Excerpts from my Autobiography
(unpublished)
1928/2005

My memory, at the age of 4, of my travels with my mother started with her arrival in the USA and a contact letter from Paris to George and Ira Gershwin which was to prove a stepping stone into Hollywood. Olive never really got close to George Gershwin though one night, the phone rang out in her suite at the Plaza Hotel. It was 2 am, and it was George. "Sorry to worry you Olive, but I would like your advice on something," then without any warning Olive heard a few bars of music being played over the receiver, "I am working on a major new work, can you come round?" The taxi dropped Olive off at his home. Ira was waiting and ushered her through to the front room where George was sitting at the piano. "It's an unearthly hour I know, but the phrasing of this particular song is giving me problems, and, well you being a singer with Andre Challote, I hoped..." "Of course." He started to play a haunting melody; Olive hummed along trying to follow the music. This was repeated several times. "No lyrics yet I'm afraid. "Ira smiled, "We work this way, he writes the music, then I come along and add the words. You're lucky you're just passing through New York, George often wakes me up in the early hours to come down. That's what comes of living with a genius. "To Olive there was an unnerving ring of truth in that remark! "Ira's lyrics bring a sort of sophistication to my music. Those are not my views, they're the critics." "They're also yours. If the truth be known, George would still have been undiscovered had it not been for me. "Olive noted with affection the banter between them. It was a light diversion that George needed. She had witnessed two geniuses, for a brief moment, at play. George turned his attention back to the music and again played the melody. She was aware of its evocative quality; his music was so special. You knew right away when it was a Gershwin piece. Olive had never heard such a haunting phrase. Again he played it as Olive hummed the tune. It was electric in its quality. He continued more alterations to the arrangement until he was satisfied. The opera was eventually completed two years later in 1934 after George and Ira had retired to their hunting lodge on Fowley Island, South Carolina for 20 months. He needed the peace and tranquillity of isolation to finish the opera. Olive was to learn later that the tune was 'Bess, You Is My Woman Now' From his major work, Porgy and Bess.

During our brief stay in Chicago, whatever Mother discovered unnerved her or she didn't like. Certainly the Chicago underworld in 1932 was enjoying a boom. Prohibition and illicit booze had turned the city into a battlefield. The hotel concierge even warned Mother not to be on her own at night. "Thank you, I shall remember that." And, not thinking twice about the warning, she decided to leave me in the hotel and go for a walk on the hot, balmy evening. Returning to the hotel, she lost her way. Noticing several cars pulling up at the darkened door of a speakeasy, she headed down the dimly lit side street to seek help. When a short distance from the door she heard a noise behind her. Feeling something cold and hard being pushed into the small of her back she turned to confront a 'hood' who had stepped out of the shadows holding a gun. "OK lady, just hand over your money and don't scream - nice and quietly and you won't get hurt. "Olive, who could not tolerate unreasonable demands from anyone, became extremely indignant at such an un-English carry-on and pulled herself up to her full height. "How dare you, young man - I'm British." The gangster looked at her in disbelief and, grabbing her bag, pulled one way whilst she pulled the other. It was time for her to get assistance. A large black limousine, with white walled tyres and headlights blazing, accelerated from the speakeasy and bore down on them. The hoodlum, seeing the car, released the bag and vanished into the gloom. The car screeched to a halt next to Olive. Throwing the door open two men jumped out of it in pursuit. "You OK, lady?" asked the voice from the darkened interior of the car. She leant forward, and peering into the gloom, tried to see who was addressing her. An unrecognisable figure seated in the corner and in an accent she was sure was Italian, again asked. "I said, you OK lady?" "Why yes, thank you very much. It was quite lucky you were here." "You a' English?" "Yes, yes I am. Just visiting Chicago." "Not a nice impression for a visitor to our city. You should-a not be out on your own, you know." "I should have taken the advice of the receptionist at the hotel. "By this time, having lost their prey, the other two men returned to the car, one getting into the driving seat, the other standing in the shadows. Olive, suddenly unnerved, felt that she was being closed in. "Get in, lady. I'll take you to your-a hotel. This is no area for a lady. Things are-a bad here. "Olive was afraid and confused. "Get in, lady. You are-a safe here. Believe-a me. My boy's will-a drive you wherever you want to go. No pretty lady will be hurt in my city." She felt a genuine offer of