Greetings Noble Sir

by Nigel Flaxton

  Even though they were all used to discipline, it was the discipline of the adult world of the Forces. There was no possibility of their accepting the kind of boarding school regime to which we had been subject. The Principalship certainly changed hands opportunely.

  However, one aspect of the College’s new life was a problem not easy to solve. We were now the senior year, but our juniors were older by far in both years and experience. The year groups were not numerically equal either. We were seventy strong but the new intake was one hundred and thirty. We were outnumbered by nearly two to one, as we had been by our own senior year. We felt circumstances had pushed our noses out. For two or three months the relationship between the year groups was one of mutual distrust.

  Then it boiled over into a furious argument following a disturbed night during which a few of the newcomers’ rooms and personal equipment were damaged. We knew the culprits to be rather wild characters who smuggled alcohol into College - a heinous offence to the authorities even under the new enlightenment. Accusations were exchanged heatedly between the grown men to whom such behaviour was childish and therefore obviously perpetrated by us, and we seniors who would never have dared such vandalism as we very well knew. To our astonishment the VP adopted a low profile during these recriminations.

  But we were not cheated out of the senior year’s accommodation. This was in South Wing, a comparatively new part of the College built between the wars and consisting of single study bedrooms. These were indeed separate and quite spacious, even though the furniture was again Spartan. Each had a solid table and chair standing on a small dais near a fairly high window. A bed and a wardrobe completed the furnishings. The spaciousness of these rooms, and the very considerable relaxation of the restrictions of our first year, gave us a heady feeling of freedom which we were quick to exploit.

  As might be imagined, in various ways girls came clearly into the picture.

  Chapter 15

  Considering the very wide freedom enjoyed by young people today it seems incredible to remember that in our teens many of my friends and I were quite useless on social occasions when groups of men and women got together. Take Dances for instance. All ex-service men and women had been attending these for years and dance music was extremely popular on radio and gramophone records, but how did one learn to dance in the environment of a Boys’ School where any hint of a boy/girl relationship was severely frowned upon because of its disastrous implications for serious study? How severely I found to my cost when I was in the Sixth Form and the Headmaster learnt that I had a girlfriend. I was subjected to an extremely lengthy verbal battering in which he made it perfectly clear that I was trying to combine oil and water. ‘You cannot socialise and study’, he said. ‘In my opinion the sexes should not mix until after university’. His attitude to schoolboys, followed by the monasticism of St. Andrew’s, contributed considerably to the problem which worried a number of us.

  As wartime teenagers most of us went to the very occasional church social where we danced after a fashion. Some managed to pick things up. Just listen to the music and move with it, people said. The snag was that in any partnership the boy was supposed to lead and I for one needed to be far better prepared before I ventured to dance with anyone I didn’t know. Dances, I found, held the terrors of Excuse Me dances, and Paul Jones. These inflicted all manner of matrons upon worried individuals like me. It was worse, of course, on the rare occasions a really delectable girl happened to be in front of me when the music halted the revolving circles of the sexes. The curvacious vision was always a good dancer and rapidly assessed me for what I was. Useless.

  My heart goes out to those highly courageous celebrities who, as non-dancers, offer themselves as fodder for the judges in the fascinating television programme Strictly Come Dancing. Normally my entertainment viewing taste is for documentaries, nature programmes and some sports. Nevertheless I find this programme riveting because dancing torture is embedded in my psyche.

  I tried to solve my problem by studying a text book. It was entitled Modern Ballroom Dancing and in the main it dealt with the Waltz, Quickstep, Foxtrot and Tango. Each page was devoted to a step by step description of a particular figure, with a diagrammatic representation of the moves involved. Two black footprints represented the man’s moves, and white ones his partner’s.

  During the summer vacation before I started College this became my major reference book. I studied it avidly as bedtime reading, then next evening shut myself away and tried out the moves in a practical session. That is, I held the book in my left hand and slid my feet around the floor trying to emulate the diagrams. Occasionally I tied my legs in knots and not infrequently fell over.

