by Pat Stewart
‘I’m awfully sorry,’ I gasped. ‘I’m pregnant. I was feeling quite ill,’ I fibbed, clutching my stomach. ‘I had to sit inside until the sickness went. For safety’s sake, I didn’t want to come out and start driving until I felt well enough.’
The traffic warden cast his eyes down to my flat stomach and scoffed, as though he didn’t believe a word of it.
‘Well, you can tell that to the magistrate,’ he grumbled, like the true jobs-worth he was.
I was furious even though I’d been caught bang to rights; I was annoyed that he hadn’t believed I was pregnant!
I later recounted the story to Johnny, but he was annoyed when I insisted that I planned to appeal the ticket.
‘Just pay the bloody fine and be finished with it!’ he barked.
But I was adamant. My hormones were all over the place, and to me it had become a matter of principle.
‘No, because I am pregnant! Besides, he didn’t know if I was feeling sick or not.’
Johnny looked at me aghast.
‘But you weren’t sick.’
‘Well, that’s true,’ I agreed. ‘You know that and so do I but he didn’t. And what if I had been? No, I’m going to fight this for pregnant ladies everywhere,’ I announced dramatically.
Once my mind was made up, there was no way I was backing down. The traffic warden had been rude and I didn’t want him treating other ladies the same way.
Johnny shook his head as though he’d completely given up on me.
By the time the case had reached magistrates’ court, I was heavily pregnant. In fact, my stomach entered the room before I did. Thankfully, the magistrate was a lady and so she was entirely sympathetic to my cause. She also made the traffic warden, who I decided to christen ‘Bulldog’, look like a damned idiot for bringing the case to court in the first place.
‘I think, given Mrs Stewart’s condition,’ she said, gesturing over towards my heavily swollen belly, ‘that there is no case to answer. Why it was ever brought in the first place is beyond me,’ she remarked, shooting the Bulldog a stern look before dismissing both the case and me.
I left the magistrates court feeling very pleased with myself. Although after that day, I was wary of the Bulldog. I envisaged him and his mates prowling the streets of Cardiff, hunting for me to seek revenge against my little red Mini.
I continued to run my agency right up until the last moment of my pregnancy. The final act I booked was Ronnie Hilton, who just missed out on being the UK’s first representative in the Eurovision Song Contest.
I’d already decided I’d give up my agency office in South Wales. In the end, I handed it all over to Len, a former concert secretary, who was based at my Llanelli office, because I realised just how much time and effort it took. Sadly, once I’d let go of the reins and had walked away, the agency folded within a matter of months.
Our daughter, Rachel, was born a few weeks later, in September 1968. Unfortunately, and in true form, Johnny had missed the birth because he was away performing at a show in Morecambe. The months passed, and I happily settled down into my new role as full-time mum to our three children. One day the following summer, I was sat at home feeding Rachel when Peter and Stephen raced into the kitchen looking for me.
‘Mum, Mum!’ Peter yelled. ‘Can we do Junior Showtime?’
Junior Showtime was a popular children’s television programme on ITV, which was screened every Tuesday.
I took the spoon from Rachel’s mouth and looked over at the boys. They were both standing there begging for permission.
‘But Junior Showtime is filmed in Leeds,’ I told them.
‘Yeah,’ Stephen chipped in, ‘but they’re going to do auditions in Cardiff this Saturday.’
I considered it and shook my head.
‘But how can you do it?’ I asked. ‘You only know Welsh songs and it’s a British show. You don’t even know any English songs.’
Peter refused to give up.
‘Please, Mum. We can learn. We’ll work hard, won’t we?’ he said, turning to look at his brother who was nodding his head furiously in agreement.
‘I just don’t think it’ll work.’
The boys groaned, but they wouldn’t let the matter drop because they were both as headstrong as me.
‘Well,’ Peter declared confidently, ‘I bet our dad will give us something.’
Although I had my doubts, Johnny had seemed more than happy to indulge them.
