The Girl in the Spotty Dress--Memories From the 1950s and the Photo That Changed My Life

by Pat Stewart

  This morning, the British Ambassador in Berlin handed the German government a final note stating that, unless we heard from them by eleven o’clock that they were prepared at once to withdraw their troops from Poland, a state of war would exist between us.

  I have to tell you now that no such undertaking has been received and that, consequently, this country is at war with Germany.

  As soon as I heard, I ran straight into Mam’s arms and began to sob. It was just before my sixth birthday, but I was old enough to understand. Mam lifted me up onto her lap and began to rock me gently back on forth in her chair.

  ‘Don’t worry, our Pat,’ she soothed. ‘Everything will be all right. I promise.’

  Although she’d tried her best to comfort me, inside I felt terrified because I knew something dreadful was about to happen. Within the hour, our house was full of neighbours and friends, all with one subject on their minds – war. The adults huddled together around the kitchen table, drinking endless cups of tea. Most had questioned how long the war with Germany would last.

  ‘It’ll be over before yer know it, George,’ one neighbour remarked to Dad.

  He shook his head grimly.

  ‘No, I don’t think it will. Reckon this war will go on for years.’

  Mam gasped and covered her mouth, as the other women discussed which men, sons and brothers would be called up to fight.

  I was worried about my father, terrified the nasty Germans would kill him. The thought rattled around inside my head until, by the end of the day, I felt exhausted with concern.

  ‘What’s the matter, our Pat?’ Mam asked as she cleaned away the cups from the kitchen table.

  ‘It’s Dad. Will he be called up to fight?’ I asked, my voice trembling.

  Mam smiled, placed the cups back down on the table and held me tight against her. Then she knelt down and tenderly kissed the top of my head.

  ‘Your father’s a miner, our Pat. They won’t call t’miners up because they need ’em to man t’pits.’

  ‘Really?’ I asked, looking up at her through tear-stained eyes.

  Mam nodded.

  ‘Yes, they’ll need someone to dig out t’coal to help fight Germans, won’t they?’

  Even though my mother had promised me Dad would be safe, I still understood what war meant and that people would die and suffer.

  ‘Are you sure we’re going to be all right?’ I whispered, trying to blink away my tears.

  Mam lifted her hand and gently stroked away some hair from my face.

  ‘Everything will be fine. I won’t let those nasty Germans hurt our Pat,’ she said, smiling.

  I’d wanted to believe her because I felt absolutely terrified of what the following months and years would bring. The only thing I could be certain of was that life would never be the same again, because the Second World War had just begun.

  CHAPTER 2

  SCHOOL SCRAPES

  Despite my fear and the war, life carried on pretty much as it had before. Of course, wartime rations were introduced, making times feel even tougher. But my mother was determined. To make up the extra money needed to pay for my dance classes, Mam picked peas and pulled potatoes in the farmers’ fields. Sometimes, particularly during the school holidays, she’d take me along with her.

  ‘No, our Pat, you need to pull the pods open and run your finger along like this to split t’peas,’ she said, demonstrating with her finger.

  I pulled off a pod and ran a thumbnail along the seam until it’d magically popped open in my hand, exposing a bed of peas nestled on a silken bed.

  ‘That’s right, clever lass!’ she encouraged.

  I was supposed to help, but always I ended up eating far more peas than I ever collected. At the end of the day, when all the sacks were finally weighed in, Mam would be rewarded for her hard work with a few pennies. The amount of money she received depended upon the weight of the individual sack. Pea-picking was back-breaking work, but it had taught me a valuable lesson that, with enough determination, it was possible to achieve your dreams, no matter how big they might seem.

  Mam bought and traded fabrics on the black market so she could make my stage costumes. The lady next door had had a baby and was given a weekly allowance of fresh orange juice. My mother, fearing I’d become weak and malnourished under wartime rations, bought the orange juice from her to give to me. It was only orange concentrate, but she was determined that I’d have the best things she could lay her hands on. When meat was scarce, Dad would nip out into the fields and set traps to catch wild rabbits. He’d return home with his ‘spoils’ and Mam would cook them up into a delicious stew, bulking the dish out with vegetables so it would feed the three of us for days.

