Memoirs of a Dance Hall Romeo Read online

  ‘Read that,’ I commanded. ‘I’ll get you a coffee.’

  When I returned, she looked up at me, wide-eyed. ‘But this is marvellous, Oliver. I never realized.’

  I sat down, shaking like a leaf, and she leaned across, concern on her face, and put a hand on mine. ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘I had to get a reaction from someone,’ I said. ‘Now I can really believe it. Can you understand that?’

  ‘Of course.’

  Her hand stayed in mine and I was aware, and not for the first time, what a very great comfort a woman can be. ‘Someone’s opened a restaurant in an old house near the park,’ I said. They tell me it’s very good. Italian food, a three-piece band, the works, and I’ve got five pounds burning a hole in my pocket. What do you say?’

  She smiled delightfully and stood up. ‘Give me two minutes to get my coat and I’ll be right with you.’

  It was really quite an evening for the place exceeded my wildest expectations. Food restrictions in restaurants had not been lifted very long, but it all seemed quite adequate to me. We had a Dover sole apiece, some sort of pasta and a full bottle of Pouilly-Fuissé, so cold that it seemed to burn its way down.

  The trio wasn’t up to much in reality. A woman pianist and two men. One on the drums and another who played guitar and sang.

  We danced a great deal, I remember that, for they weren’t particularly busy and we had the tiny floor to ourselves. What does come back to me with absolute clarity was leaving at eleven and finding that it was pouring with rain, which for some reason seemed absolutely right.

  We were both pretty tight by then, which was only to be expected, and Harriet seemed like another person, running ahead of me in the rain, tightroping along the pavement edge, laughing constantly.

  The streets were, quite deserted, particularly the quiet area of old Victorian houses where she lived, on the far side of the park. I had never felt so alive, so conscious of the infinite possibilities of life.

  At one point we paused at the end of an old stone-walled ginnel to shelter while I attempted to light a cigarette. There was a gas lamp in a bracket above our heads, rain drifting down through it in a silver mist. Harriet stood underneath, her face upturned in a kind of ecstasy.

  ‘Isn’t life marvellous, Oliver?’

  Strange, but I can still hear that voice echoing through the years. For a moment, she reminded me of Imogene and I moved close, taking her in my arms, but when I attempted to kiss her, she stiffened, then seemed to shrink away.

  ‘We’d better move on.’

  Which we did, although there was a constraint between us now, which seemed unnecessary and was certainly a great pity.

  The house surprised me. A Gothic brick palace in an enormous garden, converted into eight flats, as she informed me when we reached the gate. Hers was on the ground floor and we followed a path round to the side which eventually led to a flagged terrace with a balustrade.

  ‘I usually go in this way.’ She took a key from her handbag and unlocked one of the French windows. ‘It’s much more convenient.’

  ‘It must be nice in the summer,’ I said.

  ‘If you’d like to come in I could make some coffee.’ I hesitated, that constraint still between us, and she reached up and kissed me briefly on the cheek. ‘Please, Oliver, I really do make rather excellent coffee.’

  Which was a simple statement of fact, I had to acknowledge that much to myself as we sat later by the open window in the darkness, a small table between us.

  I had to say something, so tried apologizing. ‘I’m sorry,’ I said.

  ‘What for?’

  ‘Some of the things I said to you that day in your office were unforgivable.’

  ‘But you were right,’ she said simply. ‘Absolutely.’

  There was a slight pause and then she started to talk about it. Of being seventeen in 1945, the last summer of the war, and the cousin who had convalesced with them for three months. A second lieutenant of infantry with a slight leg wound. The romantic figure who could do no wrong, the only trouble being that whatever he had done, he had not done very well…

  And she was worth more than that. I sat there in the darkness when she had finished talking, remembering, for a rather obvious reason, Helen. Remembering her kindness, her gentleness in a very similar situation. I don’t know why, but I suddenly felt that I owed it to her to do something. That there was a debt here that needed repaying in the only way I knew how.

  I stood up and reached for Harriet’s hand. ‘Come on,’ I said gently. ‘Let’s go to bed.’

