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

by Pat Stewart

  DOUBLE ACT

  The show was six weeks into its run when I got another call to go to the stage door. We’d just finished the Wednesday afternoon matinee, so I wondered who on earth it could be waiting to see me on a wet, cold day in the middle of the week.

  ‘Who is it, Harry?’ I asked.

  ‘Dunno,’ he replied, shrugging his shoulders. ‘It’s just some fella. Said he’d stand and wait for you after the show.’

  I pulled a face.

  ‘Maybe it’s another admirer. Or the Picture Post,’ Harry joked, his voice trailing behind me as I walked down the corridor and headed towards the stage door.

  ‘I hope it’s not that doctor!’ I said and laughed.

  As I turned the corner, I spotted a young, smartly dressed gentleman standing with his overcoat draped across one arm, shaking the rain off his suit. I’d never seen him before in my life.

  ‘Hello,’ he said, his face breaking into a wide smile. ‘You must be Patricia Wilson.’

  He held out his hand so I could shake it.

  ‘Yes, but everyone calls me Pat,’ I replied warmly, taking his hand.

  ‘Pat, oh, right you are,’ he said, pointing a finger against his temple as if to make a mental note. ‘Sorry, where are my manners? My name is Bernard. Bernard Bresnick, but everyone calls me Nick Bernard. That’s my stage name and that’s what everyone calls me here in Blackpool.’

  I nodded my head to show I’d understood but, actually, I was still none the wiser.

  ‘I’m a dancer too,’ Nick explained. ‘I dance in a show called Life with the Lyons. We’re currently performing at one of the other theatres in Blackpool. Anyway, listen, could I take you out for coffee?’

  I backed away, a little startled by his forward suggestion. Nick laughed and waved his hand in the air.

  ‘No, sorry. Nothing like that. It’s just that I have a business proposal for you.’

  I was intrigued. What would someone like Nick Bernard want with someone like me?

  ‘All right then. Give me five minutes. I just need to get out of my stage costume.’

  ‘Sure. I’ll wait here for you, if that’s all right?’

  ‘It’s fine.’ I smiled. ‘I’ll only be a moment.’

  I changed back into my own clothes, removed what makeup I could with a dab of liquid paraffin and met Nick back at the stage door.

  ‘Why don’t we grab a coffee inside the theatre bar?’ I suggested as he followed me inside.

  ‘The thing is,’ he said, pouring a heaped spoonful of sugar into his cup and giving it a stir. ‘I’ve been coming to the Wednesday matinee every week since the show opened.’

  I sat back in my chair in surprise. The show had been going for six weeks.

  ‘You have?’ I gasped.

  Nick nodded.

  ‘Yes, and I’ve noticed you. I don’t know what it is about you – maybe it’s the blonde hair or the fact you’re tall but I think you’re good. What I mean is I think you’re a great dancer.’

  I bowed my head. I was still young and a little unsure of myself. Despite my stage bravado, I felt awkward because I didn’t know how to accept a compliment.

  ‘It’s true, Pat.’ Nick continued. ‘Anyway, I don’t know about you, but I’ve had it with being in a chorus line. I want to start up a double act and I hope that’s where you’ll come in.’

  ‘Me?’ I said, startled.

  ‘Yes, you. You see, I’m looking for a female dance partner and I think you’ll be perfect. So… do you think you’d be interested?’

  The thought of being in a double act without having to share the stage with eleven other Tiller Girls sounded idyllic. I didn’t even need time to consider it.

  I leaned forward and looked Nick directly in the eye.

  ‘When do we start?’ I asked and laughed.

  Nick grinned, held out his hand and we shook on the deal.

  ‘Welcome, partner.’

  I ran straight back to the dressing room to tell the other girls.

  ‘I’ve just agreed to become part of a double act with a dancer called Nick Bernard,’ I blurted out, the words escaping my mouth as soon as I’d entered the room.

  Hilda gasped.

  ‘Since when?’

  ‘Just now,’ I said, pointing back towards the door. ‘I’ve just met him in the theatre cafe. He’s been looking for a female dancer, so I’ve agreed to become his partner.’

