Like this?’ I said, mimicking him.
Mam chuckled to herself.
‘Yes, just like that,’ she said, smiling and patting me on the head.
‘And did he win? Dad, I mean?’
‘Sometimes. Not always.’
My face fell as I pictured his disappointment.
‘But what happened when he lost?’
Mam picked up the spoon and began to stir the stew once more.
‘Well, if he didn’t win, he didn’t get paid. Simple as that.’
‘But what happened when he did win?’
‘Well, that’s when he got paid.’
I smiled.
‘How much? How much did he get paid, Mam?’
She drew a hand across her fair hair and pulled a few loose strands away fr
om her face.
‘Oh, not much. Only pennies. But he were fast, yer father. He weren’t particularly strong but he were fast on his feet, so he managed to avoid most of t’punches. Sometimes he’d get caught but not very often. He had to be quick because, if he were quick enough, t’other man would soon get worn out from punching nowt.’
‘But did he ever get hurt? Dad, I mean?’
Mam held out her hand and traced a finger along her knuckles.
‘Sometimes he’d split his hands open across there,’ she said. ‘And sometimes they’d catch him on his face but mostly he were all right. He put on a good show and that’s what people wanted to see – a good show. Although it were fighting, it were also entertainment to folks who were watching. Yer see, yer dad were a showman too.’
My mind wandered as I imagined him stepping into a boxing ring to thunderous applause.
‘And did he love it?’
‘He made a living from it, so I guess so.’
I’d never known much about Dad’s background or his family. There’d been a fall out long before I’d been born. Dad had hated his sister, Aunt Edith. Mam said she was a horrible woman. She’d explained that Edith had once tried to push her underneath a horse and cart before she’d married Dad.
‘But why?’ I asked, shocked that someone would want to hurt my lovely mam.
‘Because yer father were t’eldest boy, so he brought in most wages. Edith took all t’boys wages so, when yer father said he were gonna marry me, Edith weren’t ’appy.’
My mouth fell open.
‘So she tried to kill you, to stop Dad from marrying you?’ I gasped.
‘Aye, but it didn’t work ’cause, look,’ she said, patting her hands against her chest. ‘I’m still here.’
But I was still horrified.
‘So what happened after that?’
Mam settled down in her chair and smiled as she recalled.
‘Well, we didn’t ’ave much money, me and yer father, so we rented a room in someone else’s house. It’s what you did back then.’
‘But what about Aunt Edith? What happened to her?’
Mam waved her hand in the air.
‘Oh, Edith were all right. She always is. Granny Wilson had four other sons, so she just took money off them instead. But yer dad never spoke to her ever again.’
Mam explained how Granny Wilson had been married twice. She had three children with her first husband and five more with her second. But after Granny Wilson’s second husband had died, Edith decided to take control. She’d take the wages off her brothers for ‘housekeeping’ and hand them a pittance in return. She’d called it their ‘pocket money’. But when Dad met my mam, Edith realised he’d marry and leave home, so she hatched an evil plan. Thankfully, the cart had missed, but Dad and Edith had an almighty row and he moved out. He married Mam, and I was born shortly afterwards on a cold November morning in 1933. However, Edith continued to wreak havoc in the family home.
‘What else did she do?’ I asked, fascinated by evil Edith and her wicked ways.
‘Well, Edith, the boys and Granny Wilson lived in a little house right opposite Mashems’ pit. Edith watched t’men call at t’shop before they went into work to buy snuff and Woodbine tobacco. So she decided to take out t’bottom window of t’house and turn it into a shop.’
‘And the miners, did they come?’
‘Oh yes,’ Mam said with a laugh. ‘They came in their hundreds. So she started selling cigarettes, tobacco, pots of tea and boiled sweets. They’d suck ’em down the pit, you see, to keep their mouths moist. She even started selling bacon sandwiches!’
She explained that, in order to keep costs down, frugal Edith even reared her own pigs, which she kept in an allotment in the back garden. Once bacon supplies had run low, she’d simply go and slaughter another pig.
‘But smell were terrible.’ Mam recalled. ‘All t’neighbours complained but Edith didn’t care. As long as she were making money, she were ’appy.’
‘So she’s still got the shop then?’
Mam nodded.
‘She’ll stop at nothing to make money, that one.’
My mother told me the story of Uncle Eric. He was Dad’s youngest brother, who also happened to be a brilliant runner.
‘He were short, yer Uncle Eric, but he were quick on his feet, so Edith entered him into races. There were a lot of money to be made taking part in racing competitions.’
She explained that Edith often entered poor Eric into races with boys much younger than he was.
‘But that’s cheating!’ I cried.
Mam nodded. ‘Yes but Edith didn’t care, as long as he won first cash prize – then she were ’appy.’
I scratched my head.
‘But didn’t anyone notice that he was a bit older?’
