by Pat Stewart
I walked over towards Nick.
‘Are you mad at me?’
‘Not mad. I’m just disappointed,’ he replied. ‘But I understand where you’re coming from. I’m just worried what we’re going to do for money.’
After much discussion, it was eventually agreed that we would all stay in Accra and, more importantly, in Ghana.
Deep down, Nick and the others knew I was right. Our contract with the major had been issued by Equity, the performers union, so we knew it was watertight. We also knew we’d get back to England eventually. The issue right now was where would we live and how would we feed ourselves.
With no audience to fill the theatre, the show was eventually cancelled and the major stopped paying our wages, just as I had feared. Thankfully, some ex-pats took pity on us and offered us a place to stay until we could get something more permanent sorted. I’d only taken £10 to Africa. My plan was to receive a percentage of my wage with the rest being paid directly into my bank account back home. But with no income and my spending money all gone, I was brassy broke and unsure what to do. One of the ex-pat families – a couple from Liverpool – had offered to put a few of us up in their home. The couple had a young daughter, so I offered to babysit because I wanted to try to repay their kind hospitality.
‘Are you sure, Pat?’ the mother asked me.
‘Absolutely. It’s the least I can do after everything you’ve done for us.’
By now, we were pretty desperate and wondered how we’d survive the coming weeks without pay.
One day, I was sat at home, moping around, when I had a brainwave. I called the variety troupe together and explained my plan. A journalist called Derrick Webster, who worked for a news agency called Reuters, had heard about us and had tracked us down. He wanted to do an exclusive interview so that’s exactly what we did.
‘Is it true that you’re all stranded out here?’ he asked, taking out his notebook and pen.
‘Yes,’ I replied.
Derrick asked how we’d ended up in such a dire situation, so I explained about the show and why it’d been cancelled.
‘So you’ve had absolutely no wages?’ he said, writing it down.
‘We did to start with but, once the show was cancelled, the money stopped. All we have left is our plane tickets home but that’s weeks away.’
‘So what will you do?’
‘I haven’t a clue,’ I said, throwing my hands up in despair.
It was true: no one knew quite how we would manage to survive the coming weeks. But I did know that, no matter how generous the ex-pats had been, we couldn’t expect to live off their goodwill forever.
Derrick wished us well. He explained that he’d write up our story and, hopefully, manage to place it in a newspaper. To our astonishment, the story appeared in the Daily Mirror. The entertainments manager of a hotel at Accra airport had read about our stranded troupe and called us to a meeting. He had a proposal.
‘So, what you’re saying is you’d like us to perform here, free of charge, but you will give us a free roof over our heads. Is that right?’ I said as we all crowded into his office.
‘We’d also provide all your meals too,’ he insisted. ‘After all, you’ve got to eat!’
‘All right,’ I said with a smile, looking around the room at my fellow performers, who all nodded in agreement. ‘In that case, we’d love to take you up on your offer. Thank you!’
‘You’ve got yourself a deal,’ one of the other performers said, stepping forward. He took the manager’s hand and gave it a grateful shake and, one by one, we all shook on the deal.
‘Great. When can you start?’
‘Tomorrow?’
The following evening we played to a packed out hotel. It had seemed everyone had read our story and had all turned up to show their support. The floor show was a great success. We decided to work out a variation to the programme so that the audience wouldn’t see the same show every time. Thankfully, our plan not only worked but it kept bums on seats. We continued to change the show until the date of our return flight grew closer.
A few days later, I was lounging around the hotel pool when I spotted Derrick heading towards me.
‘Hello, Pat,’ he said, shaking my hand. ‘Mind if I sit down next to you?’
‘No, Derrick, please do,’ I said, waving my hand towards an empty chair.
‘Hey, I didn’t know you were engaged,’ he said, spying my engagement ring.
I glanced down at the diamond ring on my wedding finger. Both England and my fiancé seemed a million miles away.
‘Yes, I became engaged just before I came to Africa,’ I explained.
‘So who’s the lucky man?’
I told him all about Phil and our whirlwind romance.
