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

by Pat Stewart

  ‘Please tell me you don’t want to take a photograph of us looking like this, do you?’ I gasped.

  Wendy looked at me and then at herself.

  ‘I hope not, Pat. I’m not going in the Picture Post dressed like this!’ she said as we both dissolved into a fit of nervous but excited giggles.

  Bert raised a hand up to stop us.

  ‘No, ladies, I wouldn’t dream of it. But if you could meet us down on Blackpool promenade tomorrow morning, that would be marvellous.’

  ‘But what should we bring? What would you like us to wear?’ Wendy asked.

  ‘If you could both come dressed in beachwear, I think that would work out just fine.’

  We all agreed and a plan was formed to meet early the following morning.

  ‘Oh, how exciting!’ I squealed, clutching Wendy’s hand as we ran back to the dressing room to tell the others.

  ‘What did those fellas want?’ Mary asked as soon as we ran in through the dressing-room door. The other dancers stopped in their steps and the chatter fell silent as everyone waited to hear what we had to say.

  ‘We’re going to have our photograph taken by a man from the Picture Post,’ I trilled.

  ‘Yeah, sure. Is that what they told yer?’ Mary said, smirking as she pulled her dressing-gown cord tight around her waist.

  ‘No, it’s true! Look, they even gave us their business cards,’ I said, digging a hand inside the front pocket of my satin dressing gown.

  Sheila stepped forward and took the cards from my hand.

  ‘It’s true, Mary. Says here that one is a photographer and the other is a journalist.’

  The whole room gasped as I turned and smiled in Mary’s direction. It was obvious she thought we’d made the whole thing up.

  ‘But what are you going to wear?’ Sheila asked suddenly, breaking my thoughts.

  ‘Beachwear,’ I said. ‘They want us to wear beachwear.’

  ‘I bet they do,’ Mary sniffed sarcastically.

  The following morning, I put on my bathing costume, which was cut modestly low against my legs, and pulled on a brown-and-cream spotted dress over the top. I loved the dress. It had been a gift from my parents to wear during my first summer season in Blackpool. My mother had bought it from Roberts – a posh ladies’ shop in Station Road, Featherstone. It had cost her £3, which was quite a lot of money then, so it meant the world to me and was my absolute favourite.

  I met Wendy at the North Pier just before 10am, as arranged, and we headed down to Blackpool Tower, where Brian and Bert were already waiting for us. Sure enough, Bert was standing there holding a Box Brownie camera in his right hand.

  ‘Morning!’ Brian called out chirpily, waving a hand in greeting. But the sea breeze was so strong that it blew his voice away almost instantly.

  The skirt of my dress billowed up around my legs as we walked over towards them.

  ‘Whoops-a-daisy!’ I said and giggled.

  I put both my hands down to try and make the flimsy fabric stay still and behave.

  It was a blustery but lovely sunny morning – typical weather for Blackpool seafront.

  ‘Right then, girls,’ said Bert, taking control. ‘I think I’d like to start off by getting a photograph of you each riding on a donkey.’

  Wendy and I laughed and linked arms as we followed Bert down onto the beach below.

  Our donkeys must have been used to having their photographs taken – well, more than Wendy and I – because they were ultimate professionals. Bert got his shot, so he suggested we strip down to our bathing costumes on the sand. It was all very innocent and proper. Wendy kicked off her shoes and I undid my sandals. We began to build sand castles on the beach as Bert snapped away.

  ‘Pat, turn your head slightly to the right. That’s it. Perfect!’ Bert called. ‘Hold it there. That’s right. Wonderful!’ he said, pressing the button. ‘Right,’ he said, looking around him and trying to decide what we should do next. ‘I think I’ll take a few more on the railings up there and then we’re done.’

  ‘You’re doing great, girls,’ Brian chipped in. ‘These photographs are going to be smashing! Here,’ he said, holding out his hand towards me as I struggled to my feet. ‘Let me help you up.’

