Billy Elliot

by Melvin Burgess

  I don’t agree with violence. That’s not going to get us anywhere, there’ll always be scabs – but I can understand it. Rows and rows of men, going without, putting their community and the future before their own families – and there’s those bastards riding in behind a police guard to try and bring us down. Scabs. When you see men you’ve worked next to, men you thought were your friends – men you went to school with, or your son went to school with, people you thought you could trust – and there they are riding in behind a police guard five men thick! Well. It makes you want to kick their bloody heads in. As if it wasn’t enough having to fight the bosses. To have to fight your own an’ all!

  So – I went in that day ready to see my boy dish out some stick. I remember the feeling when your glove connects – tok! – it goes right up your arm and into your shoulder. It’s some-thing I did, and me dad did, it’s something Tony did too. Now it’s Billy’s turn. I keep telling him, ‘You’ve got to be able to fight, lad. If you can’t fight you can’t stand up for yourself, and if you can’t stand up for yourself ... well, what’s the point?’

  They were using the downstairs as a soup kitchen for the strikers, and so the ballet class was in the hall as well. Rows of little girls in pink going up and down, up and down.

  ‘Bottoms out!’ called the woman doing the class. I thought, Bloody hell! Ballet and boxing, what a mixture! It made me chuckle while I sat down. Ballet and boxing! They ought to put the little girls in gloves and put the lads in those poncy pink shoes they wear. That’d be a laugh!

  Our Billy was in the ring.

  ‘Go on, Billy!’ I shouted. I could see the little girls turning to look at me. I nodded at our lad. I thought, Let them have a look at him, see what he can do. I hadn’t been for a while. He didn’t use to be much good, but he’s improved lately, he’s been telling me. Says his footwork’s improved and his punching’s coming on. ‘Footwork,’ I said, ‘aye, you need to have footwork, just make sure you whack him one in between steps.’

  Old George was checking the gloves, getting them ready.

  ‘Go on, lads, fight fair. Give it all you got!’

  The other lad was a big chubby bloke. He was taller and stronger than our Billy, but he was a bit of a porker. Footwork, I thought – Billy’ll leave him standing!

  Then out he came. And I thought ... Oh, Christ!

  I mean. What was he playing at? Muhammad Ali? More like bloody Fred Astaire. Jumping and twisting and twatting about. He was even twirling round in circles and giving his back to his opponent.

  ‘Oh, not this again,’ George groaned. ‘This is man-to-man combat, not a bloody tea party. Hit him! Hit him! For god’s sake ...’ He looked over to me. All I could do was shake my head.

  Billy was prancing about, occasionally going up close and doing a little jab. The other bloke was just standing there hiding behind his gloves, watching.

  ‘He’s just pissing about, Greavesy,’ said George. ‘Hit him one. Get stuck in. He’s like a fanny in a fit.’

  ‘Watch him, Billy!’ I yelled. Too late. Whack! Greavesy walked right up and smacked him one. Bang! And there was Billy on his back.

  ‘Jesus Christ!’ George was furious, absolutely furious. I suppose he felt he was letting me down as much as anything, but it’s not his fault. The boy’s unteachable. All that stuff about footwork! I might have known he was just daydreaming again.

  ‘Billy Elliot, you’re a disgrace to them gloves, your father and the traditions of this hall. You owe us fifty pence.’

  I couldn’t look any more. All I wanted to do was come along and give him some support, and what happens? I have to watch him get humiliated. I was so angry. What could I do for that boy? What had I got for him? If he can’t even bloody look after himself against a fat prat like that, what is he? Eh? What is he? And what does that make me?

  ‘Go on – hit it. Where’s your sense of rhythm? Bang bang bang! You’ll stay here until you do it properly, Billy Elliot.’

  Bang bloody bloody bang bang bang! How dare he! I was so angry I couldn’t see straight. In front of my dad! How bloody dare he! He knew exactly what he was doing.

  ‘You’re a disgrace to them gloves, your father and blah blah blah ...’ Bastard! I tried to imagine the punchbag was his face but I was so cross I was just swinging and swiping and missing the sodding thing.

  ‘I’m going to glue your bloody feet to the ground, Elliot! I’m going to stop you pratting about if it’s the last thing I do. Go on ... hit it!’

  Bloody bloody ... bang bang bang! How dare he? F*** him!

  ‘Bottoms in. Feel the music. And – one and two and three and four. And five and six. Lift your arms. Feel the music! Susan! Drop that hip.’

  Down the hall that woman was doing her ballet class. There was some old bloke on the piano. Plinkity plonk, plinkity plink. One and two and three and four ...

  I began hitting more slowly, in time to the music. It made me snigger. I reckon if old George’d guessed I was beating up the punchbag in time to poncy ballet music, he’d have blown himself to bits. It worked, though. That bag was getting it.

