Dancing
I have
never really been interested in male fashion. Growing up in the 1940s and 50s,
the options were limited, as were the funds for much more than housing, and
basic needs. We were not poor in the sense that I understand my maternal
grandmother struggled after her guardsman husband died shortly after the First
World War. Neither were we anywhere close to wealthy. So in 1957, I had a basic
set of clothes with some options. It may have even been a bit of a struggle for
my parents to buy my school uniform. I was never included in such discussions,
but always had the sense of expectation that I had to look after what I did
own. So I was always careful, and I have never had expectations of a vast and
trendy wardrobe.
When Alan
and I were expected to go to Saturday morning dancing lessons, there were no
demands for special clothes. My memory says that even though it was a Saturday,
I might well have worn my grey trousers, black everyday shoes, and my green
blazer from school. It would have been the nearest I could get to ‘smart’.
Mr.
Moore’s Dancing Academy had a novel set of smells, dampness and dust amongst
them. It was a large hall, with windows at either end. There were no mirrors
like you might find in a modern studio, nor a trophy cabinet, though I
understand the Moore’s had won awards. There was a shining wooden floor,
perhaps sanded by the many feet that had brushed its old surface, but there may
have had some talcum or other substance used to stop the surface from being
sticky.
We were
the first to arrive on this particular day, and I know I was nervous even if
not shy. Mr. Moore was a tall slim man dressed in a suit, and his wife was
equally lithe, with a dress and cardigan. I thought they were imposing, even
scary, but equally to the eye of a 13 year old, they were ‘old’. In retrospect,
they may have been in their late 40s. I cannot remember a trophy cabinet as
might be commonplace for today’s ballroom teachers, and I have no sense of the
couple’s history. It was just a hall on Ethelred Road. They were just there.
They were going to teach us, and we were nervous.
And then
the world turned, with the arrival of two sisters, Wendy and Janet Hughes. They
seemed to have been before, were greeted, and found a seat. As they came
through the door, I was smitten. I turned to Alan and said: “I’ll take the one
on the left, you can have the one on the right.” ‘Take’ may seem a strange word
for a 13 year old, and it was. I had had a couple of brief and superficial
relationships with girls since Marlene Wright, but ‘take’ had never been part
of the equation. I had little idea how to dance; so the idea of ‘taking’ a
partner, and beginning to dance to some music was alien. It would have sounded
quite cool in a movie where the hero was experienced enough to know what he was
doing. Now, in my head, it sounds idiotic, a piece of bravado. But that what
was I said and, not to wreck the rest of the story, Janet was to become my life
partner and my best friend. She may not have known anything at the time, but
she was to become in many ways my healer.
I got
little more than glimpses for the rest of the session. Mr. Moore took me over,
and I was shown the position in which a male danced with a woman. I found being
close to a strange adult male disconcerting, holding hands bizarre, and was
aware of his sinuous arms under the jacket, but totally unaware at the time
that he was adopting the female role for demonstration purposes. He showed me
the first steps in the pattern of a waltz; first of all forwards and to the
side one two three, one two three, and then later backwards. “Don’t be so
stiff” became a refrain. How do you relax when you are dancing with a bloke? I
guess I was so focused on not tripping, or treading on his toes, that I did not
have time to watch what the girls were doing with Mrs. Moore. But there were
some breaks, and my eyes searched for the petite blond who seemed to be having
fun, and was not the least confused by the lessons. I suspect at some stage
that Mrs. Moore would have taken over the instruction, but I don’t remember. I
am ashamed to say I cannot even remember an introduction on that day, although
there must have been one.
I don’t
remember the feedback discussion with my parents. I do remember the discussions
prior to going, and my not wanting to have anything to do with dancing. What
would my classmates at school have said? I remember the passive resistance I
put up over the weeks before that first lesson. But our respective parents had
taken a decision, and we were expected to follow through. They must have been
confused by the sudden change in demeanour. I could not wait for the following
Saturday morning. I suspect I took special care with my appearance.
At some
stage Mrs Moore would have done some of the teaching and after a couple of
weeks, I actually got to hold a hand with Janet, and have the other one round
her waist. Bliss. We progressed, and over the next few months I began to learn
the quickstep, and a variety of formal somewhat elderly dances like the
Viennese Waltz. At some stage, we were taught the beginnings of jive, and
although this was appropriate to the emerging era, I always felt that the
Moore’s disapproved. I suspect our respective parents also were slightly
troubled by such gay abandon. In all of this, it became clear that I could
dance, and learned to love it. In addition, I did have a sense of rhythm, once
I was confident of the basic steps. Over the next 2 years, Jan and I took every
opportunity to learn new steps, and even developed some flair – which has held
us in good stead at parties and balls for 50 years.
Jan and
Wendy had an aunt and uncle who were part of the Birchington on Sea Guild of
Players, and Jan ‘s mother had also been involved in dram with the Women’s
Guild. I am not sure how, but Jan had been introduced to David and Lorna Burley
who ran the Birchington Junior Drama Club. She and Wendy had joined some months
prior. I guess we may have discussed a mutual interest in drama during the
break at dance classes. Anyway, I asked my parents’ permission, and very soon
found myself as a member of BJDC in the autumn of 1957, a joyous link that
continued for the next four years. Alan Haydon also joined. Rehearsals at the
Burleys’ house were only a small part of the fun. But that is another story.
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