‘Everyone thinks the tango is difficult,’ said Frank Rogers, ‘but it’s actually easier than the other dances.’
‘I love the tango music and rhythm,’ said Adele, ‘and I just adore the jerky head movements.’
‘She loves South Americans,’ added Billy. ‘But where do the jerky movements come from, Frank?’
‘The tango came from Cuba in the late nineteenth century,’ said Frank, ‘via Argentina, Spain and France. Unlike the flowing dances - the waltz, the foxtrot and the quickstep - it is a kind of static, stop-start dance with aggressive movements.’
‘Why jerky movements, though?’ asked Billy.
‘The jerky movements are reminiscent of a strutting cockerel asserting his authority. But enough of the lecture, let’s check your hold. Right arm further round Adele.’
‘With pleasure,’ said Billy, holding Adele on his right side.
‘Behave, Julian,’ said Adele.
‘Bring your left hand slightly in towards yourself, Julian, and lower it slightly. Good. Now, let’s try it all to music.’
He switched on ‘La Cumparsita’.
‘Ready - now!’
Adele and Billy began to dance the tango with perfect rhythm and expression, like two professionals.
‘Remember all I’ve told you,’ Frank called. ‘Staccato movements. Crisp walk! Keep it sharp! Eyes . . . look at each other! That’s it! Change direction - now! Body sway. . . good! Rock turn! Back corte! Promenade - turn! Outside swivel and sway!’
‘That felt good,’ said Adele.
‘You know,’ said Frank, ‘you two are looking better on the floor each time I see you. You’ve got good appearance, excellent technique and fluent movement.’
‘Do you think we’re ready for competitions yet, Frank?’ Adele asked.
‘I’ve taken you both as far as I can,’ he said. ‘Now you need the experience of competitive dancing. You may not win straight off, but it would be good if you had a shot at it.’
‘We’re ready, Frank, as soon as you give the word,’ said Billy.
‘There’s the Manchester Amateur Tango in a coupla weeks’ time at the Ritz ballroom. That’ll be the time to get you two launched.’
‘Then I’d better start thinking about my dress,’ said Adele. ‘All those thousands of sequins to be sewn on. It’s going to be hard work.’
‘Yes, for your mother,’ Billy said. ‘I suppose I’d better start saving for the hire of my Moss Bros suit.’
Later, after Harrigan’s Saturday-night ball, Billy and Adele got down to their regular snogging session on the front-room settee.
‘Don’t get carried away, Julian,’ she whispered. ‘Keep your self-control.’
‘It’s not me you should be talking to,’ he said. ‘It’s JT down there.’
Billy Hopkins
‘JT?’
‘John Thomas - he’s got a mind of his own. Nothing to do with me what he decides.’
‘That’s the beast in you.’
‘On the contrary, he always behaves like a perfect gentleman.’
‘How do you make that out?’
‘He always stands up in the presence of a pretty lady.’
‘Sometimes I think you’re crazy.’
‘Yes^ Adele. Crazy for you. When are we two really going to get it together? These necking sessions are driving me wild. You can’t go on teasing me like this.’
‘I don’t want to go too far, Julian. If you made me pregnant, it would ruin everything.’
‘We could always use something.’
‘You mean a Durex. I’ve seen them advertised in the chemist’s. I don’t know how anyone could have the nerve to ask for them.’
‘No need. I’ve got some left from the time I worked in the Red Cross. American rubbers.’
‘I don’t know. I don’t really trust those things.’
‘Look, Adele, we’ve got to do something or I’ll end up as a babbling idiot.’
‘Oh, I’m still not sure about it. But. . . well . . . look . . . I’m not promising anything, Julian, but sometimes my parents go out on a Saturday night to the Queen’s Park Hipp. Maybe we could . . . maybe that’d be our chance . . . maybe . . . I’ll let you know.’
‘I’ll love you, Adele, till the world stops turning.’
‘I’ll love you, Julian, till the stars lose their glory.’
‘Till the birds fail to sing.’
‘Do you have a handkerchief handy, Julian?’ she whispered into his ear.
‘It’s late, Adele,’ said the voice from the ceiling.
‘Julian’s just on his way, Dad,’ she said.
‘Back again already!’ said the Juvenile Employment Officer. ‘So what happened to our budding young Charles Dickens at the Manchester Guardian ?’
‘It wasn’t Charles Dickens they wanted. It was Joe Muggins to run their errands and carry their messages.’
‘And now I suppose you’d like me to find you another job? What kind would you like this time?’
‘Anything that doesn’t involve night work.’
The officer consulted his box and flicked through several cards.
‘Do you have a good hand?’ he asked. ‘Only here’s a job offering thirty-seven shillings a week for a good hand.’
‘As a matter of fact, I’ve got two good hands. Does that mean double pay?’ Billy said, holding out both hands as evidence.
‘I remember you now,’ said the officer. ‘You’re the one with the funny sense of humour and the ballroom dancing.’
‘That’s me summed up in two phrases,’ said Billy. ‘Does this job require special knowledge or anything like that?’
