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

by Pat Stewart

  ‘I can’t,’ I explained, my heart sinking.

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because I’m working.’

  ‘Can’t you get time off work?’ the man at the BBC asked.

  ‘I wouldn’t have thought so,’ I replied, thinking I’d have to run it past three bosses, not one.

  ‘Look,’ he said, ‘if we send a helicopter for you, would you come then?’

  I was astonished.

  ‘A helicopter?’ I repeated, as though I’d misheard him.

  ‘Yes, that’s right. A helicopter.’

  Bloody hell, I thought. There might be some money in this!

  ‘OK, let me find out. I’ll ask at work and ring you back.’

  To my delight, all three bosses agreed that I should go. Although the suggested helicopter ride never materialised, later that same day, I booked train tickets for me and Johnny to travel to London. I told the BBC that I’d paid for first-class seats. It’d been years since I’d been pampered, so I asked if they would pay for my hair and nails to be done too. I also billed for new clothes and taxis even though I drove my own car to the station. I reasoned that I’d never made a penny out of the Blackpool Belles photo, so now it was time to milk it for all it was worth. In total, my ‘expenses’ came to just under £500.

  Once we arrived in London, we caught a cab to the Hilton, where Wendy was already waiting.

  ‘I can’t believe it! Wendy Clarke, as I live and breathe!’ I squealed with excitement, holding out my arms.

  ‘Pat!’ Wendy shrieked and ran over to me.

  ‘My God, it’s been almost forty years but you haven’t changed a bit!’ I remarked, holding her at arm’s length to look at her.

  ‘Neither have you!’

  Unlike me, Wendy had never married and didn’t have children, yet the years just peeled away as we caught up on each other’s news.

  A few hours later, we boarded a boat on the Thames and enjoyed a champagne breakfast that had been laid on by the BBC.

  ‘So do you still dance?’ I asked Wendy.

  ‘No,’ she laughed. ‘I work in a shop. How about you, Pat?’

  I shook my head.

  ‘No, Johnny’s not been well, so I’m holding down three jobs as well as looking after him.’

  Our lives had suddenly felt a far cry from our glamorous days as Tiller Girls, dancing on stage in Blackpool.

  ‘Never mind,’ I said, patting Wendy’s hand with mine. ‘They were good times, and I wouldn’t swap them for the world.

  ‘Me neither,’ she said and grinned.

  ‘Besides, look at us now!’

  Later that day, we were reunited with Bert Hardy, the Picture Post photographer.

  ‘Hello, ladies!’ Bert said, beaming from ear to ear. ‘If it isn’t my two Blackpool Belles. How are you?’

  It was good to see Bert and catch up on that memorable day.

  ‘I was mortified when the wind blew my dress up but not as horrified as I was when you published it, because I looked as though I wasn’t wearing any knickers!’

  The three of us began to chuckle during the photo shoot, only this time Bert wasn’t the man behind the camera.

  ‘Bert if you could just grab the hem of Pat’s coat and lift it up slightly,’ the photographer called as we started to laugh once more.

  The photographer asked Wendy and me to sit on the railings of the boat, with Big Ben in the background, and we recreated the Blackpool Belles picture for the new calendar. It’d felt like a lifetime since we’d last met and, in many ways, it was. Back then, I’d been a giggling seventeen-year-old girl without a care in the world and her whole life in front of her. But with age comes responsibility, and now I had a sick husband to care for and my dancing career was a thing of the past.

  The BBC picture library used the up-to-date photograph inside the calendar, with the old Blackpool Belles image featured prominently on the front.

  Afterwards, we were asked to do a series of newspaper, radio and TV interviews, including BBC’s Pebble Mill show, which was filmed in Birmingham. Sadly, Wendy wasn’t on Pebble Mill, because she couldn’t get time off work, but Bert and I went on.

  For a brief moment, it felt as though I was there, back on stage, performing for the public. I realised just how much I missed my old way of life and also how much Johnny’s illness had affected me. Before, I’d been surviving on a day-to-day basis, scratching around for money, but now I was sick of it. I had to do something positive, so I put our bungalow up for sale. Remarkably, I sold it three times over because I had numerous buyers interested. In the end, it went for £99,000, leaving us with a healthy profit. It was a good job because I knew we’d need it in the months and years ahead.