  ‘And one and two and three and four and five and six ...’

  ‘That’s better. Why don’t you do that to someone’s head one day?’ George fished out a bunch of keys from his pocket and chucked them to me.

  ‘Give them to Mrs Wilkinson when you’ve finished. I’ll see you next week.’

  Out he went. Good riddance to bad rubbish, I thought. I focused on the bag and pretended it was his head. Beat the fat bastard up by ballet!

  ‘One and two ...’ And bang and thump. ‘Three and four.’ And whack and bump. Bang bang bang. I wondered if Muhammad Ali did workouts to music. It wouldn’t surprise me. The trouble with George is, he’s teaching boxing like it used to be, not like how it is. Same as everything else round here – about sixty years out of date.

  Not that I give a toss about boxing, anyhow. Michael’s right. You’d never get him down here whacking away at bags of leather.

  ‘F***ing stupid. Kicking people’s heads in. What for? It’s a load of old shite. I don’t know why you bother.’

  ‘You got to look after yourself, haven’t you?’

  ‘I’d rather f***ing run away.’

  ‘That won’t get you very far.’

  ‘Well, how far do you think you’re going to go? Look at them gloves, man, they went out with the Ark.’

  ‘These are me dad’s.’

  ‘Exactly.’

  Bloody Michael. One thing though. He’s always himself, like me mam says. God knows what that is, though.

  The music changed pace.

  ‘And hold. Support yourselves. Don’t look at me, Susan, look ahead, where’s your confidence? Come on. And .... down. Lovely. Good. Eyes front, Debbie. And five and six and .... For god’s sake, stop quivering, girl! And three and four and five and six and seven and eight. Thank you, Mr Braithwaite. Right, into the centre, girls, please.’

  I took the gloves off, hung them round me neck and went over to have a look.

  They looked pretty, the girls, in their pink tights and little dresses and things. Old George had told us, no hanky-panky with the ballet lesson happening right next to us. Some of the lads had been calling out – you know, ‘Fwoar, never mind bottoms in – tits out!’ and all that. Not that many of them girls had tits yet, mind, but the way them girls bend over and lift their legs right up – Dave Michael said it’d be nice if they left their knickers off. What a view! He said you’d be able to see halfway to China. He’s filthy. He gets it off his dad. Look at them! If they were prancing around like that any other way their mams’d be onto them, we’d all be calling them little sluts, but because it’s the ballet they can flash their fannies and no one cares. Tell you the truth, I felt a bit rude watching them, like a dirty old man. You know?

  ‘Miss, the keys ... the keys, miss!’

  She just ignored me.

  ‘Not now, three, four. And five, and six ...’

  S
he didn’t seem to mind us watching, though.

  ‘Right, Mr Braithwaite. “The Sun’ll Come Out Tomorrow”. Fat chance. And ... port de bras forward and up.’

  The music started up again and the girls stepped up all together. It was pretty clever, really. All in step, lifting up their arms, twirling round. Step and two, and down and two, and round and two. It was interesting, really. Pretty easy, though. I reckoned anyone could do it if they wanted. I didn’t know why them lasses had to spend so much time doing something as obvious as that, like. That pointy bit with the toes. I stretched mine out to see. See? Easy!

  ‘Why don’t you have a go?’

  It was Debbie Wilkinson. She’s in the same year as me at school.

  ‘Nah,’ I said. Imagine it! Me doing ballet!

  ‘It’s not as easy as it looks,’ she said.

  ‘Get off,’ I said.

  ‘Port de bras forward and up. And ... hold!’

  They all froze in mid-air like. I held me breath. It really looked pretty good. I stuck me leg out like them. Easy. Mrs Wilkinson went around among them, straightening legs and things.

  ‘And up!’

  They all stood up straight. ‘I bet you couldn’t do it,’ said Debbie.

  ‘Anyone could do that.’

  She put her leg out with her toes pointed. ‘Do that,’ she said.

  I stuck it out just to show her.

  ‘There you are. See?’ she said. It was true, hers was much more pointy than mine.

  ‘Well, I’ve got me boots on.’

  ‘Anyhow, it’s shaking like a leaf,’ she teased me. I looked down. It was. She did hers again and, all right, it was stiller than mine. Quite a bit stiller, even though it was shaking a bit at the toe.

  ‘OK, girls. To the barre. Thank you, Mr Braithwaite.’ Mrs Wilkinson walked past the pianist, pinched a fag from his pocket and lit it without a missing a beat. ‘And one and two and three and four.’