‘No, it simply requires good penmanship, calligraphy - handwriting to you. You don’t make blots or anything like that, do you?’
‘No, I’ve tried to keep my copybook clean. I’m not an ink-spiller, provided I don’t have to use a quill pen. Who’s the job for - Dombey and Son?’
‘Listen, Tommy Handley,’ the man said. ‘Show a bit more respect. The job is with the Inland Revenue. They’re switching over to the Pay-As-You-Earn system and there’s an urgent need for clerks to write up their new filing cards. Hours nine to five.’
‘I think I can push a pen with panache,’ said Billy. ‘I’ll take it.’
‘Very well, then. Take this introduction card to District Three, Sunlight House, and ask for a Mr Albert Fiddler.’
‘Fiddler? Inland Revenue. You must be joking!’
‘Your corny sense of humour should take you a long way,’ said the clerk. ‘A long, long way.’
Billy found Sunlight House on Quay Street and took the lift up to the eighth floor. He went through the office door leading to the Third District of the Inland Revenue. There was certainly no sunlight there - not even fresh air. The office was a large, smoke-filled room with a great number of desks at which sat several wan, sad-looking tax officers studying mountains of paper and puffing away at their fags. There was an air of doom and gloom about the place.
Billy presented himself at the counter.
‘May I please see Mr Fiddler?’
‘What’s your tax problem?’ said the shrivelled-up old man on counter duty.
‘No tax problem. I’m the new clerk.’
‘God help you!’ said the old man, shaking his head. ‘Come this way.’
Albert Fiddler, a sour, sallow-looking individual, was the most miserable bloke Billy had ever set eyes on outside Gardenia Court. His mouth turned south at the corners, giving him a perpetual expression of disapproval. Strangers in the street put it down to a bad case of indigestion but the permanent frown frozen on to his features was more the result of a lifetime spent poring over ledgers and unravelling the financial affairs of countless would-be tax-dodgers than problems with his metabolism.
Let it be understood then - Albert Fiddler was not a happy man. He could never understand why his fellow- citizens seemed so unwilling to pay their taxes with a smile, as he himself did.
Billy wasn’t the only recruit that Monday morning. There was also a young, fair-haired boy eagerly waiting to be instructed in his duties.
‘We start here at nine o’clock prompt,’ recited Fiddler in a bored monotone. ‘If you’re late, your pay gets docked fifteen minutes for every five minutes or part thereof that you are behind time. You get one hour for lunch and the same rules apply if you come back after one p.m. Any questions so far?’
‘No, Mr Fiddler,’ the two youths replied.
‘Now, Hopkins and Fernley, as you were no doubt told at the Labour Exchange, we are changing over our whole system to PAYE. Your job will be to copy out the names and addresses from these big ledgers and transfer them on to con-cards.’
‘Just that, Mr Fiddler? Names and addresses?’ said Billy brightly.
‘Yes, just that, Hopkins,’ he sighed wearily. ‘Our qualified tax officers will do the rest, the brain-work - sorting out code numbers, et cetera. You print the surname at the top followed by the other names, in legible handwriting. Addresses should be printed neatly underneath. Do you think you can manage that?’
‘I think so, Mr Fiddler. How many names and addresses are there?’
‘This first batch is the whole of the GPO in our catchment area. About five thousand, I believe. But when you’ve finished them, we have the rest of our district taxpayers, about thirty thousand in toto.’
‘Yes, Mr Fiddler.’
‘To avoid you getting bored, you can arrange the con- cards in strict alphabetical order when you’ve finished writing them up.’
‘Yes, Mr Fiddler.’
Billy surveyed the waiting ledgers and the huge pile of blank con-cards, and his spirits plunged.
‘My God,’ he said to the other lad. ‘The labours of Hercules.’
‘His jobs were easy,’ said Cliff Fernley. ‘He had it cushy - killing a monster or two and cleaning out a few stables. Look at us, we’ve got thousands of cards to fill in.’
‘And Hercules was made immortal at the end, whereas we just get thirty-seven shillings a week. No use moaning about it, though. We may as well make a start.’
After an hour, Billy said:
‘In the Catholic Church, we have a prayer, “O God, send me here my purgatory.” I think the prayer’s been granted.’
‘Who said this is purgatory? More like hell, if you ask me,’ whispered Cliff.
Billy began singing softly to the tune from Gilbert and Sullivan’s HMS Pinafore :
‘When I was a lad', I served a term As office boy to an Attorney’s firm,
As office boy, I made such a mark
That they gave me the post of a junior clerk.
I served the writs with a smile so bland
And I copied all the letters in a big round hand,
I copied all the letters in a hand so free That now I am the boss of District Three’
‘No singing whilst on duty!’ said Fiddler, scowling.
Hour after hour they sat there, the two young men, copying, copying, copying until their hands ached. After ten days they finished the GPO staff, only to be given the employees of several large firms in the area. The days became weeks and the weeks became months and still they sat there, copying out the names and addresses from the big ledgers.
