by Pat Stewart
With my £5 weekly pay packet, I felt as rich as a queen. I had more money than I’d ever had in my life. I’d grown up in a poor, working-class family and I decided that I never wanted to live like that again. Determined to save a nest egg, I squirreled away ten shillings a week, which I very sensibly put in a post-office savings account.
One day, one of the older dancers – a girl called Mary, who was a heavy smoker and who also enjoyed a tipple or two – approached me. I’d warmed to Mary because, like me, she was from Yorkshire, although I soon realised we were polar opposites.
‘Eh up, Pat.’ Mary said, plonking herself down in the chair next to me. She plucked a fag from a sliver cigarette case, struck a match and lit it. The bluish-grey smoke swirled in circles in front of my face as she leaned in close to whisper something.
‘’Ere, Pat. I don’t s’pose you could do us a favour and lend us ’alf a crown, could yer?’
I was a little taken aback because no one had ever asked to borrow money from me before, but then I’d never had any to lend.
Mary and I were sat in front of the dressing-room mirror but the whole room was buzzing around us. Dancers were chatting away, stretching muscles and swapping gossip, so I was surprised she’d asked me and not one of the others when, in truth, she barely knew me. But I also wanted to help.
‘Erm, yes, of course,’ I stammered. ‘But I’m not that flush myself. When do you think you’ll be able to pay me back?’
Mary seemed affronted.
‘Oh, well, if it’s too much trouble…’ she said with a sniff, making me feel mean.
‘No, no, it’s not that. It’s just that I like to put some savings away each week and—’
Mary butted in, plucked the cigarette from her lipsticked mouth and blew the smoke sharply to one side.
‘Payday. Thursday, I promise, Pat. Cross me heart and all that. All right?’ she said as more of an answer than a question. She quickly snatched the silver half-a-crown coin from my hand before I had a chance to change my mind.
Payday came and went but there was no sign of the money. I felt naïve, young and out of my depth. Suddenly, it became clear why Mary had asked me and not the others. They were probably already wise to her. They’d probably already had their fingers burned lending her money, never to see it again. At first, I was unsure what to do. I didn’t want to fall out with her – or anyone else for that matter – because I’d just arrived. But at the same time, I thought that, if she had the cheek to ask for money, I had the cheek to ask for it back.
‘Mary, about that half-a-crown,’ I said, striding across the dressing room towards her.
She turned around in her chair and stared blankly back at me.
‘The half-a-crown I lent you last week,’ I said, my voice beginning to falter. ‘I mean, I lent it to you and you promised to give it back on payday. Well, payday was Thursday and today is Tuesday. I need it, Mary. I need it to buy makeup and stuff. So, if it’s all right with you, I’d like it back now, please,’ I said, standing there with my hand held out.
Mary didn’t quite know what to do or say. Looking back, I expect she didn’t think a seventeen-year-old would have the gall to ask for her money back, but I had and now I wanted what was due to me. I’d played by the rules and I expected everyone else to do the same. Some of the other dancers had overheard and looked across at one another. It was quite clear to me that Mary was known to all and sundry as a ‘late payer’. It was something I intended to learn a valuable life lesson from.
‘Sorry, I completely forgot, Pat,’ she replied. ‘Look, erm, I’m not sure I’ve got it. Maybe I could pay yer this Thursday?’
But I was adamant.
‘No, it’s late. I need it and you owe it me, so I’d like it now, please,’ I said with my palm still open.
Mary flushed red as she rummaged a hand around in her purse.
‘OK,’ she replied, pulling a coin from her purse. She snapped it shut in a temper. ‘There yer go. Now we’re completely straight and I don’t owe you a penny.’
‘Thank you!’ I smiled as I turned and walked away, feeling jubilant.
I hadn’t lied to Mary. I really did need the money for makeup because we had to buy our own for the show. The greasepaint foundation was so thick that we’d use a towel – a simple square of cotton – and liquid paraffin to remove it. The foundation came in a small stick that you smeared on your face. It was a brownish skin colour, which gave you a similar hue to that of a good holiday in the sun. Although it was thick, I’m convinced the greasepaint was actually rather good for my skin. It must have nourished it because I only ever developed pimples when I hadn’t used it for a while. We painted our eyes the same regulation bright blue and daubed red rouge on our cheeks to compliment our healthy glow. In short, we were all eyes and teeth!
