by Pat Stewart
‘Please tell me I didn’t do it,’ I whined the following morning.
I rubbed my head. I had the mother of all hangovers.
‘All right, you didn’t do it.’ Johnny laughed.
It took all the effort I had, but I lifted my head from the pillow and looked up at him through squinted eyes.
‘Didn’t I?’
Johnny smirked.
‘Yes, of course you did. But everyone loved you, Pat!’
I threw a pillow at him. Sadly, I missed.
I’d been as drunk as a skunk and everyone had seen. I felt absolutely mortified and vowed never to touch the black stuff ever again.
We were performing in Singapore when someone asked if Johnny and I would like to go and visit families living in the poorer areas. It was explained that a visit by a TV star like Johnny would not only highlight their plight but would also bring more funds and aid to the country. We were walking around meeting the families when a friendly journalist approached me. After Derrick Webster had kindly helped rescue me and the rest of the troupe in Africa, I considered all journalists to be my friends. However, this one was different. Within minutes, he’d struck up a conversation and we started to chat away. Later that day, Johnny and I were introduced to a family who were struggling because they had triplets. The three baby girls were absolutely gorgeous, but their parents were desperately poor.
‘It’s so sad,’ I said to Johnny, cradling one of the poor little mites in my arms.
The reporter had overheard and came over towards me.
‘They’re lovely, aren’t they, Pat?’ he remarked.
I nodded. Each girl was identical, from their tiny toes to their cute button noses.
‘Would you adopt them, if you could?’ the reporter asked as I cradled one of the babies in my arms.
I thought of the hardship and poverty they faced. Suddenly, I felt gripped by a maternal instinct to protect.
‘Yes,’ I said, holding the baby tight. ‘Of course I would.’
‘Any chance we could get a picture of you and Johnny holding the babies?’ The reporter asked as a photographer zoomed forward from the shadows to take it.
Within days, the journalist had written the story up for the Daily Sketch. Once again, I appeared on the front page, announcing that I’d like to adopt the poor triplets. Of course, it had been an off-the-cuff remark I’d made in the heat of the moment. There was no way I wanted to take three babies away from their mother, but the reporter didn’t let the facts get in the way of a good story.
COMEDIAN AND HIS WIFE VOW TO ADOPT POOR TRIPLETS AND BRING THEM HOME! the headline screamed, but I was still thousands of miles from home, so I didn’t have a clue about my part in the breaking story.
A few weeks later, just before we flew home, we were browsing around the shops when we came to a halt outside one that sold portable camera equipment.
‘Let’s go inside and have a look,’ I suggested, glancing over at the cameras in the window.
‘What for?’ Johnny asked.
‘That,’ I said, pointing over at the portable camera. ‘Imagine if we were able to film our own shows. Wouldn’t that be marvellous?’
Back in England, home filming had only just begun to take off, but it had already been widely available for a number of years in the Far East. In England, portable cameras cost a small fortune but were only a fraction of the price in Singapore. After a bit of bartering with the shopkeeper, we left the store with a portable camera, lens and a screen.
‘But how will we get all this stuff home?’ Johnny asked, looking at all the bags in our hands.
I tapped the side of my nose.
‘Don’t worry, I’ve got a plan.’
Back at the hotel, I packed the electronic equipment inside the padding of my stage costumes.
‘But what if we get caught going through customs?’ Johnny said, beginning to panic.
‘Don’t be daft. We won’t.’
We landed back in England and sailed through customs with nothing to declare. But I could’ve killed Johnny. He had such a guilty face that he’d almost given the game away. Once we’d cleared customs, we boarded the coach along with the rest of the troupe. We were just about to set off when we heard a voice over the airport’s loudspeaker.
‘Could a Mr and Mrs Stewart please return to customs,’ the voice announced.
Johnny’s head spun to face me.
‘Bloody hell, Pat, we’ve been rumbled! I knew we shouldn’t have brought all that stuff home.’
The rest of the cast looked worried too. They were all in on the secret and knew all about my stowed-away portable camera.
