‘Looking round, I wondered what made me think I could ever be a beauty queen’

In our house, nothing was ever brand new, the clothes we wore were always hand-me-downs and when I was first introduced to Heinz tomato soup by a much wealthier friend it seemed like an impossible luxury.

In 1974, I was 11-years-old and Helen Morgan was Miss UK. I thought she was beautiful, but it was always impossible to pick the girl who’d take the crown.

“They’ll go for a brunette this year,” dad said. “Bound to.”

The year before it has been blonde Miss USA Marjorie Wallace who had won. She was all over the papers, pictured having fun with the likes of George Best and Tom Jones. The Miss World people can’t have been impressed because she didn’t keep the title for long.

I wondered where all these girls came from and how the whole beauty pageant business worked. They must be special to start with. Yet according to the commentary, Helen Morgan came from a little town in Wales and worked in a bank. That didn’t sound so unusual to me.

“She might win, you know, Miss UK,” dad said, when they were down to the last few girls and Eric Morley in his dinner suit, hair slicked back, announced that the votes had been cast and he had the envelope with the results.

There was a drum roll. Helen Morgan was one of six girls left in the running. “Second runner up,” Eric Morley said. The drum roll reached a crescendo. “Miss Israel.”

“First runner-up...Miss South Africa. And Miss World, 1974, is...”

“She’s got it,” dad said, sitting forward in his chair.

“Miss UK, Helen Morgan.”

I watched this lovely leggy girl with a fabulous smile, not so long a bank worker from Barry in Wales, blink back tears as the winner’s anthem played and she made her way the length of the catwalk, a crown on her head, a sash proclaiming her the most beautiful girl in the world. Flashbulbs popped as dozens of photographers snapped away. She looked radiant.

It was a few days later when dad came in from work and announced that Helen Morgan had lost the title. “She’s got a little lad,” he said. “So she’s given back the crown.” Children weren’t part of the Miss England remit, but it didn’t matter to me. A girl from Barry somewhere in Wales had gone on to win Miss World.

It seemed unlikely I would ever follow in her footsteps. A few years later I found myself in foster care, the result of constant truanting and a boyfriend, Mark, neither mum or dad approved of.

I spent six months in care and by the time I returned home all I wanted to do was get a job and make some money. So in 1978, when I was 15 and without a single qualification to my name, I left school. By the time I was 16 I was working at Dot’s Place, a greasy spoon in Riby Square in Grimsby, packed every day with dockers who came in for breakfast. Dot’s was famous for its bacon and eggs baps, and the blokes from the docks were generous tippers so I was making decent enough money. All the same, I knew I’d never get rich frying bacon.

It was an advert on television which caught my eye. It said the search was on for Miss Yorkshire Television – the region’s personality girl was how they put it – and that open auditions were being held at the Winter Gardens in Cleethorpes. It was the cash prize and the fact a car was up for grabs that caught my attention. All you had to do was turn up in a swimsuit.

For weeks, it seemed like every time I sat down in front of the TV an advert came on for the Miss Yorkshire Television heats. In my bedroom, I studied myself in the mirror. I didn’t look anything like a beauty queen, nothing like the girls in the Miss World Contest anyway. I was nothing. Plus, I’d never have the nerve to get up on a catwalk in my swimsuit and parade about in front of people. I couldn’t think of anything more embarrassing. Then again, I wouldn’t have to tell anyone what I was doing.

I walked into the Winter Gardens with my swimming costume and a pair of high heels stuffed into my bag and almost turned round and ran back the way I’d come. The place was packed. My mouth was dry, I had no chance.

In the changing area I sneaked a look at the other girls. What on earth did I think I was doing? I’d never been confident, I’d always been the quiet one, almost painfully shy until I met Mark – what would he have to say about all this? I wouldn’t tell him. I wouldn’t tell anyone, ever.

Before I lost my nerve I got changed and had a quick look in the mirror. I looked nothing like the other girls. I gathered up my hair and let it fall in waves on my shoulders. As each girl went down the catwalk there was a roar of approval. Everyone had brought along friends and family. I had no one, but as I heard my name being called I willed my legs to carry me just once down the catwalk and back and reminded myself why I was there. I wanted to make money, not to have to scrimp like my mum had all her life. I wanted nice clothes, a car, holidays.

It was agony waiting for the results. Looking round at the competition, I wondered what on earth had made me think I could ever be a beauty queen.

The compere was saying: “And the next of our 10 finalists is...Angela Chapman.’

I couldn’t believe it. At home, I didn’t tell anyone where I’d been. I knew I’d have to get to the Grimsby Evening Telegraph before my parents did, since a photographer had been at the Winter Gardens. For the next couple of days I scanned the paper looking for the photo. When it appeared, it took up almost half a page, 10 girls posing in swimsuits, me right on the end. I hid it under my bed.

A few days later mum was in the back garden hanging out washing when the woman next door came out and said: “Lovely picture of your Angela in the paper.”

Mum stopped what she was doing.

“Our Angela? In the paper?”

“Don’t tell me you didn’t see it...not to worry, I kept it. I’ll go get it for you.”

Mum was shocked.

“A beauty pageant, Angela! I’d never have believed it.”

She had a point. I’d never thought of myself like that either. There’d been girls at school who were beautiful, the ones you could imagine being models. Everyone knew who they were and I certainly wasn’t part of that crowd, but I felt a ripple of hope.

I didn’t get any further with Miss Yorkshire Television, but it had served its purpose. Two years later I saw one of the girls I had shared the changing room with crowned Miss England, then Miss United Kingdom. She was a girl from Grimsby. Like me. It was about having a dream and following it.

It didn’t matter where I was from. What mattered was where I was going.

Angie Beasley is now organiser of the Miss England contest. Her book, The Frog Princess, published by Penguin, priced £6.99, is out now and available to order from the Yorkshire Post Bookshop on 0800 0153232 or online at www.yorkshirepost.co.uk