‘Our boys on the stage!’ he said, beaming proudly. ‘It’ll be like history repeating itself.’
For the next few days, it certainly felt like it. Johnny helped the boys rehearse an old military pantomime sketch. Stephen took on the role of the comic, while Peter played the straight man.
‘That’s it, now you hand the rifle to Stephen,’ Johnny said, directing them from an armchair in the front room.
The sketch was simple enough. Peter would tell Stephen to put his rifle where he had his, and Stephen would go and place it on Peter’s shoulder. It was silly pantomime nonsense but the boys loved it. With a comedian as a father, they practised it over and over again until their timing was just perfect. Days later, we arrived for the audition at the Royal Hotel in Cardiff. The foyer was packed with children dressed in ballet frocks, bridesmaid’s costumes – in fact, every type of costume you could imagine. They were all dolled up to the nines and hungry for fame.
‘Here, give Rachel to me,’ Johnny said, taking her pushchair from me.
I smelled a rat.
‘Why?’ I asked as I watched him turn and head straight for the hotel door.
‘It’s like that bloody Bonny Baby Show in Weymouth,’ he remarked, looking at all the junior wannabes in the foyer. ‘I’m not staying here. You’re on your own!’ he called as he ran towards the door.
‘Johnny Stewart, you come back here now!’ I shouted after him.
But Johnny wasn’t listening; he was too busy making an escape.
‘Don’t worry,’ he called. ‘I’ll look after Rachel. See you all later!’
With that, he was gone. I cursed him silently.
‘Where’s Dad gone?’ Stephen asked, looking up at me.
‘He’s gone for a walk,’ I huffed.
Despite Johnny’s sudden disappearing act, the boys’ audition went well. The executive producer of Junior Showtime was Jess Yates who I’d worked with years earlier. Jess was the ultimate professional and, if he recognised me, he didn’t let on. Then again, neither did I. The boys left me in the corridor and disappeared off into a room, where they performed their comedy sketch and finished on a song. Suddenly, the door opened and an assistant popped his head around the corner, looking for me.
‘Could you come in, please? Jess would like a word.’
I smiled as I sat down in front of Jess.
‘They’re good,’ he said, ‘but they need a lot of work. Can you give it to them?’
I cleared my throat.
‘Yes, I think I can. They’ve pulled this routine together in less than a week. Four days, to be precise.’
Jess sat behind his makeshift desk and listened to what I had to say.
‘Well, in that case – and if you can bring them up to standard – I’ll put them through for the show.’
A few weeks later, we travelled to Leeds so that they could perform on Junior Showtime. Of course, Johnny was delighted his sons were following in his footsteps.
‘Look at them,’ he said proudly.
‘Yes, it’s just a shame you didn’t stick around for the audition,’ I sniped, giving him a hard nudge with my elbow.
The boys were a great success. They performed four times on the TV show and even bagged themselves a write-up in the theatrical newspaper The Stage.
‘The Stewart Brothers have just made their TV debut,’ Johnny said, reading the review aloud, ‘… so Mike and Bernie Winters had better watch out because the Stewart Brothers are here!’
‘Hey,’ he gasped, placing the newspaper down in his lap.
‘Maybe we ought to send them to stage school?’
But the boys didn’t seem keen and neither was I. Once they’d gone upstairs to bed, I decided to speak to Johnny.
‘It’s true. Both boys were good on the show, but have you noticed something?’ I began.
Johnny looked away from the TV.
‘Noticed what?’ he replied.
I sighed. I didn’t want to put a damper on their dreams but, at the same time, I wasn’t sure quite how to say it.
‘Yes, they were good on the show, but they never want to practice.’
Johnny shrugged his shoulders.
‘Yeah, I suppose you’re right.’
‘So I don’t think we should push them if they don’t want to do it. If they really wanted to, they’d be begging us to stay up and practice all night long.’
Johnny looked back at the TV screen.
‘Yes, I suppose you’ve got a point.’
