Marriage to Paul, By Tracey Vale

I saw the New Year of 1953 in without being at The Grand Theatre, Wolverhampton or the Alexandra Theatre in Birmingham. I had learnt so much from my time in those theatres, along with the privilege of having Madame Lehmiski’s watchful eye and guidance and learning from some of the best in the field.

I remember people like Norman Wisdom, who played the part of Buttons in Cinderella with perfection in every move. He was dedicated to his craft and most mornings he’d be in the theatre, either writing scripts or music, or playing the drums or trumpet. He was a kind and genuine person and contributed to my learning as did so many I had the fortune to perform with.

Early on, Wendy Toye would help us  to “Be professional, on and off the stage!” This was also a sentiment strongly assuaged by Madame, who would constantly remind us.

Before every performance, she would say “Remember—you are a Lehmiski Lady! So, behave like a lady, and be professional at all times.”

There were so many other fine actors and performers that I was fortunate to learn from and who took me under their wing, not the least of whom were Naughton and Gold. Then, there were those who were not so helpful—but they, fortunately, were few! When I was first sent to The Grand Theatre for two weeks with a repertory company, I was told to introduce myself to the Stage Manager and to involve myself completely in all the workings of the theatre so as to learn as much as possible.

Upon introducing myself, the Stage Manager said “I am so glad you’re here! Would you be so kind as to go to the Theatre Manager and ask him for the Grid Key?”

“Of course,” I responded and immediately went to do as I’d been asked. First port of call—the Theatre Manager, but he didn’t have it, suggesting someone else. I went to every person I could find but no-one had the Grid Key. Each person politely sent me to another until I realised I’d been had and there was no such thing as a Grid Key!

I wondered, now, what the next few years in theatre would have in store for me as well as for Paul.

                                                                        *    *    *    *

Dick Whittington, the play I’d agreed to do with Paul employed as Assistant Stage Manager, was to be performed in Number Two theatres. I was accustomed to the size, style and prestige of Number One theatres and had been performing in them for most of my life. I knew my life in theatre would be a little different with Paul by my side, as there were sacrifices to be made in the beginning, but I was happy to be with him.

I was playing principal roles and was often on tour throughout 1953, ’54 and ’55. These were happy, fun times, especially mixing with comedians from the shows. It was during this time that we met the very funny, Ugly Dave Grey, who was around the same age as us, and toured all over England with him. It was the beginning of a friendship that would last for the rest of our lives.

Paul was making a few appearances on stage whenever there was an opening. He was also developing an act involving puppets, believing that it was something that would get him regularly onto the stage and something we could do together. He’d learnt puppetry at school and had a few puppets already in his possession. These were, however, very small and would not be good or significant enough for theatre.

He wanted to replicate an act he’d seen on stage in a nearby theatre. A young lady was in full view of the audience as she manipulated string puppets. “These string puppets are what we need,” he said excitedly. “We must buy a good-sized string puppet to practise an act.”

I wanted to work with Paul and encourage ways in which this could happen but when he’d first expressed a desire to perform together in a puppet act, I wasn’t so sure. I was used to being on the stage and had just had a string of principal roles—I wasn’t keen to stand behind a wooden partition, pulling the strings of puppets who would then be the ‘principals’ of the act.

This idea of being on full view was certainly better—but, still, the puppets were the focal points. What to do? I didn’t want to quash his enthusiasm but I had to think of some way around it. I wondered if we could manipulate a puppet to play an instrument as this would allow the entry of music into the act—which meant I would be able to dance.

“Can we get a puppet to play a piano?” I asked Paul. “That way we could have it playing to recorded music and I can dance as an accompaniment to the puppet.” Paul loved the idea and this signalled the beginning of my becoming a puppeteer. Within a very short time, we had the puppets made—a pianist, two skeletons, a violinist, an opera singer and another singing puppet that had an uncanny resemblance to Eartha Kitt. It was not as difficult as I thought to make the puppets perform. Almost before we knew it, we had an act: Joan and Paul Sharratt and Their Puppets.

Between performing, we spent many long hours working on our act until we felt it was good enough to advertise in ‘The Stage’, an actor’s paper. From this, we gained an offer to perform our act as part of the Summer Season at Clacton-on-Sea.

Very excited, we wrote back immediately, stressing that we would be of great value. We sent information about our past experience, including that I was a dancer, singer and actor, otherwise known as a Soubrette, and had worked in many Number One theatres. Paul included the words that he had ‘studied acting’, which, he was quick to explain to me, he had effectively done by studying performances and the workings of the theatre from the wings, but they were not to know that it didn’t mean formal study. Within a week, we had our reply—we had been accepted for the Summer Season. Amid great excitement, we signed the contract but this did not specify the theatre we’d be working in. This deliberate omission became clear once we arrived.