  The whole room whooped with collective delight. We were a close team and I considered them more family than colleagues, so they were almost as excited as I was by the news.

  ‘So when will you start?’ Someone piped up from the back of the room.

  ‘At the end of the summer season when they switch on the illuminations, I suppose,’ I answered, although I’d not really thought that far. ‘But I expect we’ll have to start rehearsing soon so we can get some bookings.’

  As much as I loved being a Tiller Girl, after two long summer seasons, it had lost its shine. I just didn’t find it as fulfilling anymore. In fact, the monotony of the dance routines had driven me to frustration and to a point where I felt as though my standard of dancing was beginning to slip.

  Nick and I began rehearsing almost straight away. I asked, and was granted, special permission to practise every morning on the North Pier stage. I was still living in a shared house with Edna, Sheila and two other girls, but I’d become good friends with a girl called Doreen. Like me, Doreen was tall but she was a little slighter in build and wore her dark hair short. She was also a North Pier Tiller Girl but, unlike the rest of us, her parents lived in Blackpool. Doreen had invited me over for dinner where I met her mum and dad, who were warm and friendly. In fact, they were so welcoming that they’d invited me into their home like a long-lost relative.

  ‘Just call me Aunt Mary,’ her mother said, spooning a huge helping of stew onto a dinner plate for me. She pointed over at her husband, who was sitting opposite us at the dinner table. ‘And you can call him Uncle Jim.’

  Before long, I was spending so much time there that I was asked if I’d like to stay in the spare bedroom. It was lovely to have my own space, my meals prepared and my laundry taken care of by Aunt Mary. Although I continued to pay my share of the rent back at my old digs, I loved spending time at Doreen’s house.

  Back at the theatre, it was decided the Sunday concerts, with the silly no-dancing rule, should be scrapped altogether. So after the close of curtain on Saturday night, Sunday became a free day for us all. One night, in a bid to repay her kind hospitality, I invited Doreen to travel with me to visit my parents at their house in Featherstone.

  ‘Come on, Doreen. Hurry up, otherwise we’ll miss the last train,’ I said, grabbing my coat and my bag as I ran out the dressing-room door.

  ‘Coming!’ Doreen called and we dashed along the rain-soaked North Pier boards towards the town’s railway station. By the time we reached Blackpool station, we were out of breath. We realised it was so late that there wasn’t a direct train back to Featherstone that evening. Thinking on my feet, I booked a train to the nearest station: a place called Sharlston, which was four miles east of Wakefield, in West Yorkshire.

  ‘But how will we get from Sharlston to Featherstone so late at night?’ Doreen asked, beginning to panic a little.

  I tapped the side of my nose with a gloved finger.

  ‘Don’t worry, Doreen, I’ve got a plan.’

  The train pulled into Sharlston railway station around midnight and we disembarked onto a deserted platform.

  ‘What now?’ Doreen asked, looking all around us.

  ‘Follow me!’ I said and grinned.

  I marched out of the station and towards the local police station. As we approached it, Doreen put a hand against my shoulder to try to halt me.

  ‘Wait a moment. The police station?’ She gasped. Her face was clouded with worry.

  ‘Don’t fuss, Doreen. We’re two young girls, stranded late at night in the wrong town. They’re bound to want to help.�
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  With that, I grabbed the door handle and stepped inside the warm reception area. I spied a brass bell on the side of the counter, so I pressed it and waited for assistance. Moments later, a lovely young constable came to the front desk to ask what the matter was.

  ‘We’ve got ourselves in the most awful pickle,’ I began, taking a lace-edged hanky out of my handbag, dabbing it at the corner of my eyes. ‘It’s my friend and I,’ I said, gesturing over towards Doreen, who was standing behind me. She looked up at the officer and pulled a sad face. ‘We’ve found ourselves stranded. We’ve missed our connection and now we’re stuck here, in the middle of Sharlston, with no money and nowhere to stay for the night.’

  I let out a little sob and looked down as I waited for the constable to take the bait. Unsurprisingly, he seemed alarmed at the sight of two young distraught women standing in front of him.

  ‘Where is it you were trying to get to, Miss?’ he asked gently.

