Memoirs of a Dance Hall Romeo Read online

  I had done everything that I could in any personal sense. The rest was now up to fate, time and chance, the lesser gods, or whatever other intangibles rule over the lives of men.

  As for Khyber Street, I simply soldiered on, one day very much like another. I was used to the place by now, of course, and it was used to me, but that happens in life and is to be expected.

  Slater of the broken leg had finally returned, complete with walking stick, to limp around the place, a little more heavily than I thought was necessary. He assured us all at frequent intervals that the doctor had not wanted him to return, but he, Slater, had insisted, knowing full well what a burden his absence was proving to the rest of the staff.

  I suspect that he had some sneaking hope that Carter, out of regard for his condition, might give him an easier class, and was resigned to being told to carry on with the top class myself, especially as it was only two weeks to Easter.

  Carter, with his usual perversity, did exactly the opposite of what was expected. Slater, to the great joy of Varley and company, was back behind his old desk on the following Monday morning, and I found myself acting as relief teacher, giving some free time each day to all other members of staff in turn.

  The top class reverted to their old ways with a vengeance for the brief period of school life remaining to them. Carter was obviously not prepared to do anything about it, indeed, pretended that the situation didn’t exist.

  I felt sorry for Slater, who was unable to exercise any kind of control, but there was little that anyone could do. I took them each day for a couple of periods and they were as good as gold. The moment Slater limped back in, all hell broke loose.

  Things really came to a head on the final day of term, which for obvious reasons no one was particularly looking forward to. The staffroom was full of sinister tales of the excesses committed by leavers on their final day.

  I took most of them with a pinch of salt, until about twelve-thirty and the middle of the lunch break. I was sitting in the staffroom having a cup of tea and a sandwich with Schwarz and Johnson, when there was a resounding crash from some other part of the building, followed by another. From the look on Schwarz’s face, he expected the Gestapo to break through the door at any moment, and Johnson turned pale.

  ‘My God!’ he said. ‘They’ve started.’

  The door opened and Slater, who had been on corridor duty, lurched in and collapsed into the nearest chair, wiping sweat from his face.

  ‘They’ve ripped several lights out of the ceiling in my classroom,’ he said, his voice uneven.

  ‘Did you see who it was?’ I demanded.

  He shook his head. ‘Gone by the time I got there.’

  I went downstairs to take a look. The place really was a shambles with broken glass everywhere, and the contents of Slater’s desk had been tipped out and literally douched with urine.

  Slater limped in through the open door behind me followed by Wally Oldroyd and Carter, who had only just returned from some meeting at the Education Offices. Wally looked around the room, his face grim, but Carter simply nodded, coughing over his cigarette as usual.

  ‘I really do think you should be able to exercise more control over them than this, Mr Slater.’

  I controlled my anger at that one with difficulty and contented myself by saying, ‘As good a case as we’ll ever have for calling in the police.’

  For a moment, I thought he might faint. He turned very white, and put a hand to the door to steady himself.

  ‘The police?’ he said. ‘In my school? Don’t be absurd. They’re leaving, aren’t they? They’re walking out through that gate at four o’clock this afternoon, never to return.’

  There was a slight pause, during which Wally filled and lit his pipe methodically, giving nothing away. Carter glanced from one face to the other, seeking comfort and support.

  ‘I mean, you do see my point, don’t you, gentlemen? Why make a rod for our own backs?’

  Slater said in a low voice, ‘I only know one thing with any certainty. I can’t possibly face that class this afternoon, Headmaster. No question of it. You’ll have to get someone else.’

  He turned and limped out before Carter could reply. We listened to his stick tap away along the corridor. The door slammed at the far end. The voices from the playground seemed mute and far away, as if they came from another world.

  ‘Poor fellow. Not himself. Not himself at all.’ Carter rubbed his hands briskly. ‘Right, Mr Shaw. To you falls the post of honour.’

  ‘I see,’ I said. ‘And just what would you like me to do with it?’

  It was Wally who replied. ‘Take the register, then straight out into the yard with them. Rounders, cricket, Swedish softball. Anything you like to keep them busy. You can let them go at three-fifteen.’ He turned to Carter, challenging him. ‘All right, Headmaster?’

  ‘Excellent.’ Carter rubbed his hands together again, glad to have things settled. ‘And now, a cup of tea, I think, gentlemen.’

  He moved off, comfortable again in his private fantasy world where all was well. Wally sighed and looked around the room. ‘Not so good, is it?’

  I nodded. ‘It should be a memorable afternoon.’

  An understatement if ever there was one.

  The rest of the staff were noticeably more cheerful when I returned to the staffroom, relieved, I suppose, to know for certain that they would not be called to stand in the firing line.

  The stories grew even more lurid as the lunch break drew to a close. It was clear to me that the least I could expect was to be deprived of my trousers and turned into the streets. At the other end of the scale there seemed to be a distinct possibility that I would be strung up from the lamppost outside the main gate.

  When the bell for afternoon school rang, the top class entered with the kind of single-minded ferocity Attila the Hun and his hordes must have displayed, intent on sacking Rome.