Clacton on Sea had long been synonymous with resort-style amusements and summer fun. A theatre stage was set up on the beach as early as 1912, row boats decorated the shore beside the pier with all of its amusements, theatres, dancing and ballrooms. The town itself sported hotels, restaurants, a bowling green, the bandstand with its rotunda and rows and balcony levels of seating and an open-air pool for sailing toy sailboats. It was densely populated with Pier Avenue lined primarily with four and five-storey buildings, sporting pavement vendors at their frontages and leading to the popular pier and beach. With the number of holiday-makers and fun to be had, the air was thick with a sense of festiveness.

The pier came into view long before we passed the manicured Promenade Gardens on the esplanade road of Clacton on Sea. Halfway along its impressive length was the roller coaster, known as Steel Stella, despite it being constructed from scaffolding and timber. Children fossicked for shells and crabs under the pier and the wide, sloping beach was plentifully filled with holiday-makers lounging on neatly-rowed deck chairs, with children nearby building sandcastles or running in and out of the sea.

An expanse of buildings lined the first third of the pier then, beyond the roller coaster, an open length of jetty before a small structure at its end.

This is where we were to perform—at the far end of the pier. Here, there was the Open Air Theatre, complete with a stage and deck chairs for the audience. Alongside this was a small theatre called The Jolly Roger, where our first rehearsal was to take place.

It was at this rehearsal that we discovered that we were a company of ten, including a pianist and stage manager. Having been used to large productions, this came as quite a shock, and especially with the realisation that any back-up music would come solely from the pianist as there was nothing else on offer. Having discovered this, I glanced sideways at Paul with lifted eyebrows, as if to say “I can’t believe it! This isn’t what we thought it would be. Is this really what we want?” This limited style of production was all new to me. But Paul didn’t seem to notice and continued smiling as he listened to the producer.

“You will be working in both theatres for the Summer Season—the Open Air Theatre and this,” the producer gestured with his arm toward the tiny stage. “The Jolly Roger. Morning and afternoon shows will be performed outside. Evenings will be here in The Jolly Roger.”

Costumes were to be worn for the evening shows, while the outdoor shows were considerably more informal and didn’t require costumes. In the case of inclement weather, day performances would be moved to the indoor theatre. That night, sleep eluded me.

Paul and I had booked ourselves into a local boarding house, a short distance out of town. We purchased two second hand bikes from a furniture and bric-a-brac dealer in Clacton as, without a car in our possession, we decided to cycle back and forth from the theatre.

Shortly after the season began, we received a letter from Paul’s mother informing us that she was sending her sister to visit us. We were so busy with day and night performances as well as initial rehearsals, that we thought it odd that she should want to visit while we were working.

When she arrived, it became apparent that she was checking up on us as she surveyed our separate rooms without hiding her look of satisfaction. I queried mum by telephone and she said that the family were concerned that we were ‘living in sin’, and with Paul being from a ‘good Catholic family’.

“I told her not to worry,” Mum said, of Paul’s mother. “I said ‘Joan is a good girl’ but they had to find out for themselves.” Aunt Lucy dutifully reported back that we had separate bedrooms and were ‘behaving’. And we were….

Despite my initial feelings of disheartenment, the Summer Season at Clacton was great fun. Paul loved acting on stage and was equally enthusiastic about learning more and immersing himself with lines to memorise and the new challenge that this wrought.

He took mental notes on the comedian’s performances and the audience reaction to certain lines from the Olde Time Music Hall theme, which played a part in the performances in the Jolly Roger. Many years later he was to adopt one of these introductory lines as his personal catch-phrase and one that he became well-known for: “Brought to you at E-NOUR-mous expense…”, as well as other sections from the Clacton scripts.

We accepted another season at Clacton—and I’m glad we did, as two things arose from it. One of the directors at another theatre had seen my performance and asked me to sing on Radio BBC in conjunction with a program they were doing on Summer Theatre. Mum was very excited and wasted no time in telling the family and all her neighbours to listen in, which, apparently they did.

The second occurrence changed our working lives. Following one of the shows, a man approached me with a compliment. “A very nice performance, Joan?” he said, smiling but with a slightly reserved, professional air. “Do you have an agent?”

“No,” was my simple reply.

He handed me a business card and said, eyebrows lifted in a way that didn’t question but commanded. “When you’re in London, contact me.” With that, he turned on his heel and left. I’m not even sure if he heard my ‘yes’. I watched him disappear, then looked down at the card. ‘Chesney Allan, Theatrical Agent’. The Chesney Allan! I thought, barely containing a grin. Ill health had meant he’d had to give up his acting career.

It was with great excitement that I showed the card to Paul, whose face lit up to mirror my own. “This means we can work in better theatres!” I exclaimed.

We were already booked to perform the pantomime, Mother Goose with the same company we had worked with for Dick Whittington. This was to follow our Summer Season at Clacton on Sea and we had also planned to fit in our wedding in between shows.

                                                                         *    *     *    *

It was 1955. Rehearsals were finished and Mother Goose was underway. I was Principal Girl, playing the part of the Princess while Paul worked off-stage and continued with his puppet show. We had also put the finishing touches on our wedding plans.

