An alternative sequel

 

An alternative sequel

'Dance at Bougival' by Pierre-Auguste Renoir (1841-1919)

                                    Image courtesy Wikimedia Commons

jenny-o challenged me to write an alternative ending to the musical box story, so here we go again! 

Here is the original story.

Here is the first sequel. 

Now read on for the alternative sequel.

 

When the music stopped, Marjorie and Henry sank to the floor, exhausted.

‘At last,’ Henry gasped.

‘I thought she was going to wind it up again,’ said Marjorie. ‘The hardest bit is dancing ever slower as the music winds down. It’s like moving in slow motion.’

‘She’ll be back tomorrow, and my poor feet are so sore,’ Henry grumbled. ‘How long is she staying?’

‘I don’t know but I think my jaw will break if I have to keep smiling,’ Marjorie sighed.

They sat for a while in silence, enjoying the peace and the stillness.

Henry stretched. ‘We’ve been *tripping the light fantastic for sixty years. It’s time we retired.’

‘If only we could escape,’ said Marjorie.

‘Leave it to me, my dear,’ said Henry, tapping the side of his nose.

The next day, when the little girl tried to shut the musical box, the lid resisted, and she had to leave it slightly ajar. It didn’t matter, because the music had stopped and in any case, there wasn’t enough room for the little dancers to do anything other than lie down. What she didn’t see was Henry lying on his back, bracing his feet against the lid.

When they were sure the child had left the room, Henry stripped off his  coat and tie and Marjorie loosened the belt of her floaty, many-layered dress. Together they strained at the lid. When they had prised it open sufficiently, Marjorie jammed her high-heeled dancing shoes into the opening to prevent it closing again.

Now all they had to do was work at making a gap large enough for them to slip through. The long years of dancing had made them fit and supple and strong. Marjorie stood on Henry’s back and forced her head through the gap. Once her shoulders were free, she arched her back and pushed upwards. To her delight, the lid sprang open and she was able to jump down to the table on which the musical box stood. Swiftly Henry followed and stood hand in hand with his partner, marvelling at the room they were in. All they had ever noticed as they spun in endless circles were the pictures on the walls.

 Now they could see bowls of flowers on every polished surface, and wonderful gilt-framed mirrors. Rich hangings echoed the colours in the upholstered armchairs and sofas and tall windows opened into a glorious garden. They walked over to the French windows, feeling themselves grow taller with each step.  

Marjorie squeezed Henry’s hand. ‘I had forgotten how lovely it was,’ she whispered. ‘It has been so long.’

Henry smiled. ‘Welcome home, my love. The spell at last is broken.’

‘But what about the little girl? She will wonder what has happened to us.’

‘Look in the musical box,’ said Henry and led Marjorie to the table. He picked up the box and wound the mechanism with the little golden key. As he lifted the lid, the music began, a different tune to the one they had danced to for so long. There, on the silvered floor, twirled and spun a dainty ballerina.

‘But that’s . . .,’ Marjorie stammered, but Henry hushed her. ‘It is her turn to dance now. Who knows how long she will continue?’

 

·        The expression ‘tripping the light fantastic’ is attributed to John Milton

The sequel

 

The sequel

 Image courtesy Wikimedia Commons

jenny-o commented on the musical box story, ‘I’ll bet that couple swore under their breath at being so rudely interrupted.’

That made me wonder, so I wrote a sequel. It developed rather more gloomily than I intended.

 The Little Dancers

As the lid descended and the music ceased, the couple stepped apart.                                            

Marjorie stamped her foot. ‘Every time,’ she complained, ‘Every time, just as we’re getting the steps almost right, that wretched child slams the door on us and the music stops.’

‘It doesn’t matter,’ Henry said. ‘We can practise without the music.’

 ‘You mean we could count the steps, one, two, three, four, twist, turn, glide?’ she scoffed. ‘Huh, I can’t see that helping. You can’t keep time even when the music plays AND you keep treading on my toes. It’s a wonder I can still walk, let alone dance.’

Not for the first time, Henry wondered what he had ever seen in Marjorie. He had been captivated by her elegance and her beauty, but all he could now register was her screeching voice.

