by Pat Stewart
Johnny began the tour, so I packed up the caravan and we headed out on the open road once more. I was thrilled when I realised that Dickie Valentine would be appearing on the same bill. By this time, Dickie had left the band and was now doing a solo act.
‘Pat!’ Dickie said, throwing his arms around me as soon as he saw us all heading through the door.
Dickie looked down at Peter, whom I was cradling in my arms, and stroked a finger gently against his cheek.
‘Is he yours?’ he asked.
I nodded proudly. ‘And this is my husband, Johnny.’
Johnny stepped forward and shook Dickie’s hand warmly.
‘So where are you on the bill?’ Johnny asked.
‘I believe I’m top of it.’
‘Well, in that case, I’m supporting you. I’m the next act down.’
It didn’t matter one jot that Dickie and I had once dated because I was now married with a son. If anything, the fact they’d both dated the same woman seemed to bring them closer together because Johnny and Dickie became great friends.
A few months later, Johnny and I discovered that I was expecting another baby.
‘I’ll take on all the work I can,’ insisted Johnny, holding my hand. ‘I just want to support you and our boy.’
Eventually, the show came to an end. Thankfully, Johnny had been asked to appear on a television show, which was going to be screened live from the Prince of Wales Theatre in London. He was working front cloth – a theatrical saying for performing in front of the closed curtain – with Dickie appearing later in the same show.
Johnny was only performing a five- or six-minute spot, singing the classic Welsh song ‘We’ll Keep a Welcome in the Hillside’.
‘Far away a voice is calling, Bells of memory chime,’ he began to sing.
Without warning and totally off script, Dickie stuck his head through the curtain and called, ‘’Ello, my darling,’ in his best Charlie Drake voice.
The audience howled with laughter. It had been totally off the hoof, so Johnny had been as surprised as everyone else.
A week or so later, Johnny was appearing up at a theatre in Glasgow to do the exact same routine. Although Dickie wasn’t in this particular show, Johnny had almost died when his friend stuck his head through the curtain and did exactly the same gag. Dickie, who was supposed to be down in London, had paid out of his own pocket to travel all the way up to Scotland to pull the prank on Johnny. It had certainly worked and the two men laughed about it for days afterwards.
With Christmas fast approaching, Johnny was asked to appear in pantomime in Peterborough. I was heavily pregnant and exhausted from looking after Peter, who was a boisterous thirteen-month-old toddler.
‘I think I’m going to go back to Yorkshire to stay with Mam,’ I decided.
Johnny nodded. It was all very well being on tour with Johnny but now that we had another baby on the way, I knew we needed to put down some roots.
Back in Yorkshire, I tried to keep myself busy and get out as much as I could. With Johnny performing miles away, I felt lonely. To occupy my time, I’d take Peter out for a walk in his pram to Purston park – the place where I’d cut the ribbon all those years before – so that we could both get some fresh air.
One morning, as I was helping Peter into his coat, I felt a telltale contraction stab at the side of my stomach. I didn’t want Peter to miss his trip to the park, so I ignored it. I sat on a park bench as contractions soared through my body but, once again, I refused to give in. Taking short breaths, I walked all the way home, where I stood and did a pile of ironing. A couple of hours later, I walked along the street to Auntie Alice’s house to ask if my cousin Ron could collect me at 9pm prompt.
‘What for?’ Ron asked, scratching his head.
‘It’s just that I think I’m in labour,’ I replied, my voice both steady and calm. ‘But I don’t want to go in just yet because I don’t think I’m quite ready.’
Ron looked at me as though I was nuts and so did Auntie Alice but no one dared say a word. I turned on my heels as their mouths hung open and headed back to Mam’s house to continue with my ironing. Sure enough, Ron pulled up outside in his car on the dot of nine.