  I was not in the classroom to greet them, but this was a deliberate ploy on my part for I had decided to go down fighting. To this end, I picked up the games kit from the hall cupboard en route, which meant that I was able to swing a baseball bat negligently in my right hand when I went in.

  It was quite a sight. Two boys rolled over and over in the centre of the room amongst the desks, and the rest of the class tramped around them, baying like wolves. My entrance appeared to go unnoticed. I gave them a moment then crashed the bat down across the desk.

  It had a remarkable effect. There was pin-drop silence, complete and utter stillness, every face turned towards me in astonishment. As was to be expected, it was Varley who spoke for all of them.

  ‘Where’s Mr Slater?’

  ‘He isn’t well,’ I said crisply. ‘I’m in charge. Now sit down, all of you.’

  For a moment, I wasn’t sure that they would, and they stood in a kind of phalanx, glowering at me. I brought the baseball bat down again and, reluctantly, they subsided into their seats muttering angrily.

  I filled in the register then walked out from behind the desk to confront them, hands on hips. ‘We’re going out into the yard to play Swedish softball. You’ll be released at three-fifteen, a special concession on the part of the headmaster as this is your last day.’

  The voices started to rise again and I played my trump card. ‘Most of you will find that you’ll need a letter of recommendation from the headmaster if you’re to get a job. I know they’re usually given to you on your final afternoon. It’s been decided to change the system this year. They’ll be sent on to your home address by post during the next week or so.’

  The implication was quite plain. Any boy who really got out of line during the afternoon could say goodbye to his letter. There was dismay on most faces, frustration and anger on some. Varley seemed to take it all rather calmly.

  I told someone to bring the games kit and led the way out to the yard, feeling quite pleased with myself in a grim sort of way. I had won, they had lost. It was as simple as that.

  I split th
em into two teams. We tossed for who batted first. It was all most amicable and incredibly orderly. Even Varley seemed happy to wait his turn, halfway down the line, and it was his bovine friend, Hatch, who took the stand first.

  As umpire, I stood about five yards in front of him and slightly to one side. I checked the field then raised a finger to signal play. The ball was tossed, Hatch lashed out.

  There was, I suppose, just a vague possibility that what happened was by design, but to be frank, I don’t think Hatch was skilful enough. In any event, he caught the ball as cleanly as anyone could hope to do and directed it at considerable speed in the general direction of my private parts.

  Swedish softball is obviously a contradiction in terms when one considers the effect. I think I actually lost consciousness for a moment. When I floated to the surface of things again, Varley, Hatch and several other boys were clustered around me in genuine alarm.

  ‘We’d better get him inside,’ Varley said.

  They got an arm and a leg apiece. I think in the end there were about eight of them carrying me in between them, like the funeral scene in Hamlet.

  The pain between my legs was unbelievable, but at least I was finished with the top class once and for all, for some other poor bastard would have to come down to the yard now and take over. It suddenly seemed to make it all worthwhile.

  They must have thought me quite unhinged, for I shook with silent laughter, tears pouring down my face, in spite of the agony, as they took me inside.

  I’m not too clear as to what happened after that. When I opened my eyes, I found myself lying on the couch in Imogene’s old office in the cookery room, Wally Oldroyd bending over me anxiously, Varley and Hatch peering in at the door. Poor Wally. He told me later that for one awful moment he thought they’d duffed me up in the yard when he’d seen them carrying me in.

  They had sent for Imogene’s successor, the girl called Harriet, who was officially in charge of all first aid. She had been taking a netball class in the girls’ yard and was dressed for the role in a sweater and pleated tennis skirt. She had a brief conversation with Wally in the corner then came and stood over me.

  ‘I’d better have a look at the damage.’

  ‘Not with this lot in here you don’t,’ I gasped.

  She herded everyone outside including Wally, closed the door and shot the bolt. She returned to the couch, knelt down and proceeded to unbutton my trousers gingerly.

  ‘Just watch it,’ I said in some alarm.

  ‘I have three young brothers, Mr Shaw,’ she told me calmly. ‘I’ve seen what you’ve got before, believe me.’

  All was finally revealed and she made a face. ‘Nasty.’

  I struggled into a sitting position to see for myself as she went for the first aid box. There was a great purple bruise the size of two half-crowns across both testicles. I lay back with a groan.

  ‘Here, have a smoke and shut up,’ she said as she returned with the first aid kit and sat on the edge of the couch. ‘It could have been worse.’

  She gave me a cigarette, lit it for me, then went to work with cotton wool soaked in something or other. I pushed myself up on one elbow to watch her and was reminded suddenly of Imogene and of what had happened here in this room.

  It may have been that memory which betrayed me, or simply some subconscious reference to Wilma of the cigarettes and careful hands. Suffice it to say that at one point in the proceedings, as I inhaled deeply, things began to stir, in spite of my injury.

  I didn’t know where on earth to put myself and tried to be jocular about it. ‘I’m sorry,’ I told her. ‘The beast in man rearing his ugly head as usual.’

  She had turned a shade pinker but otherwise seemed relatively unconcerned. ‘Nonsense,’ she said. ‘A perfectly understandable chemical reaction, that’s all. They teach you to handle that problem on any basic nursing course, men being what they are.’

