by Diana Melly
Going to the lavatory in the morning in the en suite which was so en suite as to almost be in the room was a worry. Here Ray’s appetite for the full English breakfast (included in the price) and my small spoonful of muesli solved the problem. I had plenty of time to myself before Raymond returned, having finally finished his scrambled egg, sausage, bacon, tinned tomatoes and fried bread.
Now that I was without Ray it was time to be bold and check out Holland Park. The first time I went I saw it was a completely different crowd from the tea dance set. For a start they were all much younger. That made sense – the class took place in the evening. Most young people are working during tea dance time or if they are one of the sixteen per cent of young people unable to find work they don’t have the five or six pounds to go waltzing, let alone the inclination.
I didn’t enjoy myself very much but I knew that if I wanted to keep dancing, and I did, I would have to persevere with finding the right set-up and the right teacher. So the next week I went to Holland Park again. I was pleased I decided to stay in the beginners’ group because we had one or two professional partners to help us. Dancing with men who are also learning, and sometimes have two left feet, isn’t much fun. A nice slow rumba was playing and a man called Dino came over to help me.
“I can’t do the spot turn.”
“Yes, you can. Look at me. Have your weight on your right foot. Look to your right and step to your right with your left foot. Look again to your right, swivel on your standing leg, change weight, look at me again. You’ve turned 360 degrees.”
It was quite simple – I did it.
Halfway through the social bit of the evening I decided I’d had enough of being brave and started to take off my dancing shoes. Dino came over and asked me why I was leaving. “Stay and practise your spot turns,” he said.
I gave the excuse that I needed to get home to my dogs and soon we were exchanging dog stories and photos. He had found his dog, a tiny puppy, in the dustbin. Then because I was recovering from bronchitis and had got out of breath dancing a quickstep with him, we got on to smoking. I started when I passed the 11 plus. Those were the days when even doctors smoked while listening to your chest and Craven A were advertised as being “so good for the throat”. Although I gave up when I was 49, 38 years of heavy smoking had damaged my lungs. Dino told me that his mother who was the same age as me had had two heart bypasses and still smoked.
I knew then that if Dino gave lessons I had found my new teacher. How do you find out if someone is a teacher? Is it a rude question? I decided to risk it. “Dino, do you teach?”
“I’ll teach you, darling, it would be a pleasure.”
In spite of darling this and darling that, Dino is camp but not gay. I knew this because along with the puppy photos there were several of his girlfriend Dora, who, like him, is Greek.
We swapped phone numbers, not emails – Dino is computer illiterate and within a week we had fixed up my first lesson and also arranged to go to a Saturday dance so that Dora, who works in the week, could come too. I was very happy and realised how miserable I had been about not having a dance teacher.
Also I was looking forward to the dance cruise that I was going on with Gill. She is even more efficient than me and as I had never been on a cruise before I left her to make all the arrangements. All I knew was that there would be dancing from seven until midnight every evening and that when I came back I had someone to go dancing with.
Chapter 8
On a QE2 cruise, if you are a solo traveller, gay in search of a friend or struggling with your alcohol addiction, you will be well catered for. “Friends of Dorothy” met at five in the Commodore’s Club. In the days when Judy Garland was a gay icon, “Are you a friend of Dorothy?” was how you found out if another person was homosexual. “Friends of Bill W” also met at five but in the Admiral’s Lounge. Bill W was an American who co-founded Alcoholics Anonymous. Bad luck if you were gay in need of a friend and also trying not to hit the bottle. Perhaps you could go to the venues on alternate nights? As a solo, presumably a straight solo, there was a solo travellers’ coffee and cookie morning and twice a week a solo travellers’ lunch.
Gill and I didn’t really belong in any of these categories; we were just there for the dancing. So on our first night we had a quick dinner: Roast Rack of Lamb, with Roast Potatoes, Ratatouille, Green Beans and a Rosemary Jus. We skipped the Hot Grand Marnier Soufflé with Custard Sauce, put on our new silver shoes and went to the Queen’s ballroom.