  Even though the war raged on, I continued to dance. The years passed by slowly. When I was nine, I transferred to another dance school in Leeds. I’d travel there by bus twice a week. Mam would meet me at the school gates so that we could make the journey together.

  I was usually hungry after a full day at school and, as soon as we sat down on the bus, I’d tuck into sandwiches that Mam would always bring along for me. Although the bombs continued to drop all around us, I didn’t want to give up my dance classes. Ear-splitting warning sirens would pierce the air, alerting everyone to the imminent danger of enemy attack, but I refused to be intimidated and I continued to dance my way through the war. Nothing, it seemed, could stop me – not even Hitler’s bombs.

  Although I’d specialised in ballet, I also loved tap. I’d wear a top hat to sing and tap dance my way through a song called ‘The Darktown Strutter’s Ball’ – a popular Dixieland jazz song. Our dance class would perform at RAF and army base camps to try and keep morale high during the wartime years. I also joined an amateur dramatics group that staged theatre productions for the troops. I loved listening to ENSA – the Entertainments National Service Association – on the radio and hoped that one day I’d become part of it. But for now, I was happy to do my bit to help the allied troops beat the Germans.

  ‘As long as troops ’ave a song in their hearts, they’ll be ’appy,’ Mam insisted.

  She continued to cut and stitch my dance costumes by candlelight until I had quite a collection. As I grew, Mam traded in the smaller costumes for ones that fitted me. Although I’d excelled at dance, I wasn’t quite as keen or, indeed, enthused by my schoolwork. As if proof were needed, I failed my grammar school entrance exam at ten years old. Of course, Mam and Dad were disappointed, so I took it again, only to fail once more. Mam was determined I’d go to the local girls’ grammar school, so she decided she’d give me a helping hand.

  ‘I’ve paid for you to have extra lessons in t’summer holidays,’ she announced one day as we walked home from school.

  My face fell.

  ‘But it’s the summer holidays!’

  But Mam didn’t care – she was having none of it.

  ‘Tough! You’ll just have to work harder and make sure you pass this time.’

  While my friends were out skipping and sunning themselves in the local parks of Featherstone, I was stuck inside a classroom trying to pass a test I’d already failed twice. Maybe it was the thought of having to take it again and again but, somehow, I passed a third and final time. Thankfully for Mam and her pocket, I’d managed to scrape through by the skin of my teeth.

  I started at the girls’ grammar school the following September. Although I loved my posh new school uniform, I hated all the extra work that went with it. Almost overnight, there was no time for anything but study. With my head full of dance and my heart set on a life on the stage, I had little time for anything else. Instead, I’d sit in the lessons, my pencil poised in my hand, dreaming of dancing in grand theatres. I could only imagine what wonderful places they must be because I’d never actually been inside one. We were far too poor to afford the tickets for them, or even the cinema.

  ‘Patricia Wilson, are you listening?’ the teacher barked from the front of the class one day, snapping me back into the moment
.

  ‘Er, yes, Miss,’ I lied, looking down at the textbook in my hands, desperately trying to find the right place. But the truth was I hadn’t been listening, and both she and I knew it.

  All too soon my first school open evening had arrived. My mother was desperate to come along to ensure all her hard work had paid off.

  ‘You don’t have to come,’ I said, trying to convince her otherwise.

  Mam was busy folding some washing in the corner of the room. As soon as I spoke, she put down the sheet, straightened up

  ‘Of course I’m coming. Why wouldn’t I?’

  My heart beat furiously as panic set in.

  ‘It’s just that most of the other parents said they weren’t going to bother,’ I lied, trying to avoid eye contact.

  ‘Well, they might not bother but I will,’ she insisted, turning her attention back to the pile of washing.

  I realised then that I was doomed.