A few weeks later, the phone rang at home. I picked it up to a lady from Yorkshire Television.
‘We wondered if Peter and Stephen would like to come and perform on the show again?’ she asked.
Both boys were at home that day because it was St David’s day, so all Welsh pupils had the day off from school.
‘Could I ring you back?’
‘Yes, of course. Just let me know,’ she replied as I replaced the receiver.
I walked into the lounge. Peter and Stephen were lounging around on the sofa, engrossed in a programme on TV.
‘Do you want to do another Junior Showtime?’ I asked, standing in front of the TV set to get their full attention.
‘Oh, yes please!’ they chorused.
I was surprised. Maybe I’d misjudged them.
‘It’s just that I’ve had Yorkshire Television on the phone.’
Both boys smiled. I knew something wasn’t quite right, but I couldn’t put my finger on it. My mother’s instinct told me that they were both up to something.
‘Just answer me one question,’ I said, crouching down so that I could look them both in the eye. ‘Why don’t you ever want to rehearse between shows?’
Peter looked guilty as Stephen shot him a sideways glance. Neither of them replied.
‘Because you’re not going to get better,’ I continued. ‘You’re not going to get better if you don’t practise. You’ll both stay exactly the same. That’s why you need to rehearse in between shows.’
They both looked down guiltily until Stephen suddenly dropped them both in it by piping up, ‘We do it so we can have a day off school.’
Peter’s eyes bored into Stephen to try and shut him up.
‘Right, I see,’ I said, straightening up. ‘Well, in that case, neither of you will do the show.’
The boys groaned. Peter turned and gave his brother a frosty stare.
Armed with the truth, I went back into the hallway, picked up the phone and returned the call.
‘I’m sorry, but Peter and Stephen won’t be able to do any more shows,’ I explained. ‘They’re retiring as of today.’
The lady sounded a little surprised until I explained.
‘They only do it to get time off school.’
‘Ahh, I see.’
After that, the boys’ show-business career came to an abrupt end.
‘It’s bloody hard work,’ I told Johnny later that evening. ‘And if their hearts aren’t in it, they’ll never get on.’
Johnny agreed.
‘It’s true. It’s one of the greatest jobs in the world. In fact, it’s the only job that’ll pay you a wage and give you a round of applause. But when times are tough, it can be one of the hardest jobs in the world.’
Although they never set foot on a stage again, both boys went on to carve out extremely successful careers for themselves. So I like to think the decision I made that day was the right one.
CHAPTER 21
PRISON SHOW AND SEX OFFENDERS
Unlike the boys, Rachel was a fussy child who would scream blue murder if a stranger came to talk to her. One day, when she was about four years old, Johnny and I were standing outside a theatre in Ryde – a seaside town on the Isle of Wight – when a man came over to speak to us. Johnny was holding Rachel in his arms as the man approached.
‘’Ere,’ he said. ‘Aren’t you a beautiful little thing. Let’s have a cuddle,’ he grinned as he tried to take Rachel from Johnny’s arms.
Rachel was a typical blonde-haired, blue-eyed, adorable little girl but she didn’t much care for the man. As soon as he went to grab hold of her, instead of screaming, she balled up her tiny fist and planted a right hook clean on his mouth.
‘No!’ she bawled.
Unfortunately, the man in question happened to be a gangster from the East End of London. He was one of many criminal types who regularly travelled over to visit friends and associates locked up inside two prisons on the island, Albany and Parkhurst. He wasn’t used to being told no either, especially by a little girl. As Rachel punched him, the villain reeled back in shock. He ran his fingertips along the edge of his mouth, feeling for blood, and looked back in horror at her.
‘’Ere, you seen what she just did to me?’ he gasped.
I took a deep breath.
‘I’m terribly sorry,’ I said, stepping forward to offer him a tissue. ‘It’s just that Rachel’s frightened of strangers, so I think you must have shocked her.’