He regretted – oh, how he regretted! – the contract he had made with her. It had stated quite clearly that they must remain together until the musical box stopped working. That had been sixty years ago, and they were weary of pirouetting on the mirrored floor. The box was also showing its age. The pins on the cylinder sometimes missed the teeth that made the music, and the key to wind the mechanism was having to be wound ever tighter.

 Henry had heard ‘overwound’ once or twice recently, when the little girl had been turning the key. An older woman, her grandmother, perhaps, had gently admonished the child to be careful or the music would stop playing.

 How Henry longed for that day to dawn, but then he wondered what would happen after that. With a jolt that made him gasp, he finally recognised that this box was his existence, the one he had embraced the day he and Marjorie had signed the contract. He and she were joined for eternity.

There was no escape. There would never be any more music, just the gathering gloom, and an occasional glimpse of daylight when a stranger opened the box to see the little dancers with their painted smiles and wonder why the music had stopped.

Saturday nights

 

Saturday nights

Image courtesy Wikimedia Commons

She always went dancing with her friends on Saturdays, the excitement building in the preparations beforehand, listening to the latest songs as they put on their twirly swirly dresses and high-heeled shoes and dreaming of what the night might bring.

As they danced in a group, they pretended not to care about the knowing bold-eyed girls who attracted the best-looking boys. From time to time, they glanced surreptitiously around the room to see if they had attracted any attention.

She always hoped she’d meet someone, though she hardly ever did until the last dance was announced when every drunken lout in the place felt driven to acquire a partner to lead sweatily round the room. The youths, lanky, spotty, ill-coordinated, thought it a point of honour that they should find a girl for the end of the evening. The girls, too, had no wish to be among the handful of undesirables left on the sidelines. Anyone was better than no-one, weren't they?

One Saturday night, as she pirouetted and flounced in her pretty dress, her friend shouted in her ear, ‘Have you seen that bloke over there – the one with the black shirt and white tie? He’s gorgeous – he’s giving you the eye.’

She laughed, disbelieving, but secretly flattered. She glanced at him, and he winked. She smiled tremulously as he sauntered towards her. He was tall, good-looking in a well-oiled way. She couldn’t believe he was actually interested in her. Her friend nudged her and grinned. She hoped her voice wouldn’t let her down – sometimes she squeaked like a mouse when people spoke to her.

He stopped in front of her and held out his hand. What a wonderful smile he had! She was shaking as she reached towards him and trembled as he took her hand. He dropped something cold and smooth into her palm. Her friend giggled and said, ‘I told you he was giving you the eye.’

She looked down and saw an eye looking back at her. She screamed and dropped it, and her friend shrieked with laughter. Tucking her hand into the youth’s arm, they walked off together. Over her shoulder, she said, ‘See you later, loser.’

She never went dancing again after that night and she was wary of friendship ever after.

A born dancer?

 

A born dancer?

‘You don’t realise the true proportions of someone until you see them in a leotard,’ thought Sylvia. Fully dressed, Miranda was elegant and rather pretty. She was almost six feet tall and broad-shouldered and had the milky skin that so often goes with tawny hair.

She had taken ballet classes since she was four years old and was now seventeen. In the autumn she would be going to university and her dancing lesson days would be behind her.

Sylvia had encouraged her daughter to continue dancing lessons, recognising early on that the little girl was not going to develop into a small and dainty adult. She would need the discipline of dance or sport to teach her to coordinate her limbs. Miranda had never been interested in athletics or games, and didn’t care for swimming, but she had enjoyed dancing.

The introductory music started, and the audience ceased their chattering. First onto the stage tripped the very smallest girls and one little boy. They looked so sweet as they galloped around to the music, looking at each other to make sure they were doing the right thing. One of the children was very lissom and floated across the stage like thistledown. Miranda had never been like that, Sylvia thought, smiling a little sadly.

The more advanced classes followed, consisting mostly of girls with one or two boys. The differences in physique were more noticeable in the older students. Some were slim and fine-boned and in perfect proportion, while others were undergoing the tribulations of sudden growth spurts, when limbs didn’t quite match heads or trunks. Miranda had often seemed ungainly in her early teens but now looked much more balanced.

