Les and Isabel

My parents, Les, as he preferred to be called despite his real name being Alfred, and Isabel proved an often strange, yet well-matched pair. They were both eccentric in their own ways but, temperamentally, complemented each other well.

In her late teens, Isabel was committed for three months in a sanatorium following a serious nervous breakdown. Thankfully, the wedding day did not put her back there! This commitment was not kept a secret from me, instead Mum would tell me tales of her time there as though she had been on a wonderful adventure. She was very good at spinning interesting stories out of otherwise mundane events.

As my childhood progressed, I was soon to recognise the highs and lows of her mood swings. I came to realise that her nervous breakdown was the prelude to the bouts of depression that were yet to plague her life.

She was loving and caring and we spent times together in immense fun. At other times she was distant and morose, posing melodramatically, as though acting the part on stage in a picture of misery. There were times when she would disappear for hours at a time without a word to anyone as to her whereabouts or how long she would be gone.

It was early on during these times that I would panic and worry and search for her, often finding her in a neighbour’s bunker or I would come out of my search empty-handed. In response to my panic, Les would say, with exasperating nonchalance and calm, “Don’t worry—she’ll come back in her own time. Just wait and see.”

On the occasions when my search went in vein, sure enough Les was right. She would return as though all was well and without explanation. Soon, I began to see my father's nonchalance as a welcome, soothing feature. This I think was the beginning of my calm acceptance of things throughout my life, a reflection of my father’s attitude toward my mother at ‘high tide’.

My father’s eccentric ways stemmed from his teen years. He was the eldest of three and was a ‘sickly child’ by all accounts. As a result of this ill health, he was sent away at the tender and vulnerable age of eight or nine to live with his mother’s prosperous relatives, who owned a farm near Kidderminster in England. He had a good life and was happy there and, by the age of 15, was attending art school, which he loved.

Suddenly, his mother insisted on his return to Walsall to obtain employment in any field that would take him. He never forgave his mother and felt that he was an outsider in what should have been his home with his younger siblings. It was painfully obvious to him that his brother, Frank, and his sister, Hilda, were the favoured ones.

He began to shun family mealtimes, instead eating alone in the kitchen. This was the beginnings of the man Les was to become. He was a man who did as he wished and often did not follow social protocol. He refused to dress up for expected visitors and would continue to tinker in his shed long after they had arrived.

The eccentricities of my parents were also physically obvious in our house. My mother loved all things modern while my father loved all things old. As such, Les had a room filled with antiques and old wares. “Junk,” my mother used to call it.

Amongst the antique furniture and gramophones, was also a complete suit of armour and a monstrous eagle, easily the size of a man. Many of the antiques were given to him by poor clients who found they couldn’t afford to pay him for his work done as an electrician, particularly during war-time.

His work took him from small cottages, to farms and to grand manors. I now own a riding crop that was given to him by the Earl of Leicester.

If the farmers liked children, Les would take me along with him. His work on the farms was to convert them from gas mantles to electricity. Although it was the 1930’s, many of these farms were still catching up with modern conveniences.

Isabel’s room was known as ‘the front room’. This was decked out as modern as she could get it and looked just like a 1940’s ice cream parlour. The piano was in one corner and, in the centre, were three round, glass-topped wicker tables in pale green with matching chairs. I felt that this room was embarrassing, childish and frivolous but my friends thought it was wonderful. It was perfect for birthday parties.

As my childhood progressed, I became increasingly aware of the way in which my parent's personalities offset and complemented each other. With each of my mother's spells of depression, my father refused to pander to them, instead patiently waiting for normality to return with barely the bat of an eyelid. With my mother's efforts effectively falling on deaf ears, her spells were probably shortened and the affect on me was lessened.

Of course, there were times when my father's exasperation was made evident, which is only human when such a situation occurs with great frequency. At these times, if he arrived home to witness Isabel in one of her poses of theatrical misery--perched awkwardly on a stool, head bent and leaning an elbow on her lap, hand curled to her forehead--he would say "Oh--it's Joan Crawford today is it?" or "You're doing your bloody Joan Crawford today, I see." But that would be the extent of it--a slight release of frustration--and he would continue on as normal.