‘My God, my God!’ Billy cried out one day in anguish. ‘Why hast Thou forsaken me? Cliff, this is worse than a term in prison. I’d rather be on a chain gang - at least they’re out in the fresh air. This task we’ve been set is like writing out the London telephone directory. What have we done? What have we done to deserve this?’
‘Perhaps we were murderers in a past life,’ said Cliff, ‘and this is our karma.’
‘If you’re right,’ said Billy, ‘then we must have been mass murderers to merit such a punishment. I’ll say a prayer that this torture will come to an end soon.’
St Albert Fiddler must have heard him, for the next day he came to them.
‘You two have done very well. You have completed more than twenty thousand con-cards between you. Time for a change. We don’t want you becoming bored, and so I’m giving you a new task. I’m putting you on a creeping check.’
‘Oh, thank you, thank you, Mr Fiddler,’ exclaimed Billy. ‘But what’s a creeping check?’
‘In the filing room, we have over thirty thousand files. Sometimes they get put back in the wrong order. Your job for the next few weeks will be to check through them all and make sure they’re in the correct sequence. If they’re not, put them right. It’ll make a change from all those con-cards, anyway.’
‘You’ve been praying to the wrong saint, Hoppy,’ said
Cliff Fernley after a week of it. Td rather be back on the con-cards. Look at the cuticles of my fingers, torn to ribbons.’
That night, when he got home, Billy said to his mam:
‘I don’t think I can stand much more of this job, Mam. I’ll end up in Prestwich Asylum if I have to spend my life filling in con-cards and doing creeping checks.’
‘Everybody has to work, son. And you can’t expect to like your work. That’s what you get paid for - for doing summat that you don’t like doing. Otherwise they wouldn’t pay you, would they? Stands to reason.’
‘There are two things keeping me sane at the moment, Mam. One is my dancing. If it weren’t for that, I think you could send for the yellow van.’
‘And what’s the other?’
‘Reading and studying. I’ve started reading Plato’s Republic just so’s my brain won’t seize up.’
‘And what about your ideas of becoming a writer or a teacher? I hope you haven’t given them up.’
‘Just about. Mam. I’ve dug myself into a deep hole and I can’t see any way out.’
‘You never know, son, you never know. Life’s funny that way. Sometimes when you’re least expecting it, opportunity knocks at your door. What I alius say is - what has to be will be.’
‘That’s a very helpful saying, Mam, I must say. You’re a fatalist. It means I may as well stop trying.’
‘It means nowt o’ the sort. It means that if it’s meant to happen, it will, that’s all. And I’m not that thing you just said I was - that fatalist thing. I’m a Catholic and proud of it.’
‘Anyroad, as I was saying,’ Billy added, ‘it’s being so cheerful as keeps me going. That, Plato and my ballroom dancing.’
★ ★ ★
‘You look very smart, sir, if you don’t mind me saying so,’ said the man at Moss Bros. ‘A perfect fit. Tailor-made for you, in fact.’
‘Nice of you to say so,’ said Billy.
‘That’ll be thirteen pounds altogether, sir,’ he said as he folded up and packaged the outfit. ‘Three pounds for the hire of the dress suit and ten pounds deposit - returnable if the goods come back undamaged.’
Billy came out of the shop carrying his precious parcel as if it contained the Crown Jewels. All the way home on the 62 bus, he nursed it like a baby, and managed to reach the flat without mishap.
‘Well I never,’ said Mam when she saw the evening suit hanging up in the wardrobe. ‘Our Billy’s joined the toffs.’
‘That there is the uniform o’ the Tories,’ said Dad. ‘Didn’t I say a long time ago that he’d be getting ideas above his station?’
Billy could hardly eat his omelette-tea that Friday night because of the excitement.
‘This is a big tango competition, Mam. The best amateurs in Lancashire will be at the Ritz tonight.’
‘I hope you win, son.’
‘Oh, we don’t think we’ll win anything, Mam. We’ve not got the experience and it’ll all depend on what the judges are looking for.’
‘Then why go in for it?’
‘For the experience. If we get any recalls, that’ll be a big success.’
‘Oh, I see.’
When Mam said ‘I see’ like that, it meant that she didn’t.
‘Anyroad, Mam, I’d better start getting ready. I’ve ordered a taxi for seven o’clock and I’m picking Adele up at quarter past.’
‘A bloody taxi! What next!’ said Dad.
After a long bath, a close, careful shave and a thorough sprucing-up, Billy emerged in full array.
‘Bloody hell!’ said Dad. ‘He looks like a waiter at the Midland Hotel. He’s bloody well gone over to the enemy.’
‘Eeh, I’m right proud o’ you, son,’ said Mam. ‘In them tails you look just like Astaire in that picture. Top Hat. All’s you need now is a cane, a big hat and Ginger Rogers.’
‘Wait a minute, then,’ he said and ran into the bedroom.
A minute later he emerged wearing Dad’s pot hat and carrying his walking stick under his arm, began to waltz around the flat giving his best imitation of Astaire singing and dancing.