  Brian helped us with our things as we pulled our dresses back over the top of our bathing costumes. I slipped on my sandals and waited for Wendy to fasten her shoes, before we both headed up to the promenade. Bert was already up there waiting. I watched as he turned, looking all around him, trying to frame the right shot in his head. By now, the wind had picked up. It was late May and, although the sun was still high in the sky, the wind made it feel a little chilly. Families and couples rushed past us, holding onto their hats to stop them from flying off in the wind. Children clutched buckets and spades, their faces happy and sticky with candyfloss and toffee apples, while seagulls screeched and swooped above our heads, looking for pickings. The breeze carried the smell of the sea, sand and nearby fish and chips, which people devoured hungrily while enjoying the sea view from their front-row seats of multi-coloured striped deckchairs.

  ‘All right then, girls,’ Bert said. ‘I’d like you two ladies to position yourselves on the railings.’

  I tried my best to smooth down the flimsy hem of my dress against the breeze.

  ‘Do you want us to stand up straight against them or sit on them?’ Wendy asked, pointing at the railings.

  ‘I’d like you to sit on them but, whatever you do, don’t hold on!’

  We climbed up onto the pale-grey railings and looked down at the 12-foot sheer drop directly behind us.

  ‘What, you mean we can’t hang on at all?’ I asked Bert, who already had the camera up against his face.

  I feared one wrong move would not only be the end of my dancing career but quite possibly my life!

  ‘No!’ Bert instructed. ‘Do what you have to do to balance yourselves, but I’d like you to keep your hands and arms free so it looks as natural as possible.’

  With the breeze picking up, I was absolutely terrified I’d plummet to my death on the beach below. Bert must have sensed it because he added, ‘But you can hold onto Wendy, if you like?’

  ‘I hope we don’t fall, Wendy!’ I said and laughed nervously. I twisted my left foot around one of the railings to try and anchor myself down. ‘Because if I do, I’m taking you with me!’

  Wendy looked at me, realised I was joking and we both burst into giggles.

  ‘Don’t, Pat,’ Wendy said with a smirk. ‘I’ll lose my balance!’

  With both hands clutching my friend, the wind picked up once more, blowing the hem of my spotty dress up and out. I’d wanted to let go of Wendy so that I could grab it but I was terrified I’d slip back. Instead, I sat on the railings unable to do a single thing about it. Wendy realised what was happening and we both began to scream with laughter and terror. Bert pressed his finger on the button of the Box Brownie camera and the shutter fell at that precise moment. The image of my billowing dress on Blackpool promenade had been captured forever.

  It was four years before Marilyn Monroe’s skirt had fluttered up over the famous subway grating in the iconic film Seven Year Itch so, in many ways, me and my spotty dress had beaten Marilyn to it! I can’t be sure, but I believe our photograph was later used as inspiration for the cult 1987 film Wish You Were Here, starring Emily Lloyd. Her character had a cheeky habit of lifting her skirt and flashing her knickers!

  With the shoot finished, Bert packed away his camera and called the day to an end.

  ‘Thank you, ladies. I think I’ve got some lovely photographs,’ he said, satisfied with his morning’s work.

  ‘Do you think they will use them? The magazine, I mean?’

  Brian and Bert both nodded.

  ‘Oh, I’m sure they will. Bert’s one of the best in the business. He’s bound to have taken a winning shot,’ Brian said, patting his colleague on the back.

  Bert smiled modestly.

  ‘Goodbye, girls, and thank
you both for your time.’

  ‘And don’t forget to look out for yourselves in the Picture Post!’ Brian called back as he turned to wave us a cheery goodbye.

  ‘Do you really think they’ll actually use any of those photographs?’ I asked Wendy as we strolled along the prom and back towards the pier.

  ‘I don’t know,’ she said with a shrug, ‘but I suppose we’ll soon find out.’

  A fortnight later, our photograph was published on the front of Picture Post magazine and it launched a nationwide competition.

  ‘Oh, let’s ’ave a look,’ one of the Tiller Girls said as Wendy and I pored over the front page in the dressing room.

  As I looked more closely at the photograph, I clasped a hand against my mouth in horror. With my skirt blowing up, it looked as though I had no knickers on at all!

