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 over 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 in 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.
Over that Christmas season, Eric and Johnny became great friends because they both shared the same sense of humour. Ernie had always played the straight man and he was, in more ways than one. Overshadowed by his wife, Ernie would keep himself to himself after the show. Meanwhile, Eric would always be first at the bar having a laugh and getting the rounds in. One particular evening, halfway through the run, Morecambe and Wise had the audience on their feet clapping and cheering. Moments later, it was Johnny’s turn to follow them on.
‘How the hell am I supposed to better that?’ he asked as we stood waiting in the wings.
Johnny was usually so full of confidence that I’d never seen him falter before. For the first time in his life, he seemed really nervous. Suddenly, he began to undo his belt and then he unbuttoned his trousers.
‘Johnny, what on earth are you doing?’ I screeched, thinking he’d gone completely mad.
‘I’m thinking on my feet,’ he said and grinned. ‘Watch this, Pat.’
Eric and Ernie had finished off their routine and had turned to wave to the crowd. They were just about to exit the stage when Johnny walked on behind them – his trousers falling straight to his ankles. Eric turned his head and spotted Johnny standing trouserless behind him.
‘What’s he doing, Ernie?’ Eric asked, speaking into the microphone. His face was completely deadpan as he began to wiggle his trademark glasses around as though he couldn’t quite believe his eyes.
Without another word, Eric nodded over to Ernie and winked. Ernie smiled, and the two of them undid their trousers and dropped them to the ground too. Soon, all three men were standing on stage waving at the audience with their hairy and puny little legs on show. The audience lapped it up and were rolling around in the aisles. Eric and Ernie were ultimate professionals. Even though Johnny had dropped his trousers behind them, they didn’t break their stride. Sadly, the show came to an end, although Eric and Johnny vowed to keep in touch.
Just before he left panto in Birmingham, Johnny received a call from a friend who was also a BBC radio producer. He gave him the tip that Ivor Emanuel, who was appearing in The Land of Song – a Welsh religious TV programme – was planning to leave. On his advice, Johnny wrote to the producers and was offered an interview to be his replacement. In fact, the producer travelled all the way to Birmingham just to see Johnny.
The TV show was in Welsh and, although Johnny had been brought up in Llanelli, where Welsh had been his first language, he’d gone through the war speaking English, so he’d forgotten some of his native tongue. Undeterred, he was given a couple of English songs that had been translated into Welsh. The plan was that he’d learn them both so that the producer and director could judge his performance. But there was a problem – he only had a week to learn them. By the end of the week, he’d driven me mad singing ‘Popo the Puppet’ and bloody ‘Sing a Song of Sunbeams’! However, he still didn’t feel confident enough to travel over to Cardiff for the audition.
‘But what will you do?’ I asked.
‘I’ll have to make an excuse,’ he said, picking up the phone in the theatre foyer.
Johnny dug out a piece of paper and dialled a number.
‘I’m awfully sorry,’ he began, ‘but I’ve got a Sunday concert, so I won’t be able to come. Could we make it another day?’
The studio bosses agreed, which gave him another week’s grace. More importantly, it gave him more time to learn and perfect both songs. Johnny not only wowed them with his beautiful Welsh tenor voice, he also landed the job. When the pantomime finished, we simply packed up the caravan and headed off for our new adventure in Wales.