As the autumn wore on and the days grew shorter, a storm cloud loomed heavily on Joan’s horizon: the golf club dinner dance. The thought of having to get through a dinner with Mum and Captain Harper Jones, then sit there watching them dancing – perhaps even (heaven forbid!) cheek to cheek – was depressing. Worse, Doreen and her family, and maybe even David, would be there to witness it. But Joan’s efforts to get out of it were in vain. Excuses like having nothing to wear were briskly brushed aside by Mum.
“You can wear Audrey’s blue velvet dress, and I’ll lend you my diamanté clip,” she said.
“I’d look silly in that frock. Everyone’ll know it’s not mine. They’ve seen Audrey wearing it.”
“Of course they won’t. People don’t remember things like that.”
“But I haven’t got any decent shoes. And don’t suggest I borrow Audrey’s, because my feet are much bigger than hers.”
“Don’t worry. You can wear your best black patent leather ones. You’ll look lovely. And there’ll be some really good food. Ronnie’s managing to lay on an excellent three-course meal. I don’t know how he does it in these difficult times.”
Joan said nothing. She knew it was useless to resist.
The big room at the golf club, which was usually the bar area, had been cleared to make room for dancing. A live band – piano, drums, saxophone and clarinet – was setting up in one corner when Joan and Mum arrived. Captain Ronnie Harper Jones had been there most of the day, setting up dining tables in the adjoining room and checking that the blackout shutters were in place. A large vanload of food had arrived from Liverpool and had been unpacked and laid out on the buffet table. It was an excellent spread, as promised: a rare treat in wartime. But Joan was dreading the dancing that followed too much to relish the sight.
She looked anxiously about to see if anyone her own age had arrived yet. Ross and Derek were nowhere to be seen, of course. Their families were probably not invited, even if they could afford to come. This was strictly an officer-class event. She spotted a few girls from school, although mercifully not Angela Travis. Gradually the room filled with guests. They were mostly, as Doreen had predicted, middle-aged people, but some had a few uneasy teenagers in tow. Drinks were served and the older people made bright conversation.
This is going to be even worse than I expected, thought Joan. But when the Russell family walked in, the atmosphere lightened up considerably. Doreen and her mother led the way, looking lovely. Mr Russell and David strode behind. Joan had never seen David wearing a suit before. Ronnie Harper Jones rushed over and greeted them enthusiastically. He even kissed Mrs Russell’s hand, then fell into a long conversation with Mr Russell. The rest of the family came straight over to where Joan and her mother were sitting.
“Oh, I’m so glad you made it,” Mrs Russell said, giving Mum a kiss. “And you too, Joan. You’re both looking marvellous. We’re going to need all the moral support we can get when the dancing begins.”
Doreen shot Joan a quick glance and rolled her eyes. David said nothing.
Sadly, the two families were not seated anywhere near each other during dinner. Joan was trapped next to Ronnie, with Mum on his other side. She was too oppressed by the sound of his braying voice ringing out across the table to do more than toy with her food. Then the moment she’d dreaded arrived. The band struck up with their first number, a current hit called “You Are My Sunshine”, and people started to move towards the dance floor.
Ronnie and Mum were among the first, and he lost no time in showing off his nifty footwork. Ignoring the plodding “slow, slow, quick, quick, slow”, which most couples of his age were happy to settle for, he went straight into some complex double-reverse turns. He even tried swinging Mum around with one hand while (as Doreen had also so accurately predicted) sticking out his backside.
Joan watched with a sinking heart. She wondered how long this evening was going to last. Doreen was on the dance floor too, partnered by a boy who Joan vaguely recognized as being in the same class as Brian at school.
Joan was staring down at her plate, crumbling the remains of a bread roll, when David ambled across the room and sprawled down on the chair beside her.
“Sorry I can’t ask you to dance,” he said. “I’m no good at it, I’m afraid. Your feet would probably never recover.”
Joan smiled. “That’s OK. It’s rather a relief, as a matter of fact.”
David helped himself to one of the delicious biscuits that had been served with the coffee.
“How’s art going these days?”
“Well, OK, I guess.”
“I envy you. I can’t draw for toffee. And now, at school, there never seems to be time for anything but sport and the main exam subjects. I still play the piano, though, when I can.”
“Classical pieces?”
“Yes, sometimes. But what I really like is playing boogie-woogie. It drives my mum mad. She doesn’t much care for my jazz records either.”
“Jazz? You mean dance music? Glenn Miller and Artie Shaw?”
“Well, not really. I love Louis Armstrong – he’s the best trumpet player in the world! – but I like the small groups, with terrific instrumental players like Buck Clayton and Lester Young, people like that. And blues singers… Billie Holiday beats them all.”
“I don’t think I’ve ever heard of her. Is she on the radio?”
“Sometimes. But they’re all black American musicians, of course.”
“Oh yes, of course!” Joan said. She was trying to remember if she’d seen pictures of any of these people in Audrey’s fan magazines, and vowed to find out more about them. There was a pause, in which they sat watching the dancers. Joan wanted very much to talk to David about what she really cared about, which was drawing, and her plans to try to get into art school as soon as she could, rather than stay on in the sixth form at school. But somehow she didn’t feel this was an appropriate moment.
At last Doreen extricated herself from her partner and came over to join them, flopping down in a chair in mock exhaustion. “I wonder how long this will go on for,” she said. “I don’t know how all these oldies find the energy.”
David looked at his watch. “It’ll be quite a long time yet,” he said grimly.
“Let’s hope there isn’t an air raid tonight or we’ll get stuck here for hours and hours!” Joan said.
But there was no air raid that night. And when finally the band played the last waltz – “Who’s Taking You Home Tonight?” – followed by “Goodnight, Sweetheart”, Joan prayed that David and Doreen didn’t notice Mum and Ronnie dancing cheek to cheek.
In the end, to Joan’s great relief, it was only she and Mum who walked home together, side by side in the blackout, because Ronnie had to stay on to supervise the clearing up.
“I wonder what happened to all that leftover food?” said Joan.
“Oh, I expect Ronnie will see that it’s given away to someone who needs it,” said Mum. Then she took Joan’s arm. “You didn’t enjoy it much, did you, Joanie?”
“Not much. Did you?”
“Oh, yes – well, I suppose I did. Anyway, thanks for coming along.”
“That’s all right,” said Joan. “As long as I don’t ever have to do it again!”