‘Oh, my God!’ I said, my heart pounding ten to the dozen. ‘We’ve been discovered!’
Johnny and I warily approached the customs man. To be truthful, we were half-expecting to be handcuffed at any moment. Instead, he handed us a note.
‘What does it say?’ I said, trying to read over Johnny’s shoulder.
He looked up at me and, without warning, began to laugh out loud.
‘It says, “Please could you not leave the airport because there are press men wanting to speak to you.”’
I looked up at the customs man.
‘But what is it about? What do they want with us?’ I asked.
‘The triplets,’ he replied.
I pulled a puzzled face.
‘The triplets out in Singapore. The ones you said you wanted to adopt. It’s been in all the papers. Why, haven’t you seen it?’
Suddenly, the penny dropped. I looked up at Johnny and we both dissolved into a fit of laughter.
The customs man looked at us as though we were completely mad.
‘Well, thank god for that!’ Johnny said, clutching at his heart.
We gave a full and frank interview to the waiting press and told them that we had absolutely no desire to adopt someone else’s triplets.
‘We haven’t even had children of our own yet,’ I said, winking at Johnny.
After we’d returned home, Johnny was offered more work through his agent Keith Devon. Although he was part of a larger agency, Keith was the sole agent to Johnny, a comedian called Ted Rogers, who later went on to present a popular show on TV called 3-2-1, and the Beverley Sisters. Keith had offered Johnny some work in a variety show, performing at Finsbury Park, and other London theatres alongside the Beverley Sisters.
The eldest sister was Joy and she was, as her name had suggested, a joy to be around. We hit it off immediately and soon became very good friends. Joy had married a footballer called Billy Wright, who was the team captain for England. Billy also played for Wolverhampton Wanderers, so we ended up doing a show with the Sisters at the town’s theatre. Billy and Joy were always together and theirs was a match made in heaven. The Bevs also included the twins Barbette (or Babs for short) and Teddie. All three were lovely to work with.
The theatrical circuit was a community within a community. Most of the big names had come from working-class backgrounds just like mine. Although they were rich and famous on stage, off it they were the most down-to-earth, honest folk you could ever hope to meet. And that’s precisely what the Bevs were. In all the years that Johnny worked alongside them, they never once let fame or fortune go to their heads. Instead, they remained friendly and approachable, particularly to the younger performers trying to get a foot on the showbiz ladder. I always thought that this marked out who the true stars really were.
CHAPTER 14
SHOW ON THE ROAD
A few months after the shows with the Beverley Sisters, I started being sick at home.
‘Still not feeling right?’ Johnny said, holding me gently as my head hung over the toilet bowl.
I groaned.
‘No, I reckon I must have picked up a flu bug or something. I’m going to call in at the doctor’s surgery later today.’
A few hours later, I walked into the GP’s surgery, where I took a seat and waited to be seen. There were a few people in front of me, but back then
doctors operated a first-come, first-served service, so you had to sit and wait your turn.
Johnny and I were living back at Auntie Ada’s house in Hackney, so I didn’t know the doctor at all – he just happened to be the nearest one. When it was my turn, I stood up, knocked on his door and entered the room.
‘So, what seems to be the problem Mrs…’
‘Stewart,’ I replied. ‘I’ve recently got married,’ I said, showing him my wedding ring.
‘Congratulations. So, tell me, what is it that I can do for you today?’
My shoulders slumped as I began to explain all about my awful sickness.
‘I don’t know what it is, Doctor. I just can’t stop throwing up.’
He leaned back in his chair and listened to me reel off my symptoms. Then he told me to get undressed behind the curtain.
‘Why? Do you think it’s something serious?’ I asked, disappearing off behind the curtain. I was naïve, and I didn’t have a clue what was going on.
What the doctor said next almost knocked me for six.
‘Do you think you might be pregnant, Mrs Stewart?’
‘Pregnant! Me? Good Lord, I don’t think so!’
But the doctor wasn’t convinced.
‘Well, why don’t you let me examine you and I’ll be able to tell.’