Then he took his mother in his arms and began dancing around the table with her. ‘You’re as light as Ginger Rogers, Mam,’ he said.
‘Get off with you,’ she said. ‘You daft ha’porth.’
There was a loud knock at the door.
‘That’ll be my taxi,’ Billy said. ‘Better not keep it waiting.’
‘Best o’ luck, son,’ Mam called. ‘Do your best! And put these rosary beads round your neck and tuck them under your shirt so’s they can’t be seen. You got them beads at the infants’ school for answering your catechism. D’you remember? And they’ve been blessed by the Bishop o’ Salford. They’ll help you to win summat, you’ll see. And try not to let the neighbours see you as you go out. We don’t want them thinking we’re getting stuck-up and above ourselves.’
‘Aye - do your best!’ said Dad, looking out of the window. ‘But some hopes of the neighbours not seeing you. Nosy buggers are looking out already.’
‘And you’re looking out o’ your window looking at
them looking out of theirs/ said Mam.
‘Aye/ he said, ‘but it’s our Billy’s taxi, not theirs.’
A taxi at Gardenia Court was a rare event. A small crowd had gathered round the black cab when Billy got to the foot of the stairwell. There were three or four bare- arsed, snotty-nosed toddlers with the inevitable dummies stuck in their mouths. A mongrel dog raised its hind leg and pissed on the rear wheel of the waiting car.
‘Sod off!’ yelled the taxi-driver, aiming a kick at it.
‘Ockins! Ockins!’ simple-minded Annie sputtered when she saw Billy.
‘Evening, Annie/ Billy said.
‘Bleeding hell!’ screeched Mrs Pitts from her veranda. ‘It’s the bleeding Duke o’ Windsor.’
‘More like a bleeding tailor’s dummy/ said Mr Pitts, who was standing next to her.
Billy ignored all the comments and waved to his mam and dad, who were gazing down at him from the top veranda.
‘All the best, our kid/ called Mam.
‘To Clifton Street, please/ Billy said to the driver.
Five minutes later the taxi pulled up outside the terraced house which was Adele’s home. Billy rang the bell; the door was opened by her mother, a small, kindly, round woman in her mid-forties.
‘She’s almost ready, Julian/ she said. ‘She’ll be down in a minute.’
‘Plenty o’ time, Mrs Lovitt/ he said.
‘I’m really glad you’re taking her out like this/ said the woman. ‘Adele is our only child and she gets a bit turned in on herself sometimes. A bit depressed, like.’
‘I didn’t know that, Mrs Lovitt.’
‘She can also have a bit of a temper if she’s rubbed up the wrong way. I know me and George have got to tread
carefully sometimes. She’s looking really lovely tonight, though, you’ll see. Mind you, she ought to be. She took the day off work and has been dolling herself up all day.’
‘What exactly does she do, Mrs Lovitt?’
‘Why, hasn’t she told you? She’s on the cosmetics counter at Kendals.’
‘Ah, that explains her skill with make-up.’
‘She’s always been fussy about her appearance and that. Oh, here she is now.’
Adele appeared and Billy’s heart skipped a beat. She had excelled herself in her preparations. She looked like a fairy princess - a vision in pale-blue tulle with sequins and pearls sparkling on the fitted bodice of her dress and shimmering in her light-brown hair, which she wore tied back to emphasise the beauty of her face and neck.
‘You look stunning,’ he gasped. ‘You take my breath away. I can’t believe that you are actually going to the ball with me.’
‘Why, thank you, kind sir,’ she said. ‘And why shouldn’t I be going with you, Mr Astaire?’
‘Best of luck to both of you,’ said her mother. ‘You make a beautiful couple when I see you together like this.’
‘Don’t wait up, Mother. We may be quite late.’
‘No, I’ll wait for you to help you off with the dress.’
‘I said don’t wait up, Mother,’ Adele flashed, ‘and I mean it!’
‘Temper! Temper!’ said Mrs Lovitt.
‘You just make me so bloody mad sometimes, Mother, you do, honestly,’ Adele snapped, ‘always fussing.’
‘Don’t spoil all your nice make-up, dear,’ said Mrs Lovitt.
‘Oh, come on, Julian,’ Adele said impatiently. ‘Let’s go-’
★ ★ ★
The Ritz ballroom in Whitworth Street was crowded that Friday night with exquisitely dressed, glittering competitors, along with their supporters and spectators. The twenty-two-piece orchestra struck up and began playing in strict tempo the sweet-sounding melodies of the day - ‘I’ll Buy That Dream’, ‘Laura’, ‘You’d Be So Nice to Come Home To’ and ‘Who’s Taking You Home Tonight?’. What a wonderful, magnificent scene as the radiant couples arrayed in full feather glided across the polished maple floor of the spacious ballroom. And what a glamorous, romantic night for Adele and Billy as they merged into the crowd of whirling, elegant dancers.
‘I hope we get at least one recall after all our efforts,’ he said.
