My mother was beautiful, captivating. She had a lovely, big smile and could be so full of fun and humour, yet she could also fall into the depths of depression without warning. When I first started school, I didn't understand how she could be happy, and then so sad a short time later.
Sometimes, I would be sent to school with Isabel waving to me, happy and laughing. Upon my return, I would find her sitting on a stool, crying and asking me to sing and dance for her. She didn't show many people this side to her personality. To most, she was this attractive, smiling person, with a love of clothes, shopping and dressing like a film star.
As a child, I was very plain. I saw pictures of my mother as a child and she
was beautiful. I was not a beautiful child. I remember my Grandmother’s younger sister, Aunty Bell, telling me as much. Her name was Isabel, my mother's namesake, and I loved her dearly. She was a very jolly person and the only one, on both sides of my family, to be seriously overweight. At times, however, she was less than tactful. On this particular day, her eyes followed my mother as she left the room, all elegance and dressed once again like a movie star, and she turned to me and said “You know you’re a nice little girl but you’re never going to be like your mother.” I took it to mean that I would never be as attractive.
I was used to people telling me how attractive or glamorous Isabel was. Everyone in our street knew her and would tell me stories about her. “She was the first to have a hair cut into a fashionable ‘bob’”... “She was only seventeen and she used to go tearing down into town on the back of her boyfriend’s motorbike”...”The Territorial Army Band would always play ‘The Army Fell for Little Isabel’ when she visited them on camp.” Everyone seemed to know her, whereas I was the quiet, shy little girl, a contrast to my beautiful, radiant mother—and I knew it.
While Isabel loved to dress to draw attention to herself when she walked down the street, I was the opposite. I hated being dressed like Shirley Temple and hated having my hair curled into unnatural ringlets. But it was my mother who was not able to go out onto a stage. She was an accomplished pianist but only played when she thought there was no-one around to hear her. She said it was her nerves. She would say to me “I would love to be able to go on stage, like you, but I’m too nervous.” I was the one who could walk out on stage ...I had to...
You couldn't argue with Isabel. It would spark her depression and sudden disappearance into someone's air-raid shelter. Time spent with my mother was either lovely or terrible. Nothing inbetween.
So, I just went with it. I did it well and did what Isabel told me to do, ever the pleaser. While I was on stage, I often thought "This should be my mum up here...she was the actor". I recalled her melodramatic poses and the way Dad would respond upon seeing her like this. A "How is Joan Crawford today?" or something similar. Isabel acted a part every day.
When my Grandparents, the Meers, had moved out to a nearby cottage during the war, Isabel would help them with the cleaning and washing. From our home, if you walked up our street one way, you would be at my Grandparent's. The opposite direction, was the way to the city. When Isabel went to my Grandparents, she dressed the part of a poor housemaid, complete with head-scarfe and a bucket of cleaning goods. The people on that end of the street would say to me, in a low, commiserating voice, "I saw your poor mother today....she is so good to look after her parents as she does...". For her city visits, she was all glamour. Those at the other end of our street would be in awe and say "I saw your beautiful mother today on her way to Birmingham...she always dresses so well...you must be so proud...".
But there was something I truly disliked. When I was invited to a friend's birthday party, I would show Isabel the invitation and, almost immediately, she would be on the telephone asking the mother of the child concerned, "Would you like to have Joan sing or dance at the party? She would love to do it..." It would make me cringe. And of course, the response was always: "Oh yes, that would be lovely." I resented that. I did it but I didn’t want to. I just wanted to be a party guest, like all the others—one of the crowd. I didn't want to stand out or to have my school friends become my audience. No-one wants to be seen as different by their friends.
So I danced, sang and performed—all that my mother desired. But this was not easy in the beginning. My first 'stage' performance was at my Grandparent's home, in front of our relatives. I was about four years old when Isabel decided to teach me a song. That song was to change the way I thought about myself.
There were so many musicians in our family and every Sunday they would get together at my other Grandparent's home, the Jenkins. Most of my father's side of the family were musical and/or stage talented in some way. There were also a few musical talents on the Meers side, but they were seriously out-numbered by the Jenkins. On the Meers' side, Eric and Richard Bird, sons of Aunty Bell, were fine pianists, although they did not perform professionally. Eric played beautifully and was particularly fond of Bing Crosby hits.
Isabel also played piano beautifully, but never in front of anyone, with me being the exception. Sometimes, I would catch her playing alone—beautiful, expressive music. As a child, her father made her practice for two hours before school and one and a half hours after school.
"He was terribly strict," she would tell me. "One day, when he was teaching me to swim, he became so angry that he threw me into the deep end of the pool!" She'd had a panic attack, never learned to swim and refused to play piano for anyone, until I came along.
