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

by Pat Stewart

  Over that Christmas season, Eric and Johnny became great friends because they both shared the same sense of humour. Ernie had always played the straight man and he was, in more ways than one. Overshadowed by his wife, Ernie would keep himself to himself after the show. Meanwhile, Eric would always be first at the bar having a laugh and getting the rounds in. One particular evening, halfway through the run, Morecambe and Wise had the audience on their feet clapping and cheering. Moments later, it was Johnny’s turn to follow them on.

  ‘How the hell am I supposed to better that?’ he asked as we stood waiting in the wings.

  Johnny was usually so full of confidence that I’d never seen him falter before. For the first time in his life, he seemed really nervous. Suddenly, he began to undo his belt and then he unbuttoned his trousers.

  ‘Johnny, what on earth are you doing?’ I screeched, thinking he’d gone completely mad.

  ‘I’m thinking on my feet,’ he said and grinned. ‘Watch this, Pat.’

  Eric and Ernie had finished off their routine and had turned to wave to the crowd. They were just about to exit the stage when Johnny walked on behind them – his trousers falling straight to his ankles. Eric turned his head and spotted Johnny standing trouserless behind him.

  ‘What’s he doing, Ernie?’ Eric asked, speaking into the microphone. His face was completely deadpan as he began to wiggle his trademark glasses around as though he couldn’t quite believe his eyes.

  Without another word, Eric nodded over to Ernie and winked. Ernie smiled, and the two of them undid their trousers and dropped them to the ground too. Soon, all three men were standing on stage waving at the audience with their hairy and puny little legs on show. The audience lapped it up and were rolling around in the aisles. Eric and Ernie were ultimate professionals. Even though Johnny had dropped his trousers behind them, they didn’t break their stride. Sadly, the show came to an end, although Eric and Johnny vowed to keep in touch.

  Just before he left panto in Birmingham, Johnny received a call from a friend who was also a BBC radio producer. He gave him the tip that Ivor Emanuel, who was appearing in The Land of Song – a Welsh religious TV programme – was planning to leave. On his advice, Johnny wrote to the producers and was offered an interview to be his replacement. In fact, the producer travelled all the way to Birmingham just to see Johnny.

  The TV show was in Welsh and, although Johnny had been brought up in Llanelli, where Welsh had been his first language, he’d gone through the war speaking English, so he’d forgotten some of his native tongue. Undeterred, he was given a couple of English songs that had been translated into Welsh. The plan was that he’d learn them both so that the producer and director could judge his performance. But there was a problem – he only had a week to learn them. By the end of the week, he’d driven me mad singing ‘Popo the Puppet’ and bloody ‘Sing a Song of Sunbeams’! However, he still didn’t feel confident enough to travel over to Cardiff for the audition.

  ‘But what will you do?’ I asked.

  ‘I’ll have to make an excuse,’ he said, picking up the phone in the theatre foyer.

  Johnny dug out a piece of paper and dialled a number.

  ‘I’m awfully sorry,’ he began, ‘but I’ve got a Sunday concert, so I won’t be able to come. Could we make it another day?’

  The studio bosses agreed, which gave him another week’s grace. More importantly, it gave him more time to learn and perfect both songs. Johnny not only wowed them with his beautiful Welsh tenor voice, he also landed the job. When the pantomime finished, we simply packed up the caravan and headed off for our new adventure in Wales.

  CHAPTER 16

  KEEP A WELCOME IN THE HILLSIDE

  We pulled the caravan into Wales and into a caravan park called Fontygary. It was a lovely holiday park, populated not only by weekly holidaymakers, but also people who had bought a caravan as a second home.

  Once on site, Johnny began working on the Land of Song TV programme. He was earning around £400 a month so, for once, we had a regular and steady income.

  We soon became very friendly with a couple called Eileen and Charlie. Charlie had been a successful businessman, so the couple were very wealthy. Charlie had made his fortune buying and selling things, but he was also a moneylender. The caravan park was only open in the summer because it closed throughout the winter months. By this time, Peter was almost five years old and due to start school after Christmas. Deep down, I knew we needed to settle instead of moving from one place to another because it wouldn’t be good for the children to be constantly uprooted. Besides, now that Johnny was on TV, there was very little to stop us.