‘So he quite literally swept you up off your feet?’
I laughed.
‘Yes, I suppose you could say that.’
‘I bet you can’t wait to get back to England to see him? I mean, you must miss him, being so far away from home.’
I nodded my head and looked down.
‘I do, yes. But as long as we continue to sing and dance for our supper, we’ll be all right.’
Derrick chuckled, but he was determined he wasn’t leaving without a good story. I also realised how powerful publicity could be, especially when you were a performer. Getting your face in the paper was like gold dust because there was no such thing as bad publicity in the show business world.
‘So,’ Derrick said, pointing at my engagement ring, ‘would you sell your engagement ring to catch a flight back home?’
I looked at the ring and thought of Mam and Dad waiting for me back in Featherstone.
‘Yes, I think I would.’
He listened, thought for a moment, and asked if he could send a photographer later that morning to take a photograph of me.
‘Whatever for?’ I asked.
‘Your story, of course.’
Hours later, I was standing showing off my engagement ring as the photographer took lots of pictures of me. My story, as Derrick had put it, was that I’d sell my ring to get safe passage home and back into the arms of my loving fiancé.
‘Pat, could you look a bit sadder?’ the photographer suddenly chipped in, breaking my thoughts. He shifted his head out from behind the lens. ‘It’s just that you’re supposed to be stranded out here.’
‘Yes, right. Sorry,’ I said, pulling the saddest face I could muster.
Back home, I was painted as a waif and stray – an innocent Yorkshire lass lost on the other side of the world. In reality, I was actually rather enjoying my enforced holiday, sunbathing on a beautiful West African beach and enjoying a daily swim in the cool blue sea.
Unbeknown to me, thousands of miles away in rainy Yorkshire, my uncle Alfred, Mam’s brother, was passing on his way to work for the local gas board when he spotted a poster advertising the day’s newspaper.
YORKSHIRE DANCER STRANDED IN AFRICA, the headline screamed.
‘Bloody hell, I ’ope that’s not our Pat,’ he mumbled as he nipped inside quickly to buy a copy.
To his horror, he spotted a photograph of my sad face staring out at him from the front page. Alf drew a sharp intake of breath and hotfooted it straight round to my house.
‘’Ere, Sarah. Your Pat’s on front of t’newspaper,’ he said, showing her a copy.
Mam let out a shriek of horror and promptly fell back down into her chair.
‘Go and get our George. He’s just down t’ road,’ she sobbed as she read the story of her daughter, stranded thousands of miles away in Africa.
Mam and Dad couldn’t afford a telephone, but I’d written to them telling them not to worry if they read a story in the newspaper. Unfortunately, the post was slow and my letter hadn’t reached Featherstone. With no letter, Mam was absolutely frantic. By the end of the day, it’d seemed the whole of Featherstone had read the paper and my story. Concerned neighbours and friends flooded into the family home to check what the la
test news was.
‘Come ’ere,’ Aunt Alice had said, taking Mam in her arms and trying to soothe her. ‘Yer know Pat. She’ll be fine. She’s a survivor, Sarah, just like you and George.’
But Aunt Alice’s words had fallen on deaf ears because my mother was convinced she’d never see me again. Soon the whole of Yorkshire was rooting for me. The Featherstone pensioners had called an emergency meeting at the local church so they could hold special prayers. Meanwhile, the children at my old grammar school had held an assembly so that they could pray for my safe and swift return.
Back home, the newspapers, not wanting to miss out on the scoop, approached my fiancé, Phil, to ask for a comment.
‘If Pat has to sell the ring, yes, I think she should,’ he insisted as photographers jostled around him, trying to take his picture. ‘All I want is for her to be back home, safe and sound.’
At the end of what should have been a simple showbiz tour, by the time our plane touched down on the tarmac in London, we were greeted by what can only be described as a media scrum. Everyone, it seemed, wanted my story – the poor Yorkshire girl, stranded thousands of miles from home.
Of course, Phil was also waiting in the arrivals lounge, along with his parents.