  

We married in the morning at St. Patrick's Church in Walsall, had a wedding luncheon at a hotel in town and we were to be back in the theatre that evening--no honeymoon for these newly weds!

The cast of Mother Goose had travelled the hour's journey to attend our wedding, arriving on a coach they had borrowed. I remember biting my lip in an effort to stop myself giggling along with the sounds of muffled laughter coming from the Chorus Girls as Dad walked me down the isle. They knew my secret--under my pristine, oyster satin gown, I wore an array of colourful net petticoats, all belonging to the girls from the show, in order to achieve greater fullness in the skirt.

On top of this, I half expected the goose to leap out at me, as the man playing this part had threatened to wear his full costume to wedding! Fortunately, he didn't, but he gave me a 'gotcha' look, all the same.

But that wasn't the last of it--there was, unbeknownst to me, some tomfoolery to come. They were comics, after all, so I should have expected it! After the wedding and once all the photos outside the church had been completed, the two comics swept me up and kidnapped me onto the coach, while Paul travelled to the reception in the car that had been organised for us.

It was soon time to return for the evening’s show of Mother Goose. Following the performance and directly after the final scene, the man playing the part of the Dame prepared to make an announcement to the audience. Catching my eye and gesturing toward me at the same time, he said “Come forward, Princess.” I walked out and stood beside him, smiling. He continued, “Our lovely Princess got married today.” He then gestured to Paul as the audience cheered, who came toward him, beaming, and introduced him.

Leaning out toward the waiting audience, the ‘Dame’ went on, “I want to let you in on a little secret.” He glanced mischievously from one to the other of us and I couldn’t help but feel a little anxious at what was coming. “We want to assure you—there will be the same grand performance tonight!” It was spoken with the usual performer’s volume and flourish. I felt so embarrassed and flushed red from ear to ear. It was with great relief that I heard the swish of the curtains and watched them swing across to hide us all and offer us leave.

                                                            *    *    *    *

After our wedding and Mother Goose, Chesney Allan became our agent and was in charge of our bookings. We continued to work hard with the puppets and knew that the act was always improving. We performed with them on a couple of tours in number two theatres. At this time, it was good to be working as the competition had increased. With televisions becoming more affordable, more and more people were purchasing them, which, in turn, had it’s impact on theatre patronage. A number of theatres were forced to close.

Another Summer Season was upon us but we finding it hard to garner interest in the puppet show, as no-one seemed to want a puppet act—until Chesney Allan was contacted by a producer from Southsea, near Portsmouth, who requested just that.

We agreed, again grateful for the work when we were seeing many colleagues out of work. We packed puppets and costumes and were soon in Southsea. The disappointment I’d felt on arrival at the pier theatre at Clacton on Sea, was nothing to how I felt upon viewing this one. It was virtually on the beach—a purpose-built little open-air puppet theatre. It had a tiny stage for the puppets but the puppeteers were to be hidden from view. We had one assistant—a far cry from the groups of actors, comedians, musicians, producers and managers I’d been used to. A nightmare.

So we had no choice but to do our puppet show out of sight, which meant some changes to what we’d developed. We were effectively ‘pulling strings’ for four hours a day. Returning to our ‘digs’ a week later, tired from the seemingly endless and ungratifying behind-the-scenes work, I noticed my mother’s handwriting on an envelope that had been delivered earlier that day. I opened it and was horrified to read that she was coming to Southsea to see us.

Once there, she was equally horrified to see what I was doing. “I never expected to see my daughter working in a side show on the beach!"

I smiled deprecatingly. “I didn't expect it either! Dear Mr Allan hadn't looked carefully enough in the contract.” He’d felt badly about it and knew that the season was below our abilities and expectations—which may have been what spurred him to speak about us to Will Hammer.

We were introduced by Chesney Allan to the incredibly rich, Will Hammer. He was the owner of numerous theatres in Britain as well as a number of other businesses. Whatever Mr Allan had said to him must have had an affect because, within only a few days, we were told we’d be working in his Summer Season. On top of this, I was back in a Principal role with a contract to follow the Summer Season and perform as Cinderella in one of his Number One theatres. The downhill slide was once again moving back up!  

Summer Revues and Pantomimes, By Tracey Vale

Babes in the Wood

Performances continued at the Alexandra Theatre with my role as a Babe being the more prominent one. Roles in pantomimes such as Robin Hood followed, with each pantomime season beginning at the end of the year and running into the New Year. The 1948/1949 season saw me as Boy Babe in another production of Babes in the Wood at The Grand Theatre Wolverhampton, followed by another season in Birmingham.

It was at this time that Dorothy had achieved her makeover of me and Madame Lehmiski soon saw fit to promote me to Head Girl—something she hadn’t considered when I looked and dressed like a twelve-year-old. Mum’s resistance to the change in me soon metamorphosed from the initial upsetting surprise to acceptance and realisation that it was right—that I would still obtain roles but in a different form, and one more suited to my age.