At last it was the turn of Miranda’s class to perform. All girls, they wore pointe shoes which clonked across the wooden boards of the village hall. Each dancer in turn performed a short solo and then they danced an ensemble piece. Miranda stood head and shoulders above the rest of the chorus. She had not been placed in the centre, where her mother had expected her to be, but off to the side, almost out of view. As the girls danced, Sylvia began to understand why. Miranda was always half a beat behind the others.

Through the years, Sylvia had noticed that her daughter’s timing was slightly askew when she played the piano or her guitar, but she had never recognised until now just how poor it was. As she reflected on this, she realised it had not improved and may even have become slightly worse as the years rolled by.

Over dinner that evening, Miranda confided in her mother that she was glad she would never have to dance on stage again. ’You know, Mum, everybody thinks I’m a terrible dancer, but I’m glad I stuck at it. My timing’s dreadful but dancing has taught me how to hold my head up high and always do my best.’

Sylvia smiled and squeezed her daughter’s hand. ‘I’m glad, too,’ she said.

 

Waltzing wallflowers

 

Waltzing wallflowers

When I was eleven years old, I was one of the shortest, smallest girls at my grammar school.

                Eleven years old, hair as straight as a yard of pump water.

Eighteen years old

 By the time I left, I was among the tallest.

My height meant that I had to learn the male part in ballroom dancing, which played havoc when I actually had to dance the female part. Luckily, by the time I started going to village hops and town dances most of the dancing was solo. If a boy plucked up the courage to ask a girl to dance, there was little physical contact – that is to say, physical contact was not compulsory as it would have been in more formal dancing.

When we reached the dizzy heights of the fifth form, at the age of sixteen, and considered ourselves mature and adult, our school arranged a joint dance with the boys’ grammar school. Oh, the delirious excitement of it all.

Some of my contemporaries already had boyfriends at the school so they were paired with them. The rest of us losers were allocated partners, sight unseen.

It was nerve-wracking waiting to discover one’s escort for the evening and, in the event, mutually disappointing, I’m sure. We girls gazed enviously at our superior and rather smug sisters who had come with partners of their own choosing, tried to be polite, and longed for the evening to end.

I was relieved that my partner was taller than me. Did the teachers take height into account when allocating partners or were we put together alphabetically or just randomly? I can’t imagine they had time or inclination to find pair like-minded companions. Whatever the case, the dancing was deplorable, on both our parts. He managed to keep his feet off mine, for which I was thankful, and while he wasn’t actually counting the beats out loud, his movements were somewhat robotic. Poor boy!

I don’t think the boys had received much dancing instruction. Most of the masters had returned from the war a decade or two earlier with a multitude of experiences, and teaching spotty adolescents to dance may not have been a task they desperately desired. At least the boys knew they were meant to be ‘leading.’ I knew I was supposed to be ‘following’ but I was so accustomed to taking the lead that I was fighting my partner for the privilege.

At some point there were refreshments, but time has mercifully overridden all other memories of the evening. Certainly, it was not the stepping-off point to a beautiful friendship. Later, I came to know many of the boys from the boys' grammar school, but so far as I know, they did not attend that dance. They were more interested in playing rugby or riding racing bicycles or motorbikes.

When, eventually, my friends and I started going to dances at the local Palais, the anticipation was always far better than the reality. For some, it may have been the route to meeting their life-long partner, but it was not to be so for me, or any of my close contemporaries.

I was always among the anxious wallflowers lining the walls until the final, desperate, traditional ‘Last Waltz’ began when every lout youth in the room homed in on the unloved to claim a dance. Being clammily clasped by an inebriated boy who was keen to boast that he had a girl-friend, however tenuous the relationship might be, was not a dream ending to a night out. Nevertheless, it was better to dance the Last Waltz with anyone at all rather than remain on the touch line like an abandoned shipwreck. In any case, it would have been rude to refuse the offer of a dance – we were all very polite in our awkward teenage ways.

I’ve always enjoyed dancing. When the mood takes me, I dance in the kitchen on my own, or with a dog or rather surprised cat, or occasionally a small child. 

Dancing

 

Dancing

Image courtesy Wikimedia Commons

I was educated solely with girls from the age of six to eighteen.