‘Give her a kiss, Phil. Go on,’ the photographers called out, trying to get a front-page picture of the reunited sweethearts.
With reporters waiting to speak to me, I gave my story freely. After that, things settled down and suddenly I became yesterday’s news.
With no money and nowhere else to go, I stayed with Phil’s parents. Once I’d managed to scrape enough spare cash together, I caught a train home to see Mam and Dad.
‘Come ’ere, our Pat,’ she said, hugging me for all I was worth.
‘My little lass,’ Dad said, unpeeling Mam’s arms so he could have a hug.
‘You ’ad us all worried. Yer mam’s been sick wi’ worry.’
Mam dabbed tears from her eyes.
‘I nearly died when our Alf brought t’paper round,’ she said, filling me in on what had happened. ‘Then I got yer letter, so I knew yer were all right. But yer almost frightened me to death. Never, ever do that to me again!’ She scolded, wagging her finger at me as though I were still a child.
‘I won’t, Mam. Promise.’
Moments later, there was a knock at the door. It was Aunt Alice.
‘I’ve come to see t’adventurer. Is she in?’ she said, running over to give me a hug.
‘Here, let’s see this famous engagement ring then,’ she asked, grabbing my hand in hers. ‘Oh, int it lovely? Well, yer had me, yer dad and yer poor mam scared to death. But it’s good to ’ave yer back home, Pat.’
For the rest of the day, the kettle remained on permanent boil as neighbours and friends called round to hear about my African adventure. Suddenly, I’d become a local celebrity, although not for the right reasons.
After a week, it was time to return to London to look for work.
‘Promise me no more daft trips,’ Mam insisted as she held me tight and kissed me goodbye at Featherstone train station.
‘Promise,’ I said.
I meant it.
With no income, I remained living at Phil’s parents’ house. In the meantime, I signed on the dole and tried to look for work.
One day, I spotted an advert for a local beauty-queen competition. I entered and, to my delight, I won not only the crown but the £20 cash prize. The money kept me afloat as I waited for my next big break.
In the end, I was offered two jobs. One was a contract to dance at the prestigious Pigalle – a top London nightclub – but the contract was for me alone and not Nick. It didn’t feel right, so I accepted the second gig – a summer season in Weymouth as choreographer and principal dancer. Although I’d been tempted by Pigalle, I chose the latter because I was loyal to Nick and the act we’d worked so hard to perfect. It turned out to be the best decision of my life because, unbeknown to me, I was about to meet the love of my life.
CHAPTER 12
GET ME TO THE CHURCH ON TIME
With the Weymouth job pending, I returned to Miss Bell and the Theatre Girls Club for a couple of weeks so that I could rehearse.
‘Nice to see you back, Patricia,’ Miss Bell smiled as soon as I opened the door. ‘So, how long do you intend to stay this time?’
‘Oh, only a couple of weeks,’ I said, putting my case on the floor. I walked over to the reception desk and signed my name in the book. ‘It’s just until I start my next show.’
Miss Bell nodded and showed me to my dormitory.
The following day, we started rehearsals at a theatre in London. I was told we’d be helping out with the choreography for the show, mainly working with the chorus-line girls. The cast were lovely and I couldn’t wait to sort out the routines. That same morning, we were introduced to some of the other principals for the big production numbers. Top of the bill was a Welsh comedian called Johnny Stewart. Johnny had just come fresh from performing in Sunday Night at the London Palladium. The new line-up for Weymouth had also included stars such as Jack Douglas, Joe Baker and a Scottish female comedienne and impressionist called Janet Brown. Janet later went on to become famous for her impressions of Margaret Thatcher, England’s first female prime minister.
‘Hello, I’m Johnny. Johnny Stewart,’ a dark-haired man with a Welsh lilt in his voice said. He stepped forward, took my hand and shook it. ‘Do you remember me?’
I was a little confused until he explained that we’d met once before, while I was staying at digs in Hackney.
‘The face looks familiar,’ I remarked, ‘and not just from the television.’