After a thorough examination, during which he palpated my stomach, the GP concluded, ‘I’d say you were about four months.’
I left the surgery completely numb and returned home to Johnny in floods of tears. During the examination, the doctor had given me an internal. But I was still so young that I felt I’d been unfaithful to my new husband.
‘It was horrible,’ I said, shuddering in Johnny’s arms.
‘But he’s a doctor, Pat. That’s what they do.’
‘I don’t care,’ I sobbed. I used the cuff of my jumper to soak up my angry tears. ‘It’s just not right. It’s not decent!’
In spite of my reservations and lack of knowledge, my pregnancy progressed as it should. One day, my midwife handed me a list of things to buy in preparation for the baby. One of the things on the list was a vest, so I went out and bought two.
‘Er, why have you bought a vest?’ Johnny asked, picking it up from the top of the side cabinet.
‘Because it’s on the list, and I need one if I’m going to have this baby!’ I snapped.
I was pregnant and hormonal and Johnny knew better than to try to argue with me. I was still wet behind the ears, so I truly believed I couldn’t give birth without buying a vest first.
Towards the end of my pregnancy, I decided I would return home to Yorkshire, where I planned to give birth.
‘Oh, let me get me hands on that grandchild of mine,’ Mam said, laying her hands flat against my belly.
‘She can’t wait, Pat,’ Dad remarked as we all joked about her building excitement.
‘Just wait till I get that baby in me arms…’ she said, her eyes misting over with happiness. ‘So… ’ave you thought about names, you two? Yer know, one for a girl and one for a boy?’
I glanced up at her, my hands cradling my swollen pregnant belly.
‘We were thinking Victoria for a girl and Peter for a boy.’
Mam nodded in approval.
‘Lovely. Aren’t they both lovely names, George?’
But by now, with all the talk of babies, Dad had sat down and buried his head behind a newspaper.
‘Aye, lovely,’ he mumbled.
Mam and I shared a secret smile as she rolled her eyes in mock annoyance.
‘Well, all yer need to know is you must never miss a feed because a baby that’s well fed through t’day is less likely to wake up through t’night.’
I had no idea how to look after a baby, so I soaked up my mother’s advice. Johnny and I stayed with my parents over the festive season. My cousin was throwing a party on New Year’s Eve and I was determined not to miss it. Everyone came to the party and I soon found myself surrounded by family. Even though I was nine months’ pregnant, I was having a great time. That was until my labour pains started. As the first contraction soared through my body, I doubled up with pain.
‘Are you all right, our Pat?’ Mam asked, dashing across the room to check on me.
‘Yes, it’s nothing,’ I lied. ‘Must be the rich food or something.’
But it wasn’t and I knew it. I was a dancer and a control freak to boot. I was convinced that, if I told my body not to have the baby before midnight, it wouldn’t. I didn’t want the baby to arrive just yet because I didn’t want to spoil a good party! Instead, I gritted my teeth and suffered through my contractions without telling a soul. I continued to sing, dance and party away because I was determined I’d stick it out until midnight and see in the New Year. Eventually, after what had seemed like hours, the hands of the clock ticked onto midnight and everyone cheered and hugged one another.
‘Happy New Year, Pat,’ Johnny said, pulling me to one side to kiss me gently.
‘Johnny,’ I whispered. ‘Can you take me home now? I don’t feel very well.’
After saying our goodbyes, Johnny walked me back to my mother’s house, where I promptly fell into bed. I’d hoped sleep would somehow help ease the pain.
I can do this. I can control these labour pains, I convinced myself. I’m a dancer: I should be able to control the pain.
But of course, it was all nonsense – no one can control the birth of a baby, dancer or no dancer. I didn’t sleep a wink that night. Eventually, I gave up trying and climbed out of bed around 6am.
‘Johnny, can you take me to the hospital now. I think the baby’s on its way.’
After going into a bit of a blind panic, Johnny jumped into the car and drove me to Southmoor hospital, in Hemsworth, West Yorkshire. At 8pm that evening I gave birth to a beautiful baby boy. We called our New Year’s Day baby Peter. Back then, husbands weren’t allowed in for the birth, so Johnny sat outside anxiously, waiting for news. When the nurse finally called him in, Johnny came bursting through the door.