I was admitted to hospital that evening and gave birth to a baby boy at 6am the following day. Unfortunately, there had been a vomiting bug sweeping through the hospital. As a result, all the patients were only allowed one visitor each to try to stop it from spreading. Johnny was still stuck in pantomime, but I wanted him to be the first person to see our baby, so I refused all visitors until Johnny came home a week later.
‘He’s gorgeous, Pat,’ Johnny said, gently taking him from my arms.
‘What about his head?’ I asked, a mischievous grin spreading across my face.
‘His head is perfect too,’ Johnny said, smiling and holding him close.
We named our second son Stephen. Fortunately, Johnny never mentioned the shape of Stephen’s head or uttered a word about rugby balls ever again!
CHAPTER 15
BRING ME SUNSHINE
After Stephen had been born, I stayed at my mother’s with the children until Johnny landed another job. He’d had been given a contract to do a summer season at Llandudno, in Wales. Ironically, it was with the Issy Bonn agency, even though I was trying to sue the same agency through Equity for non-payment of wages from my disastrous stint in Africa. This proved to me that there was no ill feeling and that, actually, people respect you more if you fight for what is rightfully yours.
We packed up the caravan and, with the help of neighbours, managed to pull it out of Dad’s garden and back onto the road.
‘Thanks, everyone!’ Johnny called through the open car window as we waved goodbye.
The street was lined with children, friends and neighbours, who all wished us well on our travels.
‘I’m going to miss Yorkshire,’ I said with a sigh as the car towed the caravan through the narrow streets and we began our long journey to Wales.
The Welsh show turned out to be a great success but, instead of sitting home alone at night, I’d pop a coat on Peter, wrap Stephen up in a blanket and push the pram towards the theatre. I’d take both boys into Johnny’s dressing room backstage, where I’d make up a little bed for Peter. I’d leave them both slumbering while I nipped to the side of the stage to watch the rest of the show. Back then, people left their children sleeping in prams at the bottom of the garden. There wasn’t the same worry over child safety as there is today.
Every Sunday we’d go out to lunch. Even though he was still a baby, Stephen was much bigger than Peter. There had only been two ounces between them at birth, not that you would have guessed. As they grew, Stephen not only became larger but the taller of the two, until soon he towered over his elder brother. With Peter digging his heels in and refusing to walk, I bought a double pushchair. Sunday was the only day Johnny didn’t work so, one day, I fed the boys, and set off to a nearby restaurant. I asked if we could have a table by the window and placed the pushchair outside, where I kept my children in full view. I did this week after week until one Sunday, when I decided to buy Peter a lollipop.
‘You’ve been such a good boy that Mummy’s bought you something,’ I said, holding out the sticky lolly.
I hadn’t bought Stephen one because he was still only five months old.
‘Here you go,’ I said, handing the lollipop over to Peter.
His little fingers stretched out like a starfish to grab it.
‘Ta,’ I said, mouthing the word.
‘Ta,’ Peter mimicked, taking the lolly from my hand.
I was sat inside tucking into some Sunday lunch with Johnny when we heard a God-almighty scream. Fearing something awful had happened. I looked up to see Peter’s face purple with anger as he screamed his lungs out. I dashed out of the door and over towards the pram.
‘Peter, whatever is it?’ I asked, checking him over.
‘Lolly, lolly,’ he wailed. His little hand pointed angrily ove
r at Stephen. My five-month-old baby was quite happily sucking away on it.
Seconds later, Johnny ran up behind me.
‘What is it, Pat?’ His voice was in state of panic but I could barely talk for laughing.
‘It’s Stephen,’ I gasped, in between breaths. ‘He’s stolen Peter’s lollipop!’
‘What the…’ Johnny shook his head.
We’d seen it all.
The fact I’d had two boys just thirteen months apart seemed to make Stephen grow up quicker. If anything, as he grew, most folk assumed they were twins, rather than brothers. Peter put on eight ounces a week, whereas Stephen was piling on at least a pound a week. I loved taking them both to the baby clinic because I’d always get a pat on the back from the nurse, particularly when she weighed Stephen.