  The evening soon arrived, but Dad didn’t come along with us. He always left ‘school things’ up to Mam. He not only trusted her, he felt completely out of his depth when it came to matters of education. As a lad, Dad had left school barely able to read. But, as I grew and progressed through school, he became determined to learn how to read, and write too, so he enrolled at a nearby technical college. Dad had wanted to become a pit deputy but first he had to pass his papers. With the extra lessons and Mam behind him, he not only passed the exam, but he got the job and a much better wage.

  So Mam pulled her only overcoat from a peg behind the door and we set off towards the school. Her coat was black, so it was suitable for all occasions – funerals or weddings. With no money to spare, a black coat made sound financial sense.

  ‘Come on, our Pat,’ she said, giving me a nudge towards the classroom door as we entered the school. ‘Don’t dilly-dally now. Teacher’s waiting for us.’

  My mouth felt dry, and my heart was beating ten to the dozen as I pushed open the door. I looked over at the open window and, for a split second, considered jumping out of it and running off down the road. But I knew it was pointless. My mother would know within minutes that I’d spent the past year doing very little work. Suddenly, a panic gripped me.

  ‘What if she stops me going to my dance lessons? What then?’ I thought, as my heart sank to my knees.

  Thankfully, my teacher, Miss New, was a better person than me.

  ‘Good afternoon, Mrs Wilson,’ she said, standing up and taking my mother’s gloved hand in hers.

  ‘Afternoon,’ Mam replied with a smile as we both sat down opposite the teacher.

  Miss New glanced down at a big, brown marking book that was resting on the desk in front of her. I sat there with my tongue thick inside my mouth, too scared to speak, waiting for my whole world to come tumbling down.

  ‘Yes, Patricia Wilson,’ she remarked, tracing her finger down a list of names.

  Miss New lifted her head and looked me directly in the eye. I felt myself squirm. The edge of the wooden chair bit hard against the back of my legs as I held my breath.

  ‘Mrs Wilson, I’m delighted to tell you that we’ve decided to put Patricia up into next year. We plan to do this even though her exam results were, well, erm, not so good.’

  The teacher’s eyes were still boring into me, but I didn’t dare look at her. I bowed my head, waiting for the rest of it. Grabbing the edge of the chair for courage, I waited for her damning verdict but, instead, there was a moment’s silence. What she said next almost knocked me clean off my chair.

  ‘Patricia is a very capable girl,’ she said, leaning back in her chair. ‘She also has a very competitive edge so I think, if she puts her mind to something, she could do very well indeed.’

  The anxious breath I’d been holding inside came rushing out as a breath of relief. I’d just escaped a punishment worse than death! Although she knew I’d not performed brilliantly in my exams, my mother was absolutely none the wiser. Instead, she patted her hand fondly against my knee.

  ‘Yes, Miss New. Her father and I, well, we’re both very proud of our Pat,’ she said with a smile.

  As we left the classroom, I was still in a state of shock. Why had Miss New just saved my bacon? I’d been one of the laziest students in her class, so I was completely baffled as to why she’d decided not to let the cat out of the bag. But actually, Miss New was a very clever woman because, after that, I decided to repay the favour. Instead of daydreaming, I put all my efforts into excelling at school, working as hard as I possibly could. Looking back, the teacher knew me better than I knew myself because, from that day on, I applied myself. I wasn’t clever, but I soon realised that, with enough hard work, I’d be able to achieve the same grades as my peers. When I finally took my school certificate a few years later, to Mam’s delight, I passed it with flying colours.

  ‘You’re a clever lass, our Pat. I always knew yer had it in yer,’ she trilled as soon as I shared the good news.

  By now, I was excelling at school, as well as in my dance lessons. I seemed to outgrow my old dance school and soon I was on the lookout for something bigger and better. I’d heard of another, more prestigious place, called Lilymans’ Dance School, also based in Leeds. Lilymans was said to be the best school in Yorkshire, and I desperately wanted to go there. I knew they only accepted the best dancers, so I hoped that one day I’d be good enough to join.

  A few years later, the war ended. I was still only twelve, but it felt as though my life had just begun because, for the first time, I was allowed some freedom. With the war over, Mam decided it was safe for me to travel alone to my dance classes. It’d also save her a fortune on bus fare.