‘Don’t worry, Julian,’ she said confidently. ‘We shall. We’ve got Frank Rogers sitting over there ready to give us support and advice. Also, we’ve been given the number twenty-eight - the year of our birth. It’s bound to be lucky.’
‘I only hope it doesn’t mean we’re going to come twenty-eighth,’ he replied.
‘And now we come to the main event of the evening - the one you’ve all been waiting for - the Manchester Amateur Tango Championship!’ the Master of Ceremonies announced through the PA system. ‘There will be three heats in all. So would competitors now kindly take the floor for heat one.’
‘This is it,’ said Billy nervously.
The band began to play ‘Temptation’ and the thirty competing couples took to the floor. The three judges, clipboards in hand, stood at different points in the ballroom jotting down notes as the dancers swished past them.
Adele and Billy gave it everything they’d got,
remembering all that Frank had taught them. Smooth, flowing, skimming steps - then crisp, staccato changes of direction capturing the elusive tango atmosphere. They felt completely at home on the floor and almost forgot they were in a competition. Ten minutes and heat one was over.
‘Well done, you two,’ said Frank when they joined him at his table. ‘Couldn’t have done it better myself. I’m sure you’ll get a recall into heat two.’
He was right. They found themselves called back along with eleven other couples.
‘I just can’t believe it,’ cried Adele. ‘A recall on our first attempt. I knew my instincts were right, Julian, when I first saw you at Harrigan’s all those months ago.’
‘Watch your timing, Julian,’ said Frank. ‘Remember what I said about rhythmic expression - steal a little time from one step and add it to the other - that’s what makes it fascinating to watch. And Adele, when you turn your head in a change of direction, make it sharp and brisk. Now go on and make me proud of you.’
‘Right, boss,’ said Billy.
The band began to play ‘Jealousy’ and the twelve couples went into their routines.
Adele and Billy danced the tango as they’d never danced it before. They skimmed across the ballroom with flair and panache, every movement, every step, clean and crisp, every variation performed in fine, graceful style: the fall-away promenade with outside swivel and brush tap, progressive link, twist turn, and a flourishing bow as the music came to a close.
‘That was superb, Julian,’ whispered Adele.
‘You were pretty good yourself, Adele - everything depends now on what the judges thought of it.’
They hadn’t long to wait. Adele gripped Billy’s arm
nervously when the MC began making his announcement.
‘For the final heat, the judges have selected the following six couples: numbers six . . . nine . . . fourteen . . . seventeen . . . twenty-four. . . and twenty-eight!’
‘OH, JULIAN! JULIAN!’ Adele shouted excitedly, clutching even more tightly at his arm. ‘I CAN’T BELIEVE IT! WE’RE IN THE FINAL!’
‘I had a hunch you two were going to get in,’ said Frank. ‘That last performance was the best I’ve ever seen you do. But now you’re up against the very best amateurs in the north-west. You’ll need to pull out something really special. Remember the cockerel and the jerky movements!’
‘We can only do our best,’ said Billy, touching the outline of the rosary beads under his dress shirt.
At that moment he glanced around him and it was then that he saw them. Sitting up in the spectators’ balcony. He couldn’t believe his eyes. There was his mam and his two sisters watching the whole performance. How had they got there? They must have taken a taxi! They must have had it all organised secretly. He gave them a big smile and a cheery wave of recognition, to which they responded with an encouraging thumbs-up.
‘We’d better do well now, Adele,’ he said. ‘I’ve got half my family up there in the visitors’ balcony.’
‘Oh, God! Here’s hoping,’ said Adele, as the music struck up with ‘La Cumparsita’.
They gave a repeat performance of the tango, but the knowledge that the Hopkins women were now eyeing his every step lifted Billy’s efforts to a new level. This time, their presentation surpassed even that of heat two in brilliance and finesse. In quick succession, one subtle variation followed another, giving a sparkling, lively interpretation of the Argentinian dance. Footwork, body
turns, head movements, facial expressions - all combined to produce a fluent, streamlined performance which brought spontaneous applause from the onlookers. As the music finished, Adele, smiling happily for the judges, timed her final curtsey to perfection.
‘Out of this world,’ Billy whispered to her. ‘The best yet.’
‘Same goes for you, Julian. You were fantastic.’
‘If you two don’t make the first three, I’ll eat my hat,’ said Frank Rogers. ‘You excelled yourselves there. What happened to you, Julian? I’ve never seen you dance as well as that - ever.’
‘Fear, Frank, fear. With the women of my family watching every move, I just had to pull something out of the hat.’
‘And now, here are the results of our 1945 tango competition,’ announced the MC. ‘In third place, couple number twenty-eight; in second place, couple number six, and in first place, and the Manchester tango champions . . . couple number fourteen!’
It took a moment or two for them to take it in.
‘OH, JULIAN! OH, JULIAN! WE MADE IT! WE MADE IT!’ Adele cried ecstatically, throwing herself into Billy’s arms. ‘You great big wonderful Fred Astaire, you!’