  For a moment I thought she might say no. I suspect, even now, that it was one of those knife-edge decisions on which so much of life seems to depend, and then she stood up, came into my arms and kissed me.

  ‘All right, Oliver, give me five minutes.’

  I lit a cigarette, had another coffee, sitting there by the open window, not really thinking about anything in particular, but somehow terribly aware of my existence. Of being a part of the night, of the spring rain, the smell of damp earth. It was as if I had never been conscious of myself before.

  She called my name, so softly that I hardly heard it, and when I went into the other room, she was already in bed with the light out. I undressed and got in beside her. When I took her in my arms she started to tremble, as I had trembled earlier in the evening, and I gentled her, stroking her hair with one hand.

  Gradually, the trembling stopped and she moved closer. For the first time in such a situation I was conscious that I wanted nothing for myself. That the only important person here this night was her. Time ceased to have any relevance at all. I only know that when I finally took her she was absolutely ready. She gasped my name once, the only word she had spoken during the entire business. To be frank, I was rather proud of myself and lay beside her, her head pillowed on my shoulder, listening to the rain drumming against the window.

  ‘Was it all right?’ I asked her softly after a minute or so.

  She turned inwards and kissed me in the hollow between neck and shoulder and her voice, when she spoke, was rather muffled. ‘I don’t love you, you do understand that?’

  ‘Of course.’

  She sighed heavily. ‘Having made that point quite clear, I really would be greatly obliged, Oliver, if you’d do it again.’

  The second letter from my agent arrived just over a week later, and I found it, as with the other, waiting for me on the hall table when I got home from school.

  It was confirmation of the American offer. An advance of one thousand dollars, which at the current rate of exchange was worth approximately three hundred and fifty pounds. This time there was someone to tell for Jake was due home on the London train that very afternoon.

  He must have seen me coming through the garden for he appeared at the top of the fire escape as I ran across the yard. ‘Now then, old sport,’ he called cheerfully.

  He knew about the original offer for the book, as I had written to him, and I pushed the letter into his hand and followed him into the room, struggling for breath.

  He looked up from reading it, genuinely pleased. ‘Marvellous, Oliver, bloody marvellous, and no more than you deserve.’

  I sprawled in a chair and waited as he poured whisky into a couple of glasses and brought them over. ‘And now my news,’ he said as he gave me my drink.

  ‘Good God!’ I said, thunderstruck. ‘You’ve passed your exams.’

  ‘I’m afraid so.’ He grinned delightedly and raised his glass. ‘To us, old sport, the both of us, and let the good times roll.’

  He dropped into the chair opposite. ‘Just think, Oliver. Now I can get down to my writing with a clear conscience. Don’t want to be a bloody solicitor all my life.’

  ‘Of course you can,’ I said.

  It was another of those moments of perfection in life when all things seem possible, and we savoured it for a moment, then Jake jumped to his feet, rubbing his hands together.

  ‘This calls for a celebration.
We’ll start at The Tall Man and work our way to town, pub by pub, finish the evening at Murphy’s.’

  As it happened I had a date with Harriet, having promised to take her to the theatre. I had only just left her for we had come home from school together. Since that first memorable evening our affair had ripened in a very satisfactory way. In fact I’d been in the habit of sleeping at her place most nights.

  ‘We’ll take her with us,’ Jake said when I explained.

  I couldn’t really see Harriet in Murphy’s, that was the thing, and said so, but Jake wouldn’t take no for an answer.

  ‘Leave her to me, old sport, I’ll handle her. We’ll have one hell of an evening, I promise you. She’ll love it!’

  Persuade her he did indeed, for when the Irishman in him took over, Jake could charm the birds off the trees. In any case, Harriet took to him at once and Jake, delighted, as he informed me at one point, to find that for once I had found myself a lady, put himself out to please.

  The pub crawl he had intended was severely curtailed, we only went into the better bars, and drank shorts instead of beer. It was all very civilized and any idea of ending the evening at Murphy’s had obviously vanished from his mind. The trouble was that at one point in the proceedings he mentioned the place to Harriet, who immediately declared that she’d like to see what it was like for herself.