  ‘Featherstone. My parents live there. But we didn’t realise when we set off from Blackpool that there wasn’t a late-night connection…’ I sobbed.

  ‘Blackpool?’ The constable repeated, scratching his head. ‘Have you been on holiday?’

  ‘No, we’re both professional dancers. We’re Tiller Girls, you see. Perhaps you’ve seen them on the stage? We high-kick and dance at the end of Blackpool’s North Pier. We’re dancers in a show.’

  ‘Dancers, you say?’ the officer replied, straightening his tie a little. He ran his fingers through his Brylcreemed hair. Now I had his full attention.

  ‘Yes. My friend and I, we’re both Tiller Girls.’

  The officer looked from Doreen to me and back again.

  ‘Tiller Girls? Right you are. Well, in that case, I’m sure we’ll have an officer available who would be willing to give you two ladies a lift home. I mean, we can’t have two young girls walking the streets on their own late at night, can we?’

  I shook my head.

  ‘’Ere, give us a moment. I’ll get Charlie to take you.’

  With that, the constable did, indeed, go off to find Charlie, who took us by police car all the way back to my parents’ house.

  The neighbour’s curtains were still twitching as Doreen and I climbed out of the back of the police car and bade our driver goodnight.

  ‘Thank you ever so much, Constable… Sorry, I didn’t catch your last name.’

  ‘It’s Charlie Jones, Miss, but everyone calls me Charlie. And it’s been a real pleasure making sure you two young ladies got home safe and sound.’

  We smiled sweetly at the officer, closed the car door and waved him off. After his taillights had disappeared off into the night, Doreen nudged her elbow hard against my arm.

  ‘You’ll be the death of me, Pat Wilson!’ she hissed as we giggled, turned and made our way inside, where Mam was sat up waiting for us.

  I don’t know if Mam ever cottoned on, but I don’t think so because she was always at the back of the house, waiting in the kitchen. Although the neighbours’ curtains continued to twitch as we were dropped off by different police officers every other weekend. I could just imagine the gossip.

  ‘Have you heard about Pat Wilson? I thought she was supposed to be dancing in Blackpool? Blackpool, my foot! If so, then why does she keep coming home late at night in a police car?’

  We played the same trick every Saturday night in a different town or village until we’d exhausted all the police stations in the area. It was a winning formula – two stranded showgirls, miles from home. Plus, we saved a fortune in taxi fares.

  A few weeks later, I received a letter from Miss Barbara, offering me a contract to dance with the Tiller Girls at the London Palladium in the Billy Cotton show, which would later become the Royal Variety show. But I was already committed to the double act with Nick so, reluctantly, I declined the offer. It pained me greatly because I’ve often wondered since how many people have turned down a chance to perform at the London Palladium.

  In the meantime, Nick and I rehearsed five mornings a week on the pier stage until our routine was almost faultless. We’d decided to call ourselves Nick and Pat Lundon and had planned for a whole new dancing career. Around the same time, Doreen was thrilled when she received a prestigious contract to dance with the Bluebell Girls in Paris.

  ‘I’m so delighted for you, Doreen,’ I said, hugging her for all I was worth. Suddenly, it felt as though we had come to the end of a special time in our lives.

  Once the second summer season had drawn to an end, Doreen and I travelled down to London together. Doreen had to train with the Bluebells before she left for France, and I needed to rehearse my act with Nick. Doreen and I stayed at the Theatre Girls Club in Soho because the digs were cheap and cheerful but, more importantly, they were also very central. Miss Bell, the old warden, had heard I’d formed a double act, so she allowed me and Nick to use the club rehearsal room free of charge.

  ‘Thank you!’ I gushed, moving forward to give her a grateful hug.

  But Miss Bell had remained a dour woman, who didn’t go in for such public displays of affection.

  ‘No matter,’ she said, brushing me off. ‘It’s not being used. Just mind you keep it tidy.’

  Having a free rehearsal space was a tremendous saving, especially living in the West End. Miss Bell bent her own strict house rules and even allowed me to stay out later than the other girls. This meant I was able to go to watch some of the late-night shows in London. Meanwhile, Nick stayed with his parents in the East End, so I’d often get invited over for dinner. But it didn’t stop Mam from worrying about me.