  ‘I’m sick of all this travelling,’ I complained one morning over breakfast. ‘It’s too cramped in here with us and two children. We need to buy a house, put down some roots and stay in one place, Johnny,’ I said. ‘We need to buy our own house.’

  But he wasn’t convinced.

  ‘Houses cost a fortune, Pat, and what if the money stops coming in. What then?’

  I huffed and got up to clear away the breakfast plates. But I wasn’t prepared to give up.

  Later that evening, we were sat having dinner with Charlie and Eileen when the same conversation started up again.

  ‘But we know nothing about buying a house, Pat,’ Johnny argued. ‘Besides, how would we manage to pay a mortgage month after month?’

  Charlie leaned forward, causing the ice cubes to chink together inside his glass of scotch.

  ‘The thing is,’ he said tapping his finger against his glass, ‘when you’ve got a mortgage to pay, you’ll always find the money.’

  Charlie leaned back and looked over at his wife. ‘Isn’t that so, Eileen?’

  Eileen nodded.

  ‘It is. You see, everyone has hard times, Johnny. But somehow, you always manage to find the money for the mortgage because you need a roof over your heads. And not just your heads – what about the boys?’

  I looked over at Johnny, who was listening intently.

  ‘All right then. We’ll go and have a look tomorrow morning,’ he decided. ‘But we’ll just have a look. We’re not rushing into anything.’

  I took his head in my arms and kissed him full on the lips.

  ‘I love you, Johnny Stewart. You are the best husband a wife could ever wish to have!’

  Charlie and Eileen laughed, and we made plans to head over to the estate agents the following day.

  In spite of his reservations, we put down a deposit on a detached house in St Mellons – a suburb on the outskirts of Cardiff. We sold our caravan for the princely sum of £100 and moved into our detached three-bedroom home. The property sat in the middle of so much land that it felt as though the house had its own grand gardens. After living in a caravan for so many years, it finally felt good to have so much space. The only problem was that, because the house had cost us £3,500 – a small fortune in those days – we didn’t have any spare cash to buy furniture with. Undeterred, I spent what we did have on a set of net curtains to stop the neighbours from peering in.

  ‘It doesn’t matter,’ I said to Johnny as we walked around the empty rooms. ‘We’ll soon earn enough money to buy furniture.’

  But our world came crashing down only a few months later when Equity – the actors and performers union – called all its members out on strike, including those working in TV.

  ‘That’s it,’ Johnny said, flopping himself down on the bare floor. ‘If there’s no work, there’ll be no money to pay the bills, especially not on a big place like this!’

  Johnny threw his hands up in despair.

  ‘It’ll be all right,’ I said, trying to calm him. ‘Remember what Charlie said.’

  ‘I know, but if I can’t work, how can I earn money to pay for it?’

  For a moment I was completely stumped and then I remembered.

  ‘The northern clubs!’ I gasped. ‘You need to work the northern club circuit. They’d pay a fortune for a good comedian like you.’


  Johnny wasn’t convinced, so I picked up the telephone and called all the clubs I could think of in the Yorkshire area, asking for the names and phone numbers of the ones I didn’t. Soon I not only had a list, but I’d managed to secure him lots of bookings.

  ‘But where will I stay?’

  ‘You can live with Mam and Dad.’

  ‘But what about you and the boys?’

  My heart sank because I knew it would mean we’d have to live apart. But tough times call for tough measures.

  ‘We’ll be fine here,’ I said, trying to reassure him. ‘But when the money starts to come in, could you please send some home so that I can buy a bed?’

  So that’s what he did.

  Johnny was paid £60 a night by every club he played at. He started off in Sheffield and slowly worked his way around each working-man’s club in Yorkshire. After an evening’s work, he’d stuff his wages into an envelope and post the cash back home.

  ‘Look, boys!’ I said, opening up the first envelope. ‘We’ve got enough to buy a bed!’