‘I knew all along we’d do it,’ he said with pretend nonchalance. ‘Otherwise I’d never have paid three pounds for the hire of this suit.’
‘You wonderful, crazy boy,’ she said. ‘I love you.’
‘I’m proud of you both!’ called Frank enthusiastically. ‘It’s moments like this that make the job of dance instructor worthwhile. Well done!’
They went forward and collected their engraved silver medals to the applause and whistles of the crowd.
‘Come on, Adele,’ he said, pointing to the balcony.
‘Come and meet the Hopkins women/
‘I hope they like me/ she said anxiously.
‘How could they not?’ he said as they made their way through a congratulatory crowd of spectators.
‘Adele/ he said when they’d found them, ‘I’d like you to meet my mother and my sisters - Pauline and Florence.’
‘Pleased to meet you, I’m sure,’ said his mam. ‘And I think your dancing was lovely - just lovely.’
‘Nice to meet you, and congratulations,’ said Polly.
‘Likewise,’ said Flo. ‘You both looked marvellous on the floor. I think you two should’ve come first, though.’
‘Thank you all so much. It’s so nice to meet all of you,’ said Adele, shaking hands with each of them in turn. ‘Isn’t Julian an absolutely wonderful dancer?’
‘Julian?’ Mam asked. ‘Who’s Julian when he’s at home? My son here is called Billy - not Julian.’
‘S’all right, Mam,’ he said. ‘It’s Adele’s pet name for me, that’s all.’
‘Pet name? WTiat are you - a dog or summat? And what’s wrong with the name you were christened with, I should like to know? I don’t understand all this changing o’ names. Polly is now Pauline; Flo is Florence; and now our Billy isn’t Billy any more - he’s Julian.’
‘But Julian’s a lovely name, Mrs Hopkins,’ said Adele.
‘I’m sure it is,’ said his mam. ‘For someone else - but not our Billy.’
‘Anyroad,’ said Billy, anxious to get out of an awkward situation, ‘we’ll get back to our dancing, Mam, and then I’ll be taking Adele home.’
‘Good night, everybody,’ said Adele. ‘Hope to see you soon.’
‘Good night, Adele,’ said the Hopkins sisters.
‘Good night, Adele,’ said his mam. ‘And good night, our Billy!’
‘Good night, Mam,’ Billy called.
‘Julian . . . bloody daft name . . Mam muttered.
After the last waltz, Billy took Adele home by taxi.
‘It’s after midnight, Adele,’ he said at her doorway. ‘So I won’t come in. But thank you for the most exciting night of my life.’
‘And thank you, Julian,’ she said, kissing him on the lips. ‘It’s all been like a wonderful dream and I don’t want to waken up. I never thought for a moment we’d win anything.’
‘I did all along,’ he said, opening the buttons of his shirt and showing her the rosary. ‘I think these beads I’ve had round my neck all evening might have helped a little.’
‘Rosary beads?’ she said, frowning. ‘Who gave you those to wear?’
‘My mother told me to wear them for success and good luck.’
‘I see,’ she said. ‘Sorry, Julian. I don’t believe in all that hocus-pocus, that mumbo-jumbo stuff. And talking of your mother, I had the distinct impression tonight that she doesn’t like me. She objects to me calling you Julian. I’ll bet you find her a bit awkward to deal with. And I’m sure of it - she doesn’t like me.’
‘Oh, she’s not so bad, Adele. And I’m sure that you’re wrong about her not liking you. But never mind all that about my mother for a moment - you won’t have to dance with her. What about us? When are we two going to. . . you know. . . get together, like?’
‘I think I’d rather like to have some sort of ring on my finger before we thought about that.’
‘We’re a bit young for rings and things, Adele - we’re only seventeen, for God’s sake.’
‘I don’t mean a wedding ring - an engagement ring for a start would do.’
Til start saving tomorrow. But in the meanwhile, we’ve still got JT to consider.’
‘Oh, him! I’d forgotten about him. The gentlemanly JT. Look, they don’t know it yet - but my parents are going to the Queen’s Park Hipp tomorrow night. I’ll see what I can do. Call for me about seven o’clock.’
‘But how do you know in advance that your parents are going to the Hipp?’
‘Oh, I have my little ways of persuading them. They usually do as I tell ’em. You can rely on it - they’ll be on their way out just before seven.’
‘I’ll count the hours, Adele. And JT has just heard what you said and has begun to act like a gentleman again. We’ll both see you tomorrow. Good night, Adele.’
‘Good night, Mr Astaire.’
Her front door opened and her mother appeared.
‘I thought I’d better help you off with the dress, Adele,’ she said.
‘Look, Mother,’ Adele rasped. ‘I told you not to wait up. I can damn well get the bloody dress off myself. I’m not a little girl, you know.’
Billy heard this little exchange as he walked away, but it didn’t really register. Perhaps he didn’t want it to.
The next morning was Saturday and Billy returned the Moss Bros outfit to the shop in St Anne’s Square and got back his ten pounds deposit. He spent the rest of the morning browsing through Sherratt and Hughes bookshop, but his mind was on other things - certainly not books, except maybe for the one or two he found in the health section. He picked one out entitled Family Health.
