by Pat Stewart
I looked on enviously at her snow-white curls.
Diana glanced over at me. She cast her eyes over my hair before turning her attentions back to my face.
‘Mine’s all bleach. But if you want to be a brighter blonde, I’d say go ahead and do it. What have you got to lose?’
Diana had been booked to sing in the show but she wasn’t very good because she didn’t have a strong voice. Still, I suppose the men in the audience hadn’t come to hear her sing.
As soon as I returned to London, I took Diana’s advice and bleached my hair platinum blonde. I only wished she’d warned me about all the upkeep it would take. Afterwards, I found myself chained to a bottle of hair bleach as my natural blonde roots darkened with each month that passed.
Issy Bonn continued to supply us with work to keep us off the dole. A short time later, he won a contract to send acts to dance in the American Zone in West Germany and asked if Nick and I would like work out there. At that time, Germany had been zoned between the Americans, the Russians and the British, following the end of the war. It was 1953 and I would be going abroad for the very first time. Back then, Germany seemed a very intimidating place to visit. Of course, Mam flipped when I told of her.
‘Where? Germany! No yer not, our Pat! Yer know what them Germans are like!’ she raged.
‘Mam, the war’s over,’ I argued.
But it fell on deaf ears.
‘I don’t care! A daughter of mine, dancing right into t’arms of Hitler and his mob? Whatever next?’
She was so angry that she couldn’t have been more upset if I’d told her I was travelling to the moon!
‘But, Mam, I’ll be safe.’
‘Yer not going and that’s that. Over my dead body!’ she huffed, snapping her pinny off and looking to Dad to back her up.
However, my mother had done one thing right – raise a daughter as determined as she was.
‘I am, Mam. I am and I will. I’m not dancing for the Germans; I’m dancing for the Americans. I’m an entertainer now and someone has to go out there and entertain the troops. It keeps morale up and I want to do my bit.’
Mam stopped folding clothes into the washing basket and looked up at me.
‘But t’war’s ended,’ she repeated, trying a different tack.
‘I know but those soldiers are still stuck there, miles away from home. And I reckon they could do with a bit of cheering up.’
Although I didn’t like to admit it, I’d felt a little apprehensive about my visit to Germany. I’d seen photographs of what the Nazis had done and I recalled the air raids and bombings from my childhood. However, I didn’t share any of these concerns or worries with Mam, Nick or Dad because work was work.
With my mind firmly made up, we asked the agency to book our travel tickets. Nick and I caught the boat train from Liverpool Street to Harwich, where we travelled on a ferry bound for the Hook of Holland. The boat sailed through the night so, by the time we arrived in the early hours of the morning, I was parched and in desperate need of a cup of tea.
‘Oh, let’s find a café, Nick. I could murder a cuppa!’ I gasped as we stepped off the ferry and back onto dry land.
We found ourselves a British Rail café, where we’d decided to stop off for breakfast. But as soon as we walked inside, my mouth fell open. The café was nothing like the British Rail cafés in London. Back in Blighty, they were dull, cold and sparse in comparison. The Dutch version looked more like a four-star hotel than a regular cafe. The dining room was ultra plush, with proper dining-room chairs, silver service and white linen tablecloths covering the tables. As a showgirl, I was used to cafés in London, which had a terrible habit of tying teaspoons to the counter with a piece of string to stop them from being pinched! Tablecloths were unheard of back home and as for napkins, well, there was no such thing. Here in Holland, I felt as though I’d walked into the restaurant of the Savoy, not a railway café in a country that had been occupied for years.
‘Eh, it’s a lot posher here, isn’t it?’ I whispered to Nick, holding up the untied teaspoon in my hand.
‘I know. I can’t believe they give these out here!’ he said, taking it from me.
We stirred our tea and tucked into a continental breakfast. It was the first time I’d ever tried one, so I was a little bemused when the waitress had brought it over.
‘Pastry, for breakfast,’ I scoffed. ‘I wonder what my mam would have to say about this.’