As Head Girl of the Lehmiski performances, I was 17 and very young to be given the responsibility but Madame reassured me.

“I trust you,” she said, in her warm but no-nonsense way.

 At Madame Lehmiski's Theatre School

In April, Madame sent myself and three other girls for two weeks with a repertory company, also at The Grand Theatre in Wolverhampton. We were always honoured and excited to be chosen to join a professional repertory company and learned so much from those involved.

The first day of rehearsals, I noticed a new stage hand who looked to be about my age. He was busily sweeping the stage in readiness and, later, assisted us back-stage. His name was Paul Sharratt and, I gleaned from talking to him in my breaks that he dreamed of working on the stage. "But not like this", he assured me. He wanted, more than anything, to be one of the performers and he was determined to do anything to get there.

It was to his parent’s utter chagrin that he left his private school education at St. Chads well before graduating. They felt that they he was throwing away the investment they had made in his education to pursue something that was a 'pie in the sky', but he would not be deterred and left the school against their wishes. He knocked on theatre doors asking for work, believing that he could achieve his dream as long as he could gain an entry into theatre life. A position as a stage-hand certainly wasn't what he ultimately wanted to do but he didn't plan to stay in that position for long.

The theatre meant that he was there amongst performers, stage managers, agents, costumes, comedians, dancers, singers and could soak up the atmosphere. He was amongst the hustle of rehearsals, stage directions, scene changes, lighting and sound and the tangible excitement of first-night performances, with the audience waiting expectantly to be transported and entertained.

Without the theatre school background and experience of all the actors, comedians, singers and dancers, with whom he was rubbing shoulders, he was on an uphill climb to learn everything he could. He knew he had to speak to the right people, harness friendships with them and nurture potential business relationships that would ultimately lead him to his goal. He believed in himself to the point of ignoring the years of education that most of us had been entrenched with, entailing every aspect of our theatre life, and was positive he would soon be on the stage legitimately.

Returning to the Studio School, Madame Lehmiski appointed me Head Girl again for the upcoming Pantomime Season. I was in charge of 20 Lehmiski Ladies and ten Lehmiski Babes at the Grand Theatre, Wolverhampton. It was my job to keep a watchful eye on their behaviour; to call rehearsals when needed; and report to management when any problems arose. From there, I organised additional rehearsals where necessary.

It was 1950 and we were rehearsing for a season of ‘Jack and the Beanstalk’. The rehearsals were next door to The Grand Theatre, in the hotel ballroom, as we had only limited access to rehearsal space in the theatre while the current play was in production. Jesse Matthews was starring in this, her first play since a recent nervous breakdown. She was also staying at the hotel where our rehearsals were taking place.

Jesse had been a much-loved actress, singer and dancer with lead roles in many hit stage musicals and films, extending her fame to the United States in the 1930’s and at the beginning of World War Two. There followed several years away from the stage and an unsuccessful ‘comeback’ in a movie thriller.1 Her absence is linked to scandal; ill-health, including a diagnosis of schizophrenia; and a nervous breakdown. Her psychiatric responses stem from a rape when she was 16 which had resulted in pregnancy and a forced abortion, later blamed for a series of miscarriages.2

On this particular day, we were rehearsing the scene where Jack takes the cow, named Jessie, to market. We sang our chorus rendition loudly “They’re taking poor Jessie away! They’re taking poor Jessie away!”

Suddenly, there was a pounding on the double ballroom doors as they dramatically swung open and, to our shock and surprise, Jessie Matthews swept feverishly into the room.

Mistaking the song for a taunt, she shouted, sweeping her eyes over us all, tears apparent “I do not think that is at all funny! It’s very cruel!” and, turning on her heel, sped out of the room before any of us could explain.

I met Paul again during this Pantomime Season of December to March. I would see him briefly between scenes or at the end of performances, exchanging the briefest greeting, as only time allowed. "Hello, Paul," I would call out, as I raced to change costume or get into position on stage. "Goodbye, Joan!" He would call at the end of the evening as he prepared to finish his jobs after curtain close.

*    *    *    *

Easter was on the horizon.

“He’s just bought a new car,” I was pleading about my then boyfriend, John Dawes, son of very wealthy parents “And he’s organised a day trip to Wales with friends.” The only problem was that it was the Easter weekend.

My father was concerned about the spate of bad events that had occurred to our family over Easter. “Look, I’m not superstitious—but don’t go,” he’d said in his succinct, no-nonsense way.

But I wasn’t concerned that anything would happen to me and, instead, looked forward to the trip. Following a fuel stop, John pulled out from the petrol station and said “Let’s see how fast we can go!” With that, he put his foot down and sped off down the road.

I turned to speak to the back seat passengers, leaning my back against the door. But, before I could utter a word, the improperly latched door gave way behind me and, with a shock, I felt myself falling from the car.

Swept out onto the road, I landed hard and rolled several times, yet somehow managed to keep my face free from injury. My clothing was shredded and my limbs, severely grazed, bruised and battered. John and my friends gathered me back into the car and raced me to the nearest hospital. It was an arduous afternoon—nothing like the one that had been planned—as I helped the nurses tweeze out pieces of road debris, bit by bit.

