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MEMORIES OF NORTHAMPTONSHIRE
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DANCING IN KETTERING When the time came for me to think of leaving school in 1947, my parents drilled into me that I should become a tradesmen of some kind. They both suffered during the depression years, when so many were unemployed, and to them becoming a tradesmen meant some kind of security. So it was that I entered into an apprenticeship with Dalkeith Press, in Dalkeith Place, run by the Cox brothers, Phil and Noel. Thus I became a compositor. I t was during this time that I fell in love !! From the window where I worked I could see into the Cross Keys Restaurant which was separated from my work place by a narrow alley. The object of my desires was a waitress there, I think her name was Marie. She must have been a few years older than me, but I remember getting goose bumps whenever I was lucky enough to be able to see her through the windows. I thought she was the most beautiful girl on God's earth. I was still just 16 then, and imagine how I felt when I heard someone saying that Marie was not only a waitress but also a part-time dancing teacher. I made more enquiries and eventually enrolled at the Phyl Aitken Dance Studio, where Marie taught. Phyl Aitken was a delightful lady and a dream to dance with and her husband who played football for the Poppies was also an excellent dancer. Far better than I could ever aspire to be. I remember his name was Maurice Campbell, a perfect partner for Phyllis in his bow tie and tails, and she in her gorgeous gowns. How different he looked as an attacking full-back for the Poppies on Saturday afternoons. Their dance studio was located on the top floor of the Conservative Club in Montagu Street, and so one evening I very nervously turned up to enrol. I was made very welcome, but felt bitter disappointment that the object of my dreams was not there. It appeared Marie worked there on a different night. A few days later I was again at the studio, and joy of joys, so was Marie. There was even better to come as for a while she was to be my partner. Holding her in my arms was such a thrill, but I was so nervous I must have trod on her feet more than once. I can remember well blurting out to her that we worked next door to each other, and from then on if she spotted me through the window we would give each other a wave. I was in heaven, of course. Having achieved some kind of ability in a waltz, quickstep or foxtrot I became a regular at the Saturday night dances that were held at that time and throughout the 50's at the Co-op Central Hall. Several different bands played there, with my favourite being the Metronomes and Saturday night became a real ritual for me. A bath after tea, dressing up in my best clothes and spending ages combing my hair just right. Most of the young men about town went to Al Boston for a haircut in those days, always seeking the latest trend, the only two I remember were the DA and the crew cut. Al Boston's shop in Canon Street was the place to go. Not only was he an expert at the latest hair cuts but he was also a complete entertainer with a huge archive of jokes. I often heard him exclaim: "this job is just like walking on air [hair}. Like most of the young lads I would buy my ticket for the dance, and then it was across the road to the Swan Hotel for a few glasses of beer before going back to the dance, usually about 9.30 or 10 pm. The dances were very popular, always a good crowd there, and if you could dance, quite a nice choice of girls to dance with. Upstairs in a long room, close to the balcony seats the Co-op served coffee, tea, cakes etc. for supper, so if by that time you'd managed to find a girl you liiked it was the thing to take her up there for supper. Then of course at the end of the night you would offer to walk her home. None of us young lads had cars of course, but it was very pleasant walking home with a pretty girl on a starlit wintery evening, and if you were lucky you'd manage to indulge in some kissing before leaving her on her doorstep and then facing a lonely walk home at around 1 am in the morning. Only once did I ever regret going to a dance at the Central Hall. It was very close to Christmas and Kettering was already covered in a few inches of snow. My ticket for the dance was purchased and as usual after a brief appearance at the dance, quickly checking out who was already there, and looking for any likely girls, it was over to the Swan for a beer or two. Unfortunately on this occasion I had far too many of the Swan's best bitter and paid the price. I walked, how I don't know, across Montagu Street and into the dance. Immediately I got inside I very nearly passed out, and made my way into the Gents toilets. I entered a cubicle, locked it, and became rather unwell ! I don't know if I slept in that confined space or if I just passed out, but after what seemed only a short time I woke up enough to gather my wits together. The whole place was in total darkness. The dance was over and all had left. I felt a sense of panic as I groped my way out of there, trying to remember where I was, and trying to see if I could find my way out. The front of the hall was securely locked, so I stumbled along the passageway that ran the length of the hall towards the back door, which opened out into Eden Street. As I neared the exit I noticed that a light was shining from under the doors that led into the kitchen. I slid the door back and inside sat the Manager of the hall who got quite a surprise at my sudden appearance. I remember his name was Les, his surname I forget. He was a friend of my parents as he had at one time been our local Co-op milkman, long before he was promoted to Hall Manager. I explained as best as I could, not expecting or receiving any sympathy. He came out with me and opened the back door to let me out, after I begged him not to tell my mother and father. Outside it felt like the North Pole as I trudged home through the wind and snow, mumbling to myself . . . . never again, never again ! Derek Payne all text is © copyright and must not be reproduced for any commercial purpose whatsoever without prior written consent |