Mam sat back in her rocking chair and chuckled away to herself.
‘Well, that were funny bit. Edith would sit Eric down and shave all t’hair off his legs to make him look younger. She didn’t want anyone asking questions,’ she said, tapping a finger against the side of her nose.
‘So what happened?’
‘Well, Eric continued to race, but then he left school at thirteen. Edith had given him a window-cleaning round to run, so he became far too old to enter t’competitions. Everyone spotted him on his window-cleaning round, so she had to think of summat else.’
My eyes were on stalks as I listened.
‘So, what did she do?’
‘Well, that were it. She knew she’d been rumbled so, whenever she entered Eric into a race, she’d call him Robert.’
‘Eh?’ I said, scratching my head.
Mam leaned forward in her chair and began to explain.
‘She called him Robert and told everyone he was Eric’s younger brother. She’d changed all t’other brothers’ names too, until everyone was so confused that no one knew who was called what!’
I went to bed later that evening dreaming of Uncle Eric with his shaved legs, bringing home the cash prize. My mother was right; Aunt Edith sounded horrible. I just prayed I’d never meet her.
A few days later, Dad and I were standing in the back garden, pulling up some root vegetables, when he tapped me on the top of my arm.
‘Quick, Pat. Look! There she is.’
I shook the soil from my hands and looked up to see a strange-looking woman pushing a cart along the back lane. There was a heavy wooden ladder balanced precariously across the top of it next to a bucket and a pile of rags. She looked more like a man because she was dressed in dirty old black overalls and wore a black beret on her head.
‘It’s your Aunt Edith,’ Dad whispered. ‘And look what she’s pushing.’
‘But I thought Uncle Eric did the window-cleaning round. Mam said—’
Dad held up his hand to shush me.
‘Aye, he did. But Eric left home to join t’RAF, so now the tight old goose has to do it herself. Serves her right,’ he said with a sniff.
He wiped his nose with the back of his hand and went back to his vegetable plot.
Dad never spoke a word to Edith that day. She’d also pretended not to see us, even though I knew she had. They held a mutual dislike of one another, and it seemed nothing or no one could heal the rift.
Although money was tight, when I’d been a baby, Mam and Dad scrimped enough together to have some professional photographs taken of me at Maud’s photographic studio in Pontefract. With my blonde hair set in Shirley Temple-style ringlets, my mother was determined I’d become a child model. She entered me in lots of bonny-baby competitions and, to her delight, with all her preening and dressing up, I bagged first prize. I became so successful that I landed a modelling contract, promoting a teething product called Bikipegs. They were large, finger-shaped biscuits, and soon we’d become overrun with them. Mam handed them out to the neighbours’ children because I decided I didn’t like the taste. She was thrilled when a photo of me holding a Bikipeg later appeared in The Parents magazine. Alongside the
picture were the immortal words: ‘Hasn’t she got lovely teeth? But they didn’t grow like that by chance. When she was teething, her mother gave her Bikipegs.’
Of course, she’d proudly showed the magazine to everyone she could think of. In Mam’s eyes, I’d just broken into the world of show business. It was a premonition of what was to come.
After my brush with fame, my parents decided I was destined for greater things so, when I was three years old, Dad took me along to my first dance class. It was held inside a studio in the Crescent Cinema, in Pontefract. I guess we must have looked quite a sight – a big, burly ex-prize fighter holding the hand of a curly-haired child, skipping along at his side – but I was accepted. Of course, I was much too young to join in the class, so the teacher allowed me to stand at the back and copy the older girls. By the age of five I loved dance so much that I’d run to my classes. Mam realised I had a natural talent for it and enrolled me in a much better school. Unlike the other school, this one had a reputation for preparing pupils for the Royal Academy of Dance. It was the kind of place a girl like me from a mining village in Yorkshire could only dream of. I worked harder than everyone else to try to become the best dancer I could be. Although I’d specialised in ballet, I adored all types of dance.
Soon it was time to start school. Although I’d made lots of new friends, I resented it because it just seemed to get in the way of my dance lessons. Half the time I’d sit in class, looking at the wall, watching the hands of the big brown Bakelite clock. I’d wait until they’d signalled it was time to go home, or more importantly, time to go to my dance class.
‘I know yer love yer dance, our Pat,’ Mum chided as soon as I ran in through the back door to grab my ballet pumps, ‘but yer also ’ave to work hard at school if you want to do well.’
‘Yes, Mam.’ I agreed, although I’d already decided I wanted to become a dancer.
Nothing else mattered and school – or anything else for that matter – would stop me from doing it. But then something happened that turned our world upside down. I was sat at home in the kitchen one morning when a voice came on the radio. Mam shushed my chatter as she and Dad sat there solemnly, listening to every word. The voice belonged to Neville Chamberlain.