‘Priapism ,’ it read, ‘a persistent erection that cannot be made to subside. If you have an erection that persists for no apparent reason , do not waste time trying to get it down with
cold compresses or other home remedies. Go to the nearest hospital at once .’
What a thing to have, he said to himself. Suppose a ballet dancer got it. He’d have problems all right.
He looked furtively around the shop and put the book back hurriedly in case the prim middle-aged female shop assistant had seen him reading it. He selected another called Guide to Better Living.
‘Condom ,’ it said, ‘ made of thin rubber and unrolled over the erect penis. Should be used in conjunction with a spermicide. Reliability: 2-15 per cent get pregnant. Disadvantages - can break or leak?
Best not to read these things, he thought, returning the book to the shelf. Anyway, where am I going to buy spermicide in Manchester on a Saturday morning? And when it says ‘can break or leak’, it probably means British- made. I’m sure the Yanks make their things stronger.
As he left the health section, the lady assistant eyed him suspiciously and he was glad to get out of the shop. He spent the afternoon in a state of feverish excitement. He lay on his bed reading, trying to concentrate on following the convoluted arguments between Socrates and Glaucon on the meaning of justice, but they held no appeal for him. Would it never be seven o’clock? The hands of their mantelpiece clock seemed to have stuck at four.
He unlocked his private drawer in the dressing table to check. Yes, they were still there in his wallet, along with the ten one-pound notes from Moss Bros. The packet containing three new pink Yankee condoms.
They won’t be new for long, he thought salaciously.
The clock hands moved slowly, but oh so slowly, round to five.
‘Switch the immersion on. Mam,’ he said. ‘I think I’ll have a bath.’
‘But you had one last night,’ she said. ‘Why so many baths? You haven’t got scabies again, have you?’
‘Don’t be daft, Mam. I just want to relax for a while, that’s all.’
‘I’ll bet you’re going out with that girl again. The one that was calling you Julian. Bloody daft name. I just didn’t take to her - I don’t know why. You be careful of her, that’s all. Don’t go doing anything you shouldn’t or she’ll have you walking down the aisle afore you know where y’are. Anyroad, I’m sure too many baths can’t be good for you - they ruin the pores of your skin.’
After a long soak, Billy shaved and applied liberal quantities of stinging aftershave to his face and body, primped up his hair and dressed in his best bib and tucker.
‘You stink like a bloody brothel,’ said Dad.
‘Here, how do you know what a brothel stinks like?’ Mam asked.
‘It’s just a way of speaking, Kate, that’s all,’ Tommy said humbly.
‘I should hope it is,’ she said.
‘Anyway, he does stink a bit, you’ve got to admit,’ he said. ‘Where’s he off to then? Chasing the girls, I’ll bet.’
‘Just ’cos I’m all spruced up and smelling nice for a change, everyone in this house thinks I’m up to summat. I’m just going dancing at Harrigan’s, that’s all.’
At 6.45 p.m., Billy stationed himself in a secluded spot at the top of Clifton Street, from where he had a clear view of Adele’s house. He patted the back pocket of his trousers to make sure he had not forgotten the rubbers. No, they were still there. He was now trembling with excitement and anticipation at the thought of what lay ahead and what she had agreed to. A little before seven o’clock, the front door opened and her parents appeared.
‘We’ll be back around ten, Adele,’ her dad called back. ‘If you go to Harrigan’s tonight, don’t be back too late. It was well after midnight before you got to bed last night.’
He pulled the front door to and strolled down Clifton Street with his missus linking him. Billy waited a good five minutes and then, with heart pounding, knocked softly at the door. Adele appeared almost immediately.
‘Come in, Julian,’ she said. ‘They’ve both gone off to the theatre.’
‘I know,’ he said. ‘I saw them go.’
‘I hope you’ve not been up in a tree watching them like a sniper.’
‘No, I saw them from the end of the street. I’ve been waiting all day for this moment, Adele. Look, I’m trembling like a leaf. Is it still on?’
‘I suppose so, if you insist,’ she sighed. ‘Did you get the American thingies?’
‘I’ve got ’em here. Three of ’em.’
‘You’ll not need three unless you’re Errol Flynn. All right, we may as well get this over. Give me a minute.’
She left the room and went upstairs, and Billy took the opportunity to remove his clothes. He sat naked on the settee. In a moment, she was back.
‘I see JT is the perfect gentleman again,’ she said. ‘Better turn off the light, and lie down on the fireside rug.’
She switched on the electric fire.
‘Right then,’ she said, ‘let’s get on with it.’
‘What about the rubber? We have to put that on first.’
‘Oh, all right, come here. I’ll do it. It’s like rolling on a silk stocking.’
‘Have you done this before?’ he asked.
‘No. Like you, it’s my first time.’
She lay back and lifted her skirt.
‘OK, I’m ready. You can do it now.’
‘But I can’t do it without some help from you. Guidance, like.’