Nearly all the other travellers must have been still unpacking because we had the six dance hosts to ourselves. None of them came anywhere near the standard of Raymond or Dino, and the one from Arizona had a strange way of waltzing. Everyone knows you close your feet on the third step, but not in America. “Don’t close your feet,” said Robert from Arizona, so I didn’t and we danced a slow foxtrot in waltz timing.
I never met anyone at tea dances who wanted to be a cruise ship host. I was told that their duties didn’t end on the dance floor – they had to escort the ladies round the ports when the boat docked, they had to have a vast wardrobe of evening and casual clothes and they mustn’t sweat too much. They mustn’t sleep with the passengers or show favouritism. If they did they would be turned off the boat and have to buy their own passage home. Some companies demanded to see a bank balance to make sure a potential host had sufficient funds for this. It’s rumoured that before the pill there were so many paternity suits that many companies only employed gay hosts. This was no longer a qualification; it was hard to know what was. Gill nicknamed one of the hosts “Mr Pastry” and she decided that his only qualification would have been having two feet.
Halfway through the evening, the live orchestra and the hosts went off for a break but there was still piped music so Gill and I danced together. It’s possible that we looked a little odd; Gill is a seriously good dancer, and so, although she is five inches shorter than me and size 6 to my size 10, she has to be the leader. The cha-cha-cha became our speciality – we thought waltzing together might look really silly. Back in our room I was rather shattered after five hours’ dancing. Not Gill, she knows not only how to wait until the cruise price comes down to what a weekend in a cheap B&B in Swansea would cost, but, how to get upgraded. An hour later we had been transported to a room further from the chug-chug-chug of the engine and with an outside balcony. This is Gill’s fourth cruise and she has reached gold status, which gives her extra benefits like welcome champagne and invitations to the captain’s parties.
We could have spent the next morning learning bridge, attending a watercolour class, or at the Golden Lion pub for morning trivia or playing table tennis. Not wanting to do any of those things or even attend Kate Adie’s lecture, we went line dancing. I used to go line dancing before I got serious and took up ballroom, mostly because I love country and western. I remembered how important it is to position yourself on the floor. You usually turn to face one of the four walls, so it’s no good being at the front or back. You need an expert in front of you, behind you and on either side of you. What I hadn’t learnt in Shepherd’s Bush Village Hall was how to stay upright when the QE2 began to battle with the Atlantic. The waves were impressive, ten metres high, the purser told us, as we bucketed through a force 11 gale. The cha-cha-cha lesson that followed was even more challenging, even the hosts were falling about.
But I loved the movement of the boat, especially the feeling at night of being rocked to sleep. No one seemed that worried by it, although there were quite a few Zimmer frames and wheelchairs. Talk about an aging population – given that there were 2000 people on board and at least half of them over 60, surely there must sometimes be a death on these cruises? And if so, what do they do with the body?
Gill was one of the youngest of the dancing crowd. I think there was a younger set that we didn’t see much of because they ate in the Lido and went to the disco. Anyone could eat in the Britannia where we did but it was silver service and you had to be suitably dr
essed. Formal evenings meant dinner jackets and elegant dresses; informal meant just a jacket and cocktail dresses. No tank tops, sandals or jeans anywhere on the boat after six.
For some reason I thought that the QE2 would be similar to the huge boats that go up and down the Nile and that the restaurant would be a better version of a steak house. Quite wrong: the restaurant is a beautiful art deco room with good but slightly elaborate food and clever waiters. They remembered that we didn’t like ice in our water and although I wanted only one glass of wine, I wanted it before I even sat down. At dinner we always had a table to ourselves, while at breakfast and lunch we often had to share. This was not a problem for Gill, as she is kind and can listen. Perhaps this skill is enhanced by her job, which involves listening to sad stories and being able to judge the probability of suicide, self-harm, abuse, etc.