My mother's social side was put to the test by Les' refusal to conform but this probably made her more the perfect hostess, to make up for her husband's shortfall in social etiquette. She was an effervescent entertainer and made people love to be around her. Where there were times of great moroseness, there were also times of great fun and I, too, loved to be around her.

The wonderless 'Curly Pet', By Tracey Vale

Mrs. Preece was very important to me for it was she and my Nan who had delivered me into the world—which was in opposition to my mother’s very specific plan. Isabel had always been very particular about how she wanted things to be—my pending birth was no different.

Isabel was adamant about what she wanted from her pregnancy from almost the very beginning. When she became pregnant, she found a picture of a blonde, blue-eyed, curly-haired baby boy and insisted from then on that this was the baby she would have. She was also adamant about the birth—it was to be a home birth with a nice young midwife in attendance.

“But you must have Dr. Baker,” her mother exclaimed. Dr Baker was the family doctor and had been Isabel’s doctor for many years.

 “Absolutely not! He has a beard! I don’t like men with beards. They make me queasy,” said Isabel. During my childhood I would learn that there were many things that made her ‘queasy’. Her mother, my Nan, was often exasperated by her admonitions and eccentricities, labelling her a “flippertygibbet”—I loved the sound of that!—and making her determined that I  would not turn out the same. “I won’t have you turning out to be a flippertygibbet like your mother!” she would say, well within earshot of Isabel.

To this end, Nan, my Grandmother, Mary Jane Meers, set about ensuring this. As a result, Nanny, as I called her, was the rock in my childhood and the person I would go to when I couldn’t sleep or if I felt ill or concerned. We lived with Nan and Grandad, Joseph Henry, until they moved to a cottage nearby when I was about 9 years old.

Nan taught me to fish for tadpoles, pick up worms and to love all living things. She taught me to stuff a chicken, take medicine ‘like a soldier’ and to do all the numerous other things my mother felt too squeamish to attempt.

Several hours before my birth in October 1932, Isabel appeared numerous times, dramatically standing at the top of the stairs, flourishing one arm back and forth and holding the back of her other hand over her forehead. Each time she stated hysterically that the baby was coming. “Quick! Get the midwife--Now!” she demanded.

Nan, well versed in her daughters theatrics and melodrama, retorted “You’ve got hours to go—so don’t go demanding to us now!” Her mother made it quite clear that the hysteria was nonsense and that she should calm down and be sensible. So, following the last incident, Isabel locked herself in her room, refusing communication with anyone.

“Leave her alone,” Nan said, seeing Les' worried expression after he'd returned from a bout of door-knocking. “She’ll come down when the pain gets big enough.”
 

It was not until mid-afternoon that she appeared again at the top of the stairs, dramatically breaking her silence with another bout of hysteria. Her waters had broken. The baby was on its way.

Les sprang into action to fetch the planned midwife, wasting precious time getting the two-stroke motorbike to start. Eventually, after five or six attempts, it spluttered to life with more than a puff of smoke. He arrived in town to find that the midwife was not home and was informed that she had gone to the movies. There were five movie houses in town—so there was no chance he could find her easily. He returned home and was ordered to inform Mrs. Preece, as the baby was well and truly on the way.

Pacing back and forth and unable to take the bellowing much longer, Granddad Joseph, also upset by the delay and obvious lack of a qualified midwife, raced into town on foot to fetch Dr. Baker. This was an easy ten-minute journey and, as luck would have it, the bearded doctor was home.

Meanwhile, Joan was delivered skilfully at the hands of her Nan and Mrs. Preece. Dr Baker arrived with Granddad Joseph shortly after my birth. After a brief inspection, he said to Isabel “You have a perfect baby girl. I have never seen such long hair! And such a colour!”

Isabel gestured toward me and said to him “The colour is blonde, like the picture, but the hair should have been curly! I expected a baby boy with curly hair!” Isabel pouted.