“We’d like to keep you in for observation,” the doctor said, once I’d been heavily bandaged. “It will give us the chance to monitor any swelling and adjust the bandages.” But I insisted I had to return home.

I was quite a sight for my father, standing on the doorstep a short time later, shredded clothing barely disguising the many bandages. I cringed at the thought of his “I told you so” reaction—but, naturally, I was wrong. He was all concern, helping me carefully to bed with his usual hot chocolate tonic.

For days on end, I ached all over and it was difficult to sit comfortably. I took some necessary time off from Theatre School to recover—gaining a little weight in the process that didn’t go unnoticed by Madame Lehmiski once I returned.

My first lesson back was ballet. Before the accident I had completed an exam as part of the process to gain the necessary teaching qualifications, with one exam remaining. The ballet lesson was not going well and I became increasingly grateful for the teaching path I was taking. During the lesson, I discovered that I couldn’t lift my leg above knee height.

Madame Lehmiski was concerned that I couldn't complete the second exam because of this and decided to send me, along with five other girls to a Summer Revue season at St. Anne's, known as the 'Radio Follies'. This was to run from June until September and was my first theatre season away from home. As Head Girl, I was to help with the choreography of the scenes and, as such, was appointed Assistant Choreographer.

In the meantime, I had broken off my relationship with John. Of my new appointment at St. Anne’s he said “I knew you would be on the stage and travel all over the place.” Handing me a chocolate bar, he assured me that we would meet again. When we said goodbye, he said "Even if we are eighty years old we will meet again".

*    *    *    *

It was a bittersweet moment, watching him leave. As he walked out of my life I wondered if we would ever see each other again.

We’d met at a Young People’s Conference in Walsall which had nothing to do with theatre. I went with Jean and was seated alongside a young man who introduced himself as John Dawes. We discussed ages and discovered that we were both born in October 1932 and that our mothers knew each other. His father owned a trucking business and John was to follow in his footsteps. By the end of the Conference, he’d asked me to go out to the pictures.

Theatre life would not have been possible with John as he didn’t understand it, or the level of commitment involved, but I wonder what my life would have been like. I think that if I hadn’t met Paul and seen the possibility of a shared life on the stage, I could have become John’s wife. Paul, on the other hand, loved theatre and was constantly asking me questions in his bid to learn in a fast-tracked style.

I really liked John and I think that the time I spent with him was the only time I spent as a ‘normal’ teenager. We went to movies and local dances, picnics and long, country drives. John’s mother invited me to go on holiday with her, John and his younger brother. We drove to Devon and spent an idealic time there—and so free and different from the rushes of Theatre School and the often hectic juggling of performances and rehearsals.

However, so much of my life had already been on the stage, and in the top theatres, and was on an upward climb with new opportunities revealing themselves. On top of this, Mum delighted in telling people that I was on the stage, detailing the performance I was in and where it was to be. She expected this to continue, as did Paul and Madame. As usual, never wanting to ‘rock the boat’, I did what was expected.

*    *    *    *

The Revue was so-named the 'Radio Follies' as the show belonged to the two comics, Holt and Maurice, who had found fame with their comic talent on radio. It was Holt and Maurice who introduced me to acting in comedy sketches and taught me so much about professional theatre.

The Ashton Pavilion Theatre at St Annes was surrounded by landscaped parklands, named the Ashton Gardens after Lord Ashton purchased another parcel of land to complement it and made a substantial donation in 1914. Out of this, the gardens were radically altered from their sand dune plantings to large areas of undulating ornamental plantings as well as rose, rock features and water gardens.  

The local people made us feel so welcome and wherever we went in the area, people seemed to know who we were. The cast, with whom we were to spend considerable time over the next few months, were also warm and welcoming.

The town, founded in 1875, was also known as St. Anne’s-on-the-Sea, but was usually abbreviated, minus the apostrophe, to St. Annes. It overlooks the Irish Sea, just north of the River Ribble Estuary and is now known as Lytham St Annes with the converging of two towns. Its location made it an idealic place to work and a popular holiday destination with its summer shows, gardens, pier and plentiful array of deck chairs available for hire on the beach.

We met a local horse owner on the beach when he and his staff were exercising the horses. He invited us to join them each morning—thus, we learned to ride. It was an exhilarating way to start the day, galloping on the sand and into the shallow edges of the lapping sea.

I had maintained contact with Paul and we became boyfriend and girlfriend just prior to his call up for compulsory service. He was to spend the next two years with the Royal Air Force but managed to find the time to visit me wherever I was, coming first to St. Anne's on his newly-purchased motorbike.

Holt and Maurice wanted me to continue performing with them for the Autumn Revue season. I went on tour with them, extending my first time away from home to five months, before returning to the Theatre School and Pantomime Season.