  One day my mother found me waltzing with my book in complete silence in our front room. I blushed furiously at her amazed laughter.

  ‘It’s all very well for you,’ I expostulated. ‘Dancing was very different when you were young. You didn’t have to learn these complicated figures.’

  ‘I should think not indeed! You just picked things up as you went along. If they were dancing the Veleta, or the Military Two Step, your friends soon showed you what to do. Then you just listened to the music, and you’d got it. You didn’t really have to think about where you were putting your feet.’

  ‘That’s no good for me. You forget I’ve never danced much and modern dancing is so complicated’.

  ‘I don’t know about that but I’m sure you won’t learn it without a girl to dance with and some music. They were considered essential in my day.’

  The early months at College effectively stopped my studies in this matter and the old Principal’s attitude to the notion of a Dance in the College kept it at bay for a time, but gradually, despite the Country being plunged into far greater austerity than during the war, social life began to spread. In late teens I knew some social accomplishments were necessary and dancing was high on the list. Then during one vacation my girlfriend Kim informed me we were going to a Ball. A businessman uncle of hers was President, or was it Admiral, of a Motor Yachting Club and it was resuscitating its Annual Dinner and Ball at a fairly grand hotel which was also resuscitating itself as well as it could. It seemed, also, that everyone was using the occasion to resuscitate their evening dresses. Cinderella-like we were to be allowed to go to the Ball only. Men, she also informed me, were to be allowed to get away with dinner jackets.

  A Ball and Dinner Jackets! And Dancing! In a Top Hotel! This was going to be rather close to Hell. Of course I didn’t have a dinner jacket, my father didn’t have a dinner jacket - nor did he ever - so I had to borrow an ill-fitting affair from an uncle of mine who led a small string ensemble. I also found that with a dinner jacket went suitably matching trousers and a stiff winged collar and fronted dress shirt. And studs. And decent cuff links. And a black bow tie. When I fitted myself into the totality I knew what mediaeval armour was.

  The hotel was imposing, but even I could see it was tawdrily elegant. It could hardly be otherwise in the post war squeeze that was hard enough to throttle. Kim managed to look beautiful and elegant. I didn’t ask how she contrived to get what seemed to be a brand new evening gown. I was just tawdry. Inevitably, so was my dancing. I can still remember the superior eyes stabbing me whenever perforce I had to dance with someone other than Kim. My one success was the number of toes I trod upon.

  In vacant moments I brooded over my difficulties. Then, during the long vacation after the first year at College, the answer came upon me like a flash. Well, actually it literally floated before my eyes. I was upstairs on a bus. At a stop some windows above a large shop occupying a corner site came into view and I spotted a modest but well placed sign: Fernley Dance Studio. Dancing Sessions 2.30pm Wednesdays, 7.30pm Saturdays. Private lessons by appointment. The conductor rang the bell rang and the bus pulled away, but my thoughts lingered. Private lessons - that’s what I needed! They would be a natural progression from my book w
ork. Then I wondered how much they would cost.

  My destination was the Inland Revenue Office in town, but not because I had any tax problems. I was earning vacation pocket money with other students, one of whom was Malcolm Ashterleigh. In fact we had been at school together before going to St. Andrew’s and therefore he was in the same boat as I was when it came to social accomplishments. His girlfriend, like Kim, could dance well with a competent partner. Both of us, therefore, posed problems for them as far as dancing was concerned. We had managed to keep the relationships going with walking, cycling and visits to the pictures. But our inability to dance was becoming desperate.

  During the lunch hour I nervously telephoned the Fernley Dance Studio and asked about private lessons. A young, engaging female voice answered in most helpful terms, which was encouraging. I’d feared archly superior tones and was ready to drop the receiver in panic.