After an hour, we boarded a train bound for Germany. We’d been warned by Veena, Issy Bonn’s secretary, to keep an eye on our luggage because the Germans had a habit of offloading it at the wrong station. I was terrified we’d lose our stage costumes because they were our entire worldly goods. I heard the sound of a whistle and the train pulled out of the railway station bang on time. As we travelled along through the flat countryside, I was shocked at how many people were riding bicycles. It looked as though the world and his wife were all on their way to work by bike.
‘They love their bicycles out here, don’t they?’ I said to Nick as we both stared out of the train-carriage window.
‘It’s Holland, Pat. Everyone owns a bicycle.’
After a day’s travelling, we arrived in Stuggart with our luggage and stage props still intact. By now, it was dark, so we threw caution to the wind and caught a taxi straight to our hotel, which had been booked by the agency. Once again, I looked out of the window in wonder as we passed building sites. There were men toiling throughout the night, working by floodlight, trying to rebuild a city ravaged by RAF bombs. It seemed odd because, back in London, we’d left behind a city in ruins. Back home, curtains flapped in the breeze from broken windows, trapped in half-demolished houses and offices.
Although our hotel rooms were pretty basic, I noticed that every single one had central heating and a shower too. Again, central heating was considered a luxury back home and wasn’t widely available, not even in London.
‘Blimey, Nick. Look at this,’ I said, holding my hand flat against the radiator in my room.
‘I know. I’ve got one too. They’re everywhere!’
‘I can’t believe it,’ I said, shaking my head. ‘And a shower too. You’d think, judging by this and what’s going on out there, that Germany had won the war, not the other way round!’
Nick nodded his head in agreement. It was astonishing to see.
The following day, I was walking down the road trying to get my bearings when I stopped a lady in the street to ask for directions. As soon as she heard my English accent, she stopped smiling and her whole demeanour changed.
‘English pig hound!’ she spat and she turned sharply on her heel and walked away.
I felt shocked and upset because I’d never been spoken to like that before. All the Germans we’d met had been so welcoming. But it’d only been eight years since the end of the war and it was apparent that feelings still ran high.
The hotel management had pinned up a notice in the reception, which they did at every hotel where the professional entertainers were staying. The notice announced when and where the next auditions would take place. However, it wasn’t an audition as we knew them. Instead, we were herded like cattle at the camp base. The soldiers watched the ‘audition’ and, if they liked you, they gave you the nod and you were booked on the bill.
The financial arrangement was equally as chaotic, with the Americans arguing the fee. Despite this, the Americans always paid more than their British counterparts, which was one of the reasons we’d travelled to Germany to work the American zone. We were dancers, so we did quite well with our bookings. But the comedians weren’t quite as blessed. Unlike singing or dancing, jokes aren’t always universal, as the comedians found out to their cost. Thankfully for us, work continued to flourish and we worked a variety of clubs inside the army camps. The best gigs were the officers’ clubs, which were very smart and sophisticated and similar to a floor show in London’s West End. The next ones down were the Non Commissioned Officers’ Clubs, whi
ch were family orientated, with children running all around. Last but not least, there were the Enlisted Mens’ Clubs, which were real spit-and-sawdust dives, and akin to working in a Wild West saloon.
‘You’ve got to be kidding me,’ I whispered to Nick as we turned up at one to perform in that evening’s show.
‘This is it, I’m afraid, Pat. Like it or lump it. We’ve got to go on tonight, otherwise they might turn nasty.’ Nick then warned, ‘More importantly, we won’t get paid.’
I peered out from the side of the stage. Nick was right. I knew we’d be taking our lives in our hands if we dared to cancel at the last moment.
‘I suppose it’s all the same bread and butter,’ I said, disappearing off to get changed.
The evening show had been billed as cabaret and we were working the floor. One of the soldiers went on stage, grabbed the microphone and began to introduce us.
‘So, without further adieu, here they are, folks. Put your hands together for Nick and Pat Lundon.’