  I decided to use the money to buy a new house off plan. It cost me £40,000, but I knew it would provide us with a secure future. There was a housing boom at the time. Property prices were going through the roof, and I couldn’t afford to be gazumped by another buyer. With the extra money, I booked a holiday for us to Corfu. We hadn’t had a proper holiday for years, so I thought it would be just the tonic.

  Once we were in our new home, we settled down to the quiet life. Stephen and Claire had had a fourth child, so we became doting grandparents to Rebecca, Sally, Kate and Matthew. It wasn’t long before I grew accustomed to my new role in life.

  CHAPTER 25

  LOSING JOHNNY

  One day, Rachel telephoned me at home. By this time, she had finished her law degree at Bristol University.

  ‘Mum,’ she began, ‘I’ve decided something – I don’t want to be a lawyer.’

  I was worried she was going to tell me that she wanted to become a perpetual student but Rachel laughed and explained: ‘No, Mum. I don’t want to go back to university; I want to go into advertising.’

  A short time later, she landed herself a job in London, working for one of the big advertising agencies. It wasn’t long before she was head hunted by an American firm that offered her the chance to go and work in Holland for a couple of years. Once over there, she met someone and her two-year stay turned into something more permanent.

  ‘Why don’t you and Dad come out to see me?’ she asked one day.

  So we did. Rachel lived in a beautiful flat that was situated on the border of the notorious red-light district in Amsterdam, and the bar around the corner had become her local. At that time, Rachel travelled all over the world with her job so, one afternoon, after she’d jetted off to America, we decided to nip around the corner to her local pub for a drink. Johnny and I soon got chatting to two men who served with the U.S. Air Force. They were based in Holland but were due to leave to carry out peace missions to Rwanda, flying over vital aid. Despite his doctor’s advice, Johnny still smoked a pipe. He was puffing away on it quite happily as we all sat together in a corner of the bar, laughing and joking. One of Rachel’s clients had shown her how to do the statue of liberty – a bar trick – which she’d taught me. It involved wetting your finger, setting it on fire and knocking back a drink, which sounds more dangerous than it actually was. It was a great party trick, so I decided to show the Americans how to do it.

  ‘You wet your finger like this,’ I said, dipping it in the alcohol. ‘Johnny,’ I said, gesturing over at him, ‘Give me your lighter a minute.’

  Johnny passed it over. I lit my finger and promptly knocked back my drink. It made the two American pilots fall about with laughter.

  We were still laughing when the owner of the bar walked over to our table.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he began, ‘but I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you all to leave.’

  I glanced over at the Americans, at Johnny and then down at my unlit finger.

  ‘But it was only a party trick,’ I protested, thinking he’d objected to the flame.

  The owner shook his head.

  ‘No, it isn’t that.’

  ‘But what have we done wrong?’ I asked, turning around in my chair to face him.

  The owner looked at me as thoug
h it should be obvious.

  ‘I’m sorry, but we don’t allow drugs in this bar. They’re available in other places – mainly the cafes – but we don’t allow them in here.’

  My eyes darted over towards the two Americans sat opposite. They looked as equally bewildered.

  Bloody hell! I thought. You can’t judge a book by its cover. They both seemed so nice but they were on drugs all along.

  The two airmen glanced over at me and Johnny. No doubt they were thinking, It just goes to show. These two old dears seemed so nice but they’re both on drugs!

  Then I looked at Johnny, who’d been puffing happily on his pipe throughout.

  ‘Wait a minute,’ I said, looking back at the owner. ‘What makes you think we’re smoking drugs over here?’

  ‘It’s the smell,’ he replied, sniffing the air.

  I started to laugh and soon I couldn’t stop. Everyone at the table – the pilots, the owner, even Johnny – was looking at me completely baffled.

  ‘It’s the pipe,’ I snorted in between fits of laughter. ‘It’s not drugs! It’s Johnny’s pipe – that’s what’s making that awful smell.’