The product “Curly Pet” was ordered up, mainly to placate her, and Les was sent without delay to the nearest chemist to fetch it. The label stated that it was “guaranteed to give your baby curls”. Although my head was liberally smothered with it, my hair, of course, remained stubbornly straight.

The next concern for Nan in regard to my mother was the name she was to give me. Isabel kept this under wraps until the day of my christening, three weeks after my birth. She was to reveal it before going to the church and Nan could only imagine what she’d come up with.

The other Grandparents, Mary and Alfred Jenkins, arrived at our house along with a number of other relatives to walk together to St Andrew’s Church. The moment of announcement had arrived.

“The name chosen,” she began, pausing for effect. “Is a combination of mummy’s and daddy’s names....Lesabel!”

A moment of silence and disbelief followed, for this was a time of good, old-fashioned family names. After a hurried discussion, the grandparents had their say and I was duly baptised ‘Joan Mary’—Mary, after my two grandmothers and ‘Joan’ in honour of my mother’s late brother, Joseph.

The picture of the baby my mother had envisaged--a curly-haired, blue-eyed baby boy--hung in my parent’s bedroom throughout my childhood. In the picture, he was sitting up and wore a blue baby suit and matching blue bootees. So many times over my childhood, my mother would look at it and tell me “That was the little boy I wished for. The little boy I believed I would have. And then you came along—a girl with long, straight hair!” I didn’t think anything of it at the time and, like many things in my childhood that I now reflect on, just accepted it as part of the norm. Like many things since, I now realise it was odd and potentially damaging to my self esteem.

The picture was moved to the bathroom when I was 14. I said to Isabel “It doesn’t suit the bathroom. It looks silly there.” With that, after so many years of seeing it, the picture was taken down.

As for Mrs. Preece, she informed everyone in the neighbourhood of the part she played in my birth and did not allow a day to go by without enquiring about my health and wellbeing. I always felt very close to her and loved her dearly. She was also a constant source of information about the various events of World War Two, so often exchanged over the fence.

“Did yer hear? Selfridges has been bombed!” and “What will be left of London when all’s said and done? Have yer heard the extent of the bombing?”

A blue-eyed baby boy

There was a picture of a curly-haired, blue-eyed baby boy hanging in my parent’s bedroom. In the picture, he was sitting up and wore a blue baby suit and matching blue bootees. So many times over my childhood, my mother would look at it and tell me “That was the little boy I wished for. The little boy I believed I would have. And then you came along—a girl with long, straight hair!”

I didn’t think anything of it at the time and, like many things in my childhood that I now reflect on, just accepted it as part of the norm. Like many things since, I now realise it was odd and potentially damaging to my self esteem.

The picture was moved to the bathroom when I was 14. I said to Mum “It doesn’t suit the bathroom. It looks silly there.” With that, after so many years of seeing it, the picture was taken down.

My parent's Easter wedding disaster

My grandmother told me all about my mother's wedding, laced with all her cynicism about my mum as a 'flipperty gibbet', as she always used to call her. And looking at the wedding photos, she explained why the lilies were not real, but painted on afterward, and how she had to be married in St. Matthews Church in Walsall because it was much more fashionable and much more acceptable for a society wedding than the Meers family church, and Isabel, my mother, was undoubtedly a fashionable woman. She was the first girl in the neighbourhood to have her hair styled in a sporty ‘bob’ and the first to wear dresses above the knees. She was the talk of Moat Road, where she lived, and beyond.

She was also the talk of my young school peers during the war for this same level of fashionable showiness at a time when others were going without and ration queues were the place to be. It was a huge embarrassment to me when a child would say “Who is that?” when my mother entered the room in an incredible, impeccable outfit and looking more like a movie star. I would shrink down in my seat and pretend not to hear, wishing the moment gone and my connection left unknown.

My mother knew exactly what she wanted for her wedding. Lilies were the only flower for society weddings, so lilies she had to have. She wore a white, crushed velvet dress, short to show off her legs, white stockings and white satin shoes. An entourage of no less than seven bridesmaids in silver and gold shimmering, shot silk, each in a different shade in almost every colour of the rainbow, lent itself to a spectacular scene.