‘Oh, Pat,’ he sniffed, trying to keep his emotions in check as he held our newborn son for the first time. ‘He’s absolutely beautiful.’
I looked down at Peter, happily slumbering in Johnny’s arms.
‘He is, isn’t he?’ I said, wiping away tears of relief.
The following morning, Johnny called in to see us. He immediately went straight over to Peter’s cot. He dipped his head in to take a look, straightened up and let out a sigh of relief.
‘Well, thank God his head’s all right!’ He’d said it so loud that the whole ward turned to look at him.
‘What do you mean, his head’s all right? There’s nothing wrong with his head, Johnny Stewart!’
Johnny realised I was annoyed so he tried to explain. ‘No, I didn’t mean that,’ he said, holding both hands up in peace. ‘It’s just that, erm, when I came in yesterday, well, erm, it looked kind of funny.’
‘What do you mean, funny?’ I huffed, crossing my arms angrily across my chest.
I was a doting new mum, so I was protective of our son but furious with Johnny.
My husband stood in front of me and held both hands apart by four or five inches, as though he was clutching an imaginary ball.
‘I don’t know. It just looked, well, it looked kind of… elongated, er, like a rugby ball.’
‘A rugby ball!’
‘Yes, a rugby ball.’
‘I can tell you’re bloody Welsh!’ I shouted. ‘I’ll elongate you in a minute!’
I picked up the bunch of flowers he’d bought me and threw them straight at him.
‘Sorry, sorry,’ he said, cowering by the end of my bed.
‘A rugby ball, indeed!’
Looking back, Peter’s head probably had been elongated, due to all the pushing and shoving, but, in my eyes, he was my beautiful boy.
I remained in hospital for ten days, until it was time for me to be allowed home. The hospital kept first-time mothers in until their
babies had reached a decent weight. The midwife also wanted to be sure the new mother knew how to bathe her baby too. Johnny had fetched in some of the baby clothes that we’d bought for Peter. They seemed to swamp his little body but I didn’t care – I was taking my lovely boy home where we could all be a family.
A few weeks after Peter had been born, Johnny decided to buy a 22-ft long touring caravan.
‘It’ll be our new home,’ he said, beaming as he wrapped his arm around my shoulder. ‘Just you, me and little Peter.’
The caravan came in handy because it meant we’d always have digs wherever we were. It also meant baby Peter would never have to sleep in a separate room to us. We’d tow our new home from town to town and park it up in whichever town Johnny was appearing in that week. When the show was at an end, we’d hook the mobile home up to the car and move on to the next show. When Johnny wasn’t touring, we’d tow the caravan to my parents. Dad had a huge garden, so Johnny would back up the caravan as far as he could before half the village turned out to help them push it into the garden. We lived inside Mam’s house, but the caravan was always there waiting for us. If Johnny had another booking, we’d simply hook it up and off we’d set.
Later that year, Johnny was given a gig doing a summer season for a man called Harold Fielding. Harold was Tommy Steele’s agent and he’d booked up a load of acts for a summer tour he was putting on. Harold was a well-known and respected agent but he was also very superstitious. His superstition was so irrational that he forbade his performers from wearing the colour green.
‘Green,’ Johnny said, shaking his head when he told me later.
‘Why has he banned green?’ I asked, a little baffled.
‘Because he says it’s unlucky.’
‘But what if you have a really expensive costume but it’s green?’
Johnny shrugged his shoulders.
‘Doesn’t matter. You still wouldn’t be allowed to wear it, not in his show.’
I shook my head. It sounded ridiculous, but then show business was full of eccentrics, all with odd little habits. Another common superstition was about sneezing in the dressing room. If someone sneezed, they’d have to turn three times afterwards to try and undo all the ‘bad luck’. Another superstition was no knitting in the stage wings. I never found out why but then I didn’t knit. The colour green was just another thing to add to an already bizarre list.