I could never imagine my dear, kind Granddad ever being so angry. Joseph was always the gentleman and loved me so much. In his retirement, he would spend hours talking to me as if I was a grown-up. Even as an elderly man, he was a handsome gentleman who dressed well and walked with a stick, just to be distinguished. In his working days, he was a landscape gardener for the Walsall Council and every day, come rain or shine, Nanny would pack a lunch to share with him in a park where he would be working. I have fond memories of picnics in those parks: paddling pools, row boats, swings, slides, ducks to feed, lunches in the potting shed if it was raining, and daisies, buttercups and bluebells to pick and take home for mum. Sometimes he would let me help plant the seedlings—such a joy to watch them grow into 'my' flowers. He had a fine, baritone voice and taught me so many songs.
Granddad Jenkins, Alfred, was a talented performer and had been a comedic stage performer. He was a look-alike for Stan Laurel and, as such, had worked with him, when he was known as Arthur Stanley Jefferson, in the show The Mumming Birds. He also worked with Charlie Chaplin, when he joined the show. He was multi-talented, performing in the comedy sketches on stage, then running back to the orchestra pit to play trombone, and back again to ride the unicycle. Eventually, the cast of The Mumming Birds moved to the United States. By this time, Alfred had married and, at his wife’s, my Grandmother Mary’s, insistence, had left the stage and the orchestra pit.
* * * *
Mary's parents always felt that she had "married beneath her", due to their famous forebear, Rowland Hill, of postage stamp fame. Hill's statue stands in Kidderminster and Grandma Mary was so proud to show it to me. We never visited her side of the family, although they had been so kind to my Dad in his youth.
While Granddad always made me laugh, Grandma was always kind and gentle. She smelt of lavender and carried lovely sweets in her handbag, just for me. However, after the death of her daughter, Hilda, in the Easter tragedy of 1939, she never seemed to smile anymore.
It was April 9, Easter Sunday, 1939. We were celebrating at the Jenkin's home and, as usual, music and musicians were involved. Aunt Hilda had hidden an Easter egg for me and my quest to find it eventually led to the piano, where it was hidden under its lid. With the piano now open, Hilda sat down to play her favourite Noel Coward song, 'I'll See You Again'.
The following day, the 24-year-old Hilda and her fiance, Jack Darby were driving to a hall just out of Walsall, to help decorate it for the work function to be held that evening--an Easter party and dance. They spotted a friend at a bus-stop, also on their way to help with the hall. They pulled over to offer a lift and Hilda scooted across to perch in-between the two front seats for the short journey. They proceeded on but, within minutes, the car swerved out of control and rolled over. The vehicle's sun roof was open and poor Hilda's neck was broken on impact.
She was buried in the ball gown she was to wear that evening and is now at rest in Walsall's Ryecroft Cemetery. Grandma Jenkins would never allow Noel Coward's song to be played again after that and she became very particular about Hilda's grave.
For special days, she would inform and instruct her family in great detail as to what colour and type of flower was to be placed on her grave, as each time she had planned a new colour scheme. My father, in his usual form, would go to the grave the following day, as instructed, but would place his own choice, and of a different colour. Like Queen Victoria, Grandma "was not amused".
* * * *
Alfred was a born entertainer and often made me laugh with his antics. He would ride a unicycle around the yard just to amuse me. He could even juggle at the same time and I found him hilarious when he pretended to be Stan Laurel. He would do funny walks and trip over invisible obstacles, or burst into song at the drop of a hat. I remember him singing to a startled woman who was sitting alone outside a hotel.
"I'll take you home again, Kathleen...," he warbled. By the time he was finished, a group had gathered and all applauded. It was his suggestion that I should attend a theatre school, before starting traditional schooling.
Alfred, along with one of his brothers, my father and his brother, Uncle Frank, were also part of the South Staffordshire Territorial Military Band, known as The South Staffs, and all were part of our Sunday afternoon gatherings. Alfred played the trombone, my father played drums and cornet and Uncle Frank played the trumpet. On top of this, other relatives present were also members of pit orchestras in Birmingham, Wolverhampton and Kidderminster Theatres. Three of my aunts were highly trained pianists, as was my cousin, Marian. Two of these pianists were Dad’s sister, my Aunt Hilda, and Uncle Frank’s wife, Aunt Alice. My cousin, David, played violin and various other instruments were available, including a saxophone, through brothers of Alfred's, also members of a military band. The sound of an orchestra tuning up, a sound I quickly grew to love, became very familiar to me. For the voices, we had tenor, baritone, alto and soprano.
The first song my mother chose for me to sing in front of this high calibre audience, proved to be a poor choice, not only for a child, but for someone with an, as yet, undiagnosed case of restricted tongue mobility, commonly known as being tongue-tied. It was beyond me to correctly pronounce 'L' and 'R' sounds. Standing on my table-stage, I sang ‘Why am I always the bridesmaid, never a blushing bride...’ I was dressed in my best party dress and did all the hand actions, as Isabel had directed.