The old, beautiful church, decked out for the wedding, looked magnificent and crowds had gathered from the slum area, situated just behind the impressive building, to watch. But that was where the impressiveness of the day ended.

Following the ceremony, as Isabel came out of the church and began to descend the steps, a pair of small, grimy hands snatched the beautiful bunch of lilies from her arms with one swift and devastating move. The boy, amidst a group of slum children, ran so swiftly from the scene and into the crowd and beyond, that there was no hope of her seeing the flowers again.

And worse was to come.

The bride and her groom, Leslie Jenkins were deep in discussion with the photographer, stressing that lilies were of the utmost importance, that no other flowers would do. The guests had gathered a collage of flowers from neighbouring gardens and front yards in an effort to replace her bouquet but Isabel would have none of it. It was agreed that she would pose as though holding the long lilies, and they would be painted in afterward--a sight that was to be a source of amusement for my grandmother and I when, years later, we perused their album. As their conversation was settled, they heard the ominous sound of screeching tyres, scraping metal and shattering glass.

The driver of the car carrying all seven bridesmaids had careered too fast around the last bend, overturning the vehicle. My father raced on foot to their aid. Isabel followed, her veil streaming out in a white blur behind her, attracting the ire of a local bull-dog who hightailed it from its front yard to pursue the spectacle. Soon close enough, the dog leapt and snatched Isabel’s veil from her coiffured head and proceeded to defeat, devour and shred the delicate fabric. Leslie turned at the sound of his wife's shrieks and managed to rescue the remains. This was to be another source of amusement as we looked at the wedding photos--the veil was carefully positioned to appear as though it disappeared behind her, which, of course, it did.

One bridesmaid was taken to hospital with minor cuts and bruising and, amid the chaos that had ensued in the rescue of all involved, the bridesmaid's flowers were also a casualty--every bouquet was strewn up and down Moat Road.

And still, the disasters of the day did not end there. A fatality at the reception dinner; money literally burnt in the fire; and a flood--all were yet to come.  This wedding was only the beginning of my family's Easter curse, although it took my own experiences of Easter disasters before I would listen--an action that was to save my life.

Prologue

A typical British War Office Theatre

There were five very different themes that were to repeatedly jump to the fore throughout my life.

The first was the prevalence of music and drama in my family and my mother’s very strong desire for me to take to the stage. In keeping with this theme was the melodrama that was very much a part of my childhood and family life.

The second was Easter and what that weekend meant for my family and I, beginning with the incredible events of my parent’s Easter wedding and continuing as a penchant to bad luck throughout my life. I learned to listen to the feeling of dread and ominousness to the point that it saved my life during an event in my thirties.

L to R: Antony Bowles,
Joan Sharratt (now Leslie), Paul Sharratt

The third was war. World War One had a profound effect on my mother, as it had on all who lived through it, who grieved the loss of her brother as a result. As a child, I experienced World War Two in England and performed the first of many entertainments during war-time. The war theme continued strongly during my career on stage with many trips to war-torn countries through the British War Office.

The fourth was an integral part of my character—an inert ability to accept whatever came my way, the good or the bad. This ease of acceptance was to be, at times, a bane, but, for the most part, was to enable me to sail through or ‘go with the flow’. It began in childhood with my father on Christmas eve as well as with the often tumultuous and drama-filled life I shared with a mother who was a manic depressive. I hadn’t realised the importance of this characteristic until my later years when, looking back, I could see how it had shaped my life, sometimes as a flaw but more often as a coping strategy that kept me in good steed.

The fifth was dwarfism. The first dwarf, or little person as they now prefer to be titled, was my friend in primary school who was institutionalised by about the age of 6 or 7 because of her ‘condition’. The tragedy of this was to come back to me often during my life where my path crossed constantly and significantly with that of little people.

Despite these five things being very different, they were all indelibly linked. Here is my story....