MERCIFULLY, THERE WAS LITTLE more waiting to be done. I had just noticed the strangest feeling in my stomach when I heard the announcement: “And Miss World 1970 is Miss Grenada!”
I was stunned and, for the first time that evening, unprepared. My first thought was that I must not cry. I felt the tears welling up and wanting to come out, but my pride held the upper hand. I managed to keep my head up and control my emotions. I thanked Miss England and Miss Brazil for their hugs of congratulations, and someone said, “They are expecting you onstage.”
I walked out before the audience to thunderous applause, not entirely sure where I should be, but I saw Michael Aspel out of the corner of my eye, and he directed me to the throne. I sat down as two attendants in frock coats, knee britches and periwigs came out to drape the golden cape over my shoulders. A Mecca official handed me the sceptre. Then came Bob Hope with the crown. “Jennifer,” he said, “you deserve this. I hope your talents and good luck give you a wonderful year.” The crown looked enormous up close and felt heavy on my head. I was scared to death that I would knock it off.
The orchestra struck up the first bars of the Miss World Victory March, a stirring anthem composed, we had been told in rehearsals, by the father of Mrs. Morley. I now walked, as we had all been taught in rehearsals, in time with the music, and I could see Eric Morley walking along the edge of the stage, timing me. I stopped in front of the judges to acknowledge and thank them, and proceeded to three other positions on the stage. Finally, I turned once more in the throne’s direction, carefully balancing the crown, which, as I had joked to Pommie earlier in the evening, did seem to sit well on my hair. The music came to an end just as I finished the walk and sat back down. I felt I had managed this sequence with the grace and poise I had intended. One of the reporters credited me with “a quiet dignity rarely seen at beauty contests.”
As I sat back on the throne, more photographers than I had ever seen in one place rushed forward and began popping their flash bulbs. For a moment or two, I was struck dumb. Questions were being thrown at me as rapidly as the flashes.
“How do you feel?”
“Will you speak to your folks on the telephone?”
“What is the first thing you’ll do in the morning?”
“What do you think of the runners-up?”
“Do you feel like crying?”
One photographer said, “Come on lass, give us a wink, you know, a winning sort of wink.”
I complied and the “winning wink” made headlines the next day.
My family gathered backstage to congratulate me. One enthusiastic member of the Grenada contingent wept until her face was quite wet and, consequently, after the hug and kisses, so was mine. I had to fix my makeup before the cameras returned.
Meanwhile, Pearl Jansen, who had come second, said to me, “Congratulations, you deserve it. Never mind what people will say. They will say that we should not have won, that it is politics that two coloured girls should come in first and second, but just keep your chin up. You deserve it. Remember that!” Long after, I would find comfort in her words.
I was told that I could not stay at the Albert Hall for security reasons and so I was bustled into a waiting limousine and driven to Café de Paris, a Mecca establishment in the West End of London and the venue of the Miss World Ball. It was just as I was leaving the hall that I was told that my evening gown had mysteriously disappeared. I was still in my swimsuit.
Café de Paris was brightly lit, and the long line of cars out front indicated a huge attendance for the ball. A smartly dressed commissionaire opened my car door, and we alighted. My Mecca protector, a stocky man by the name of David, announced, “MISS WORLD 1970.” In I walked with my bathing suit on, only slightly hidden by the cape, which fell to my ankles but was open to the front. I was taken along a gallery, and as I looked over the rails into the large room below, I saw a very elegant hall filled with people. Chandeliers hung from the ceiling, and as the band struck up a waltz, ladies in fashionable evening gowns floated across the floor.
I obviously could not make a grand appearance at the ball in my bathing suit. I was told that several assistants were searching for my gown and that until they found it, I would have to wait in a cloakroom, the only private spot in the whole of the Café de Paris. In we went. Pommie and I were introduced to the attendant, an Irish lady with a warm disposition and friendly face. Over the next ninety minutes, we were joined by my sister Aileen and Audrey Palmer, one of Mrs. Protain’s party, while other members of my family were awaiting my arrival in the ballroom. At first, we sat and chatted about the results of the contest. As time slipped by, we were glancing more frequently at our watches.
At one o’clock, Pommie asserted herself. “Girls,” she said, “we simply have to do something. They can’t expect Jen to sit here any longer. It’s ridiculous. Think of all the people downstairs. They must think she’s been kidnapped or something.”
We found a young man employed by Mecca waiting outside the cloakroom and summoned him to find out if there was any news of the missing gown. He came back to tell us they had not found it. Audrey Palmer, the only member of our party with something approximating my measurements, offered to let me wear her dress. It was a princess-line dress made from white jersey, long with a low neckline, and covered with tiny white beads. It fit remarkably well, and quite soon I was ready to make my grand appearance. Poor Audrey put on her coat over her underwear and unselfishly suggested that she continue to wait in the cloakroom until word came of the arrival of my own dress. She said that she felt sure that it would turn up soon.
The Mecca employee escorted me down the steps and suddenly the band stopped playing “Close to You” and struck up “The Most Beautiful Girl in the World.” Everyone clapped and cheered, and I was led to a chair at the head of a long table. The card in front of me read “Miss World.” The waiters brought a menu, and I was handed champagne. It appeared that I was one of the last people to eat. Before my food was delivered, I was asked to dance by a middle-aged gentleman with sparse hair on his head. I would have refused on the pretext that my dinner was soon to arrive, but the Mecca man gave me a wink that said, “Dance with him, luv, if you know what’s good for you.”
