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!