This had a lasting impact on my ability to interact with the opposite sex. I had an older brother, who was no help to me whatsoever, and a glamorous sister, fifteen years my senior. She had a stream of attractive boyfriends, and I used to watch wide-eyed as she prepared for an evening out, knowing I would never be able to achieve her level of sophistication. I overcame these obstacles to some extent, of course, but was always shy and never managed the easy relationships with young men that other girls seemed to enjoy.

Anyway, at the age of eleven, I duly went off to the next stage of my state education. Dancing was part of the physical education curriculum. We learnt country dancing -Strip the Willow and Sir Roger de Coverley, Old Tyme dancing - the Veleta and the Military Two-Step, and ballroom dancing - the Cha Cha Cha and the Foxtrot. We galloped sweatily round the gymnasium, enthusiastic but not completely enamoured of the exercise.

All the staff members were women. (The appointment of two male teachers a few years later caused a great buzz of unnecessary enthusiasm.) One of our PE teachers was a particularly good ballroom dancer, but I’m afraid we callow lasses didn’t appreciate her skill as we watched her spinning gracefully round the assembly hall with her female partner. Our comments were uncharitable at best. We had little interest in anything other than ourselves.

When we were about fourteen, the school organised a ‘formal’ dance and we all dressed in our finest. My mother was a talented needlewoman and made me a very pretty deep pink Empire line dress. Our pleasures in those days were simple, and one of the highlights of the evening was commenting on what everyone else was wearing. After all, we were accustomed to seeing each other only in our hideous green school uniform. We danced together decorously, the bolder girls inviting teachers to partner them.

I wonder what those women made of the event. Many of them, though they seemed ancient to us, were probably in their late thirties or early forties and had possibly lost fiancés in the war. It must have felt bittersweet to them as they twirled around the parquet flooring in the embrace of adolescent girls, some of whom, in the time-honoured manner of single sex schools, had crushes on them.

Looking back, I applaud the magnanimity of those adults in volunteering to supervise us and accept invitations to dance, or maybe they had been coerced into it by our less than amiable headmistress.

Dancing

When I was filing my Monday blog post I came across one I published just over two years ago. So here it is again, slightly rejigged – an appropriate verb to use for a piece about dancing.

Dancing was part of the physical education programme at the all-girls’ grammar school I attended from the age of eleven. We learnt country dancing (Strip the Willow and Sir Roger de Coverley), Old-Tyme dancing (the Veleta and the Military Two-Step), and ballroom dancing (the Cha Cha Cha and the Foxtrot). We galloped sweatily round the gymnasium, enjoying the exercise and trying, not very hard, to remember the moves. Although it was enjoyable most of us would rather have been climbing ropes or vaulting.

One of our PE teachers was a talented ballroom dancer but we callow lasses didn’t appreciate that as we watched her spinning skilfully round the hall with her female partner. Our comments were uncharitable at best. We had little understanding of, or interest in, anything other than ourselves. All the staff members were women - the advent of two male teachers a few years later caused a great buzz of unnecessary enthusiasm.

On wet lunchtimes we couldn’t go outside and so dancing was organised in the assembly hall. The music was provided by records and we always wanted the polka. I remember still the heady excitement of swinging giddily round the room with my friend.

When we were about fourteen or fifteen the staff organised a ‘formal’ dance and we all dressed up in our finest. My mother made me a very pretty dark pink Empire line dress and one of the highlights of the evening was commenting on what everyone else was wearing. We were used to seeing each other only in our hideous green uniform in school. We danced together decorously, the bolder girls inviting teachers to partner them. I wonder what those women made of the event. Many of them, though they seemed ancient to us, were probably in their late thirties or early forties and had probably lost fiancés in the war. It must have been bittersweet for them as they twirled around the parquet flooring in the embrace of adolescents, some of whom, in the time-honoured manner of girls’ schools, had crushes on them. Looking back I applaud the magnanimity of those adults in volunteering to supervise us and even accept invitations to dance – or maybe they had been coerced into it by our less than amiable headmistress.

When I was eleven I was one of the smallest girls in the school. By the time I left I was among the tallest. This meant I had to take the man’s role in ballroom dancing. This played havoc when I went out into the wider world and actually had to dance the woman’s part but by the time I started going to village hops and town dances most of the dancing was solo; that is, a boy might ask a girl to dance but there was little physical contact –that is, physical contact wasn’t compulsory.  