help being made. Shaken, lost and frightened, she knew she had little choice. It was a 'nice' car she thought in that very British way, and all the men seemed very well dressed .On the way back to the hotel, the illusive man remained hunched in the corner as the streetlights flashed past. He was wearing a pinstripe suit, as were the other men. During the brief drive, he lit up a cigar, whereupon the flame from the match revealed a deep scar on his face. The limousine pulled up at the front of her hotel. She thanked the stranger, and alighted through the door opened by one of the men. Reaching the hotel's revolving doors she turned to see the limousine speeding away into the night. The next evening, not wishing to become a Chicago Moll, Mother decided to check over that days purchases, placing them in suitable cases destined for the back seat of the Buick. Her intentions for a quiet night in the hotel were soon shattered. We were in the process of parading in our new clothes when there was a knock at the door. On opening it, she was greeted by the scar-faced man, clutching a bottle of champagne. He smiled and, handing her the bottle attempted to pronounce her name. "Lady Olive Joynson-Wreford?" he stuttered, "A small-a gift for a pretty lady. I just-a wanted to make sure you were all-a right." "Why, thank you. I'm fine. You needn't have worried. "He stood waiting at the entrance, his two companions standing in the hallway at a discreet distance. "Won't you come in?" "That's-a most-a kind of you.' Entering, he removed his hat. "Ah, I see you're packing." "Just making sure everything is ready." "Your son?" "Why, yes. Say hello to the nice man," she insisted pushing me forward, "he came to my rescue last night." "And what's your name?" He put his hand out to me. "Pat." "A nice Irish name ... Pat! My name is Al, Al Capone, but you can call me Al." Mother nearly dropped the bottle on the floor. "A good-looking boy. How old is he?" "Four." A fixed smile had set on her face. Mother watched him in total fascination. After a few pleasantries he moved to the door. He turned to Mother. "Perhaps we shall meet tomorrow, Olive." "Yes." She replied, her smile still frozen on her face. He exited with his two bodyguards closing behind him. Mother moved quickly. By 6 am we were packed and the car loaded. With her foot pressed hard on the accelerator, she sped from the hotel and Chicago for Hollywood, just as the sun was rising over the city.

On her arrival in Hollywood, extracting a few contact letters from Gershwin, she moved over to the phone and lifted the receiver with a smile. She was about to put her plan into action. The ivory telephone rang out in the hallway, its bell summoning the black manservant who crossed the marble floor past the ornate Venetian vase of Tiger Lilies and picked up the receiver."4204...Yes Madam, shall I say who's speaking. Thank you." Putting down the receiver he moved to the large double doors and opening them went into the palatial lounge. Douglas Fairbanks and Mary Pickford were sitting having their morning coffee, both studying the morning papers. Mary Pickford looked up. "Yes John?" "There's a lady to speak to you, Madam, an English lady, says she is a friend of Mr Gershwin's. "She lifted the extension phone next to her. "Thank you, John. I'll take it in here. "A few minutes later in another part of Beverley Hills another telephone rang out next to a swimming pool. Johnny Weissmuller, not looking up from his film script lifted the receiver. "Yes? Olive who? I'm sorry but I didn't get the name. Oh, Lady Joynson-Wreford, a friend of George's ..."Yet another phone rang out in the hot summer morning as Boris Karloff lifted the receiver, whilst at the other end Olive methodically ticked off the next name on the list. "But Boris, darling, you must come. Mary Pickford will be here and, of course, Charles Laughton, not a big party you understand, just a few friends - the least I can do for George and Ira is to call you up and say 'hello'. I did promise him that I would have you around for a drink at my place - just a small bungalow you know. "The next call was to Charles Laughton. "Dear Mary and Boris will be here as well, not to mention Johnny Weissmuller." And so, working her way through the list - playing one against the other, Olive managed to collect about her an impressive line-up of stars, who would attend a cocktail party at her bungalow. Ticking the final name on her list she turned to me. "I think we've cracked it, Pat. It will be a lovely party, and we, my darling, will be well and truly launched. Now - who was it who knew Louella Parsons?" And so I was paraded in front of a multitude of stars, which really meant very little to a child of 5 years. My early memories of meeting the greats were limited. I disliked Charles Laughton and would run, terrified, from the room where he was being entertained. I adored Aubrey Smith, who was to become my God Father, and my memories of Mary Pickford were reduced to being rescued from the Pickfords' swimming pool by Douglas Fairbanks who jumped in after I had been thrown into the deep end by some older boys.