As the applause rippled throughout the club, I glided onto the stage elegantly with my arms outstretched. The music kicked in but, before the first four bars had finished, I slipped and fell over, landing hard on my bottom with a thud. I looked up to see the male audience erupt in a series of cheers and catcalls.
‘Hey, you see that?’ one soldier called out with his hand cupped against his mouth so that the whole room heard. ‘That’s one slippy dame!’
I felt myself flush scarlet as Nick turned towards me with a horrified look on his face. I was wearing three-inch stiletto heels but I’d never fallen before. Nick seemed as shocked as I was.
With nothing more than a damaged ego, I clambered to my feet to continue with the routine but, moments later, I was flat on my bottom again. I fell into a pose to make it look as though it was all part of the act but the audience wasn’t buying it. Instead, there were more jeers, calls and wolf whistles.
Nick turned to me again, his teeth gritted together in a fake smile.
‘Pat, what on earth is going on?’ he hissed.
I flushed with embarrassment because I was mortified.
‘I haven’t a clue,’ I whispered.
The horrific dance routine lasted for ten minutes, during which time I’d fallen over at least another eight times. By the time we’d taken a bow, I fled the stage and ran to the dressing room in floods of tears. Nick and I had worked on countless ballroom floors but nothing like that had ever happened to me before. I picked up one of my shoes and checked the sole. I’d fitted it with rubber to stop exactly this sort of thing from happening. The rubber was intact, so I pulled off the other and checked that too but it was exactly the same.
Moments later, the door opened and in walked Nick.
‘Pat, what just happened out there?’ he asked, throwing his arm behind him, pointing back towards the stage.
‘I haven’t a clue. Look, my shoes still have the rubber on them,’ I said, turning them to show him. ‘I just don’t know, Nick. I did everything the same as I always do.’ I suddenly began to sob. I couldn’t control my tears a moment longer. ‘I just feel… well, I just feel so stupid!’ I sniffed. ‘Did you hear them? They were all laughing at me.’
Nick nodded his head. It was clear that he was as upset as I was.
‘Yes, I did. They certainly aren’t gentlemen, that’s for sure.’
I was still sat there weeping when the duty sergeant knocked at the door. Nick answered it and invited him inside.
‘Y’all did well out there,’ he said with a grin, gesturing back towards the stage.
‘Well?’ I shrieked, still upset by my series of falls. ‘I’ve never felt so stupid in my life. I don’t know what on earth just happened out there, but I’ve never fallen on stage before – not ever. Yet tonight, out there,’ I said pointing towards the door, ‘I fell over more than eight times.’
‘Y’all did well though,’ he said and smirked.
I turned to face him and so did Nick.
‘Well? How can you say falling over eight times during a dance routine is doing well?’ I said, my voice incredulous.
The sergeant removed his hat, scratched the back of his head with his fingertips and began to chuckle.
Nick smelled a rat.
‘What’s so funny?’ he asked, looking over at the sergeant.
‘It’s just the little lady over there, well, we knew you were both coming so the janker (a punishment dished out to a misbehaving soldier) was to polish the floor as much as the soldier could. It’s the guys, you see,’ he said, looking up at me. ‘Aw, shucks, little lady, don’t you see? He polished the floor so the fellas out there could place a bet on how many times you’d fall over…’
Now it was time for Nick’s mouth to gape open in horror. He turned back to face me.
I was boiling with rage and about to explode.
‘What? Let’s be clear about this. You mean he polished the floor so that I would fall over?’ I repeated, thinking I’d misheard the soldier.
The sergeant threw his head back and laughed.
‘He sure did!’
I was furious. In fact, I was so angry that Nick had to stop me from throwing my shoes at the sergeant, who beat a hasty retreat from the room.
Nick stood there with his mouth open as I continued to use swear words I didn’t even realise I knew.
‘You’re just bloody lucky that I didn’t fall over and break my neck!’ I screamed as the sergeant ran from the dressing room.
‘And as for that lot out there,’ I bellowed through the door after him, ‘you can tell them they’re nothing but a bunch of ANIMALS!’