  Which was enough for Jake, who by that time had decided she should be denied nothing. I was pretty well floating by then, not having his head for liquor, and was in no condition to argue.

  I tried, however, but he waved me down. ‘One drink, old sport, that’s all, just to show her how the other half lives, and then we’ll go, I promise you.’

  And that was very much that, for he whistled up a cab from the City Square rank and a moment later we were away.

  Murphy’s was an alehouse rather than a pub, a tall, decaying pile of rotting brick that stood like a sore thumb in the middle of a bomb site by the river which had been cleared for re-housing. There was music on the night air, voices raised in song, a considerable amount of laughter, and when we ventured in the bar was packed for it was near to closing time.

  Ordinarily I wouldn’t have lasted five minutes in there for this was an Irish boozer and outsiders, meaning the bloody English, weren’t welcome. Jake was Irish enough for any man, in spite of his Yorkshire upbringing, and well known in the district.

  He was warmly greeted by several rough-looking individuals and the landlord himself, a one-eyed giant with a tangled grey beard and broken teeth called Sean Murphy, an ex-heavyweight boxer, who always reminded me uncomfortably of the great Victor McLaglen in one of those roles where he looks ready to clear the bar on his own at any moment.

  Indeed most of the gentlemen there that night bore a resemblance to Victor McLaglen, at least to my befuddled mind. I accepted the pint of Guinness someone thrust into my hand and sank into a corner seat. Harriet loved it, every awful minute, and the Irish, ever gentlemen where women are concerned, whoever else gets the back of their hand, made much of her.

  I remember her sitting on the bar at one point while someone serenaded her with Mother Macree to an accordion accompaniment. Then a handsome young man, with a face on him like the devil himself beneath his battered cloth cap, sang The Lark in the Clear Air in Irish in a tenor voice that would not have disgraced the Albert Hall, a thing of such haunting beauty that several gentlemen at the bar cried openly.

  I must have slept after that, God knows for how long, but I came back to life to find the bar empty, except for Murphy himself who played a melodeon, Harriet on a stool still looking as fresh as a daisy and Jake, who seemed to be executing some kind of Irish jig on the bar itself.

  Murphy was singing at the top of his voice, a dreadful song which concerned itself with the ambush of a group of Black and Tans at some place called Macroom. I glanced at my watch and saw that it was just past midnight. I got to my feet, Jake waved to me, and at the same moment there was a thunderous knocking on the door.

  ‘Police!’ a voice called. ‘Open up!’

  Murphy was round the bar in a second, an apron in his hand which he shoved at Harriet. ‘Get that on and get behind the bar quick washing glasses.’

  ‘What about us?’ Jake whispered.

  ‘Upstairs to bed with you and be quiet.’

  It seemed a sensible enough idea for I knew he rented beds by night to itinerant Irish labourers. Jake grabbed me by the arm and shoved me out into the passage as Murphy moved to the door grumbling.

  ‘Would ye hold onto your patience for a while?’ we heard him call as we reached the landing.

  The police were in a moment later, boots pounding, and Jake opened the nearest door and shoved me inside. There was a double bed, I remember that quite distinctly. Remember also climbing between the sheets fully clothed for there was hardly time to undress.

  A moment later, the door opened and a man appeared in a cloth cap, donkey jacket and dungarees, one of Murphy’s single-night tenants as it transpired later, who had been having some supper in the kitchen. He was obviously very drunk, lifted the blankets and got in on the other side of Jake, fully clothed, cloth cap and all.

  ‘Move over and give a fella a bit of room here,’ he grumbled.

  A split second later, the door was flung open and a large police sergeant entered followed by two constables of equal dimensions. He stood looking down at us, hands on hips.

  ‘What have we got here, the Babes in the Wood?’ he demanded and pulled the blankets to one side. ‘Do you usually go to bed with your shoes on?’

  ‘Only when my feet are cold,’ Jake said.