I had been asked to play the part of Principal Fairy in this upcoming season and was both excited by the role and anxious about my ability. My main concern was that my dancing had suffered since the accident and I had found it difficult during the Summer Revue and through the previous Pantomime Season. As Head Girl, I could excuse myself from the shows to a certain extent as I had to oversee the chorus and take notes on their performance. I was also understudy for the flying fairy, and played the part for a few weeks. I loved the thrill of flying through the air with the assistance of unseen ropes and strings—but this was not easy.

Although thrilling the part of flying fairy was also hard on me and didn’t help my back. I wore an uncomfortable leather harness, was hauled up a rope to the Flies and then felt an almighty jolt as I flew down to the stage. I knew I needed to undertake strengthening and rehabilitation-style exercise to get back to my full potential.

As soon as I returned home, I set about improving my mobility. I spent four mornings a week with my old teacher, Eileen. On top of this, I taught four students every Saturday which also meant that I could build up strength and ability at the same time. This was followed by the next pantomime season as Principal Fairy and another Summer Revue, also as Head Girl and in charge of six Lehmiski girls.

This was the summer season of 1952 and the show was named the Arcadian Follies. Ernest Binns was the producer, as he had been for the Radio Follies, and the show had been running for over 30 years to delighted holiday audiences, in Morecambe, also known as Bradford-by-the-Sea, before his death at age 65 in August of the same year. He was producer of several shows in different towns at the same time. As such, he would call in from time to time to take a look and ask the director how it was going.

The director gave me substantial acting roles in the show as well as a dance solo. This was the Dying Swan and was my first ballet solo. He hadn't seen me do any point work but he believed  I could do it and asked if I knew the role. I said that I did and he set about fitting the piece into the show especially for me. It was exhilarating. I was so excited to be given the role and absolutely revelled in it. Most of it was point work, which meant many blisters, ending with the graceful, swooning death scene.


My costume for the Dying Swan was the traditional tutu. During the season, however, I had a cooking accident in the 'digs' I shared with the other girls. Cooking hot chips one night for our meal, I knocked the pan and scored scalding oil down one leg, resulting in long streaks of painful burns. Once cleaned, creamed and bandaged, I approached the director to say I couldn't do my solo as the bandage was too big and visible. 


"Can one of the other girls stand in?" I asked.


"No. Absolutely not. You must do it," was his immediate response. With that, he presented me with a long skirt to disguise my injury and the show went on.

Just before the final show, the director approached me and asked if I would like to go on tour as part of the Repertory Company and with a leading solo role. I telephoned Madame Lehmiski, as this was separate from the work she was able to give us, and explained the offer I’d been given.

I could feel her warmth and excitement down the line as she drew in a sharp breath before exclaiming, “Oh, congratulations! Yes—do it!”

This was such an exciting time for me. I was on tour as part of a professional company! It meant living in theatrical ‘digs’ and moving on to a different town every one or two weeks. Paul still managed to come and visit me from time to time and would often say, with eyes lit up, “This is what I want to do when I leave the RAF.”

The tour continued and I was asked to stay with the company. I was offered the Principal role of Fairy Queen in their production of Dick Whittington. Just before this was to begin, I returned home as I was so torn as to what was the best path—should I complete my training at Madame Lehmiski's or take the role and possibly forego ever finishing? It was a fantastic opportunity but I still wanted to teach, or to at least have the option in the future.

Mum was no help either in helping me come to a decision, perhaps just as confused as I was as to which direction my career should go. As for Dad, he said “I don’t care what you do. You can go work in a shoe shop for all I care!” Not helpful—but not as harsh as it sounded. He meant that it was my decision and whatever I decided would be fine with him. I returned to the theatre school to consult with Madame Lehmiski.

She called everyone ‘Babe’, and this time was no different. I felt nervous about what she might say as I entered her office, but she looked up and smiled warmly. ”Hello, Babe!” She eyed me up and down and her eyes crinkled smaller in consideration of why I was there. “I think you have come to tell me you are not coming back?”

“That’s what I came to see you about,” I began.

“Are you enjoying it?” She asked, peering hard at me. I nodded. “Well—that’s your answer, then!” She clapped her hands down onto her knees, as if to say “Simple— subject closed!”

“Dear Madame!” I thought. “You make everything so clear and simple.” I would think of her often throughout my career in this affectionate way. A lot of her students felt intimidated by her and were fearful of her disapproval but I learned so very much from her and would always remember her kind wisdom. Even now, almost 60 years later, when I see a dancer or an actor doing something that was not quite right, I think “Madame would not have liked that!”.

With that, my mind was made up and my acting career continued.

Following Dick Whittington, I returned for another Summer Season in Morcambe with the same company. Paul had almost completed his RAF duties and I was keen to have him work with us. There was another tour following our time at Morcambe and I spoke to the Tour Manager about him, explaining that Paul had experience in Number 1 Theatres in Stage Management. He agreed to take him on as Assistant Stage Manager. I knew he really wanted to be on the stage but, for now, this was his ‘in’.