‘I don’t know what you’re feeding this little man, Mrs Stewart, but he’s a bruiser!’ she said, placing him down on the baby scales and watching the needle spin around the dial.
After the summer season ended, we hooked up the caravan and headed back down to London. We parked it up in Haringey, where we lived behind a garage while Johnny performed in panto. A few months later, he was offered a gig over in West Germany. He’d be performing in the same tour I’d done for the American troops all those years before.
‘I almost broke my bloody neck out there!’ I sniffed, as I began to explain all about the highly polished floor in the Enlisted Men’s Club.
‘I swore I’d never set foot in one of the places ever again and I didn’t!’
Johnny smirked, but he could still see how angry I was.
‘Well, I doubt I’ll be doing much dancing, Pat, so I reckon I’ll be safe.’
Suddenly, I remembered something.
‘Oh no.’ I sighed.
‘What? What is it, Pat?’
‘Comedians,’ I said, recalling what had happened all those years before. ‘The comedians always die on their feet because the American soldiers just don’t understand our dry sense of humour.’
Johnny scoffed. ‘Rubbish!’
‘It’s true, Johnny. What you need to do is include some Irish songs because every American claims to have an Irish connection somewhere along the way.’
‘Really?’ he said, sitting up in his chair.
‘Absolutely! It’s foolproof.’
Johnny planned out his act and left for the American base camps in West Germany. Sure enough, with the songs included, every time one of his jokes fell flat on its face, he’d turn on the Irish charm, even though he was actually Welsh.
‘You should have seen them, Pat,’ he said once he’d returned home. ‘These big, butch Americans crying into their beers like babies as soon as I broke into Danny Boy.’
The tour had been a complete success. Even better, Equity had successfully sued the Issy Bonn agency as a result of my African tour and I was given £300 – a small fortune back then. Some of the other members of the cast had warned me not to go ahead with legal action.
‘You’ll never work again if you sue, Pat,’ they’d insisted.
But they were wrong because not only did Issy Bonn keep booking Johnny up for shows, but the three of us remained good friends over the years that followed.
With summer approaching, we did another season down in Weymouth, where we’d got married. We staged our own show at the open-air pier theatre with a double-singing act from Wales: a soprano and an organist called Oliver. There were already two other big shows on at the time but, thankfully, we seemed to pull in the crowds. On some of the quieter days, I was trying to think of different ways to put bums on seats when I recalled our last time in Weymouth. Jack Douglas and Joe Baker had run Crackerjack – a stage version of the popular children’s television show – during the morning. At the time, Jack had asked if I could help out, so I did. I couldn’t believe how many children turned up to take part. More so, I couldn’t believe how many parents and grandparents had turned up to watch.
‘I think we should put on a kid’s talent show,’ I said to Johnny one morning. ‘When I helped Jack out with that children’s show, you should have seen how many people turned up.’
‘You think it’ll work?’ he asked.
‘Yes, I do.’
Soon it had been decided. We’d hold children’s talent shows on the pier every morning. On Fridays we held the ‘talent finals’, handing out vouchers to the winners. I soon realised that the more children I took through to the final show, the bigger the audience would be. All the proud parents, grandparents, aunties and uncles would turn up to see if their own little star would win the show.
Thursdays were also quiet, so I staged Bonny Baby competitions, which were just another ruse to put bums on seats. I wrote letters to Cow and Gate and Farley’s Rusks and, to my delight, both companies sent me loads of goodies to give out. It was a win-win situation because not only were they free, but they made the show seem well organised and professional. I even pulled in a nurse from Weymouth hospital and paid her a small fee to adjudicate ‘the show’. We’d advertised the event in the hope that a few mums might turn up with their babies – anything to fill an empty theatre on a wet Thursday afternoon.
However, when we arrived at the theatre on the first Thursday, we were stunned by how many were there. Around 200 mums and dads held screaming babies in their arms, with prams blocking the foyer. It was absolutely packed!