  ‘Oh no! What’s my mam going to say, Wendy?’ I gasped. ‘And look at my legs… they look awfully skinny!’

  ‘Don’t show her!’ one of the girls suggested.

  But it was no good. Picture Post was a widely read magazine. I knew it was only a matter of time before my mother or father spotted me on the shelves of the local newsagent. When she did, Mam didn’t even notice the ‘no knickers’ bit. She just saw her daughter on the front page of a magazine that was read by over a million people.

  ‘I’m so proud of you, Pat. I could burst!’ she later wrote in a letter to me.

  All I could think was, What will the neighbours say?

  Although we were perched on the perilous railings of Blackpool promenade, we looked like two young girls enjoying a day out at the seaside. We looked as though we were having the time of our lives, which we were. Underneath the photograph, the editor had called us ‘The Blackpool Belles’.

  It wasn’t until many years later that I found out why I looked as naked as I did in the photograph. When Bert had developed the film back in the dark room, the black-and-white image had caught my spotted skirt blowing up in the wind to reveal my one-piece bathing costume. The only problem was that the magazine’s editor presumed my costume, which was cut modestly low against my leg, was, in fact, my knickers! He was so worried that the picture would cause general outrage for its perceived ‘indecency’ that he immediately ordered Bert to remove both the costume and the offending ‘knicker line’.

  ‘We know it’s not her actual knickers,’ he’d told Bert. ‘But what if the general public thinks it is?’

  Bert did as he was told and, as a result – and to my ultimate horror – it looked as though I was wearing no knickers at all!

  CHAPTER 6

  DANCING QUEEN

  The show played all summer but, all too soon, the season came to an end. The day-trippers and holidaymakers returned home as Blackpool prepared itself for the autumn weather and the turning on of the town’s famous illuminations. With the close of the show I packed up my trunk, kissed Sheila and Edna goodbye and headed back home to Yorkshire.

  Mam was waiting for me at the station as the train pulled into Featherstone and I climbed down onto the station platform.

  ‘Oh, come ’ere, our Pat. I haven’t half missed yer!’ She said, her eyes filling with tears of relief as she hugged me and refused to let go.

  ‘Oh, yer too skinny!’ she scolded, holding me at arm’s length so she could take me all in. ‘I hope yer’ve been eating properly while yer’ve been away. And I hope that lot haven’t been working yer too hard.’

  I smiled at her because, no matter what I said, I knew she was and would always be worried about me because I was her only child.

  ‘Now,’ she said, ‘let’s get back so yer father can see yer when he gets in from work.’

  Mam explained that my luggage would follow us on. Dad had arranged for one of his mates to pick up my trunk from the station by horse and cart later that day.

  Of course, my father was delighted to see me when he came walking in through the back door.

  ‘Eh, yer aren’t half a sight for sore eyes. Come here,’ he said, gathering me into his arms. ‘I aren’t half missed yer, lass. We both ’ave, haven’t we, Sarah?’

  Dad glanced over at Mam, who couldn’t stop looking at me. I felt quite choked up to be back home in the arms of my loving family.

  I signed on the dole for the next six weeks because Christmas season was just around the corner and, after that, a second summer season in Blackpool with the Tiller Girls beckoned. I’d only been at home a couple of days when my mother announced she’d arranged for me to do the choreography for an amateur pantomime production to be held in the village hall.

  ‘It’s like this. I said to her, well, if our Pat can’t help out, who can? Anyway, they want yer to do it.’

  ‘All right, Mam,’ I agreed. ‘Of course I will. When do they need me?’

  Mam straightened up, wiped both hands on the front of her apron and then rested them on her hips.

  ‘Well I’ve told her yer’ll start right away! They’ll be there now waiting for yer.’

  I chuckled because Mam was determined to keep me busy, if nothing else. I didn’t mind because I loved to dance so it didn’t feel like work at all. With no time to lose, I headed over to the Miners’ Welfare Hall where I found a group of little girls waiting for me. I formed them into a dance troupe and called them the Sunbeams, which was a juvenile troupe based on the famous Laidler babes. I was given a troupe of older girls to train too. A few weeks later, we staged the show at the same hall in Featherstone. With adoring parents and grandparents making up most of the audience, we quite literally brought the house down.