  ‘You looked skinny the last time I saw you, our Pat. So I’m sending you a little something to keep you going,’ she wrote in a letter one time.

  I unwrapped the accompanying package and beamed with happiness when I saw what was inside. To my delight, she’d sent me a food parcel of cheese and crackers. She’d put them in a box and wrapped it up in brown paper. There was more than enough to keep me going over the next few weeks. Although bed and board was included in the rent, the portions they served up would have starved a mouse. With the extra rations from home, I was able to spend all my spare cash on stage costumes. I’d already bought a vibrant spotty, yellow-circle dress with a black velvet top before leaving Blackpool, but the shops in London were so much more expensive. Instead, I found dressmakers that made things up to my own designs. It not only saved me a fortune, it meant my costumes were truly original. With our act fully rehearsed and polished, our stage costumes hanging up in the wardrobe and our studio photographs printed, all we needed now were some bookings.

  CHAPTER 8

  THE SHOW MUST GO ON

  I held the studio portrait photograph in my hand and considered it.

  ‘Do you think it looks a bit…’

  ‘A bit what?’ asked Nick, looking down at it.

  ‘I don’t know. Do you think it looks a little bit staged?’

  ‘No, I think it’s perfect, Pat. I think we look really good. We look employable, professional and reliable. It’s just right,’ he said, prodding it with his finger.

  The luxury black-and-white photograph certainly screamed quality. It’d been taken by a London-based photographer by the name of Lanseer. The photographs, which showed us in different dance poses, looked expensive because they were. They’d cost around £20 – a small fortune – but Nick and I had split the cost of reproduction prints between us, so that we could keep the originals for best. We’d planned to use the reproductions at the front of house if and when we ever got any bookings. Later that day, we trailed around the best and worst theatrical agents London had to offer. We did this for the best part of a week. All the traipsing around left me exhausted. The balls of my feet stung inside my high-heeled shoes and my permanent fake smile made my face ache. But the worst part was the constant rejections, which had been utterly soul-destroying.

  One morning, we arrived at another agent’s office and knocked on the door. Quite often, it was
a job in itself just to get past the secretary, let alone to get an appointment with the man himself. The agent in question happened to be Joe Collins, who was the father of Jackie and Joan, and he’d very kindly agreed to see us.

  ‘Enter!’ a loud voice boomed from behind the closed door.

  I looked over at Nick and took a deep breath for courage as he pushed open the door.

  ‘Hello!’ Nick began in his well-versed pitch. ‘We’re Nick and Pat Lundon and we are a fantastic double act from—’

  But Joe Collins had heard it all before. He put a hand up to halt Nick’s patter.

  ‘Where can I see you work?’ he grunted.

  Nick shrugged his shoulders.

  ‘Well, that’s the thing, you see.’

  Joe stopped him once again and looked up at us both.

  ‘So, let me get this straight. You’re not actually working at this present moment?’ he said, prodding a finger against his desk.

  Nick and I looked down and shook our heads.

  ‘Well, in that case, how can I take you on if I can’t see your work?’

  I sighed. We’d had the same response from every single agent we’d visited that week. Talk about a chicken-and-egg situation. But without one, it seemed you couldn’t have the other, or even get close to it. Joe was pleasant enough, but he was also a businessman and neither Nick nor I had an answer for him.

  Once we were outside, I leaned up against the wall, pulled off my stiletto, and rubbed a hand against my heel.

  ‘It’s no good, Nick. I’m going to have to sign on the dole. If we don’t get work soon, I’ll be broke,’ I admitted.

  ‘You and me both, Pat.’

  Afterwards, we headed down to the West End to sign on. In many ways, it had turned out to be quite an experience because, in time, that little dole office became a who’s who in show business. All show-business types have been out of work or ‘in between jobs’ at one time or another during their careers. What I didn’t expect, however, was to be queuing next to some of the greatest actors of our time. My dole queue included the actor Sir John Mills, who went on to star in classic films including Ice Cold in Alex and Ryan’s Daughter, for which he later won an Academy Award. But back then, we were all in the same boat.