In 1957 I ‘came out’, I was a debutante. This procedure, for the
uninitiated, was when, at the age of 17 or 18 curtseying to the
Queen at Buckingham Palace, whirling about at balls, attending Ascot
Races and Henley Regatta, plus rushing up to Scotland in September
for more balls and races, established the fact that you were grown-
up and marriageable. Ready for marriage, that is, with eligible ex-
public schoolboys. Men in the Brigade of Guards, or at Sandhurst
perhaps, merchant bankers, stockbrokers, barristers, solicitors, and
men with titles were sought after and fought over, by zealous
mothers anxious to see their daughters ‘settle down’ with the ‘right’
sort of man.
For me, being a debutante was a failure. Undeniably I had two
serious disadvantages. I was short-sighted and dumpy. The choice of
spectacle frames in the 1980s is not as plentiful as one would wish,
but in the 1950s there was virtually no choice at all. I had a pair
shaped like blue plastic butterflies in Dame Edna Everidge style. If I
wore them at dances in order to see, no one asked me to dance, and
if I didn’t wear them, I could see nothing. Strapless dresses were in
fashion, which on tall, thin girls looked marvellous but which did not
suit me in the least. However, despite protests my mother,
determined that I should be properly launched, bundled me off to
The Ritz, The Savoy, Claridges and The Dorchester where I danced
with, or at least mingled with, dukes, earls, lords, varying degrees of
aristocrats, and the odd foreign prince. But from the debris one good
thing did emerge. I discovered dancing is a lovely way of taking
exercise, without getting tired or bored, as I do with almost all other
exercise. This feeling for dancing has never left me and I frequently
dance alone in my kitchen with Flute, the cat, as my audience. But
Andy, a single girl friend, wished me to accompany her to a club she
knew. She enthused about the music and dancing, the fun and
excitement to be had at the Singles Club dancing evenings held on
Thursdays, at a hotel in Wheatley, just outside Oxford. The tickets in
1982 were only £1.75, she said, and well worth the money. I was
quite easy to persuade since I thought having a partner after several
years without one would be quite a novelty.
What to wear was a dilemma as my wardrobe did not run to
suitable dresses or skirts to dance in. (In public). After trying on
various garments with a view to attracting partners I settled for a
black cotton skirt, an old, flowered silk shirt, and lots of my daughter
Jessica’s jewellery – bright pink earrings and necklace. I picked Andy
up just after nine and as we approached the hotel, I felt very
nervous. We both admitted afterwards that had the other one said
that it was all a mistake and that the wish to go dancing had quite
vanished, great relief would have been felt, and we would have gone
home. But we admitted no such thing. The hotel car park was almost
full when we arrived, and we joined a furtive and hurrying crowd
heading towards the entrance. Here was a slight hold-up. It was the
queue to pay for the tickets and then, in addition, to be scrutinized
by the management to see that our clothes were smart enough to
pass for evening wear. (Men had to wear ties). You also had to
declare that you were single and over 25. We went to hang our coats
up in the Ladies, where there was a general air of excitement.
Masses of new make-up was applied – more lipstick, to already
lustrous red lips, to eyes, more blue, and to lashes, more mascara.
Calvin Klein would have recognized his monstrous regiment of
women. They were all there, in every guise. All sizes, ages, heights
and degrees of sexual attractiveness. But there was one common
denominator – everyone was single. I suspect, although I have no
evidence, that the aims were also similar: to have a good night out
and possibly find ‘Mr Right’.
Andy and I decided to start our evening in the bar. Remembering
the old joke about ‘two gin and tonics (or equivalent) and I’m
anybody’s’ I thought at least if I had one, my knees and hands would
stop shaking. The band was playing very jolly, catchy, tunes from the
fifties era onwards. I felt a touch of nostalgia hearing songs from big
musicals like Oklahoma, Paint your Wagon, Annie get your Gun,
Showboat and so on. Disco lights of different colours winked over the
dance floor. But in the bar, there were only small table lights, with
red lamp shades, discreetly dotted about. I wondered whether the
darkness in the bar, where friendships were struck up, was a subtle
plan on behalf of the management. It was difficult to tell in the
gloom the features of the person you were talking to, and this, in
most cases, was a definite advantage. By the time you reached the
dance floor and saw your partner’s face under the light, or he saw
yours, it was too late to change your mind about a dance.
My first partner, Les, was an ex-policeman. He hinted at being in
possession of numerous MI5 type secrets which he might reveal, he
said, should we later become more intimate. But he was hopeless at
dancing, so I left him. Unlike debutante dances where, if I was
abandoned I spent the rest of the evening in the Ladies, at the
Singles Club after the end of a dance, partners thanked each other
and returned to their original table. At Australian parties, apparently,
all the men stick together at one end of the room while the women
huddle together at the other. At the singles club I observed a
definitely Australian influence. Men of all descriptions stood still and
silent, grasping drinks. The only thing that moved was their eyes,
which slunk around, seeking a woman to their taste.
I must have had some of the right qualifications since I was asked
to dance, in quick succession, by a motor mechanic, a draughtsman,
and a milkman. Then I met Terry, an RAF engineer from Brize Norton.
He was about 25, and wore a smart blue suit and a forces tie. He had
a short back-and-sides haircut. His appearance was ordinary and his
conversation non-existent, (except about divorce or separation, a
topic of conversation where everyone had a story), but he was a
really amazing dancer. We jived, rock-and-rolled, tangoed, waltzed,
Charlestoned, and twisted for two hours, and I loved it.
Unfortunately, Terry had the same constraints on him as Cinderella –
midnight was his deadline for leaving. He had to get back to base.
I danced a last dance with an electrician, one Pete, who was
wearing a blue nylon shirt, green tie, and beige terylene trousers.
With the later hour the music had become romantic. A rendering of
favourite Des O’Connor, Val Doonican, and Julio Iglesias’ love songs
were sung by the enthusiastic band leader, doing his best. It wasn’t
bad and there was a feeling of something in the air. ‘By the time I get
to Phoenix’ was playing when Pete cleared his throat to speak. We
were dancing quite close and my fingers were stuck to his nylon
shirt. Perhaps it will be something romantic, I thought, but in fact
what he said was: “Looking round this room, I’m most disappointed. I
would definitely say that the club I go to in Maidenhead contains a
much higher class of person. Do you know what I mean….?”
The approach to women at dances by dukes, earls, lords,
electricians, mechanics or what-you-will is indubitably much the
same, it seems. If you are chosen to dance, it is with the idea that,
after a bit of bald flattery, a few sexy dances with the electric current
on, and a run-down on their astounding abilities in bed, you will rush
home with them to see the evidence, and test its truth. In my
opinion, the only difference between men at dances, wherever they
are, is whether they can dance or whether they cannot. And as I
found a better partner at the Singles Club, Wheatley, than I ever did
at The Savoy, London, for my £1.75 that is where I would rather go
for a good dancing night out.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
No comments:
Post a Comment