DURING REHEARSALS, WE WERE ALLOWED a coffee break at eleven o’clock. We would saunter into a small room fitted up as a bar, where a large woman with a ruddy Irish complexion served coffee and cakes. It was during these breaks that the girls got the opportunity of talking to each other, and often about each other. One of my favourites was Miss Israel. She was a tall, slim blonde whom I found sincere and thoughtful. Miss France was another outstanding girl both in appearance and manner, and she had that certain French finesse. She told me point-blank that most of the girls lacked class. “It is a great pity,” she said, “a great pity.”
Miss Australia, Vali Kemp, was a favourite with the news media. Among the girls, however, she was the least popular. She seemed solely concerned with herself. It was rumoured that she awoke each morning at five to wash and set her hair, which was long, black and thick. Everyone said that she wore at least two hairpieces, a statement she vehemently denied.
Another girl who had a difficult time was Miss United Kingdom, Yvonne Ormes. She had a lot going for her, being the hometown favourite and an attractive blonde. What was unusual this year, however, was that Miss United Kingdom was being snubbed. I personally liked her but thought perhaps she appeared too sedate or uninterested to be a true favourite. It did not help her that the contestants from Greece, Ireland and Gibraltar showed their jealously by forcing their way into her picture-taking sessions. She was not the type to stand up to them.
It did nothing to improve the sense of conviviality among the girls that newspapers were posting odds on who would be crowned Miss World. The people in England wagered heavily on the contest. It had never occurred to me that betting would be permitted, and it seemed to be a revelation to the rest of the girls as well. We learned that the Miss World pageant is one of the big chances of the year for bookies to make money, next only to Ascot and other high-stakes horse races.
When I first arrived in London, I was placed among the first twelve girls in terms of popularity and potential. Three days before the finals, the newspapers put my odds at twenty-five to one. In other words, I was a long shot. Miss Sweden, Miss Australia and Miss Norway were among the favourites.
One day, we were told that a surprise was in store for us: the popular singer Engelbert Humperdinck was coming to pay us a visit. Humperdinck had been a forgettable lounge singer in the early 1960s under his real name, Arnold Dorsey. In 1965, he hooked up with Tom Jones’s manager, adopted the name of Engelbert Humperdinck (the name of a nineteenth-century German composer) and began to find success. By the time we encountered him, he had enjoyed a hit on both sides of the Atlantic with “Release Me” and launched a television show on ABC in the United States. He was one of the more popular entertainers in the world.
We gathered to be presented to Engelbert in the reception lounge of the hotel. Halfway through the introductions, there was a commotion, and all eyes turned to Miss Austria, who was being escorted out of the room by a member of the Mecca staff. The incident started tongues wagging. We soon heard the reason for her forced departure: she had been wearing a sheer blouse with nothing underneath. The photographers noticed and naturally gave her their full attention. The next morning’s newspapers featured the headline: “Miss Austria Sent to Room to Put on Bra.”
For reasons none of us understood, Mecca decided to reply to the newspaper article, claiming that Miss Austria had not been braless: it had only seemed that way. In any event, Miss Austria was noticeably absent from our evening functions. The story went that she was running off to meet Engelbert.
The reporters did their best to put girls on the spot with tricky questions, especially on such issues as race and women’s liberation. The early 1970s were the height of the anti-Apartheid movement, a protest against enforced segregation and the unspeakably cruel racist policies of the South African government, and the ensuing controversy had caught up with the pageant. Reporters were asking why South Africa was entering only one white contestant in Miss World. Mecca had tried to address the issue by arranging two contestants from South Africa. One, white, was called Miss South Africa. The other, Pearl Jansen, was black and called Miss Africa South.
Most contestants were careful and gave evasive answers to difficult questions. Miss Sweden who, again, was a journalist, was outspoken, if undiplomatic, in her answers. She made comments to the effect that she was fed up with the chauvinism of the whole scene. She seemed to agree that Eric Morley was exploiting us and was quoted as saying that she felt “just like a puppet. I don’t even want to win. If I were not under contract to the organizers, I would walk out at once.” That may have been responsible for some members of the press turning somewhat against Morley, and it may have hurt Miss Sweden’s chances.
I had felt from the moment of our arrival in England that we were under surveillance of some kind. Wherever we went, there were onlookers present, taking notes. At one early photographic session, we were required to pose in a large group with bathing suits on. Afterward, the media had a field day, with photographers snapping candid pictures of particular girls and various radio stations (mainly from the BBC Overseas Network) recording interviews. I spoke with the Caribbean Service and a freelance reporter for Radio Guyana, not a great deal of attention, but my interviews went off without a hitch. As they came to an end, I caught sight of an odd couple in the background. They were smiling and had obviously been listening to what had been said.