At breakfast I was always too stunned by the lack of the double espresso that I’m used to at home to say anything. But Gill is never at a loss for words, (I think that’s due to being Welsh). She would have been a gift to the diplomatic service. I only once saw her speechless and almost cross; a woman with whom we were sharing a table told us how much she hated cruising. She said she was only on the boat so she could spend two days shopping in Fort Lauderdale. She then informed us that her daughter who lived in London had to take taxis everywhere because of the dangers on public transport, “Pickpockets and you know what else”. Gill and I both got up and left realising we might be getting into “I am not a racist, but…” territory. She was the only unpleasant person we met. Going on cruises doesn’t seem like a posh thing to do. Most of our fellow travellers were “room at the top”, working-class people who had made good. There was often talk of the tin baths and outside lavvies that their grandparents had had.
The Black and White ball was the first themed event. Gill wore a vintage white satin dress and I wore a black silk one that Jasper Conran had designed and given me in 1983. Recent events and dancing had meant that I had lost a lot of weight, rather too much, in fact, but at least I could get into the dress. My local dry cleaners had cunningly added some sleeves so my wobbly bat wings were not on show.
Sitting behind us on that first night were two men, both wearing wedding rings, who usually danced together. They were there again on the ball night and Gill decided that we should introduce ourselves. “They look half tidy,” she said. The only dance that Paul wouldn’t do was the quickstep. So Tim, Paul’s husband, and Gill whirled round the room while the ship threw the dancers about and Paul and I swapped our credentials. Paul was from Glasgow and a psychiatrist and Tim was a Londoner and a decorator.
When you are travelling on your own or with another woman, make a bee-line for the gays; gays like women. I once went down the Nile with my friend Nell and before we had even unpacked we found Tim and Goose. Goose was so called because his surname was Gosling, and three years later they are both still our friends.
One of the many pleasures of taking eight days to go from Southampton to New York is the clocks going back; they did it four times and on those occasions gave us an extra hour in bed. I’d also discovered that room service would bring me a double espresso and there was time for that too. With 1000 staff to 2000 passengers the service was brilliant. Mr Carson of Downton Abbey would be proud of them. They know what you want before you know that you want it. Even your hands are sanitised for you. Outside every public room stands a smiling man ready to squirt the lotion onto your outstretched palms.
I sometimes wondered if we were being somewhat unadventurous. We could have gone home “looking ten years younger”, learnt how to fence, how to belly-dance, had a “non-surgical facelift”. We did none of those things, but we didn’t miss out on the food. Not only were there many different sorts of breakfast: porridge, prunes and pancakes and the sort of full English breakfast that Raymond likes, there was also a three-course lunch. This was followed two hours later by afternoon tea in the Queen’s Room. Elegant waiters wearing white server jackets with gold buttons and white gloves served us with cucumber sandwiches, and scones with cream and jam. Discreet piano music added to the 30s atmosphere.
We always went for the early sitting for dinner so that we could have as long as possible on the dance floor. Gill obviously has a very fast metabolism, because in spite of her small size, she always had room for a three-course dinner at six thirty: Deep-Fried Brie in a Mushroom Bread Crust with Cranberry Sauce and Petit Salad, followed by Pan-Seared Peppered Tuna with Carrot Stir-Fry and Rice, then Rum and Raisin and Maple Walnut Ice Cream with Lemon Sorbet and Toffee Sauce. On the way out of the restaurant was a large bowl of chocolates and some oranges, and Gill would fill her dancing-shoe bag with them just in case we needed a midnight snack. Gill usually did.
Lately I had become rather addicted to ice cream and next to the entrance to the Lido was an ice cream machine. It was just like those machines that you hold a cup under and get hot or cold water, except that here you chose a cornet, big or small, and held it under the vanilla or strawberry tap. You took as much as you wanted, and then added a little squirt of chocolate. This made up for having only one glass of wine at night. Well, with all the elements conspiring to wrong-foot you, it wasn’t a good idea to be even slightly tipsy. I sometimes had three or four ice creams a day, and they more than made up for the lack of Rioja.
