Open Writing

The arrival of my sister Anne, when I was thirteen, was something of a surprise to my parents, Nellie and Walter - no, a shock would be nearer the mark.

It signalled the end of our residency of 14, Fox Lane where I grew up on the Frecheville Estate, near Sheffield, Yorkshire. Aunty Betty, my mother’s sister and Albert Stamford stayed on at 22 a few years more. The indestructible bomb shelter, Dad and Albert built in the back garden, was still there but the memories of a disastrous party at the house were beginning to fade.

We moved up to a three bed-roomed semi’ on Brackenfield Grove and it was there that my progress from bright and cheeky boy to uncertain adolescent took place. My bedroom had a wonderful view overlooking the pristine, red shale, tennis courts, the always busy fishing pond and the Community Centre. These were the focal points of Frecheville’s social scene.

I had been at Eckington Grammar School a couple of years by then - this was 1944 - and I travelled there and back on Mr Sharpe’s bus. Mrs Sharpe, a vinegary, beaky-nosed woman travelled inside in order to minimise possible damage and limit the unruly behaviour of the motley array of mixed sex ten to fifteen year olds.

The evening journey was particularly stressful to Mrs Sharpe who frequently stopped the bus to get assistance from her husband Fred. On one memorable occasion after ‘last two periods’ woodwork, Jim Flynn, also in the third form, decided to place two six inch nails against one of the bus tyres as we waited outside the school gates.

He was on his hands and knees, fixing the nails, when Mr Sharpe spotted the knot of kids who had gathered to watch. In his outrage, Fred kicked Flynn right under the bus before dragging him back up the long drive to face Dr. Walmsley, the headmaster.

Flynn got six strokes there and then and six more the following day. Two was brutal as I could testify, twelve unthinkable. Flynn’s personality changed after that.

I was beginning to notice how pretty some of the girls had become and the notion of having a girlfriend took root. Rita and Meg were particularly attractive but I was far too shy to make the first move and in any case they seemed to prefer chatting and flirting with older boys. My fraying blazer and standard school shorts weren’t showing me in a good light either, I decided.

Boys met girls at the Community Centre Thursday night ‘Two penny Hop’ where a programme of waltzes, quicksteps and slow foxtrots were danced to 78 records. The music was ‘strict tempo’, usually provided by Victor Sylvester and his Ballroom Orchestra and for added excitement, the MC - there were no dj’s then - would vary the programme with a cutting edge Joe Loss number. ‘In the Mood’ caused a particular frisson, I remember.

Doug Barker, Brian Kelly and myself stood enviously on the sidelines on the occasions when we deserted the snooker room for the ‘Hop’. If you couldn’t dance the girls didn’t want to know and we didn’t have a clue.

Collinsons School of Dance was in Hanover Square, Sheffield and the three of us got there easily on the tram from Intake. Long trousers and Brylcreem had given us extra credibility, we thought, and after paying the one and sixpence fee, we entered the school with anticipation and enthusiasm.

We were not disappointed. The thirty-feet square ballroom was a miniature Palace of Versailles, with huge gilt mirrors on all four walls. Red and gold, plush chairs lined three sides of the room, while a magnificent electric gramophone and a table for the records occupied a tiny stage on the fourth.

The wood strip maple floor glowed with polish, reflecting the gleaming opulence overhead. We were just a little overawed.

At that moment, a truly wondrous creature entered the ballroom in the form of Alma Collinson, daughter of the owner and senior dance tutor. She was nineteen years old and made Cleopatra look like a harridan - truly the most beautiful woman I had ever seen.

“Which one of you is Derek?” she murmured.

“That’s me”, I croaked, feeling like the village idiot.

“I’ll take you first then”, she said. “Please call me Miss Alma. Would you prefer to start with a waltz or the slow foxtrot?”

“The waltz is fine”, I stammered. The idea of starting anything with Miss Alma seemed totally far-fetched and unlikely.

“I’ll begin by showing you how the gentleman holds the lady in the waltz. If you Brian, and Douglas, can watch how Derek holds me for this dance, that will save time.”

They grinned and nodded their understanding.

“Now Derek, place your right arm round my waist to the centre of my back and hold me with a light but firm pressure. Excellent.”

Alma’s small but firm breasts were now lightly touching my chest and an exotic
perfume rose up from the depths of her velvet dress. I was about to faint.

“Next the basic steps without music and then we’ll try it to a record”, she said.

“Derek will step forward to lead and I will step back like this.” This was addressed to Brian and Doug. “Start with your left foot. Forward, side, together - right, forward, side together. Left, forward, side, together. Right, forward, side, together. Excellent, Derek - well done. Now the music.”

Alma walked magnificently to the gramophone and the room filled with a strict tempo version of ‘I’ll see you Again’, by Victor Sylvester, featuring Oscar Grasso on violin.

We re-joined in the centre of the room and began to ‘forward, side, together once more.

I glanced at the gilt mirror. Derek and Alma. Alma and Derek, locked together in a beautiful waltz.

I was in heaven - strict tempo heaven.