Sources:

1.   http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Jessie_Matthews Cited 16/5/2012 Cited 16/5/2012

2. http://www.dailymail.co.uk/femail/article-445576/Jessie-Matthews-The-Diva-Debauchery.html Cited 16/5/2012

  

Naughton and Gold and the pea soup fogs

1947 witnessed a bitterly cold winter with deep snow, blizzards and frequent thick fog, particularly in the evening. This was commonly and appropriately termed the ‘pea soup’ fogs.

The snow was so heavy overnight that some mornings Dad was unable to leverage open the front door and was forced to open a window and climb out in order to shovel the snow away from the door and front walk.

The nights were beyond cold and the snow, frequent whilst performing at the Alexandra Theatre. Immediately at the close of curtain, I would return to the change-rooms, change from my costume, gather my things and run as fast as I could to catch the late train back to Walsall.

It was Charlie Naughton and Jimmy Gold who noticed my lone departure each night to the New Street Railway Station. With me looking even younger than I was, they considered it dangerous, so they took it upon themselves to see me onto the train every night. They were wonderful and I was always grateful for their care and company.

Although I travelled alone, Dad would always be waiting at the station to meet me at the other end. It seemed a long, tiring walk home in the snow with Dad punctuating our footsteps with “Hot drink and nice, warm bed waiting for you.”

However, I preferred the snowy nights to the pea soup fogs. These were so thick that I couldn’t get home. Visibility was negligent and thus, far too dangerous to venture out. Under these conditions, traffic would come to a halt. If available, a passenger would walk in front of the vehicle wielding a torch to light the way. In the midlands—Staffordshire—there are numerous canals, and people would mistake the line in their vision to be a path, stepping into them and drowning in their cold depths.

Upon opening the theatre doors and seeing only thick fog, I would telephone the Walsall Police, who would deliver the message to my parents that I could not return home. Sometimes, I would sleep in the theatre and other times I would go home with one of the local Babes in Birmingham.

Mum and Dad eventually had their own phone installed because of these fogs. Dad hated it because we were one of the first to own one, which meant a fairly regular request of “Can we use your ‘phone, please?” from anyone who knew of its existence.

Similarly, we were one of the first to own a television set—which Dad was quick to call a “pest” as our living room was frequently filled with an assortment of people wanting to watch this miracle of modern times.

As people purchased their own TV sets, Dad was often seen on roof-tops with the challenge of tuning them after installation. The owners would be calling out from open windows to say “Yes! That’s a picture!...Wait! No—it’s gone again…Now it’s fuzzy…” At other times, Dad would have a set in pieces, strewn over the kitchen table for repairs. The ‘pest’ had given him a steady stream of work.

Lehmiski Babes

In my thirteenth year, Isabel rushed me off to apply to the U.K. World Competition for Aspiring Actors and Dancers. Out of this, I was offered three scholarships in London. However, my father put his foot down and wouldn't allow it. When the letters arrived and Isabel tried to convince him, he was quite adamant.

"No! Absolutely not," he said. "She's too young."

Isabel found an alternative: The Studio School--a theatre school in Edgebaston, Birmingham, owned by a Madame Helena Lehmiski. I auditioned and successfully got in. After gaining permission from the Education Office, I left Wolverhampton Road State School and began my training to become a 'Lehmiski Babe'. As a result, my traditional schooling ended. My feelings about this were mixed. I was being urged along a path that was not of my choosing. I liked the idea of becoming a nurse or a teacher and felt concerned that I would not have this option without 'normal' schooling.

Once there, however,my mind was eased. Much to my relief, there was an option to specialise in teaching and, later, I was able to assist in the after-school teaching of overseas students.

It was, and remains so today, although it is now known as The Lehmiski Dance Academy, an excellent theatre school and Madame Lehmiski was nothing but passionate about her craft. Among others, Googie Withers had gone through under her tutorship before me and was, in that same year of 1945, starring in the movie 'Dead of Night', alongside Mervyn Johns, Michael Redgrave, Sally Ann Howes and Antony Baird. Since the 1930's, she had starred in movies including Alfred Hitchcock's 'The Lady Vanishes' as well as war movies in the forties.

Years later, I met Googie in Australia. Her husband was the theatre owner where we were performing Snow White and she wanted to introduce herself and wish me well in the first performance to be held there. After the initial introductions, I tested her reaction to two words: "Madame Lehmiski!"

She smiled. "Oh, Madame! Dear Madame!" she sighed. "What lovely days!"

It was a busy time for me at The Studio School, with study combined with rehearsals and performances, as well as Saturday classes at Shyre Hall. I travelled everywhere by bus or train, as we didn't own a car, but I remained close friends with Jean and Malcolm. This made easier by the fact that Jean only lived five houses down the street from us and I would see Malcolm when he visited his Grandmother, Mrs. Preece, next door.

I also remained in touch with Eileen Hall and had extra ballet lessons with her whenever time allowed. Although I had not long commenced training at The Studio School, it was Miss Hall who put me forward to successfully audition as Adele in an upcoming production of Jane Eyre.