In 1943, Olive decided to move from the heart of London's West End to Twickenham, where we took up residence in Poplar Court, just over Richmond Bridge. After their lightning strikes in London, the Luftwaffe used the moonlit reflection of the River Thames to beat a hasty retreat Westwards, dropping their surplus bombs over Richmond and Twickenham! Our third floor flat, with its panoramic view of distant London through the large French picture windows, was in a more attractive location than our West End Flat, Hyde Park Mansions. Being mostly on my own whilst Olive enjoyed more adult pursuits at 'The Green Club' over the River Thames, I could now observe the nightly display of fireworks, red skies and orange flashes as the Germans methodically pounded London. Separation from Mother ultimately turned my attention to other things, such as the 'Dutch' neighbours who lived directly above us and in particular their Alsatian dog, Rahj. I was no longer alone, for in Rahj I had found a friend. And so we ran and played in the parks along the banks of the Thames. My mind had always easily slipped into a fantasy world of dialogue and stories. Such thoughts were a comfort to me in my childhood days. When left to my own devices, I could immerse myself in a world of make-believe. Often such fantasies kept me awake into the early hours of the morning. It was on such a night, with Mother at the Green Club and the Luftwaffe flying overhead that I first heard the sound of Morse code - 'dit dit dit dah dit' - ominously filtering through the wall next to my bed. The sound was only audible with my head placed in a critical position on the pillow. The tapping always began as the German bombers passed overhead as they banked away from London. It stopped when the drone of the engines faded in the distance. Each time I hoped Mother would return in time from her socialising in Richmond to hear the tapping of the Morse key. "They're really hitting us tonight," commented the doorman as Olive headed out into the dark road on Richmond Green, "perhaps you should wait until it is over." 'Thank you, no. I'll be OK." She was not going to be deterred by any bloody Germans. She had consumed enough alcohol for her to take scant regard for her own safety. Setting off for the one-mile walk from the club to Poplar Court across Richmond Bridge, she glanced at the searchlights stabbing the black night sky above the river. She had become almost impervious to the falling shrapnel about her. As the jagged pieces of metal smacked into the pavement, she hurriedly made her way home. On hearing her open the front door I ran to her breathless and grabbed her hand. "I've found a spy." I announced. Hardly giving her time to remove her coat I led her into my bedroom. She studied me for a moment, then realising my ability to indulge a world of fantasy, smiled and turned out the light. "It's too late for games, you must get to sleep." I persisted. "I've heard Morse. Whenever there is a raid on I hear Morse code. It's there now. Listen! "Surprised by my unyielding determination, she crossed to me. "All right, where is this Morse coming from? Will I be able to hear it?" "Here, right here," I said guiding her to the bed, "'you must lie down - like this. "She positioned herself and listened, "I can't hear anything. "I tilted her head. She lay motionless for a few minutes then rising quickly, whispered. "Not a word, do you hear, don't you make a sound. "She moved quickly into the darkened lounge and lifting the phone asked for the police. She spoke in a controlled voice about Morse codes and spies. We stood in the shadowy room silhouetted against the window. Outside the shells were lighting up the sky over Richmond, searchlights prodding the clouds, bombs raining down on London. She replaced the receiver and turned to me. 'They're coming. The police, they'll be here soon." In the silence of the night, plain-clothes police drove through the shadows to Poplar Court. Their lights off - they surrounded the building. We could just make out their figures as they stealthily merged into the darkness. A darkness lit only by the occasional flashing of the anti-aircraft shells as they burst in the heavens overhead. When I arose early the next morning Mother, having had a sleepless night, was still in bed. With the sun rising high in the cloudless sky, it was just the sort of day that Rahj and I should have been out investigating the banks of the Thames. Dressing quickly I bounded up the stairs to collect Rahj. Reaching their door I was stopped by a policeman in the corridor. "Yes son, you want something?" "I've come to take Rahj for a walk." "Sorry, son, but no one lives here," he studied me for a moment, "you the young lad from downstairs?" "Yes." "Sorry son, but they've gone away." I stood shuffling uncomfortably from one foot to another. "But they were here yesterday." I persisted. "They may have been yesterday, but they're not here today. "He could see my bewilderment. "Here, see for yourself." He opened the door and allowed me into the Dutch people's flat. It was totally empty. Not a single item of furniture was there, all their fine oil paintings, antiques, furniture, carpets, everything was gone. My footsteps echoed off the bare floors as I moved from room to room. The policeman interrupted my confused thoughts. "Think you'd better go, there's nothing for you here. "Bewildered, I left the flat. To all the world, my friends and Rahj had never existed. Neighbours talked in whispers about the foreigners who were spies and their Alsatian dog - the foreigners who had been taken in the night, were never heard of again.