After two short weeks, our time in London had come to an end. There was a lot of excitement at London Euston one Sunday as I caught the train with a group of giggling girls. We were bound for Blackpool, where we would dance the summer season away at the end of the North Pier. After wandering through the streets of Blackpool, two other girls and I – Edna, a Geordie from Newcastle, and Sheila, a Londoner – checked into our rooms. Our digs were in a small boarding house close to the seafront. Our rooms cost us £2 a week, which meant we had £3 to spare. I continued to put £1 a week away for a rainy day, which meant I was left with £2 to paint the town red. Our formidable landlady, Mrs Williams, was a large bosomy woman who had steel-grey, scraped-back hair and a large, dark-brown mole on her face, which I couldn’t help but gawp at every time she stopped me for a chat. I was simply terrified of her!
‘How are you settling in, girls?’ she asked one morning as Edna and I came rushing down the stairs.
‘Oh, fine, thank you, Mrs Williams,’ I said, trying to avert my eyes so I wouldn’t stare at the humongous mole protruding from her upper lip.
I felt Edna’s elbow nudge against me.
‘Good, good,’ the landlady replied. ‘Now, if you need more towels, I’m just through there,’ she said, pointing through to the kitchen at the back of the house.
‘Yes, Mrs Williams. Thank you, Mrs Williams,’ we chorused as we ran out of the front door and onto the street.
‘Did you see it? Well, you couldn’t miss it!’ Edna said, laughing.
‘Don’t,’ I said, giving her a playful push. ‘I couldn’t take my eyes off it.’
Despite our age, and Mrs William’s stern appearance, she allowed us to visit Blackpool Tower Ballroom after the show. Unlike the other landladies, she never once locked us out and would often sit up and wait for us to return home.
Mam and Dad realised I’d have no transport in Blackpool, so I asked if they’d put my bicycle on the train so I could collect it from the railway station. After that, I used it to get to and from the theatre. Sheila and Edna decided to do the same because there was no such thing as taxis for poor showgirls like us: only public transport. Our bicycles saved us a small fortune on bus and tram fares. We continued with show rehearsals for another two weeks, but now we were rehearsing along with the rest of the cast. Sometimes, the routines seemed to drag on forever so, in a bid to cheer myself up, I decided to give my long blonde hair a pink rinse.
‘Pat! What on earth have you done?’ Sheila gasped as I emerged from the bathroom one day.
‘I’ve put a rinse in my hair.’ I said, rubbing an old towel a pale pink colour as I tried to dry it. ‘Why?’ I asked, noticing the look on her face.
‘No! You’re not allowed to!’
I pulled the towel from my head and looked up at her.
‘It’s in your contract,’ Sheila explained. ‘You’re not allowed to change your appearance, otherwise—’
‘Otherwise, what?’ I asked. My pink, stringy hair dripped fat drops of coloured water onto the wooden floor below as I waited for her answer. But Sheila shrugged her shoulders.
‘I don’t know, but I wouldn’t like to put it to the test. It’s written in yo
ur contract.’
Needless to say, I spent the whole of that day and the next washing my hair to try to return it to its natural ash-blonde.
The Tiller Girl show opened to a packed house and our first routine included a beautiful and artistic ballet scene. Even though I was the new girl, I was delighted when I was chosen to play the part of cupid.
I can’t believe I’m actually dancing with the Tiller Girls on a proper stage, in a beautiful theatre. At last! I’ve made it. I’ve dreamed of this moment for all of my life! I thought happily to myself as I pulled on my cupid’s costume. The costume consisted of a tunic, thick dance tights and pair of pink dance knickers that covered my own. The larger, ‘silky dance pants’ fastened using an antique-looking hook-and-eye sewn on at the side. The voile tunic, which barely reached my hips, had a cord, which I tightened around my waist. Soon I was ready to go on stage. My routine consisted of pretty basic ballet moves – mainly standing on my left leg with my right leg extended. I was standing in this pose when the music started and the front curtain began to rise. The stage lights were bright and almost blinded me as I tried to remember my routine and timing. As the music changed, I began to bring my extended right leg inwards, as slowly and as gracefully as I could. And that’s when it happened.