This, at the age of 13, was my first introduction to a professional repertory company, The Fortescue Players. The production was to be held at the Wednesbury Hippodrome. Wednesbury, a town in Staffordshire and close to Walsall, was well-known for its repertory company and, as rehearsals began, I felt amazement and excitement at being involved with an all-adult company.

We were to open on a Monday and all rehearsals had been done so far without costumes. On the Saturday before, the costumes arrived in large baskets from London. My dress fitted perfectly but, as the final rehearsal was underway, in full costume, I began to panic.

It was minutes before curtain call. My entrance was to run on stage to Jane, who would be seated at a table ready to tutor Adele, me. I looked around me to see the actors walking about in their full costume, complete with wigs and make-up. I didn't recognise any of them, let alone the actor playing Jane. With time running out, I searched frantically for her backstage, but to no avail. "How was I going to make my entrance? I don't know which one is Jane?"

I grabbed the arm of a passing actor. "Where is Jane?" I asked, clearly anxious. To my immense relief, she quickly pointed her out. The rehearsals, along with the subsequent performances, were very exciting and went ahead successfully.

*    *    *    *

As a student of Madame Lehmiski, we received great training and became one of ten players in a range of performances, known as the Lehmiski Babes. We were listed on the programs as such and work was frequent thanks to Lehmiski's reputation for the provision of talent. Older 'babes' went on to become members of the 'Lehmiski Ladies', also printed likewise on the programs.

I loved the theatre rehearsals with Madame, although she was strict. There were a number of other teachers at the school, but it was Madame's entrance into a room that made us 'stand up very straight', as she would often command in the beginning. She had soon gained this reaction without needing words.

The days began with a 9am start. This was one hour of ballet in the Main Studio, which had once been the mansion's ballroom. Through French windows, we had a commanding view of the garden and, in the Summer, we could watch the squirrels playing in the beautiful grounds. Often, Madame's cat would join us, basking in the sun slanting through the tall windows and observing us with the regal poise, and just a little arrogance, that cats do so well.

In Winter at 9am, the room was bitterly cold. My hands and feet were always cold and often, doing point work, my toes would start to bleed.

Madame's strict, yet effective, ways also extended to our bodies. If  any of us gained weight, Madame would let us know in no uncertain words. Later, during my time at The Studio, I returned after a short convalescence from a car accident. I gained a little weight but felt quite confident that it wasn't much. But Madame had a different opinion and ordered me to show her the contents of my lunch-box so that she could be sure of what I was eating, and perhaps confiscate anything that didn't fit the bill. She then ordered me to do 'walks' on my backside, up and down the length of the ballroom.

I loved my time at The Studio School and loved rehearsing for shows. Madame believed in sending us to work in places outside the studio for experience, including how to behave amongst professional actors and repertory companies. Among the first of these, I was sent to join an opera company which needed four girls to join the chorus.

For two weeks it was great to be on the stage with real opera singers and to hear them all tune up before the performance. We also appeared in a Revue, danced in a Ballet Recital and did a few special performances at elegant balls.

My first performance as a Lehmiski Babe was in Simple Simon, held at the Alexandra Theatre in Birmingham in 1947. Wendy Toye was the Principal Girl, playing the part of Princess Diana, and I liked her for her kindness and warmth of character.


Naughton and Gold, the comedy double act of Charlie Naughton and Jimmy Gold, were also part of the performance and were to take me under their wing in successive shows. They were also part of The Crazy Gang formed in the early 1930s, along with Chesney Allen, Bud Flanagan, Jimmy Nervo and Teddy Knox, and went on to become the longest serving comedy duo in British theatre history, still performing with the Crazy Gang in 1960, after having begun in comedy in 1908 in British Music Halls.

In 1947 through to 1948, I was a Lehmiski Babe in Babes in the Wood, with Naughton and Gold as principals. Held also at Birmingham’s Alexandra Theatre, the season lasted for about 16 weeks, with the New Years Eve performance almost clashing with my role as Miss New Year at the Walsall Town Hall. The curtain came down at 10.30 pm, which meant I had to make haste to get to the other show. Fortunately, the Mayor of Walsall's car was provided to me for this reason.

The best part of these New Year's Eve events was the Mayor's car. The driver would knock on our door and we, my mother and I, would be transported like royalty to and from the Town Hall. On one such evening, following the show, I was to be taken home alone as Isabel hadn't attended. I must have looked much younger than my 13 years. When the uniformed chauffeur arrived and asked for me, the stage-door keeper, swept his eyes from me to the fancy Mayor's car, and said "Now I've seen everything!"

www.its-behind-you.com/gallery310.html (Program poster for Babes in the Wood, 1947/8 at The Alexandra Theatre)

http://www.grandmemories.co.uk/Memory.aspx?MemoryId=2857 (Program details for Babes in the Wood, December 1948 and photograph of the Grand Theatre, Wolverhampton.)