After the war, Mother and I moved to South Africa where I turned my talents to theatre and managed to land a lead role of Stanhope in The Johannesburg production of 'Journeys End' by Arthur Millar. My second break came during April 1954, when I was approached by the National Theatre Company to perform in their touring company's production of Oliver Goldsmith's She Stoops To Conquer, which was to be directed by the late Taubie Kushlick, a woman of imposing stature and personality. In many ways she reminded me of my mother, and it was Taubie's offer that was to lay out the pattern of Olive's and my paths through life. Suddenly I was spreading my wings, and nothing could stop me. The play was to run for nearly a year and would tour some 100 cities and small 'dorps' or towns covering virtually the whole of South Africa. This was to be the beginning of a long established career in theatre, starting with four years of non-stop performances, as I was offered one part after another, moving from company to company. I eventually visited Southern Rhodesia as part of the National Theatre tour.

In Salisbury, a member of the audience was a David Reynolds who was on the staff of Rhodesia Televison's new, but as yet unopened studios. Noticing me on stage, he approached me about a possible job as a newsreader with the fledgling company when out theatre tour was completed. David was a representative of the then internationally famous, Thomson Foundation, was one of the few knowledgeable people on the temporary transfer to the Salisbury RTV studios to guide us through the basics of television presentation. The Foundation often sent advisers out to emerging countries as a consultant in setting up their operations. It was all part of the expanding multi-million pound Thomson Foundation. David, who was part of a team employed by Lord Thomson of Fleet, (who I was to meet in later years) was based at Scottish Television, the company's head office in Glasgow. It would be David who would eventually play one of the most important roles in my career. Apart from taking me 'on board', the company, RTV was destined to make another glaring mistake in their employment procedure. Andrew Gardner, the local news reporter had auditioned for my job, but was politely advised to 'keep to radio' and was told by the powers-to-be that "We don't think you have the sort of stuff that goes to make a television personality." Andrew left for Britain where, joining Alastair Burnet as a newscaster, he moved into the history books with the launch of News At Ten in 1967, the prestigious ITN flag ship. Its success was such that News At Ten continued and developed until 1999 when the highly successful news programme format was eventually changed. Andrew, at the age of sixty-six, sadly died of a heart attack in April 1999.And looking back, they chose me? So much for the staffing capabilities of RTV! It wasn't long before they regretted their decision. I was to prove to be a total disaster. The press and public alike slammed me for my appalling television image. They were right, I was terrible. I had no idea of what I was doing and every night I 'died' in front of the camera. The strain and tension was painfully obvious under the cold and unforgiving lens. My faults were magnified twofold in the clinical studio conditions; as each appearance revealed further flaws in my total lack of experience. My news reading was a mess. I was beyond redemption trying everything to 'make it' using every trick of my theatrical expertise. Each 'trick' buried me deeper into a depression critically captured on camera. The lens had become my judge and jury. It could penetrate deep into my eyes and my thoughts. This added to the confines of a small studio, had a claustrophobic effect on me. On the opening night of RTV, on November 15th 1960, not only was I to