  ‘We charge twelve shillings and six pence for half an hour, or five guineas for a course of ten lessons’.

  ‘I see,’ I said, er...’

  ‘Which dances do you want to learn, Sir?’

  ‘Er, well....’ My mind fled to my text book. ‘I had thought of the Waltz, Quickstep, Foxtrot and Tango.’

  There was a fractional pause.

  ‘Well, we can teach all those, Sir. I suppose that means you can dance already and want to prepare for medal competitions?’

  ‘Good lord, no. I can’t dance at all, well, not much anyway. I mean, I know a few basic steps....’

  ‘Oh, that’s alright Sir, I quite understand. Sorry for the misunderstanding.’

  I was getting hot around my collar, but the voice had an attractive quality which encouraged me to continue. I decided to fling myself upon its mercy.

  ‘I’m afraid l have to admit that so far my knowledge of dancing has come from a book.’

  ‘That’s quite a good way to start,’ said the voice.

  ‘Bless you!’ I thought.

  ‘I suggest you come along and have an introductory lesson, shall we say for five shillings? If you don’t take to it we shan’t press you to continue. But if it goes well, you can decide then whether you want more lessons, and if so, how many.’

  ‘Oh, that sounds an excellent idea,’ I said with considerable relief.

  ‘Right, when would you like to come?’

  Date and time were arranged and I emerged from the telephone box feeling very elated. A whole new world as a socialite was opening up before me and I could hardly wait to tell Malcolm. He met me on the office stairs.

  ‘You look disgustingly happy for someone who’s got to stick a thousand envelopes - or had you forgotten?’ he said.

  ‘I have great news, old boy. I’ve solved the dancing problem!’

  ‘You’ve what?’

  ‘I’m going to learn to dance, you know, Waltzes, Quicksteps and things.’

  ‘How, where....?’

  ‘Private lessons. I’ve just arranged the whole thing!’

  ‘Private....heck, how much is that going to cost you?

  ‘Just over a fiver for a course of ten lessons. half an hour a time. That’s a total of five solid hours of teaching. That ought to solve the problem since I’ve learnt quite a lot already from my book.’

  ‘Where on earth are you going to do all this?’

  I told him, and he became thoughtful. ‘I wonder what your teacher will be like.’

  ‘The girl on the phone sounded super - quite young, I should imagine.’

  ‘Ah, but dancing teachers have usually been at it for years. She’ll probably be middle aged and fat.’ Malcolm had an annoying streak of pessimism.

  ‘Oh, l don’t agree. This girl sounded great.’

  ‘Probably the telephonist.’

  ‘Oh, chuck it. I’ll tell you all about it on Monday. My first lesson’s on Friday, after we’ve finished with this place.’

  ‘Well, don’t forget we start College again the week after next. Are you going to get all your ten lessons in before then?’

  ‘Good heavens, no! I’ll do them on Saturday afternoons throughout the term.’

  ‘You disreputable character - slinking off with strange women when you ought to be writing up lecture notes. You’ll get a D teaching mark!’

  I must admit that as I slapped water on each envelope that afternoon Malcolm’s warnings nagged me. Middle aged and fat...no, they’d never do any business. Would they?

  When I arrived to keep my appointment I felt distinctly nervous. The entrance to the Fernley Dance Studio was a single door at the side of the large chain store shop, behind which was a long flight of stairs. It was eight o’clock in the evening and everywhere was very quiet. I turned a corner at the top and found a door facing me with; a notice, Enquiries. Feeling sure no one was about and there must be a mistake in the appointment, I knocked. There was a pause, then I heard a light step. A bolt was pulled, the upper half of the door swung open to reveal a pleasantly attractive girl with smiling eyes and rich brown hair.

  ‘Mr Flaxton?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes, I’m due....’

  ‘....for a trial dancing lesson,’ she interrupted. She opened the lower part of the door. ‘Do come in - the studio’s through here. Did you have far to come?’

