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.
‘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!