He turned out to be the head of one of the largest film companies in Britain. He mentioned a part, which he said would be mine if I liked. “I’ll have to send the script to Mecca, but I don’t think you will have any trouble with it,” he said. He stepped on my toes through a set of three waltzes before returning me to my table.
I had a couple of mouthfuls before more interruptions from people wanting to congratulate me and gentlemen wanting to dance. Many of the contestants could be seen dancing with their escorts. They either waved at me or left their partners temporarily to congratulate me. Miss India seemed genuinely pleased at my win, so was Miss Japan. My roommate, Miss Malaysia, had tears in her eyes. Later, she said to me, “You deserve to win, Jennifer, if anyone says anything else, they are just jealous.” Miss Sweden was one of the few who offered no congratulations. She did not look me in the eye at the ball.
At about two o’clock, word came that my dress had been found lying in the back of a bus, thrown on the floor with some of my other possessions, presumably by an angry contestant. With a Mecca bodyguard asserting a claim on me, I had to force my way to the cloakroom to put on my dress, returning Audrey’s with gratitude. (Audrey was as happy to have her own dress back as I was to find my possessions intact.)
I went back into the clutches of Mecca’s bodyguard and escort, who ensured that by the end of the ball I felt twice as tired and harassed as would otherwise have been the case. He was forever pulling me in one direction or the other to meet his friends, many of them other Mecca employees. I learned from one of my supposedly distinguished dancing partners that he was a bouncer in one of the Mecca dance halls.
The ball went on until three in the morning, after which we returned to the hotel. I was still in the same trance I had been in since the moment I heard my name called. I managed to crash in my bedroom at about four, only to be awakened by the loud bell of my alarm clock two hours later. From there, I had one hour and fifteen minutes to prepare for a press conference. In my short hours of sleep, I dreamed all sorts of dreams. I dreamed that I was back home in Grenada, talking with my folks about the contest, but in my dream, I had not won and felt no regret. I was happy to have been able to represent Grenada and gain experience from my participation.
It was only now that the knowledge of what had happened suddenly dawned on me. I had been chosen as Miss World, the most beautiful girl in the world. Even in my early morning daze, I corrected myself, deciding that I was not the most beautiful face in the world, an impossible determination for anyone to make. What Miss World meant to me was that I had been selected for some combination of qualities, including an attractive physical appearance. Pommie came as usual to help me dress in a brown-and-white pantsuit, but I insisted she go back to bed and rest as Peter Jolly of Mecca was to accompany me.
BBC Television was waiting for me with its cameras. The producers suggested we take a walk in Grosvenor Square, on the other side of the Britannia Hotel. As we walked past the hotel lobby, a group of the hotel employees stopped us, and each planted a kiss on my cheeks. The same group had signed a card and sent it to me the evening before, wishing me luck and saying that I deserved to win because of my friendly manner and courtesy.
“We gave you good luck, didn’t we?” asked Yvonne, the spokeswoman of the group.
“Yes,” I replied, “your card gave me real courage.”
The hairdresser of the Britannia had also been an ardent supporter of mine. He claimed that I had been the only contestant to give my real name when I made an appointment to have my hair done. The other girls had said, “I am Miss Greece, can you do my hair for me?”
Out in the park, I walked with the crown upon my head, strolling and playing with flowers—when a tiny hand found mine. It belonged to a little Vietnamese girl, who, like me, had been strolling the park when she had caught sight of me wearing a crown. She had come to see what this was all about. She was about nine years old and told me that her name was Mariette Steinam. She wore a pair of slacks and a three-quarter-length raincoat. She asked if she could hold my sceptre, and I gave it to her. The cameramen thought this quite amusing and proceeded to interview the little girl. They asked where she lived. It appeared that her home was near to Grosvenor Square and that her father was an employee of ITV, the competitive station, so ITV got a plug on the BBC network.
After the press interviews, I was told by Pommie upon my return to the hotel that the Eastern Caribbean Commission was having a luncheon in my honour. I attended and had the privilege of meeting the premier of Grenada and chatting to him for the first time. He congratulated me on winning and said that I had been a good representative of Grenada. The luncheon became an occasion for much picture taking as many members of the Caribbean Press, the high commissioner and with other dignitaries were present. Pommie sat on one side of me and Mrs. Protain, on the other.
After chatting and shaking hands for some two hours, I began to feel faint. Both Pommie and Mrs. Protain made excuses on my behalf, and they took me to my room. There were telegrams and flowers everywhere, and we had to perform quite a clearance in order to make room on the bed. One cable was from Martin, my hairdresser: “Sincere congratulations. Glad that I could have helped in some small way.” Another was from my parents: “Well done. We are very proud. God bless, Mum and Dad.” There were countless others. I was also told that people on the Isle of Spice had danced in the streets to steel bands, Carnival style, and that upon my return to Grenada a public holiday would be declared. I was left to sleep uninterrupted until six that evening. I awoke to a nightmare from which I never entirely awoke.