‘You’ll have to find your own way in, Julian. No hands. I’m not helping you.’
Adele lay back, her body tense and unyielding, whilst he made several unsuccessful stabbing attempts.
‘You’re making a pig’s ear of it, Julian. You’ve no idea, have you? You’ve lost your way.’
He tried again - and again - but could find no way in.
‘Look,’ she said after a while, ‘this isn’t going to work, Julian. I don’t think you’re doing it right.’
By this time, he had begun to fear she was right and that he really did lack the necessary skill.
‘Remember, this was all your idea, Julian, not mine,’ she said.
‘Sorry, Adele. Maybe it wasn’t such a good idea after all. What do you say we abandon it for the time being? Maybe try it some other time. I’ll read a couple o’ books on the subject.’
‘That’d suit me fine, Julian. Some other time. I don’t think this is the time or the place.’
They both stood up. JT was no longer behaving like a gentleman.
‘It’s a relief anyway to know I haven’t got one of those priapism things,’ he said.
‘I’ll slip upstairs and replace a few garments,’ she said. ‘Then I suggest we go out to Harrigan’s to do the thing we’re really good at - dancing.’
‘Agreed,’ he said.
As they walked together down Queen’s Road, Adele’s arm through his, Billy sensed that, somehow or other, it was the beginning of the end.
‘When we’re engaged, Julian,’ she said, ‘then I’ll give
you the help you were asking for. But you really boxed it up tonight, didn’t you?’
‘Suppose so, Adele. But JT really does need help. After all, he doesn’t have an eye down there to see where he’s going.’
‘If we were to announce our engagement, I think you’d find JT would be able to see where he was going.’
‘You think so?’
‘Mind you,’ she continued, ‘after we were married, we’d have to clear up one or two things.’
‘Like, for instance?’
‘Well, I wouldn’t want to see you wearing any of those funny things, those rosary beads that you had on the other night, and I definitely wouldn’t want any of those crucifixes and holy pictures I’ve heard you Catholics hang on the walls.’
‘Right. Now I’m beginning to get the picture.’
‘My dad said that you lot worship statues and other holy objects you have round the place. Is it true?’
‘Of course it’s true. Every night I talk to the statues, and sometimes they talk back. I’ve found I’ve had the best results from talking to a teapot or a cup and saucer.’
‘Now you’re mad at me. I can tell.’
‘No. Didn’t your dad tell you? Us lot never get mad at anyone. It’s against the fifth commandment.’
‘I’m only thinking of what’s best for us, Julian. You know, when we’re married. I can see it now. A nice little house and maybe two lovely children - a boy and a girl would be nice. I wouldn’t want a house full of dozens of kids like I’ve heard some Catholics have, would you?’
‘Not really,’ Billy said grimly. ‘But one thing you’d better start doing from now on.’
‘Oh, and what’s that?’
‘Stop calling me Julian and start calling me Billy. And
another thing. I do not hang holy pictures and crucifixes, but if I married you, the first item on the agenda would be to book you and me a nice pilgrimage to Lourdes, where I’d buy the biggest statue of the Virgin, the biggest picture of the Sacred Heart and the biggest crucifix I could find to hang in our bedroom. Then I’d have a great big painting of the Pope done on the ceiling so that you’d see it every time we were on the job. Next, I would make sure that you had about twelve kids and I’d bring ’em all up as Catholics and try to get a few nuns and priests out of ’em.’
‘If you’re going to talk to me like that, you can bloody well get lost and find another partner.’
‘Adele, you’re just a selfish, spoiled brat who should have been spanked across the backside years ago.’
‘And you can piss off, Billy, and find yourself another partner. After tonight, I don’t want to set eyes on you again. Now I’m off home, and please don’t call on me again.’
‘Thanks for a very sexy evening, Adele. I really learned something tonight. I hope the next man you try it with has a John Thomas that can see in the dark. I’ll send you a coupla presents for Christmas - a torch and a sex manual.’
‘Don’t bother, lover boy. You’re the one who needs a sex manual, not me. And if you go to that confession thing you lot have in your church, don’t tell him you’ve had sex tonight, ’cos you haven’t, and you never will till you learn a few basic facts of life. Good night and good bye.’
After that night, Billy’s enthusiasm for ballroom dancing and teaching basic steps at Harrigan’s went cold. He stopped going so often. He could not find the energy or the will to look for yet another partner with whom he
could go through the same old routine all over again. On the odd occasion when he did visit the dance studio, the spectacle of the dancers looked hideous: the rictus smiles, the orange panstick and oil-slick hairdos, the bitchiness, and the stupid prancing about in time to the mechanical music; the whole scene had lost its appeal for him.
On the contrary, he had found a new interest, one that absorbed him and gave him greater satisfaction - philosophy! Reading Plato’s Republic and attempting to follow the arguments of Socrates on the subject of justice and the ideal state became his chief preoccupation. Perhaps something at school had rubbed off on him after all, and perhaps his education had not been the waste of time that he had imagined.