  By some miracle, the ploy with Harriet worked and she was allowed to depart, vanishing instantly into the night. Murphy, Jake, myself and the unfortunate labourer who had got into bed with us were nothing like as lucky, for English law seems to consider drinking after hours roughly on the same level as rape, assault with a deadly weapon or armed robbery.

  They sent for a Black Maria. Within half-an-hour, we were being booked into the local bridewell by a granite-faced desk-sergeant, who looked as if he’d seen everything there ever was to see.

  It was an interesting experience, especially the moment when he asked my profession and I had to answer schoolmaster. The look on his face was enough and my heart sank like a stone.

  I don’t know whether the drink had finally got to Jake or what, but he became more than a little awkward when his turn came, adopting the kind of Abbey Theatre accent the English fondly imagine to be typical of the Irish, referring to the sergeant as ‘yer honour’, which that worthy did not appreciate at all.

  ‘Pull yourself together, O’Reilly,’ he snapped at one point. ‘This kind of conduct isn’t going to get you anywhere. Now what’s your profession?’

  ‘Ah, that’s aisy, yer honour,’ Jake told him. ‘Solicitor’s clerk, wit, bon viveur, sportsman, raconteur, soldier of the Irish Republican Army and all-round good egg.’

  Our fate was sealed and we were remanded together to face the worst that the bench had to offer the following morning.

  I passed the night in a drunken stupor, which was still with me when we were led into court at ten-thirty. I noticed Harriet sitting over by the door. As I found out later, she’d simply taken the morning off school. Jake waved to her and was sharply brought to order by the clerk, who proceeded to read out the charges.

  For some reason, Jake had been listed as labourer, possibly because the sergeant had been unable to take the choice he had offered him seriously, or more possibly, because that seemed the right sort of job for someone with a name like O’Reilly. However, I was still listed as schoolmaster, there was no avoiding that.

  The magistrate, an ageing, world-weary gentleman who had listened to the police sergeant’s stolid account of the whole affair with obvious distaste, turned his wrath, at the end of things, particularly in my direction.

  ‘These other poor wretches have acted in a manner which can only be described as typical
of their type, but you, Shaw—’ Here he glowered at me over the tops of his spectacles. ‘—a man of education, a schoolmaster. For you there can be no excuse. Indeed I can only hope that your disgraceful conduct is brought to the attention of the proper authorities.’

  In the face of such virulence I found it difficult to believe that I was only being charged with drinking on licensed premises after hours. Murphy, Jake and the labourer were fined two pounds each. I was charged a fiver. So much for justice.

  We were free within the hour, Jake having been allowed to phone a colleague, who soon appeared with the necessary funds. Harriet was waiting at the top of the Town Hall steps when we went out into the pale morning sunshine.

  She rushed to my side, concern on her face, and took my arm. ‘I’m sorry, Oliver, honestly I am.’

  ‘That’s all right,’ I told her. ‘It wasn’t your fault.’

  ‘But it was,’ she replied instantly. ‘After all, I did insist on visiting the wretched place. You made it quite clear you thought it wasn’t such a good idea from the beginning, only Jake wouldn’t listen.’

  She glared accusingly at Jake, who made himself scarce at once and left us to it.

  ‘Does Carter know?’ I asked.

  She shook her head. ‘Not yet.’

  He will,’ I said. ‘You can bet your sweet life on that.’

  It was on page two of the local paper that evening. The inside page, perhaps, but it didn’t really matter, for they had done me proud, with a nice black headline all to myself. Local teacher appears before bench. There was a lot more in smaller print, including magistrate’s comments.

  The following morning Carter called me out of my classroom and spoke to me in the corridor. ‘I’ve had a phone call from the Office about you, Shaw,’ he said coldly. ‘You’re to call in after school. Mr Crosby wants to see you. Four-thirty sharp.’

  ‘All right,’ I said.

  He started to turn away, then suddenly rounded on me, quivering with indignation. ‘It really is quite disgraceful. I don’t know how you can show your face.’

  I told him where to go in very succinct Anglo-Saxon, advancing towards him at the same moment. It worked splendidly, for the cigarette fell from his lips as his mouth gaped in alarm, and he was off like a shot.