They all laughed. In all fairness, it was probably gentle amusement, but I felt I was being laughed at and I felt humiliated. No child wants to be laughed at. It was the first time I realised that I had a speech impediment. The words I was singing just did not come out right. Among other incorrectly pronounced words, ‘bride’ came out as ‘bwide’ and I had a pronounced lisp. Throughout my career, I would continue to have problems with this and would have to concentrate much harder to say words I found particularly difficult. One such time, was when I had to sing a song with the word ‘optimistic’ in it—an especially hard word for me. Looking back on that first ‘performance’, my family probably thought it was adorable but I felt silly and shamed.
I quickly came to the decision not to sing or speak. “I won’t sing anymore!” I announced, indignantly. “And if my speaking is so funny—then I won’t talk either!” From then on, I did speak at home but never to strangers.
Successive Sunday afternoons wore on and my relatives did not get much conversation out of me, but I adored listening to the music and everyone understood that I didn’t want to sing. Instead, I helped Grandma Jenkins with the afternoon tea.
Her pantry was a delight. I was allowed to choose the tinned fruit we would have, served with whipped cream. I would help to make cucumber and salmon sandwiches and to lay the table with the best china. Grandma Jenkins was very ‘proper’ and everything had to be done just so—unlike Alfred, who always seemed to get everything wrong!
* * * *
At Grandad Jenkin's suggestion, and in particular because of my speech difficulty, I was soon enrolled at The Shyre Hall School, a theatre school. My lessons were every Monday and I would ride a little red bike there. I immediately warmed to Miss Eileen Hall, who welcomed me into her class of pre-schoolers, but I refused to talk to anyone, nor did I join in, appearing very sullen and impolite. It was not a good start.
The following week, I was listening to Miss Hall tell the class what was planned. "Today, we are going to teach our dollies to dance." She gestured towards the dolls lined up on the piano. Miss Hand, the resident pianist, began to play as each child lined up to collect a doll and begin dancing. I held back and wasn't going to be part of it when Miss Hall approached me.
"Do you see that one lonely doll left sitting on the piano?" she asked me, gently. I looked to where she was pointing and nodded. "She's waiting for you and she's very sad. She has no-one to teach her." I was given the doll I was to teach and immediately began to skip, spin and dance about the room with my dolly pupil clutched in my arms. Soon, with gentle persuasion and encouragement from Miss Hall, I was able to sing in front of my class. I was still painfully aware of my lisp and accepted that my classmates might be amused by it—but they certainly didn't greet me with outright laughter. For my first song there, I remember singing "Wiff my likkee horse and wagon, I keep on wowwing awong...", which should have been "With my little horse and wagon, I keep on rolling along..."! Before long, Miss Hall was making great progress with my speech.
Once I had started school, I also attended ballet and tap lessons on Saturday mornings. I stayed a pupil of Eileen Hall's until I reached thirteen. I have so much to thank her for. Now in her nineties, she resides in Bournemouth and we talk regularly by 'phone.
Her pianist, Miss Doris Hand, met my Uncle Harry at one of our family musical 'events' and would soon become my Aunt. Music played such a big part in my life and the union between Miss Hand and Uncle Harry, with his beautiful tenor voice, served to increase it's role. (I always found it amusing that someone with the name 'Hand' was a pianist—made all the more funnier when she was joined by a Mr. Tinkler, also a pianist, when they played for many of my childhood performances!)
They would visit us every week for a musical evening—not even the war could stop them, despite, or in spite of, the air raids! I was taught how to make coffee for them, as they liked it made with coffee beans, unlike my parents. I loved it. I was enthralled by their music, mostly Ivor Novello or Noel Coward—I still remember most of the words and still sing them around the house. I much preferred these songs to my cousin's jive favourites.
Music and dance were an important part of the war years. Every Saturday night, my cousins, Ceinwen and Margaret would dress up for the dances held at the Walsall Town Hall. With the war years set to drag on to an unknown and unforeseeable date, it was felt that young adults should not be denied a life as close to what they would lead had it been peace-time. Many attended these dances also despite the air raids and would have stories to tell of their journey home if left with the predicament of joining a stranger's Alexander Shelter or choosing to brave it to their own homes.
Sometimes, Margaret and Ceinwen would bring boyfriends home and we would all dance in our front room, either to records or the radio. Miss Hand, who lived across the street, would often be willingly 'dragged' over to a seat at the piano. This was when the music in that front room changed to the 'jive' numbers loved by those much younger than our otherwise orchestral members.
So much laughter and merriment, despite the times. My mother loved the full house, as did I.