  Later that day, I popped into Cardiff and bought a double bed. I shared it with the boys until I had enough to buy them a bed each. Once the boy’s rooms had been fully furnished, I concentrated on the rest of the house, beginning with the carpets.

  ‘I’ll take you to the cash-and-carry warehouse if you like. They’ll be much cheaper there,’ Charlie suggested.

  ‘Oh, would you?’

  I was grateful to Charlie because he always seemed to know where he could lay his hands on a bargain. It was only when we walked around the cash-and-carry that I realised how cheap the goods were.

  ‘Blimey! You can really pick up a deal in one of these places, can’t you?’ I remarked.

  ‘You certainly can, Pat. How do you think I made my money? Buying and selling things – it’s a sure way to making a fortune, as long as you buy the right thing.’

  Soon Christmas was upon us. But with money still tight, Johnny decided we’d have to tighten our belts even more.

  ‘We won’t be able to afford to buy Christmas presents for the boys this year,’ he said as he sat at the kitchen table counting up what little money we had.

  ‘Why? How much money have we got left?’

  Johnny sighed and looked down at the handful of notes.

  ‘Once the mortgage is paid, all we’ll have left is thirty pounds,’ he said, holding the bank notes aloft. ‘And that,’ he said, shaking them, ‘will have to see us all through Christmas.’

  Johnny had a pantomime booking in Swansea the following month, so I knew we just had to keep going until then.

  ‘Here,’ I said, taking the money from his hand. ‘I’ve got an idea that will give us a Christmas to remember.’

  ‘But you can’t do much with thirty quid.’

  ‘Can’t I?’ I replied, tucking the money inside my purse. ‘Just you wait and see.’

  I telephoned Charlie to ask if he’d take me back to the cash-and-carry. The following day, we headed over there and I bought a hundred sheets and a hundred towels. But when I returned home clutching boxes of linen, Johnny thought I’d lost my marbles.

  ‘You’ve spent it on what?’ he gasped, opening one of the boxes to peer inside.

  ‘Towels and sheets,’ I replied, stacking one box on top of another.

  ‘But what do we need with all these sheets and towels?’ Johnny gestured at the empty room. ‘We haven’t even got furniture!’

  ‘Johnny,’ I said, dusting off my hands. ‘You said we wouldn’t be able to give the boys a Christmas. But there’s no way on God’s earth my boys will miss out on Christmas presents, and this linen,’ I said, tapping the top of a box, ‘will be our ticket out of poverty.’

  Johnny looked at me, bewildered.

  ‘You don’t get it, do you? I’m going to sell it, make a profit and use the money to buy the kids some toys.’

  He scratched his head.

  ‘But where will you sell it?’

  ‘Door to door.’

  Johnny threw his head back and snorted with laughter.

  ‘Wait. Let me get this straight.’ He grinned. ‘You plan to sell towels and sheets door to door, like a gypsy?’

  I nodded.

  ‘If I have to, yes. I’ll do anything to make sure our boys don’t do without this Christmas.’

  Although he hadn’t been entirely convinced by my plan, the following morning Johnny helped me load up the car with the boxes of towels and sheets.

  ‘Of course, you’ll have to drive me,’ I said, finally slamming the boot of the car shut.

  ‘But I’m on TV! What if someone recognises me?’ he exclaimed.

  ‘Tough! There’s no way my boys are going without and that’s that,’ I said, climbing into the passenger seat.

  Johnny wasn’t very happy but he drove the towels, the sheets, our two boys and me from village to village and door to door.

  ‘Who’s that in that car?’ a lady asked as I held out a towel to demonstrate the quality.

  ‘They wash very well. All the stains…’ I said, giving her my usual sales patter.

  But she wasn’t listening. Instead, she was craning her neck, trying to look behind me and into the car.

  ‘That looks just like that man off the telly, Johnny whatshisname…’ she said, desperately trying to remember his surname.

  ‘Stewart?’ I offered.

  ‘Yes, that’s him! The one who does that Land of Song show on the telly.’

  I turned to see Johnny sliding down in the driver’s seat. He was trying his best not to be spotted.