  One day I took advantage of my newfound freedom. I wandered through Leeds city centre looking for the Lilymans’ Dance School. After a bit of a trek, I found it bang in the heart of City Square. However, because it was a Saturday, the school wasn’t open. My heart sank as my hand pushed against the locked door. I tried again and again, but I kept missing the opening times. One Wednesday evening, I decided to give it one last try. To my delight, as I approached, I noticed that the door was slightly ajar. The telltale plink of piano keys carried through the air as I dared myself to step inside. My hand was still shaking as I pushed open the heavy wooden door, taking an extra deep breath for courage. As it swung open, a dozen girls’ faces turned to look at me, but I was too busy standing in the doorway, taking it all in. I was rooted to the spot. It didn’t look, or even feel, like any other dance school I’d ever been to before. Instead, it felt as though I’d just stepped inside a television studio.

  ‘Yes, may I help you?’ a voice called out from the back of the room.

  It belonged to a grim-looking lady. She momentarily looked up from the piano, lifted a hand and beckoned me over. Dressed in a dour tweed skirt, thick brown tights and a brown cardigan, she looked a bit like a Sunday-school teacher. The dancers were standing at the bar in position, awaiting her instruction. They were dressed in a uniform of black leotards and pink ballet shoes, with matching Alice bands and nets in their hair.

  ‘Keep your eyes forward, please, garls,’ the woman scolded, tapping her hand sharply against the top of the piano. ‘Stop looking at the young lady.’

  The dancers did as they were told and the lady turned her attention back to me.

  ‘May I help you?’ she asked again, peering over the top of a pair of tortoiseshell-rimmed spectacles. She had streaky, short grey hair that made her look masculine and fierce.

  ‘Er, er,’ I stammered, trying to search for the right words.

  I knew I could dance and that this school would be my passport to fame and fortune. Swallowing back my nerves, I stepped forwards and approached. The woman looked me up and down and waited for me to speak.

  ‘Erm, I’d like to join your dance school,’ I said, blurting out the words a little too quickly.

  ‘Do you now?’ she replied – more a question than an answer.

  I thought she might ask me to audition on the spot. I wa
s prepared to do it but she didn’t ask. She must have realised how much nerve it had taken for me to walk across the room and approach her. After a slight pause, the teacher, who turned out to be Ms Lilyman herself, agreed to take me on.

  ‘All right then, you may start next week,’ she decided before turning back towards the other dancers.

  ‘I said eyes front, garls!’ she snapped.

  The music started up and the dancers began to tiptoe in unison.

  ‘Thank you!’ I gasped. ‘You won’t regret it!’

  I ran out of the building and back onto the street outside. I tried to catch my breath but I couldn’t stop myself from smiling. I’d just been accepted into one of the best dance schools in Yorkshire! Then I remembered something and my stomach flipped with nerves – what on earth would Mam say?

  I needn’t have worried.

  ‘I’m so proud of yer, our Pat,’ she said, grabbing my face between both hands.

  She pulled me forward and planted a wet kiss on my forehead.

  ‘So you’re not angry with me?’ I asked.

  ‘Angry? Why would I be? Yer used yer own initiative to get in there. I’m proud of yer, that’s what I am.’

  However, her face fell a little when I explained the fees would cost a little more.

  Mam sighed and sat down heavily at the kitchen table as she worked out how and where she’d find the extra money.

  ‘I’ll just have to get another job,’ she decided. ‘But it’ll be worth it when me and yer dad see you up on that stage.’

  In the end, she took on extra waitressing to pay for my new lessons. After that, I attended Lilymans’ four times a week.

  With the war at an end, the following months felt full of joy and celebration. Peace must have filtered into the hearts of every man, woman and child because, a year later, in May 1946, I was asked if I wanted to meet up with Granny Wilson and the notorious Aunt Edith. Edith had approached Mam’s youngest sister to tell her she was taking her daughter Lucy to London to watch the Victory Parade celebrations. Edith had planned to stay with Dad’s half-sister, my Aunt Nellie, and wondered if I’d like to go with them.