  Afterwards, I received a letter from one of the grandparents, thanking me for all my hard work. I already loved my job but the letter was warmly received. It made me realise there was no greater satisfaction than doing something you truly loved. It’d also convinced me I’d chosen the right job because I knew, without a doubt, that I would have hated being a PE teacher.

  A few weeks later, I was at home when I suffered the most terrible stomach cramps and then developed a fever. Mam called for the doctor and I was rushed to the local hospital, where I had my appendix removed. I began to panic when I realised the rehearsals for the pantomime were just weeks away and I was worried I wouldn’t be fit enough.

  ‘She needs plenty of rest,’ the doctor advised my mother.

  ‘But I need to be back on stage in a few weeks,’ I insisted.

  The doctor looked at my mother and then back at me. ‘You won’t be going anywhere, young lady, if you don’t rest!’

  So for once, I did as I was told, if only so I could be back on my feet to start high-kicking my way through the festive season. I was called up to perform in the pantomime at the Theatre Royal in Leeds, only this year I wasn’t in the chorus line but up the front with the glamorous Tiller Girls. Thankfully, my appendix scar had healed quickly, so I was deemed well enough to resume my dancing career.

  I was much taller than the other dancers, towering above them at 5 foot, 7 inches in stocking feet, so my height was put to good use. Miss Barbara placed me on the end of the line to ‘hold it all together’, as she always said she would do.

  Around the middle of November, I headed back to London and to the Theatre Girls Club in Soho, to practise for the upcoming panto. Once the panto had started in Leeds, I was luckier than most because I was able to live with my parents, which saved me quite a bit of money. The downside was that it involved quite a bit of travelling to and fro on the bus to Leeds, so I spent most of my time either dancing or travelling. It meant that I missed out on the social life, which I was really annoyed about.

  ‘I wish I could go out with you lot but I’ll miss my bus,’ I would say to Sheila with a sigh.

  ‘Never mind, Pat. We’ll soon be back in Blackpool!’

  I used to enviously board the last bus home, thinking of all the fun the other dancers were having without me.

  The pantomime run came to an end in the New Year and I signed on the dole for another six weeks. Soon the time had come to trav
el London for the summer season’s rehearsals.

  ‘Promise me you’ll write, our Pat,’ Mam sobbed as she waved me off from the platform at Featherstone railway station.

  ‘I will. Love you, Mam!’ I called out.

  Steam from the train had billowed up all around, engulfing us both.

  As the train pulled away from the station, I looked back through the carriage window. The steam that had risen up had now dispersed, revealing my mother. She was dabbing the corner of her eyes with a handkerchief.

  After two weeks of rehearsals in London, we boarded the train at Euston and headed back to Blackpool. This time, I, along with four other girls, had decided to rent a house together instead of living under the watchful and disapproving eyes of our old landlady, Mrs Williams. However, in our excitement, we forgot it would mean we’d actually have to do all our own cooking and cleaning. It should have been a doddle but we spent a full night, and the occasional day, treading the boards at the end of the pier, so we were always rushing out to work. Once the show was up and running, our thoughts turned back to our social lives, which had been pretty non-existent up until that point because we performed twice nightly. During the summer season, lots of the famous big bands had visited Blackpool Tower Ballroom, which was a fabulous and beautifully decorated venue. My relationship with Rodney had fizzled out at the end of the last summer season, so I was a free agent again. After the final show of the evening had ended, the girls and I donned our glad rags and headed straight for the ballroom to dance on the arm of one of the town’s eligible bachelors. One evening, the Ted Heath band was playing, accompanied by a handsome young singer called Dickie Valentine.

  ‘Oh, isn’t he dreamy?’ one of the girls remarked as we all glanced over at him.

  ‘He is, isn’t he?’ I agreed, taking a sip of my drink.