Johnny apologised too. Meanwhile, Rachel sat there, indignant in his arms, annoyed he’d encroached on her personal space. Thankfully, although he was a hardened crook, he also had a sense of humour; however, he never asked Rachel for a cuddle again.
Our daughter’s feisty nature didn’t stop there. Once Johnny had finished the summer season at Ryde, we travelled back home. One afternoon, a friend had popped around for coffee but, as she got up to leave, she realised her car keys were missing.
‘That’s strange,’ she said, scouring her handbag. ‘I could have sworn I’d put them in here.’
But the keys weren’t in her bag or anywhere else in the room. After an hour, we’d turned the house upside down looking for them.
‘I’m so sorry, Di, but I can’t find them anywhere,’ I sighed, holding my hands up in defeat.
Di had also given up the search.
‘Never mind, Pat. Thanks for looking. I must have misplaced them somewhere,’ she said, picking up her bag.
‘Yes, but you drove over here, so they must be here somewhere. Only where they are, I do not know.’
I checked beneath the cushions on the sofa one last time.
‘I’ll tell you what,’ I said, throwing the last one down. ‘I’ll drive you back home.’
‘But what about the kids?’
‘Oh, Johnny can put them to bed.’
But Di was adamant she didn’t want to put me out.
‘No, I’ll be fine, honestly.’
I held up my hand to silence her.
‘Nonsense! Your keys must be somewhere in this house, and I’m determined to find them. Now, the least I can do is run you home until I do.’
Johnny put all three children to bed while I took Di home.
The following morning, I was just about to resume the search for the missing car keys when Rachel approached me. She had something in her hand.
‘Mummy, here are that lady’s car keys,’ she said, holding them up as though butter wouldn’t melt.
‘Oh, Rachel. That’s wonderful!’ I said, giving her a hug. ‘But where did you find them?’
She looked a little guilty. Her face blushed as she turned in her shoes and stared down hard at them.
‘I took them,’ she whispered.
I was furious.
‘Rachel! That’s naughty. Why on earth would you do such a thing? We spent ages looking for them last night. Listen,’ I said, bending down to her level, ‘you must never take something that doesn’t belong to you, do you understand?’ I held her arm so that she’d have to look at me.
‘Sorry,’ she replied,
her eyes brimming with tears.
‘But why, Rachel? Why did you take them?’
Rachel lifted her little face and looked at me properly for the first time.
‘Because I like Di and I didn’t want her to leave.’
Although I was cross with her for taking the keys, a part of me couldn’t stop laughing. She’d hidden them to keep Di a prisoner in our house!
With her keys safely in my hand, I picked up the phone and rang Di to tell her the good news. When I explained why Rachel had taken them, Di burst out laughing.
‘Oh, bless her little heart,’ she said with a chuckle.
‘Bless her, indeed! What on earth am I going to do with her?’
Johnny had overheard as he passed me in the hallway. After I’d put the receiver back down, I noticed that he was smirking.
‘What’s so funny?’
‘It’s Rachel,’ he said and chortled, giving me a nudge with his elbow. ‘She’s a chip off the old block, eh?’
Although I’d forgiven her, a month or so later Rachel was back to her usual tricks. Only this time she pushed a friend’s handbag down the toilet!
‘Rachel,’ I said, calling her into the front room. ‘Where’s the handbag?’
He face clouded over because she was annoyed she’d been rumbled. She led both me and my friend into the bathroom. I was puzzled until Rachel stepped over towards the toilet and lifted up the seat.
‘What? It’s in there?’ I gasped, looking at her in disbelief.
‘But it’s not wet. It got stuck!’ Rachel insisted.
She gave the straps a sharp tug and the bag popped out.
Although my friend thought it was all highly amusing, I failed to see the funny side. Thankfully, after another telling off, Rachel decided to end her days as a prankster.
Shortly afterwards, laughter left the house when I received a phone call from my Dad one Sunday morning as I was preparing dinner.
‘Pat, its yer Mam,’ he began, his voice crumbling as he spoke.
I knew in an instant that something terrible was wrong.