Ping!
I felt a sudden sense of ‘release’ as something gave way at the side of my right hip. Then I felt a horrible sliding sensation as my silky knickers fell to the floor, landing in a messy bunch around my ankles. I heard a muffled snigger from behind me as one of the dancers tried her best not to fall over. I laughed too but, somehow, I managed to contain my fits of giggles as the packed theatre looked on at me in horror, wondering what I’d do next. With a delicate tiptoe, I managed to step out of the leg holes and over to one side. With a deft flick of my ballet point, I kicked the silken pants across the floor so that they slid over towards stage left. An arm had extended from the darkness of the wings as a hand quickly grabbed the offending undergarments off the stage. I completed the rest of my ballet routine knickerless, apart from my underwear hidden beneath my stage tights. Afterwards, we all fell about with laughter.
‘Oh, hello, Nicolasss!’ Sheila teased as I ran off stage.
‘Don’t!’ I said, clutching a hand against my chest. ‘I thought I’d die laughing!’
‘I loved the way you hooked it on your foot and flung it to one side, Pat,’ Edna remarked as we wiped away the tears of laughter from our eyes.
Although I had my savings and £2 a week to spare, I didn’t actually spend very much. Only a few weeks after I’d arrived in Blackpool, I was asked out by Rodney, a talented bass player who played for the theatre’s orchestra. Rodney’s father was the musical director, overseeing the whole show, so, in my eyes, he was a very powerful man. Rodney was my first proper boyfriend. Dark but not particularly tall, he’d just finished studying at the Royal School of Music in London. Oddly enough, his surname was Stewart, which I later became, although I didn’t marry Rodney, even though he thought of himself as my boyfriend.
In reality, it was all very innocent, with most of our ‘dates’ spent sipping afternoon tea in the Pier cafe. Thanks to Equity, we were also able to enjoy the odd free trip to the cinema, although we always watched the matinee performance because we’d both have to work the show in the evening. I danced twice every night and three times on a Wednesday, when we held our own matinee. Sundays were strange because there was an odd law in place that forbade anyone to charge for dancing on the Sabbath. Bizarrely, the producers got around it by sending us out onto the stage dressed in full costume to just stand there. It was all very strange but we had a paying audience so, in many ways, it was business as usual.
One evening, we’d just finished a show when the stage-door manager, Harry, tapped on our dressing-room door.
‘Oh, Harry, what are you knocking at our dressing-room door for?’ one of the dancers teased.
She cupped his face fondly and blew him a kiss. Harry blushed and waved her away with his hand.
‘Pack it in, girls,’ Harry said, grinning. He poked his head around the door and scanned the room. ‘Now then, I’m looking for two dancers.’
‘Oooh,’ the girls whooped in unison as Harry flushed again.
‘Well, you’ve certainly come t’right place ’ere, ’arry,’ Mary chipped in, as everyone hooted with laughter.
I was busy soaking my makeup cloth with liquid paraffin when I heard my name mentioned.
‘No, I’m looking for a Pat Wilson and a Wendy Clarke,’ Harry explained.
My head spun away from my reflection and I turned to face him.
‘Me?’ I asked, thinking I’d misheard.
I was one of the new girls. Whatever did Harry want me for?
‘Go on, what have I done wrong?’ I said with a laugh, recalling the knicker incident.
‘No, it’s not that,’ Harry said, shaking his head and half-covering his eyes because we were all half-undressed. ‘It’s just there are two gentlemen waiting at the stage door. They want to speak to you and Wendy.’
‘Really?’ I gasped.
‘Yes,’ Harry said and nodded.
I glanced downwards. I’d already removed my costume, so I was sat half-naked in front of the dressing-room mirror in just my slip and dressing gown.
I can’t go out dressed like this! I thought, as my eyes scanned the room looking for Wendy, but when I saw her, I realised that she was dressed exactly the same.