become the first person to be seen on television on the African Continent, I was also on the path to self-destruction. The fear of the camera was such that perspiration poured from the back of my hands. As I moved through the first-ever news bulletin, the pages stuck together with sweat. And so, under the pressure of this new electronic medium, I began to disintegrate. Five months after the studio opened, (God knows why they let me go on for so long) our Chairman, Sir Andrew Strachan, came to the studio and, walking around the building with me, confirmed what was already common knowledge - I was a total disaster. That my resignation was my only salvation and that I should think seriously of returning to theatre in South Africa. We both agreed that enough was enough! As kind as he was, I felt humiliated and broken. After he had departed I thought "Bugger it," I was going to throw caution to the winds. It was a case of 'pissing' off back to the normality of theatre in Johannesburg. Television was not for me. That night I went into the 'news booth' with a certain air of 'They can all get stuffed." I had resigned myself to the inevitable. Television and Pat Trevor were a cocktail for disaster. We were not compatible and the sooner we parted company the better. It was a 'no go' job. I couldn't wait to clear my desk and head South. Settling down in front of the camera, caution was thrown to the wind and with no sweat on my hands I presented the news. The nauseous state of panic had subsided. Quite suddenly I couldn't care less. I glanced at the clock, not so much as to time the bulletin, but see how long it would be before the news would finish and let me escape out of the bloody building. On leaving the booth I was asked to take a call in the manager's office. It was Sir Andrew Strachan. "OK, what did you do Pat?" "Do? I don't understand." "You were good, in fact very good. That was the first time you have presented the news properly. I couldn't believe it was you." He didn't believe it? I was totally dumfounded, had no idea what he was rattling on about. "Our talk worked," he continued, "congratulations. You and RTV can now look forward to a bright future. I'll see you in the morning." I was also in for a shock the next day. The papers were full of praise with the headlines that assured my future in television. From a disaster I had become an overnight success! "But how?" I asked myself. "What had I done to cause such a turn-around. How could I be a complete failure one night and a success the next morning?" It was a perplexing question that had to have an answer before my meeting with Sir Andrew. Walking around the studio early the early morning, somewhere in my confused brain there must have been an explanation. What was the secret ingredient to my instant popularity and I had been trying too hard. Each night I had been giving a stage performance, drawing on my experience from theatre that was totally inadequate for television and had dug myself into a trench. I did not know the simple television rules, that in media terms, you are playing to an audience of not more than two people in a lounge. I had not been thinking 'television' as an intimate medium. With no one to guide me, they were getting a performance worthy of the 2,000 capacity of the Alhambra Theatre in Cape Town. In short, I had been giving a stage performance and steam rolling the news bulletins. In today's conditions it would never have happened. We live sleep and eat television, the basics are there for all to see and understand. But ignorance in a studio in the middle of the African bush where there was no guidance? The meeting with Sir Andrew was to prove my turning point in my television career. From Rhodesia I was contracted to open the new studios in Kitwe, in what was then Northern Rhodesia which eventually became Zambia.