A fellow from Ceylon (now Sri Lanka), who was a friend of the Ceylonese representative, sauntered over to me and asked, “Miss Grenada, aren’t you?”
“Yes,” I replied.
“What do you think of this whole business?”
“What business?” I asked.
“Don’t you think that racial prejudice exists in the running of this contest?” he said.
I asked him why he thought this.
“Well, just look at how much more attention is given to Miss Sweden and Miss Austria. You are every bit as attractive as they are, and yet here you sit alone.”
There was some truth in what he said. One need only look at the list of previous Miss World winners, heavy with representatives from the Netherlands, Scandinavia, the United Kingdom and Austria, to know that it was uphill for girls of colour. In my heart, I tended to agree with this fellow, but I had decided on arriving in London that I was going to take the high road in everything I did. I thought poise and tact would be part of the “package” judges might find appealing at the end of the week. After all, Miss World was not only crowning a new queen: under the terms of the contest, it was essentially hiring the person who would represent the pageant around the world for the next year. So I chose to give a diplomatic answer, emphasizing factors other than race in the judging.
“Well,” I replied, “I guess nobody has really heard about Grenada before. After all, this is the first year that we have ever had a representative to this contest. And if some girls are favoured, I think it is a case of personal preference. Gentlemen prefer blondes or something.”
At this stage, I noticed the odd couple making notes for the first time. He was a short, grey-haired gentleman, and his companion was a lady with brown hair tied severely in a knot at the back of her head. Her dress was slightly puritanical, and she spoke with a foreign accent. They were supposed to have been members of the press, but they were not conducting interviews or taking pictures with the cameras they carried. (On all the occasions that I would see them—I would look for them after this first incident—they did no journalistic work.) I guessed that they were keeping watch on us and working as some sort of preliminary judges. Anyway, they now seemed in agreement for the first time since I had spotted them, and something told me they were in agreement about me.
The final dress rehearsal, during which I was one of the forty-three girls pushed to the sideline, went disastrously for me. After my morning of practice on the day of the finals, I was in a better mood. I returned to the hotel to find everything in chaos. Harrods Beauty Salon had been contracted to comb the hair of all the girls; but the salon had assigned only six or seven hairdressers to the task, and there were fifty-eight of us. I had visions of half the contestants walking across the stage in the same hairstyle. Fortunately, I had already telephoned Martin Samuels, and he had promised to arrive at the Britannia by four in the afternoon.
One of the organizers’ rules was that no one could invite guests to their room. This was perhaps wise with respect to security, but it created problems for my hairdresser. I had asked him to call me from the reception area upon his arrival. He did, and I told him to take the lift to the floor above him. I next called Pommie in her room to alert her. A few minutes later, the two of them burst into my room by way of the fire escape, Pommie leading the way and Martin following, bag in hand. We agreed that his cover story, if caught, was that he was my cousin and he had simply come to wish me well that evening.
Martin tried several styles and finally said, “You know Jennifer, I think you deserve a simple style,” and with a few more strokes of the brush I saw what he meant. With the help of a tiny hair piece to add thickness, the effect was that of a cascade of hair. The style suited me as my face is on the small side, and the surrounding hair added dimension. I needed some height on top and told him how much and where. He agreed and carried out the idea like a true artist.
Just as Martin was about to depart, the sound of a knock at the door almost made my heart stop. Miss Malaysia had forgotten her key. She seemed surprised to see Martin in the room but said to me in her delightful Malaysian accent, “It is okay, Jennifer. I don’t say anything.” Martin escaped safely from the hotel ten minutes later.
My hair in place, Pommie and I rushed to complete our preparations and pack up everything we needed to take to the Albert Hall. It was no small feat of organization to ensure we forgot nothing. Pommie was her usual helpful self and looked particularly lovely in her low-cut black evening gown. She wore long diamante earrings and a matching necklace. The effect was eye-catching.
The bathing suit we packed was the same white number I had worn for the Miss Grenada contest. I had taken to wearing a tiny gold chain around my waist under the suit to add a little more interest—it showed through the sheer mesh panels on the side.
I also packed my secret weapon, a gown I had chosen especially for the competition. The entire creation was made from a rich gold fabric, the perfect colour to complement my complexion. It had a delicate, low-cut bodice crocheted out of thick, shimmering gold strands. My shoulders and upper arms were bare. From the bodice down were the same shimmering gold strands hanging fringe-like down to my ankles (underneath were silky gold harem pants). I wore the gown with long gloves (extending past my elbows) of the same crocheted material as the bodice, and a single large and elaborate gold earring on my right ear. The effect was simplicity, sexuality and elegance, not necessarily in that order. I was confident that it would stand out even in the tough competition of a Miss World contest.