‘Aunty Ada’s house,’ he said, trying to jog my memory.
Then I remembered. Before I’d left for Africa, I’d briefly stayed over at a boarding house in London. The landlady had been a lovely, warm Jewish lady. She was an eccentric and the theatricals had loved her, giving her the nickname Aunty Ada.
‘Ah, yes, that’s it! I remember now,’ I replied. ‘I think we met over dinner.’
‘Yes, we did,’ Johnny said, smiling straight back at me. It made me blush.
I momentarily scolded myself. It was obvious he was a terrible flirt and a real charmer.
Pat Wilson, you are an engaged woman! I thought.
As if reading my mind, Johnny’s hand came to a halt as he felt the engagement ring on my finger.
‘Ah, I see you’re already taken,’ he remarked. ‘Shucks, I guess I’m too late!’
I was a little taken aback, but I couldn’t be sure if he was being honest or just playing for a laugh. He was, after all, a comedian.
‘Now then, about this routine,’ I said, trying to change the subject.
Nick and I helped Johnny with a scene called the Viennese, where he sang the ‘Drinking Song’ in a beautiful tenor voice. I could tell that he loved this particular routine because swathes of girls would swirl around the stage in front of him as he sang.
Soon it was time to leave for Weymouth. Nick and I, and three chorus girls, had booked to stay in a boarding house close to the theatre, which was situated on the seafront. Once in Weymouth, we continued with rehearsals. Each morning, as soon as I arrived at the theatre, Johnny would be waiting for me to try to charm his way into my affections.
‘So,’ he said, standing by the entrance as I walked through the door one morning. ‘When are you going to let me take you out, Pat?’
I put a hand to my mouth and pretended to think about it.
‘Hmm, now, let me see. Never?’ I quipped, walking away.
‘Aww, don’t be like that.’
It made me smile. Secretly, I was sweet on Johnny Stewart, but I was still only twenty-two and he was nine years older. They say that with age comes confidence and Johnny certainly had that – by the bucket load. Many found it endearing, but I felt completely intimidated and out of my depth. In spite of my stage persona, I was still a shy Yorkshire lass trying to find herself in the big, wide world. Still,
if I wasn’t going to go out with him, I’d make sure no one else would either.
‘If Johnny Stewart asks any of you out, you are to say no,’ I instructed the chorus girls. ‘This is a professional show and we can’t have people flirting on stage.’
The dancers nodded their heads. I was not only the show’s chorographer; I was also the principal dancer. It was typical female logic on my part. For some reason, I didn’t want to see any of the other dancers on his arm either. In spite of my own advice, I soon found myself falling for the charms of Johnny Stewart.
‘Go on, let me take you out, Pat,’ Johnny asked whenever we danced together.
‘Not a chance, buster,’ I would say, laughing and pretending to bop him on the nose as we practised together on stage.
‘Why not? What’s wrong with me?’ he asked on one occasion.
In truth, there was nothing wrong with him. Absolutely nothing – that was the problem.
‘You’re a married man,’ I declared.
I remembered overhearing someone say that Johnny had once been married.
‘Divorced,’ he corrected, pointing down at his ringless finger. ‘Besides, it was an awful long time ago.’
‘Yes, but I’m engaged,’ I added, pointing towards the ring on my own finger.
And so the pattern continued until, in the end, Johnny decided to change tactics.
One day, I was in the dressing room when I heard the chorus girls giggling.
‘Yes, he asked me out too but I said no,’ one girl whispered to another.
‘Who?’ I said, immediately turning around in my chair. ‘Who asked you out?’
‘Johnny Stewart,’ the dancer replied. ‘But don’t worry, we both said no.’
I felt my heart sink to my knees and that’s when I realised – I was in love with Johnny.
‘I can’t understand it,’ he said one night as he waited in the wings, ready to go on stage.
‘Understand what?’ I said.
‘No one will go out to dinner with me. I keep getting the cold shoulder from all the girls. What’s wrong with me, Pat?’
I stifled a smile.
‘Oh, nothing, I’m sure.’