  ‘Not really.’

  ‘Oh, good. Now, here we are. It’s quite a pleasant room - the corner site helps because it gives us a wide curve of windows. Now, I’ll just put a record on quietly as a background and you can tell me what you know.’

  She crossed to a gramophone and soon the unmistakable sounds of a Victor Sylvester record drifted round the room. Even I could recognize that. As she came back towards me, wearing a plain but attractive red dress, I couldn’t help noticing the quality of her figure matched her face. She was probably a couple of years older than me. Middle aged and fat, indeed! What crowned the experience for me was that, in addition to her appearance, she was also a superb teacher. She put me at my ease from the very beginning and was soon inviting me to hold her in the normal dancing pose.

  ‘Come on, get rid of that stiffness. I’m not going to dance with a guardsman on duty. Put your arm further round me. Go on, no one’s watching,’ she laughed gently.

  ‘Er, how’s that?’ I asked, moving at least an inch.

  ‘We-ell, if you’ve been learning from a book, I’ll bet it tells you that in the correct dancing position the man’s right hip should be in contact with the lady’s left. Just bend your head, nothing else, and look where yours is.’

  I did so and realised my stance was tolerable for the arch in Oranges and Lemons.

  ‘Ah,’ I said, ‘I see the problem.’

  ‘So - put it right.’ She looked straight into my eyes. She really had a most engaging smile. I shuffled closer. I could feel her left hand slipping down my back and encouraging my right hip.

  ‘Now, just let yourself sway a little to the music. Just turn a little from your hips. Listen to the distinct beat in every three, ONE two, three, ONE, two three - there, you hear it?’

  Who could miss it in a strict tempo Victor Sylvester Waltz?

  At this point the record stopped, but with practised speed she set it going again and slid easily back into my arms. Without giving me time to think she gently edged me forward and to one side, forward and to the other side, and we were away. Seconds later we were in danger of hitting the chairs ranged around the edge of the room, but with a most gentle movement she altered my direction.

  ‘There you are - you’re dancing the Modern Waltz, and you could carry on doing this around the room.’

  ‘We’re doing Forward Changes, I believe,’ I said.

  She laughed. ‘You have been swotting your text book!’

  It was quite delightful. As I gained confidence and fitted movements to the rhythm, with a dis
tinct lunge forward on the main beat, she simply melted ahead of me.

  ‘Now we’ll try a turn. Just start as we did before, lead off with your right foot, but move it to point to your right. Ready, right. ONE, two, three.

  She swept me round so that I had to put my left foot in the correct position, and with her left arm she gave my shoulder a slight push which made me close my feet together.

  ‘Wonderful - you’ve done half a natural turn already. Now, go back with your left foot, but start turning me to your right. Ready - go. FOUR, five, six.’

  With equal ease she turned me throughout the second part, and I had negotiated my first Waltz figure with a girl in my arms. But she gave me no time to savour the moment.

  ‘Once again, Mr Flaxton. Ready, now - ONE, two, three, FOUR, five, six.’

  I was successful again and tried to stop, but she tugged me on firmly.

  ‘Oh no, you don’t. You’re here to work, my lad. Just keep on turning.’

  Minutes later she had me doing a reverse turn, then I was dancing round the room using both figures, with changes between them. It was a marvellous sensation.

  ‘Well, that’s a good half hour,’ she said suddenly. I stared at my watch in disbelief. She laughed. ‘Yes, it goes quickly when you’re doing something well.’

  ‘I don’t know about doing it well. I certainly enjoyed it, but that was very much due to you, I think.’

  ‘No, I’m serious. Some people take far longer to pick it up. You’re still rather stiff, but you could soon learn to dance quite well.’

  ‘Well, frankly I’m amazed. If you knew how much I’ve worried about learning!’

  ‘Now, this isn’t just sales talk. My sister tells me that she suggested you might consider a course of lessons. I think you’d find them quite useful.’