  ‘No, it’s not him,’ I said, holding the towel aloft. ‘It’s just my husband, although he gets it all the time. Personally, I don’t think he looks a bit like him. Anyway, about this towel…’

  By the end of the week, I’d not only managed to shift the entire stock, I’d covered the £30 I’d spent on it and, to my delight, managed to turn a £60 profit.

  ‘Well, I have to hand it to you, Pat, you could sell coals to Newcastle,’ Johnny remarked as we threw the last of the empty boxes into the dustbin.

  For once, we were cash rich. We packed the boys into the car and headed to Featherstone, so that we could spend Christmas with Mam and Dad. In spite of Johnny’s initial reservations, we did indeed have a Christmas to remember. As for the boys, we bought them a swing and seesaw.

  ‘This is great!’ Peter said, dragging Stephen outside for a go on the swing. ‘Mum, Mum,’ he called. ‘Can you push me higher?’

  I’d had the swing and seesaw delivered to Mam’s garden in time for Christmas Day. But as I was leaving the shop, I spotted a sideboard out of the corner of my eye. It was a bargain at just £12.

  ‘I’ll take that too,’ I said, opening up my purse.

  A week later, I paid for the swing, seesaw and sideboard to be delivered to our home in Wales on the back of a wagon.

  Johnny had already signed a contract for a panto in Swansea, but by now I realised how easy it had been to approach the northern clubs and secure work. As long as you knew who to approach, you were halfway there. Before we left Yorkshire, I’d watched a programme on TV that had featured working-men’s clubs in Wales. Although they were exactly the same as the ones Johnny had performed at in Yorkshire, they didn’t feature professional acts. I had a brainwave.

  ‘Johnny,’ I said, looking up at him as the brilliant plan formed inside my head. ‘When we go back to Wales, I’m going to set myself up as a theatrical agent.’

  Johnny folded his newspaper and glanced over at me.

  ‘Are you serious?’

  ‘Deadly.’

  And I was. Wales didn’t have a clue what was about to hit it.

  CHAPTER 17

  AGENT EXTRAORDINAIRE

  Once I had an idea in my head, there was no stopping me. As soon as we had returned to Wales, I telephoned HTV (ITV Wales and West England) to inform them that I was going to bring professional club entertainment to Welsh working-men’s clubs. The producers loved the stor
y, and I appeared on the evening-news programme a few days later.

  It took me two weeks to obtain a theatrical-agency licence from the local council but, once I had it, I was ready to start taking my first bookings. I began with a week’s worth of bookings. I did it mainly because I wanted to get work for Johnny, so that he could be back home with me and the boys, where he belonged.

  Johnny was still busy in panto, which had a twelve-week run, so he didn’t finish until March. With Johnny already performing, I booked a couple of singers and a pianist. I promised every club that the show would bring the house down and it did. My only problem was that I was managing the same artistes at seven clubs at the same time. This meant one club would always have to have the dud end of the booking, namely putting the act on a Monday or Tuesday night. Each club had wanted the artists to perform at the weekends because it was their busiest time. To try to solve the problem, I devised a system where the acts would alternate between the clubs. It meant each club would all get a booking for Saturday and Sunday night. Soon I was swamped with work and started to represent up to thirty or forty acts a week. I was not only securing bookings and keeping old friends and acquaintances in work; I was also getting paid 10 per cent of every commission. I became so busy that I opened up an office in Llanelli, in West Wales, run by a concert secretary I’d met over there.

  With Christmas over and done with, we decided to move. Peter was ready to start school, so I dressed him up for his first day and walked him there. The headteacher stood at the front of the room and read out all the children’s names off a list. The room had slowly emptied, leaving only Peter and two other little boys standing there. I couldn’t understand it because I’d put Peter’s name down months before.

  ‘I’m afraid there isn’t any room for your sons at this school,’ the headmistress informed us all.

  I was annoyed and so were the other mothers, but the headmistress refused to budge.

  ‘I’m afraid you’ll have to take them back home. They won’t be able to start school until after Easter,’ she decided.