The second formal night had been announced as the London Ball. Gill had bought some packets of stick-on tattoos of various London sights: the Tower of London, Buckingham Palace, etc. I thought if she made an effort it meant I didn’t have to. But I did rather wish I’d thought to bring a hideous green dress covered in little pearls I’d bought off eBay. In fact, I would have been outclassed, as one woman wore the full Pearly Queen outfit, hat and feathers and all.
The point of the London Ball is that it’s meant to be a jolly Cockney get-together; so if you can’t join in, better stay in your cabin. We did the barn dance, the hokey cokey and the Lambeth Walk. Then Gill led one conga snake and Paul Richie, the smooth, handsome crooner, led another. It was a perfect evening.
The following day, the captain told us that we were very near where the Titanic had hit the iceberg but not to worry as it wasn’t the iceberg season. I didn’t; my worries are more domestic in their nature. When the weather had calmed down enough for us not to be blown up against the rails we went up on deck. It’s a long way from one end of the boat to the other. If you do a round trip it’s one kilometre. Gill often made us do it twice. We stopped every now and then to take photos of each other leaning out over the front pretending to be Kate Winslet before the ship goes down.
One afternoon we went to the sumptuous theatre which had seating for 400 in the stalls, 430 in the dress circle and 20 boxes. A tenor with a passable voice sang an aria from Rigoletto and “Besame Mucho”, which had been my father’s favourite song. He had been in Casablanca during what he called “a good war”, which he had spent mostly in the arms of another woman. When he reluctantly returned to Essex where my mother and I were living, he brought with him a photograph of the dark Italian beauty, a bottle of Strega, a Luger and a pair of embroidered slippers which might have fitted me when he was called up some five years previously. He very quickly found a replacement for the Italian. She had a daughter with black ringlets who was smaller, younger and prettier than me. The slippers fitted her perfectly.
Our last themed evening, the Sparkle Ball was a chance to get out the bling. I wore a red chiffon dress covered in tiny mirrors, one of my more successful e-Bay purchases. Gill wore a pink dress with diamanté straps. At dinner I had two glasses of wine – well, it was our last night. We sat at our usual table near Paul and Tim. Janice, our entertainment hostess, announced there would be a Strictly competition. The winner would receive a bottle of champagne and all the participants half a bottle. Michael, an Irishman from County Cork, asked Gill to partner him.
I saw Heinz, my favourite host, also had a number on his back, indicating that he was going to be one of the compet
itors. He stopped at our table and invited me onto my feet. “Oh please, Heinz, no.” This would be worse than sitting for the 11 plus. But there comes a moment when it’s churlish and bad manners to keep saying no. I sometimes think that occasionally I went to bed with men I didn’t really like so as not to seem rude. There were six couples competing, and we had to dance a waltz and a jive. It was fine and it was soon over.
The winners, of course, were quite rightly Paul and Tim. I reflected that many of us would have been around when people like Paul and Tim would have been put in jail. The judges of the competition, unlike Len, Bruno and Craig, but more like Darcey, had something nice to say about all the competitors. Couple No 9, she said, looked as if they had been waltzing together all their lives. That was me and Heinz.
The band played “Auld Lang Syne” and Gill and I went up to Paul and Tim’s suite to open the champagne. When I win a million with my Premium Bonds, and it won’t be long now, I shall book a world cruise and a suite. You have not only a sitting room, a study, a circular bath and a balcony, but also your own butler. I know there is the problem of my dogs, Bobby and Joey, but with all that money I am sure something could be arranged.
Chapter 9
If it wasn’t for the dogs and dancing, I’d give London a miss in January and February. Ten days after I arrived back from the cruise I got ill, then I heard on the news that the flu jab had only worked for three per cent of the population. I wasn’t one of the three per cent and I fell into that category of “vulnerable elderly people for whom flu might cause complications”. It did – I got bronchitis on top of it.