I was always among the anxious wallflowers until the final, desperate, traditional ‘Last Waltz’ began when every lout youth in the room homed in on the unloved to claim a dance. Being clammily clasped by an inebriated boy who was keen to boast that he had a girl-friend, however tenuous the relationship might be, was not a dream ending to a night out. Nevertheless, it was better to dance the Last Waltz with anyone at all rather than remain on the touch line like an abandoned shipwreck. I liked dancing, though, particularly on my own. I loved the Charleston but there wasn’t much opportunity to dance that. I really enjoyed the Twist and hearing Chubby Checker’s ‘Let’s Twist Again’ always makes me want to dance. I had a ‘twist dress’ that I wore every Saturday night – it was brown and swirled most pleasingly as I twisted the night away. 

When we reached the dizzy heights of the fifth form and were almost adults – or so we thought ourselves – our school arranged a joint dance with the boys’ grammar school. Oh, the delirious excitement of it all! Some of my contemporaries already had boyfriends at the school so they were paired with them. The rest of us losers we young ladies were allocated partners, sight unseen.

It was nerve-wracking waiting to discover one’s escort for the evening and, in the event, mutually disappointing, I’m sure. We gazed enviously at our superior and rather smug peers who had come with partners they’d chosen for themselves, tried to be polite and longed for the evening to end. I was relieved that my escort was taller than me for I was quite tall (did the teachers take height into account or were we put together alphabetically?) but the dancing was deplorable, on both our parts. He managed to keep his feet off mine, for which I was thankful, and while he wasn’t actually counting the beats out loud his movements were somewhat staccato. I don’t think the boys had received much dancing instruction but at least they knew they were supposed to be ‘leading’. I knew I was supposed to be following but I was so accustomed to taking the lead that I was fighting him for the privilege. 

At some point there were refreshments but time has mercifully over-ridden all other memories of that evening. Certainly, it was not the stepping-off point to a beautiful friendship. I wonder if he ever thinks of that night. I wonder, too, if the experiment – the enforced socialising - was ever repeated.

When the mood takes me these days I dance in the kitchen, on my own, or with a dog or rather surprised cat. Barry doesn’t dance if he can avoid it, making an exception only for jiving, which he really enjoys. One of these days he will spin me out and fail to catch me as I return and I’ll crash unceremoniously into the wall. No doubt he’ll have a camera automatically recording to film the incident.

Mag 135 Dancing

Thanks go to Tess Kincaid who organises and hosts this meme. To read more Magpies please click here.

Venus and the Sailor, 1925, by Salvador Dali

Dancing

‘Shall we dance?’ he said and together they fell into step, dipping, stretching, and gliding across the burnished boards. The music engulfed them as they pirouetted and twirled, she under his arm, then he under hers. They saw nothing else, felt nothing else but the rhythm and the blood pounding in their veins.

He pulled her close, his arms encircling her and her heart beat faster as their bodies touched, his chest against hers, his thighs pressed to hers, one hand on the small of her back, guiding her, just so, just so. She wanted to dance forever, for the moment never to end.

She gazed into his eyes, saw her passion reflected there. Her lips parted, he bent his head to hers and the music swelled as it came to a climax.

The little girl shut the lid of the music box and went to have her tea.

Maffick Monday #1 A terrible dancer

Alicia is hosting Maffick Monday. Her prompt is ‘Write about a terrible dancer.’ Thanks, Alicia – hope you enjoyed your camping J

(I’m rather late with my submission.)

You don’t realise the true size of someone until you see them in a leotard, thought Sylvia.  Fully clothed, her daughter Miranda looked quite elegant and rather pretty.  She was tall and broad shouldered and had the milky skin that so often goes with tawny hair.

She had taken ballet classes since she was five and participated each year in the shows her dancing teacher organised.  She was now seventeen and nearly six feet tall and the summer show would be her last appearance. In the autumn she was going to university and her dancing days would be behind her.