Needless to say, it was the last time we ever performed at an Enlisted Mens’ Club.
CHAPTER 10
LET’S FACE THE MUSIC AND DANCE
Our tour of West Germany lasted for two months. Following our disastrous last show in Stuttgart, Nick and I had travelled to Mannheim, finishing up at an American base camp in Wiesbaden. Afterwards, we returned home and wondered where our journey would take us next.
We did a few seasons here and there but nothing definite seemed to be on the horizon. That was until a gentleman called Richard Stone approached us. Richard had been the one who’d spotted and rescued us from the rat-infested Old Collins Music Hall. He also turned out to be our knight in shining armour in more ways than one. By this time, television had really caught on in England, as more and more people hired their own television sets. Soon there were lots of variety shows popping up in the television-programme schedule. Richard was the agent for the comedian Benny Hill, who had not only become very popular but had also landed his own television show with the BBC in a prime-time slot.
‘So I was wondering if you and Nick would like to come and perform on the show,’ Richard asked.
‘On television? You want us to perform on television?’ I gasped, thinking how excited Mam would be when I told her.
‘Yes. But it’ll be live,’ Richard warned. ‘Do you think you’ll be all right with that?’
I nodded. This was television. It was also the chance to perform to all those families watching at home. Show business didn’t get much bigger or better than this.
The Benny Hill Show was screened live from Shepherd’s Bush Empire’s BBC theatre. The show had started at the BBC in 1955, with Benny writing nearly all his own material. Nick and I had been asked to perform a three-minute dance routine, which didn’t sound very long but, then again, this was live TV. The more I thought about it, the more terrified I became.
It had been agreed that we would follow Benny Hill onto the stage. He was performing a comedy sketch called the cinema routine, where he would pretend to sit down just as the seats tipped up. I remember standing in the wings feeling horribly nervous. I’d never seen theatre lights so bright in all my life. In fact, they were so blinding that I half-expected the Angel Gabriel to come down from the heavens above. By the time we were ready to go on, my nerves had reached fever pitch.
‘What if I
forget the routine?’ I panicked.
‘You won’t, Pat. You’ll be great,’ Nick replied, resting his hand against my arm.
‘But… but… what if I fall over or something?’
‘Pat, you’ll be just fine. Now just take a deep breath.’
I did as Nick had said and breathed slowly and evenly to try to calm my jittery nerves.
I tipped my head forwards and sneaked a look at the studio audience. They absolutely loved Benny. His cinema sketch was going down a treat.
‘They seem friendly enough,’ Nick said, breaking my thoughts. He nodded his head towards the crowd.
‘Yes, but it’s not them I’m worried about. It’s the cameras and everyone else watching back home.’
I felt butterflies rise inside my stomach as it flipped inside, making me feel queasy. I rested my hands against my diaphragm and breathed in deeply.
You can do this, Pat Wilson. Just keep calm and stay focused, I repeated inside my head.
Just then, Nick held out his hand.
‘Ready?’ he asked.
‘As ready as I’ll ever be,’ I said, taking his hand.
In spite of my nerves, as soon as we’d glided onto the stage, I forgot all about the cameras, the audience and even the millions of people watching back at home. Instead, I felt as though I was floating on air. It was the most fantastic feeling and probably one of the highlights of my entire dancing career.
Mam was watching me back home in Featherstone. We couldn’t afford to hire a television set, so she’d gone around to her sister’s, my Aunt Alice’s house, so she could watch it there. In fact, half the street had ended up inside Alice’s tiny front room just to watch my TV debut, although I’d only found out about it afterwards when Mam wrote to tell me. It was as though I’d done something extraordinary, when all I’d done was dance inside a television studio.
‘Yer shone, our Pat. We all said, even Aunt Alice. Yer danced like a film star. Me and yer dad are so proud of you.’
My eyes filled with tears of happiness. Even though my mam had wanted me to become a teacher, she’d realised I’d chosen something I loved to do. But the biggest reward was that I’d made her and Dad proud.