On an unscheduled holiday visit to Scotland from Rhodesia and Zambia I contacted David Reynolds, ex Rhodesia who invited me to visit him in Glasgow at the Scottish Television Studios where they were going to hold auditions for news reader and on air presenters. He accompanied me up to the small news studio, where after reminiscing We sat in the control room of studio 'D' whilst David filled me in with some of the history of, not only the building, but also the company. "Had to laugh," I mused, "the security officer downstairs thought I was here for the auditions." "Aye, that'll be Tom, one of the characters here. Been months getting these auditions together, I can tell you," he replied smiling. I was very aware of his Scottish accent, "be glad when it's all over. "He pushed a script towards me. "Not much to it, just some bits of news and a couple of promotions. The four finalists, that are coming in this morning, are the last of a long bloody line of auditions. We have to make the decision today. "Glancing at it I placed it back on the console. David, laughingly, shoved it back into my hands. "Here, you go into the studio and read it, got nearly half an hour to kill before the first of the auditions are due. See what it feels like to be in a big time audition," he added with a twinkle in his eye, "go on, it will stop you getting bored. "The studio was deserted; even the technicians who had switched on the equipment had gone for their morning break. David turned on the lights and sat me in front of the camera. I adjusted my ornate embossed waistcoat and settled in the chair. Glancing at the script I could see it was pretty old hat, then looking up at the camera I started to read through the audition piece with David as my only audience. Knowing him from the early days of RTV, induced me to send the whole thing up to the point of being totally outrageous. After a minute or so, I returned to David in the Control Room and handed him back the pages. He quickly switched off the lights before any of the crew returned, commenting that had they appeared, he could have had a strike on his hands - he was not a member of their Union. "Like the old days." I mused as a light on the telephone started to flash on the console desk in front of us. David lifted the receiver. "Hello?" He looked at me then spoke into the receiver. "A friend of mine from Zambia. Well, I don't know, he's on holiday here Mr Brown. Yes, of course. I'll put it to him. Yes, as soon as I know." David replaced the receiver, then after a moment's pause turned to me. "That was Bill Brown, joint Managing Director. He has just offered you the job as the new announcer and newsreader for Scottish Television!" "But how?" I was totally caught off guard, "I don't understand." "He just happened to switch on the monitor in his office, getting ready to look in on the auditions. Wants to know who the fellow was in the waistcoat. He's offered you the job and wants a decision by tonight." And so I leapt into an unknown but exciting future, as Zambia and Rhodesia slipped into the history!

Over my years of professionally broadcasting, Anna Neagle and I had become very close, and it was this friendship, in 1977, that prompted Bill Brown, our managing director of STV, to phone me at my office whilst Anna was in Studio 'C' where she was recording an interview due for transmission later that night. "Pat. I have just received a call from the Stirling Infirmary who are trying to reach Dame Anna Neagle; her husband has just been admitted haemorrhaging from the throat. Can I leave you go down and tell her? We'll have our chauffeur standing by with the Jaguar to take her immediately through to the hospital." She had just finished recording and the on 'On Air' light was switched off as I entered the studio. Seeing me, Anna left the interview area and came towards me her hand outstretched. "Pat. How nice to see you. I heard that you had returned from Australia and...." she studied my face, "it's Herbert? Something has happened to Herbert." "He's been admitted to the Stirling Infirmary. He's coughing up a little blood." I tried not to panic her. "Our Managing Director has a chauffeur and car waiting to take you through. You can use the phone in my office. "In a matter of minutes she was whisked away from the studio to her dying husband and that was the last time I was to see her.

My travels were not over, as many years later, wanting to spread my wings, I decided to immigrate to Australia - without a job. But fate was again in the wings. A couple of successful theatre engagements was followed by an offer of a job with Radio Australia in Melbourne. During my time in the studios I came into contact with many celebrities who I would get to know very well and with whom I would meet up with in the changing circumstances of later years. Apart from the highly successful Clement Freud 'Face to Face' interview with Radio Australia two of my most momentous associations were with, Dame Anna Neagle and Sir Robert Helpmann. It was also understandable, that because of my position within the company, I would associate with, and know, many of the Scottish stars that would befriend me for many years to come. But after 4 years and receiving a cable from Scottish Television, offering me an improved contract, I decided to return to Scotland. Where I have remained until today, in the year 2005.

In 2004, A friend told me that he had discovered I had a sister, Xenia, living in Australia, which was to put it mildly, earth shattering. The outcome was that I suddenly realised, at the age of 76 that I not only had a sister on the other side of the world, but that she had a brother in Scotland. Neither of us knew that we had any living relations on opposite sides of the world.
There were several hasty e-mails and phone calls between us which resulted in my plans to fly out to Australia in December 2004 to not only meet her, but several nieces, grand nieces and a flurry of families that I didn’t know existed.
Xenia’s story, who was born in August 1935, was equally amazing. It transpired that our father who was dying of tuberculosis in a sanatorium in 1940 in Switzerland realising he had only a few months to live, added a codicil to his will, in which he requested an officer, John Bolter in the next bed, who was also suffering from tuberculosis, but who survived, to become Xenia’s guardian.
Such were the circumstances of her childhood, life and the death of our father and the sudden appointment of a guardian that all traces of our family connections as brother and sister were lost in time.