I was still working, looking after the elderly, when someone decided to put on a charity event to raise money for stroke victims. It was due to take place one afternoon at a nightclub in Cardiff, called the Ocean Club. They asked if Johnny could perform but I was wary.
‘As long as it’s for no longer than fifteen minutes,’ I insisted. ‘His health comes first.’
After we’d agreed, the press agent contacted the local paper, which ran a piece on Johnny Stewart. The article explained Johnny was a stroke victim, but that he’d be heading up the entertainment for the show. Before we knew it, a researcher from BBC Breakfast with Anne Diamond had picked up the story, so Johnny’s performance was filmed for TV. Of course, Johnny was in his element but his fifteen-minute slot had soon turned into an hour. He loved it so much that we couldn’t get him off! Not that I cared. In many ways, it felt good to see my husband regain his spark. I’d watched him deteriorate for so long that it was wonderful to catch a rare glimpse of the old Johnny Stewart.
As I looked on from the sidelines with my granddaughter, Rebecca, in my arms, a woman sidled over to me.
‘Isn’t he marvellous?’ she remarked, pointing over towards Johnny.
‘Yes,’ I agreed and grinned. ‘He’s all right, isn’t he?’
It was obvious this woman had no idea who I was.
‘He’s had a stroke, you know?’ she remarked.
I turned to face her.
‘Has he?’
‘Yes. You know, he couldn’t even speak when he’d had the stroke?’
‘Really,’ I replied, wondering what she’d say next.
‘It’s true. But his wife has taught him how to speak again and now look at him,’ she said, gesturing over towards Johnny. ‘He’s up there doing an hour’s patter!’
I didn’t say another word, but I felt proud of my husband. By now, Johnny had suffered a series of small strokes, which had brought on a condition known as vascular dementia. It’s a particularly cruel disease, which was slowly robbing my husband of his memory and razor-sharp wit. It was also taking him from me, piece by piece.
Johnny was still buzzing as he wrapped up his half of the show. His eyes were on fire as he left the stage.
‘You were brilliant, darling,’ I said, giving him a kiss.
I choked back my emotion because I knew it would probably be the last time I ever saw him perform… and it was.
The following day, Johnny had another, bigger stroke, this time more debilitating than ever before. It had put an end to his show-business career in a heartbeat, and it was one stroke from which he never fully recovered.
The years passed by. One Sunday morning, Stephen, his wife, Claire and their daughter Rebecca were over at my house when the phone rang.
‘Won’t be a mo,’ I said and I left them chatting to Johnny.
I headed out into the hallway to answer the call.
‘Pat,’ a voice said as soon as I picked up the receiver. ‘It’s Paula, Claire’s sister.’
‘Hello,’ I replied, half-expecting her to ask me to put Claire on the phone.
‘No,’ she said, realising my confusion. ‘It’s you I want.’
‘Me? Why?’
‘Listen, did you ever work at Blackpool when you danced with the Tiller Girls?’
I was a little taken back by her odd and unexpected question, but I answered her truthfully.
‘Yes, I did. I danced on the North Pier. Paula, why are you asking me this?’
Paula was younger than Claire and, although I’d met her, I didn’t know her very well. Paula, like Rachel, was a student, so my first thought was that maybe she was doing some research for a project.
‘Pat, you’re in a Sunday paper,’ Paula said suddenly. ‘I’ve got it here in front of me now. I knew it was you the moment I saw it!’
‘Are you sure?’ I asked, a little flummoxed.
‘Absolutely! I’m looking at a photograph of you right now. You’re sat on some railings but there are other photos of you in the paper too.’
‘OK,’ I said, recalling the Blackpool Belles photograph over thirty-seven years before. ‘Tell me: what am I wearing?’
I heard the rustle of newspaper as Paula turned the page to have another look.
‘A black-and-white spotted dress.’
‘No,’ I replied. ‘It’s not me, Paula. I’ve never had a black-and-white spotted…’
But as the words left my mouth, I realised the photograph had been taken in black and white. I put a hand to my chest and gasped, ‘… but I had on a cream-and-brown spotted dress.’
‘Pat, you need to go out and buy this paper now. I’m certain it’s you,’ Paula insisted.
I almost dropped the phone in shock as I shouted to Stephen and Claire.
‘Quick!’ I said, grabbing my coat. ‘I need to get to the shops before they shut!’
Stephen jumped in his car and drove me into Bridgend to buy a newspaper.
I handed over the money, wet a finger and flicked through the paper, with butterflies rising inside my stomach. Halfway through, I stopped turning and froze.
‘My God!’ I gasped, holding the paper open to show my son. ‘It is me. It’s me and Wendy Clarke!’
Stephen peered over my shoulder and grinned. ‘Look at that,’ he said and laughed. ‘You’re famous, Mum!’
I was still in shock. My hands trembled as I read the story printed at the side of the photograph.
‘What is it? What do they want?’ Stephen asked.
‘It’s an appeal. The BBC wants to recreate the shot for a new calendar. Only this time, we’ll have our picture taken with Bert Hardy, the photographer.’ I looked up at Stephen and gasped. ‘My God, everyone’s looking for us!’
As soon as we arrived home, I dialled the number printed at the bottom of the article. But it was a Sunday so no one was there. Instead, I left a message with my name and contact details.
Later that day, the phone rang and it didn’t stop until late at night. Everyone had called to tell me the BBC was looking for me and Wendy. The newspaper had used different shots from the day, not just the side profile of me on the railings, so they’d all recognised me, from an ageing aunt in a care home to school friends I’d not seen for years. The following morning, the phone rang again. This time it was someone from the BBC, who asked if I could come to London.
I thought of my three jobs and sighed. I didn’t have time to travel to Cardiff, never mind London.
‘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?’
‘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?’
‘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.