A few months after the shows with the Beverley Sisters, I started being sick at home.
‘Still not feeling right?’ Johnny said, holding me gently as my head hung over the toilet bowl.
I groaned.
‘No, I reckon I must have picked up a flu bug or something. I’m going to call in at the doctor’s surgery later today.’
A few hours later, I walked into the GP’s surgery, where I took a seat and waited to be seen. There were a few people in front of me, but back then doctors operated a first-come, first-served service, so you had to sit and wait your turn.
Johnny and I were living back at Auntie Ada’s house in Hackney, so I didn’t know the doctor at all – he just happened to be the nearest one. When it was my turn, I stood up, knocked on his door and entered the room.
‘So, what seems to be the problem Mrs…’
‘Stewart,’ I replied. ‘I’ve recently got married,’ I said, showing him my wedding ring.
‘Congratulations. So, tell me, what is it that I can do for you today?’
My shoulders slumped as I began to explain all about my awful sickness.
‘I don’t know what it is, Doctor. I just can’t stop throwing up.’
He leaned back in his chair and listened to me reel off my symptoms. Then he told me to get undressed behind the curtain.
‘Why? Do you think it’s something serious?’ I asked, disappearing off behind the curtain. I was naïve, and I didn’t have a clue what was going on.
What the doctor said next almost knocked me for six.
‘Do you think you might be pregnant, Mrs Stewart?’
‘Pregnant! Me? Good Lord, I don’t think so!’
But the doctor wasn’t convinced.
‘Well, why don’t you let me examine you and I’ll be able to tell.’
After a thorough examination, during which he palpated my stomach, the GP concluded, ‘I’d say you were about four months.’
I left the surgery completely numb and returned home to Johnny in floods of tears. During the examination, the doctor had given me an internal. But I was still so young that I felt I’d been unfaithful to my new husband.
‘It was horrible,’ I said, shuddering in Johnny’s arms.
‘But he’s a doctor, Pat. That’s what they do.’
‘I don’t care,’ I sobbed. I used the cuff of my jumper to soak up my angry tears. ‘It’s just not right. It’s not decent!’
In spite of my reservations and lack of knowledge, my pregnancy progressed as it should. One day, my midwife handed me a list of things to buy in preparation for the baby. One of the things on the list was a vest, so I went out and bought two.
‘Er, why have you bought a vest?’ Johnny asked, picking it up from the top of the side cabinet.
‘Because it’s on the list, and I need one if I’m going to have this baby!’ I snapped.
I was pregnant and hormonal and Johnny knew better than to try to argue with me. I was still wet behind the ears, so I truly believed I couldn’t give birth without buying a vest first.
Towards the end of my pregnancy, I decided I would return home to Yorkshire, where I planned to give birth.
‘Oh, let me get me hands on that grandchild of mine,’ Mam said, laying her hands flat against my belly.
‘She can’t wait, Pat,’ Dad remarked as we all joked about her building excitement.
‘Just wait till I get that baby in me arms…’ she said, her eyes misting over with happiness. ‘So… ’ave you thought about names, you two? Yer know, one for a girl and one for a boy?’
I glanced up at her, my hands cradling my swollen pregnant belly.
‘We were thinking Victoria for a girl and Peter for a boy.’
Mam nodded in approval.
‘Lovely. Aren’t they both lovely names, George?’
But by now, with all the talk of babies, Dad had sat down and buried his head behind a newspaper.
‘Aye, lovely,’ he mumbled.
Mam and I shared a secret smile as she rolled her eyes in mock annoyance.
‘Well, all yer need to know is you must never miss a feed because a baby that’s well fed through t’day is less likely to wake up through t’night.’
I had no idea how to look after a baby, so I soaked up my mother’s advice. Johnny and I stayed with my parents over the festive season. My cousin was throwing a party on New Year’s Eve and I was determined not to miss it. Everyone came to the party and I soon found myself surrounded by family. Even though I was nine months’ pregnant, I was having a great time. That was until my labour pains started. As the first contraction soared through my body, I doubled up with pain.
‘Are you all right, our Pat?’ Mam asked, dashing across the room to check on me.
‘Yes, it’s nothing,’ I lied. ‘Must be the rich food or something.’
But it wasn’t and I knew it. I was a dancer and a control freak to boot. I was convinced that, if I told my body not to have the baby before midnight, it wouldn’t. I didn’t want the baby to arrive just yet because I didn’t want to spoil a good party! Instead, I gritted my teeth and suffered through my contractions without telling a soul. I continued to sing, dance and party away because I was determined I’d stick it out until midnight and see in the New Year. Eventually, after what had seemed like hours, the hands of the clock ticked onto midnight and everyone cheered and hugged one another.
‘Happy New Year, Pat,’ Johnny said, pulling me to one side to kiss me gently.