  The owner blushed a little as it dawned on him that we weren’t international drugs barons, just a couple of pensioners from Wales.

  ‘OK,’ he replied in a voice that suggested he still harboured doubts, ‘but he’ll have to put it out, otherwise you’ll have to leave.’

  After he’d left, the four of us began to giggle – we’d found the whole incident highly amusing.

  ‘Eh,’ I said, nudging Johnny as he placed the pipe back inside his pocket. ‘We’ll have to be careful or we’ll end up on the front page of the papers again. I can just see it,’ I said, drawing my hand across the air to form an imaginary headline. ‘Comedian with wacky-backy pipe caught in major drugs swoop!’

  We dissolved into fits of laughter, and the bar owner looked over at us oddly.

  Once she’d returned, Rachel offered to give us a guided tour of the red-light district along with a retired policeman, called Harry, and a Dutch lawyer, called Michel. Dozens of ladies were sat in windows, displaying their wares, or stood out in the street. To his delight, as we walked past, a few of them approached Johnny.

  ‘Hello, Johnny,’ one cooed.

  His head spun around and he looked at the woman with a bemused look on his face.

  A few yards down the same street, another hooker draped her arm lazily across his shoulder.

  ‘Hi, Johnny. Want to come inside?’ she offered.

  Johnny looked over at me, completely flabbergasted. I smiled, but I didn’t say a word.

  It continued to happen, with different women saying ‘hello, Johnny’ at almost every building we passed. By the end of the tour, my husband seemed highly delighted.

  ‘Did you see that, Pat? They all knew who I was.’ He beamed, puffing out his chest proudly. ‘Looks like the old Johnny Stewart lives on, even in Holland!’

  Rachel and I shared a secret smile. We didn’t have the heart to tell him that, in Holland, they call all the men ‘Johnny’ as a term of endearment. He’d seemed so happy that we decided not to enlighten him.

  ‘Let’s not burst his bubble. Let him enjoy the moment,’ I whispered to Rachel.

  We continued to visit Rachel. A few years later, she bought her first house. By this time, she’d started a relationship with a man called John and had given birth to their daughter, who they called Eve. With a new granddaughter to fuss over, we decided to go over to see them more often.

  One afternoon, we were sat in Rachel’s house enjoying a cup of tea when Johnny suddenly piped up, ‘I fought at Arnhem, you know. I fought over here.’

  We all turned to look at him.

  ‘We were pinned down by enemy fire in some woods,’ he continued, lost in his thoughts.

  Rachel and John looked at me and I glanced over at Johnny. I was astounded. My husband had never spoken to me about the war before. At first, I thought it might be a figment of his imagination, triggered by the onset of dementia, but Johnny was adamant.

  ‘No, it happened,’ he insisted.

  I had no idea where Arnhem was in relation to where we were staying, but it transpired that it was only an hour’s drive away.

  Rachel’s partner, John, made a suggestion.

  ‘Why don’t we take Johnny to Arnhem on Saturday?’

  Johnny nodded eagerly.

  ‘Yes, I’d like that,’ he replied.

  The following Saturday, we travelled to Arnhem in the car. As we approached, Johnny began to repeat the same thing over and over again. ‘We were fighting in the woods – the woods that surround Arnhem. We were held down by enemy fire. It all happened so fast.’

  In all our married life, Johnny had never mentioned Arnhem or the woods to me once. In fact, he’d always steadfastly refused to talk about the war. But sure enough, as soon as we approached Arnhem, I spotted the war cemetery – it was surrounded by hundreds of trees.

  ‘I wonder if those are the woods Dad was referring to,’ I said to Rachel as we pulled up.

  We walked over to the cemetery, which was both still and haunting, and began to wander around it. It had been established in 1945 and was home to 1,759 graves from the Second World War. The soldiers buried there were mostly Allied servicemen who had been killed in the Battle of Arnhem, during an Allied attempt to cross the river Rhine. The failed attempt to break through German lines, in September 1944, had later been made into a film called A Bridge Too Far. Other soldiers buried there had been killed during the liberation of the city the following year.

