Open Writing

When I first came to work in London I was put in a large office with a lot of other people, including Mrs Evans, a hunchback. I had not seen many hunchbacks but I always felt sorry for them. My mother said that touching the hump brought good luck, but she didn’t explain why and I had never risked it. I remember I used to look at Mrs Evans from time to time during the day and wonder how she felt about being the way she was. She was close to retirement and to me she seemed very old - in her late fifties, at least - so I supposed she had managed to cope with her disability. She never made it an excuse for not doing her work and laughed a lot, so I thought she mustn’t be in pain.

The office had a Christmas party. I really didn’t know what this was. At the end of the working day all the desks were moved to the sides of the room and the women produced table cloths and napkins. I was asked to help put up some decorations because I was tall and could manage the stepladder. I stuck the decorations to the walls with brown sticky tape - the sort you had to lick - and hung them from the ceiling. Bottles of wine and squash and soft drinks for the juniors like myself were produced, together with crisps, pieces of cheese on little sticks (which were quite new to me) and triangular sandwiches with salmon paste, cress and cucumber. There were also fairy cakes and several large Victoria sponges which some of the women had made at home, they said, that very morning. We stood around talking quietly about how we were going to spend Christmas, and after about half an hour the head of the office came in with some bottles of champagne and special glasses. I was very surprised to see him, because I had met him only once on my first day, and he never came into the general office.

Then someone brought out a wind-up gramophone and records of In the Mood, String of Pearls, The Hut-Sut Song and other favourites of that time. People started to dance and a woman grabbed hold of me and dragged me to the middle of the floor. I told her I couldn’t dance, but she told me not to worry, it was quite easy and to follow her body as it moved about. Then my friend Barbara, who worked at the next desk, came up and took me away from her. I think she was cross, because this woman was married and shouldn’t have been behaving that way.

“Look,” said Barbara. “I want you to do something for me.”

“What?”

“I’m going to see that they put on The Teddy Bears’ Picnic next. I want you to ask Mrs Evans to dance.”

“I don’t think she dances,” I said. “Well, she hasn’t so far. Perhaps it’s because … ” I stopped.

“She hasn’t danced,” said Barbara grimly, “because nobody has asked her to. And don‘t say you can‘t dance to The Teddy Bears‘ Picnic, because everybody joins in and you just do what everyone else does. Like the Okey Cokey.”

And, sure enough, she saw to it that The Teddy Bears’ Picnic was the next record. In fact she fished it out herself and before she lowered the needle she glared at me, so that when the music started I hurried across to Mrs Evans and said:

“Would you like to dance Mrs Evans?”

“What a lovely idea, Bernard,” she said. “I’d love to.” And she took my hand and we joined most of the others who were lining up to do whatever it was you’re supposed to do.

She knew a lot more about dancing than I did and when I went wrong she gently shoved me in the right direction or said “No, the other side now” in such a kind way that I didn’t feel awkward at all. I think she must have enjoyed the dance because at the end of it she thanked me for asking her and, in return, I offered to get her a drink or a sandwich.

She retired the following March and we did the same thing again at her retirement party.

“This is getting to be a habit, Bernard,” she said with a laugh.

I owe a lot to her and to Barbara.