Sylvia had encouraged her daughter to continue dancing, realising early on that Miranda was going to develop into a big girl and would need the discipline of dance or sport to coordinate her limbs. Miranda had never been interested in athletics or games, didn’t care for swimming and was content to continue ballet lessons.

First onto the stage tripped the little girls and one small boy. They looked so sweet as they galloped about to the music. One of the children was very lissom and floated across the stage like thistledown. Miranda had never been like that, Sylvia thought, a little sadly. The more advanced classes followed, consisting mostly of girls with one or two boys. The differences in physique were more noticeable in the older students. Some were slim and fine-boned and in perfect proportion while others were undergoing the trials of sudden growth spurts when limbs didn’t quite match heads or trunks. Miranda had often seemed rather ungainly in her early teens but now looked much more balanced.

At last it was the turn of Miranda’s class to perform. They wore pointe shoes which clonked across the wooden boards. Each dancer in turn performed a short solo and then they danced an ensemble piece.  Miranda stood head and shoulders above the rest of the chorus. She had not been placed in the centre where her mother had expected her to be but off to one side, almost out of view.  Sylvia wondered why but as they danced she began to understand the reason. Miranda was always half a beat behind the others. Through the years Sylvia had noticed that her daughter’s timing was slightly askew when she played the piano or her guitar but she had never recognised until now just how poor Miranda’s sense of timing was. As she reflected on this she realised it had got worse as the years rolled by.

That evening, over dinner, Miranda confided in her mother that she was glad she would never have to dance on stage again. ‘You know, Mum, everybody thinks I’m a terrible dancer, but I’m glad I stuck at it. My timing’s dreadful but dancing has taught me how to hold my head up high and always do my best.’ Sylvia smiled and squeezed her daughter’s hand. 

Magpie Tales #68 Dancing

Thanks go to Tess Kincaid who organises and hosts this meme J To read more Magpies please click here.

Image copyright Tess Kincaid

We always went dancing at the weekends, twisting the night away in our twirly, swirly dresses and our high-heeled shoes. The knowing bold-eyed girls soon attracted the best-looking boys while my friends and I pretended not to care and danced together, glancing surreptitiously around at intervals to see if any presentable young men had arrived.

I always hoped I’d meet someone though I hardly ever did until the last dance was announced when every drunken loser in the place felt driven to acquire a partner to lead sweatily round the room. The youths, lanky, spotty, ill-coordinated, often smelling of vomit, thought it a point of honour that they should find a girl for the end of the evening.  

If the girl was as desperate as the boy she might allow him to walk her home and, if he were lucky, and she not discerning, have a quick fumble and snog or even more in the deep shadows under trees or behind sheds. Marriages are not made in heaven but in the booze-fuelled dance halls of desperate adolescence or rather, at the end of the proverbial shotgun after such rash and sordid couplings. I always walked home alone.

One Saturday night, as we pirouetted and flounced to show off our nascent charms, my friend spun towards me and shouted in my ear, ‘Have you seen that bloke over there - the one with the black shirt and white tie? He’s gorgeous. He’s giving you the eye.’

I laughed dismissively but deep down I was flattered. At last someone had recognised my allure. I manoeuvred myself so that I could see him. She was right. I could hardly believe my luck as he sauntered towards me. I trembled and blushed and hoped my voice would work when he spoke to me. 

He stretched out his hand towards me and smiled. What a wonderful smile! I reached towards him and he dropped something cold and smooth into my palm. My friend giggled and said, ‘I told you he was giving you the eye.’ I looked down and saw an eye looking back at me. I screamed and dropped it and my friend shrieked with laughter. Tucking her hand into the youth’s arm, they walked off together. Over her shoulder she said, ‘See you later, loser.’

I never went dancing again after that night and I have been wary of friendship ever since.

A dancing woodpigeon?

I’ve just spotted the lame woodpigeon on the bridge over the pond. I first saw her (I don’t know the gender, obviously, since males and females dress alike, but to me this bird is a female) a couple of days ago, hobbling across the gymnasium roof. She can fly perfectly well and she’s not limping heavily. She’s eating and drinking, preening and courting, so I think she will survive.

I know how she hurt her foot – or is it her leg? I know, because I did the same thing so next New Year’s Eve she and I will resist the urge to dance in high heels – well, all right, I’ll resist the high heels! I mean, a woodpigeon in high heels – whatever next? 