‘Johnny,’ I whispered. ‘Can you take me home now? I don’t feel very well.’
After saying our goodbyes, Johnny walked me back to my mother’s house, where I promptly fell into bed. I’d hoped sleep would somehow help ease the pain.
I can do this. I can control these labour pains, I convinced myself. I’m a dancer: I should be able to control the pain.
But of course, it was all nonsense – no one can control the birth of a baby, dancer or no dancer. I didn’t sleep a wink that night. Eventually, I gave up trying and climbed out of bed around 6am.
‘Johnny, can you take me to the hospital now. I think the baby’s on its way.’
After going into a bit of a blind panic, Johnny jumped into the car and drove me to Southmoor hospital, in Hemsworth, West Yorkshire. At 8pm that evening I gave birth to a beautiful baby boy. We called our New Year’s Day baby Peter. Back then, husbands weren’t allowed in for the birth, so Johnny sat outside anxiously, waiting for news. When the nurse finally called him in, Johnny came bursting through the door.
‘Oh, Pat,’ he sniffed, trying to keep his emotions in check as he held our newborn son for the first time. ‘He’s absolutely beautiful.’
I looked down at Peter, happily slumbering in Johnny’s arms.
‘He is, isn’t he?’ I said, wiping away tears of relief.
The following morning, Johnny called in to see us. He immediately went straight over to Peter’s cot. He dipped his head in to take a look, straightened up and let out a sigh of relief.
‘Well, thank God his head’s all right!’ He’d said it so loud that the whole ward turned to look at him.
‘What do you mean, his head’s all right? There’s nothing wrong with his head, Johnny Stewart!’
Johnny realised I was annoyed so he tried to explain. ‘No, I didn’t mean that,’ he said, holding both hands up in peace. ‘It’s just that, erm, when I came in yesterday, well, erm, it looked kind of funny.’
‘What do you mean, funny?’ I huffed, crossing my arms angrily across my chest.
I was a doting new mum, so I was protective of our son but furious with Johnny.
My husband stood in front of me and held both hands apart by four or five inches, as though he was clutching an imaginary ball.
‘I don’t know. It just looked, well, it looked kind of… elongated, er, like a rugby ball.’
‘A rugby ball!’
‘Yes, a rugby ball.’
‘I can tell you’re bloody Welsh!’ I shouted. ‘I’ll elongate you in a minute!’
I picked up the bunch of flowers he’d bought me and threw them straight at him.
‘Sorry, sorry,’ he said, cowering by the end of my bed.
‘A rugby ball, indeed!’
Looking back, Peter’s head probably had been elongated, due to all the pushing and shoving, but, in my eyes, he was my beautiful boy.
I remained in hospital for ten days, until it was time for me to be allowed home. The hospital kept first-time mothers in until their babies had reached a decent weight. The midwife also wanted to be sure the new mother knew how to bathe her baby too. Johnny had fetched in some of the baby clothes that we’d bought for Peter. They seemed to swamp his little body but I didn’t care – I was taking my lovely boy home where we could all be a family.
A few weeks after Peter had been born, Johnny decided to buy a 22-ft long touring caravan.
‘It’ll be our new home,’ he said, beaming as he wrapped his arm around my shoulder. ‘Just you, me and little Peter.’
The caravan came in handy because it meant we’d always have digs wherever we were. It also meant baby Peter would never have to sleep in a separate room to us. We’d tow our new home from town to town and park it up in whichever town Johnny was appearing in that week. When the show was at an end, we’d hook the mobile home up to the car and move on to the next show. When Johnny wasn’t touring, we’d tow the caravan to my parents. Dad had a huge garden, so Johnny would back up the caravan as far as he could before half the village turned out to help them push it into the garden. We lived inside Mam’s house, but the caravan was always there waiting for us. If Johnny had another booking, we’d simply hook it up and off we’d set.
Later that year, Johnny was given a gig doing a summer season for a man called Harold Fielding. Harold was Tommy Steele’s agent and he’d booked up a load of acts for a summer tour he was putting on. Harold was a well-known and respected agent but he was also very superstitious. His superstition was so irrational that he forbade his performers from wearing the colour green.
‘Green,’ Johnny said, shaking his head when he told me later.
‘Why has he banned green?’ I asked, a little baffled.
‘Because he says it’s unlucky.’
‘But what if you have a really expensive costume but it’s green?’
Johnny shrugged his shoulders.
‘Doesn’t matter. You still wouldn’t be allowed to wear it, not in his show.’
I shook my head. It sounded ridiculous, but then show business was full of eccentrics, all with odd little habits. Another common superstition was about sneezing in the dressing room. If someone sneezed, they’d have to turn three times afterwards to try and undo all the ‘bad luck’. Another superstition was no knitting in the stage wings. I never found out why but then I didn’t knit. The colour green was just another thing to add to an already bizarre list.
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!