Johnny took one look and turned around to face me.
‘You’re on your own,’ he gasped.
He grabbed the boys’ hands and scarpered off towards the beach.
I stood there not knowing quite what to do or where to start. Even the nurse looked a little startled. We had created a monster!
‘Right,’ I said, walking alongside the queue. ‘Could you all please line up so that we can begin the judging process?’
Thankfully, my friend Wendy, who was a dancer in one of the other shows, had come along to help.
‘Don’t leave me, Wendy,’ I whispered, grabbing her arm for moral support. ‘I can’t do this alone.’
Wendy looked at me, her face determined.
‘Don’t worry. I’m going nowhere, Pat,’ she promised and she rolled up her sleeves and got stuck in.
All the babies were carried onto the stage – one by one – in the arms of their doting mother, while the nurse judged and Oliver played a light-music medley on the organ in the background. The afternoon had been going swimmingly, and I smiled and tried to keep the contestants flowing. Finally, after the last baby had been carried on, the nurse stood up and handed me the results on a piece of paper. I took it from her, sorted out a few things backstage to keep the tension going and then strode back out to take to the microphone.
‘Ladies and Gentlemen,’ I began. ‘I have here the results of our Bonny Baby competition in my hand,’ I said as a hush descended around the packed room.
I glanced down at the piece of paper. On it there were hundreds of names, instead of just three, and that’s when I realised – I’d picked the list of entrants by mistake. For the first time ever, I froze on stage. I was completely dumfounded. Wendy looked at me from the wings but I couldn’t tell her what was wrong.
‘Er, actually, we’re not quite ready yet,’ I said looking off to the side of the stage at Wendy. ‘Just give us a few more moments, and I’ll ask Oliver to play some music for us.’
Oliver looked a little puzzled, but did as he was told while I ran off the stage towards the wings and Wendy.
‘Pat, what’s wrong?’ she asked.
‘I’ve only gone and binned the bloody results by mistake!’
Wendy put her hand against her mouth and gasped.
‘Quick,’ I said, waving my hand over towards the dressing room. ‘I think I’ve thrown them in the bin!’
We dashed back to look for the winners as puzzled mums nursed irritable babies. Backstage, Wendy and I were on our hands and knees searching through the bin when, after what had seemed like a lifetime, she triumphantly held up a piece of paper i
n her hand.
‘Got it!’
I was so happy that I almost cried with relief.
‘Wendy, I could bloody well kiss you!’ I said, planting a lipsticked kiss on top of her head as we both ran back towards the stage.
Of course, no one had a clue of the chaos backstage. Instead, I serenely stepped back towards the microphone and announced the winner. Then I realised I had another problem – the list didn’t say which baby had come first, second or third. With nothing else for it, I chose each one at random. The nurse looked up at me as though I’d gone mad. I thought the parents would lynch me because it was clear first prize wasn’t better looking than second or, indeed, third. Needless to say, I never made the same mistake again.
‘Tell me again,’ Johnny said, clutching his sides with laughter as I recounted the whole sorry tale to him later that evening.
‘Don’t!’ I scolded. ‘Next time, Johnny Stewart, you’re coming with me!’
The Bonny Baby competitions settled down into a routine and soon we were filling the theatre most days. A few weeks later, we decided to put on a late-night show down the road at a ballroom, to bring in a bit more income. We’d quite literally finish one show and head to another for a cabaret show. It did so well that we were booked to go back the following year, but one of the big agencies had felt threatened and tried to stop us. In short, we had become the victims of our own success. Our shows were not only cheaper than the other productions but they were good, with all the landladies recommending them to their guests.
Once the summer season was at an end, Johnny travelled to another pantomime, this time in Birmingham. Performing alongside him was a comedy duo called Morecambe and Wise, who had just exploded onto our TV screens with their hit BBC show.