  She flicked sharply with her middle finger. The pain was intense, but only momentarily, and the effect was all that could be desired, detumescence setting in rapidly.

  There was a certain brutal efficiency to all this which I found intensely irritating. I wanted to get back at her in any way I could. To break through that aura of quiet breeding and superiority which surrounded her like an invisible wall.

  ‘What are you, Methodist or Anabaptist?’ I jeered. ‘You don’t really approve of nasty things like the flesh, do you?’

  ‘Not at all,’ she said calmly. ‘It’s all right in its place, but a rather over-rated pastime, I would have thought.’

  ‘Ah, I see now,’ I said. ‘Somebody hasn’t been doing a very good job.’

  It was a rotten thing to say, and what made it worse I’d hit the nail right on the head, for she flushed deeply. I could have crawled into hiding, would gladly have done so, but there was nowhere to go.

  ‘You can put it away now, Mr Shaw,’ she said calmly in that beautifully precise upper-crust voice of hers.

  She had her back turned to me as she put the first aid box back in the cupboard and her shoulders started to shake. I was filled with the most terrible feelings of remorse to know I had so easily turned her to tears.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I murmured.

  I turned her round gently and discovered that she was biting on her lip to contain the laughter which bubbled up spontaneously at that very moment.

  ‘Poor Mr Shaw,’ she said. ‘You really did look very funny.’

  Which certainly gave her game, set and match on that encounter.

  The GPO, in its wisdom, altered the delivery times for our district so that the first post did not arrive until ten o’clock. During the Easter holiday this didn’t matter so much, but when I was back at school it meant that I didn’t know if there was any mail for me until I returned home in the evening.

  When it happened, it was like being hit by lightning out of a clear blue sky. A Tuesday in April, a perfect spring evening, pale sunshine drifting in through the window, slanting across the hall table when I opened the door.

  There were two letters lying there, both addressed to me. The first was some circular or other. The second was from my agent. The first paragraph conveyed the vital information that he’d had an offer for the book. An advance of two hundred pounds. Half on signature, the rest on publication, and they wanted an option on the next book.

  There was more, a great deal more, but for the moment I simply couldn’t take it in. Aunt Alice was in the parlour with Herr Nagel, I could hear their voices. I went into the dining room and helped myself to the sherry, then I poured another rather large one and went upstairs.

  I sat at the table by the turret window and read the letter through in detail. There was the prospect of more good news in the second half, for all the signs at the New York end indicated that there was every possibility of publication over there also.

  He ended on a note of caution. I must not expect too much. A great many new thrillers were published each year. To achieve average sales with this first one, both here and in the States, would be a more than satisfactory start.

  But none of that really mattered and I sat there at the turret window savouring the golden moment, my own private celebration. People who knew about such things actually wanted my work. Were prepared to pay for it. I was a writer, a professional in every sense of the word, at last, and nothing would ever, could ever, be the same again.

  I went down to the parlour to break the news to Aunt Alice. To be honest, it fell a bit flat and not because she wasn’t interested. It was just that she seemed to take it in such an irritatingly offhand way.

  It had been inevitable. She had always known, because one of the most important aspects in my map was Sun trine Jupiter. She appealed to Herr Nagel for confirmation on this point. With his usual benign smile he supplied further technical details which were above me. I made my excuses and fled.

  Jake was still in London, so once again there was no one to tell. For a moment I had one of those depressingly déjà vu feelings
of having been here before, but not for long. I had a bath, changed into my best suit, got five pounds from my mad money tin and went out into the evening.

  Everything seemed different, clearer, sharper, as if suddenly I was possessed of some extra vision. I have seldom felt happier than I did on the top deck of the tram as we rattled along the track across the playing fields, creaking and groaning like a ship under sail.

  Everything was the same, yet not the same. Changed, changed completely, people and things, because I had changed. It was a feeling I simply couldn’t shake off. Not then, on the top deck of the tram, nor later in the lounge bar of The Tall Man. I had just become some sort of outsider, a man on the periphery of things, watching the antics of more ordinary mortals with a kind of detached curiosity.

  As I say, the feelings simply wouldn’t go away. Some sort of reaction I suppose, and later, at the Trocadero, I felt even more detached than ever. Who was I? What was I doing here? The saxophones droned Night and Day, the dancers circled in a blue mist, locked in each other’s arms. For some reason I felt quite sad and cut off from all human contact.

  A moment later the lights went up and the bandleader announced a ladies’ choice. I stayed where I was, leaning against a pillar by the bandstand, in a brown study, aware of the girl in the blue silk dress walking towards me. Aware, yet not aware…When she asked me to dance I moved onto the floor automatically. It was only as she started to laugh, when I took her in my arms, that I realized it was Harriet.

  ‘What’s wrong with you, for heaven’s sake?’ she demanded. ‘You look like death.’

  We had reached the other end of the floor and, on impulse, I took her by the hand and pulled her upstairs to the balcony. When I sat her at a table by the rail she looked thoroughly bewildered. I took the letter from my inside, pocket and dropped it on the table.