Dancing the night away is wonderful, being transported in the moment, not thinking of the morrow – we’re too old  wise for all that, Mrs Woodpigeon and me.

Dancing

Reading Jinksy's etheree and watching her wonderful video clip of a tango reminded me of dancing classes at school. It was an all-girls' school. I was educated solely with girls from the age of six to eighteen, sadly. L
Anyway, at the age of eleven we duly went off to the next stage of our state education and at the school I attended dancing was part of the process. We learnt country dancing (Strip the Willow and Sir Roger de Coverley), Old-Tyme dancing (the Veleta and the Military Two-Step), and ballroom dancing (the Cha Cha Cha and the Foxtrot). We galloped sweatily round the gymnasium, enjoying the exercise but not completely enamoured of the particular form of exercise and the brain power required to remember the moves. I would rather have been climbing ropes or vaulting.
One of our PE teachers was a very good ballroom dancer but I'm afraid we callow lasses didn't appreciate that as we watched her spinning skilfully round the hall with her female partner. All the staff members were women - the advent of two male teachers a few years later caused a great buzz of unnecessary enthusiasm. Wet lunchtimes meant we could not go outside and so dancing was arranged in the assembly hall and we always wanted the polka – that was fun!
When I was eleven I was one of the smallest girls in the school. By the time I left I was among the tallest. This meant that in ballroom dancing I had to take the man's part. This played havoc when I actually had to take the woman's part but by the time I started going to village hops and town dances most of the dancing was solo. This was just as well because I was always among the wallflowers until the final, desperate, traditional 'Last Waltz' began when every lout youth in the room homed in on the unloved to claim a dance. Being clammily clasped by an inebriated boy who was keen to boast that he had a girl-friend, however tenuous the relationship might be, was not a dream ending to a night out. I liked dancing, though, particularly on my own! I loved the Charleston but there wasn't much opportunity to dance that. I really enjoyed the Twist.
When we were about fourteen or fifteen the school organised a 'formal' dance and we all dressed up in our finest. My mother made me a very pretty dress and the highlight of the evening was noticing what everyone else was wearing. We were used to seeing each other only in hideous green uniform in the school buildings. We danced together decorously, the bolder girls inviting teachers to partner them. I wonder what those women made of the event? Many of them, though they seemed ancient to us, were probably in their late thirties or early forties and had probably lost fiancés in the war. It must have been bittersweet for them as they twirled around the parquet flooring in the embrace of adolescents, some of whom, in time-honoured manner, had crushes on them.

Joyce Grenfell brilliantly demonstrated the experience of dancing with another woman
When we reached the dizzy heights of the fifth form and were almost adult sixteen-year-olds – or so we thought of ourselves! – our school arranged a joint dance with the boys' grammar school. Oh, the delirious excitement of it all! Some of my contemporaries already had boyfriends at the school so they were paired with them. The rest of us losers were allocated partners, sight unseen. It was nerve-wracking waiting to discover one's escort for the evening and, in the event, mutually disappointing, I'm sure. We gazed enviously at our superior and rather smug sisters who had come with partners they'd chosen for themselves, tried to be polite and longed for the evening to end. I was relieved that my escort was taller than me for I was quite tall (did the teachers take height into account or were we put together alphabetically?) but the dancing was deplorable, on both our parts. He managed to keep his feet off mine, for which I was thankful, and while he wasn't actually counting the beats out loud his movements were somewhat staccato. I don't think the boys had received much dancing instruction but at least they knew they were supposed to be 'leading'. I knew I was supposed to be following but I was so accustomed to taking the lead that I was fighting him for the privilege. At some point there were refreshments but time has mercifully over-ridden all other memories of that evening. Certainly, it was not the stepping-off point to a beautiful friendship.
When the mood takes me these days I dance in the kitchen, on my own, or with a dog or rather surprised cat. Barry doesn't dance if he can avoid it, making an exception only for jiving, which he really enjoys. One of these days he will spin me out and fail to catch me as I return and I'll crash unceremoniously into the wall. No doubt he'll have a camera automatically recording  film the incident!

Unfortunately, we don't dance with anything like the flair of these two.