  As we walked around in silence, looking at the long uniformed lines of pale headstones, something clicked inside Johnny’s brain. It was as though the cemetery had acted like a key, unlocking a small part of his memory that had been closed off years before.

  ‘I lost my mate here,’ he said suddenly, his voice faltering to a whisper.

  By now, I fully believed everything he’d told us.

  ‘Who was your mate?’

  Johnny choked back his emotions.

  ‘Llewellyn. He was only eighteen. He was shot by a sniper in the woods.’

  We weren’t sure if Llewellyn was a surname or a Christian name, so Rachel’s partner walked over to the office to look it up. He reappeared and took Johnny by the arm.

  ‘Come on, Johnny. I know where your mate is buried. Follow me.’

  We followed John across the graveyard. After a few minutes, he came to a halt by the gravestone of a young man. His name was Llewellyn, and he’d been killed at eighteen years old, just as Johnny had said. My blood ran cold, as though I’d just seen a ghost.

  ‘Good Lord,’ I gasped, putting a hand against my mouth. ‘Johnny, you were right all along.’

  Johnny nodded solemnly and began to explain.

  ‘We were both with the Fourth Welsh Regiment. I was eighteen years old too, but somehow that bullet missed me, even though I was standing right next to him. I suppose I was the lucky one that day,’ he said sadly, shrugging his shoulders.

  We stood there in a moment’s silence as a mark of respect for all the brave soldiers who’d lost their lives in the bloody battle of Arnhem. Emotion suddenly began to overwhelm me as I thought of Johnny’s friend and how the bullet could have quite easily hit my husband instead. My life would’ve been so different, if only for the hand of fate. I reached for a tissue and dabbed away my tears. On the way back home, the car was silent. We were all lost in our thoughts, thinking of Johnny’s friend and what might have been. Suddenly, his voice broke the silence.

  ‘I once hid in a windmill to escape the German soldiers,’ he said, unveiling another hidden moment from his past.

  For years, Johnny had locked away his wartime experiences in his head, buried along with his friend. But somehow, his dementia had allowed him to reopen the box and bring them out into the open again. It was strange to hear Johnny speaking of life before I’d met him – the time before he’d become a star of both stage and scr
een. My husband had witnessed such horrors. I wondered if a life in comedy had been his way of helping to erase some of those awful memories.

  Once we were back in Wales, Johnny’s health began to deteriorate rapidly. His coordination was impeded, his memory fading and his vocabulary failing. It was heartbreaking to hear him stumble and search for even the simplest word, given that he’d once performed to hundreds of people, thinking on his feet and getting by on sharp wit alone. I tried my best to help with his walking. I’d play music from the 1940s, usually ‘Roll Out the Barrel’. Together, we’d march around the house, going through the old dance routines, step by step – anything to stop this awful disease from stealing another part of my husband.

  Johnny had been diagnosed with something called ‘left-side neglect’. It had been caused by strokes to the right side of his brain. Sometimes he’d falter and, often, he’d fall over. I wasn’t strong enough to pick him up, so I’d just sit on the floor beside him and tell him to mirror my movements in an attempt to get him to lift himself back up again. Eventually, he became so weak that he was confined to a wheelchair.

  On my seventieth birthday, Stephen and Claire decided to throw a party for me. Rachel and her family had planned to travel over for it, so I was really looking forward to having a get-together. A few days before, I’d decided to take Johnny out for the day, to get him some fresh air. By now, our finances were running low, so I’d sold our house and bought a new mobile home. Unfortunately, it was still being built, so we rented a caravan at Fontgary – the same caravan park where we’d begun our married life.

  ‘Let’s get out from these four walls, eh?’ I suggested to Johnny. ‘We could both do with a bit of fresh air.’

  I helped my husband outside and into the car and drove to a nearby shopping centre. Later that evening, after we’d returned home, Johnny suffered a massive stroke. He was rushed to Bridgend hospital, where he remained. Johnny continued to have a series of strokes, so I sat with him from 8am until 9pm every day, leaving only to return home to my bed. This pattern continued right up until Christmas, when the doctors told me I was allowed to bring him home for the day. I returned him to hospital but, on Boxing Day, he suffered a massive stroke and slipped into a coma.