‘Who is it, do you think, Pat?’ Wendy asked, coming towards me.
I was as clueless as she was.
‘I don’t know,’ I said standing up and grabbing her hand, ‘but we’re going to go and find out!’
With that, we ran along the corridor and headed towards the stage door, excited at what and who awaited us.
‘Hey, maybe we’ve been spotted! Maybe it’s Hollywood waiting for us!’ I said, giggling.
‘Oh, I hope so, Pat!’
We both let out a squeal of excitement as we ran towards the exit and the two men who were waiting to speak to us. Little did we know then but those gentlemen were about to turn our lives upside down with an opportunity that would follow us for the rest of our lives.
CHAPTER 5
THE GIRL IN THE SPOTTY DRESS
The men lifted their hats as we approached them at the stage door.
‘Here they are,’ one said, turning towards the other.
‘Thank you for coming to see us, ladies,’ the younger one began.
His hand fumbled around in his overcoat pocket and he pulled out a business card. He gave it to me.
Brian Dowling, Reporter
Picture Post Magazine
I looked down, trying to absorb the words as Wendy craned her neck to try to read it.
‘Here,’ I said, handing it to her. A look of surprise flashed across her face.
‘Well, if we’re doing introductions, I suppose I better give you my card too,’ the other man remarked, dipping a hand inside his jacket breast pocket to pull out an almost identical card:
Bert Hardy, Photographer
Picture Post Magazine
I was a little puzzled. What did these two gentlemen want to speak to me and Wendy about?
Our confusion must have shown because Brian began to explain.
‘You might wonder what brings us both here to the stage door asking for you,’ he said.
We nodded our heads, although we’d both heard of the Picture Post because it was a best-selling magazine, shifting around a million copies a week.
‘The thing is,’ Brian continued, ‘the magazine has been losing circulation so we came up with the idea of running a competition to get more interest.’
Wendy turned to look at me. We were unsure where this was all leading and what on earth a Picture Post competition had to do with us.
‘Our boss decided we needed to run a photographic competition, and Bert here,’ he said, gesturing over at his colleague, ‘well, he’s a photographer and he
reckons anyone can take a good picture, as long as they have a good eye for a photograph. Isn’t that right, Bert?’
‘That’s right,’ Bert chipped in. ‘You don’t need a good camera or anything to take a cracking picture but people don’t believe me, so I’m going to do it and prove them wrong. All you need is a basic camera. It’s what or who you’re taking the photograph of – that’s the most important bit.’
‘And that’s where you two ladies come in,’ Brian said, smiling broadly. ‘Well, we hope it is, anyhow. You see, Bert here, well, he’s one of the judges, so we came along to Blackpool to find something he could take a picture of and that’s when we spotted you two girls up on the stage.’
I felt my face flush because I was flattered that, out of all the Tillers, they’d chosen us.
‘You mean, you want to take a photograph of me and Wendy?’ I replied.
‘Exactly!’ Bert said with a grin. ‘You don’t need a posh camera to take a good photo. If the photograph is good enough, it will speak for itself. It’ll be the man behind the camera, not the camera that will be the winner.’
‘So, what’s the prize?’ Wendy asked.
Brian looked at Bert and the two men smiled knowingly at one another.
‘Actually, it’s quite a lot of money. There’s a large cash prize on offer to the winner.’
‘Is there?’
‘Yes, the first prize is £5,000.’
‘£5,000!’ Wendy and I gasped out loud.
A £5,000 prize was a life-changing sum back in the 1950s and more than enough to buy two houses, especially in Yorkshire. I was thrilled that we’d been asked to front such a huge competition. The magazine’s circulation was falling because it was 1951, and more people were choosing to watch television rather than sit and read. The editor had decided a prestigious competition was just the thing needed to lift both circulation and the magazine’s profile. It made complete sense. They wanted to take a photo of two Tiller Girls because we were seen as part of that same glamorous showbiz environment. I was delighted that Bert had chosen us and I couldn’t wipe the smile off my face. Then I looked down and remembered something. My eyes dropped to my dressing gown and I felt my heart plummet. I looked across at Wendy.