  My nan’s always saying how she could have been a professional dancer. She reckoned Mam could have been too, but dancing wasn’t her thing. Nan used to take her to do the ballet when she was a girl, but Mam never took to it like she did. She was a musician, Nan said. She loved to play. I thought of Nan doing all those movements with her arms up, and Mam doing the same thing. See? There’s things in our family other than boxing.

  The girls were all at the other end of the barre, so I had a little go behind Miss’s. Bend and stretch and legs out! I bent and stuck me leg out and peeked at it over my shoulder.

  Debbie was right. It wasn’t as easy as it looked.

  I was trying to follow what they were doing, and it really was pretty difficult. The thing was, I found out, to let the music do it for you. You know? It wasn’t like Marc Bolan or Bowie but it had a good rhythm. You had to get into it. You had to feel the music, like Miss kept saying. And then ... up and down and one and two and three and four and ...

  ‘ ... boots off!’

  ‘Ow!’

  She was treading on my foot. A whiff of fag smoke drifted past my face. It made me cough.

  ‘What size are you? Two, three. Boots off! Four, five. And six and seven.’

  ‘Miss, what about the keys?’

  ‘And eight and nine and ten.’ She was off again, wandering around among the girls. I don’t know why she wanted me to take me boots off, but I did as I was told. Maybe you weren’t allowed near the barre or something with your boots on. I was doing the second laces when she dropped something in front of me.

  Bloody great pair of ballet shoes.

  ‘I dare you,’ she said. ‘Prepare. You can’t get a decent line with those boots.’

  Well. There was no one about to see, just the girls. And you know what? I reckon they liked it, having a lad in with them. I reckon they thought I was something a bit different. Why not? Just to show them.

  She was a good teacher, that Mrs Wilkinson. I didn’t hardly have time to think about how stupid I looked. She had me going up and down, up and down. One and two and three and four and five. And I reckon she thought I was pretty good at it, an’ all, because when she made us all hold with our arms stretched out in front and our legs stretched out behind us, she came and checked me over.

  ‘Nice straight leg,’ she said. See, it’s easier if you wear the proper shoes, you can’t get a decent line with those boots on. ‘Good arch,’ she said, whatever that is. It was bloody hard, though. You try it – just stand there on one leg, with your other leg out behind and your arms out in front and just stand there for a minute or two without shaking. You’ll see. It’s hard. You have to be bloody strong.

  ‘Turn that leg out. Drop that hip.’

  She didn’t say much. She never said anything. I just had the impression she thought I was doing all right, somehow.

  Afterwards, when I was walking home, she pulled up along-side me in her car. The window came down. She had that Debbie in the back of her car, too. I’d never realised she was her daughter.

  She breathed out a load of smoke through the window. ‘You owe me fifty pence,’ she said.

  ‘No, I don’t.’

  ‘You do. Bring it along next week.’

  ‘I have to do boxing, miss.’

  ‘But you’re crap at boxing,’ said Debbie. The little cow must’ve been watching me.

  ‘I’m not,’ I said. ‘He just caught me, that’s all.’

  ‘Shut up, Debbie.’ Mrs Wilkinson looked back at me. ‘Thought you enjoyed it.’

  I said nowt.

  ‘Please yourself, darling,’ she told me, and she drove off. I could see Debbie’s funny face peering at me out the back window as they went.

  She was right, though – I did enjoy it. The music was a bit dull, that’s all. I reckon I could have really got into it if she had something better than that old fart on the piano. T. Rex or Bowie. Pan’s People. Or Fred Astaire. He can dance! My nan likes Fred Astaire, we had one of his films on the telly the other day. If I was going to be a dancer, that’s the sort of thing it’d have to be. You know, “High hat”?

  High hat! I ran and spun and jumped as I ran down the road, and the thought of the music filled me up till it ran squeaking and shouting and spinning out of my ears.

  Next day I was aching all over.

  * * *

  That ballet, it’s bloody addictive, you know. I was thinking about it all the next week. One and two and up and down. I kept hearing her voice going on at me. When you put your arms and legs into those positions, it’s like a note of music. You hold it in the air ... and then, whoosh! It goes off into the rest of the tune.

  Aye, interesting. The only thing with it is, it makes me feel like a right sissy. I mean! Ponce, two, three, twat, two, three and prat about and four and five and six and shite shite shite.

  Nah. Imagine what me dad’d say! Or Tony! They’d go barmy! I mean, what good’s ballet down a mine? Only problem with that is, what mine? The union leader Arthur Scargill says they have a secret plan to close all the mines down, so if he’s right I might as well be dancing as owt, because there won’t be any mines left for me to go down by the time I’m old enough. On the news they say the miners’ll be back at work in a few more weeks. Once winter comes. Starved out. Aye, well, we’re not starving yet. It’s been a long time since we had a joint of meat on Sunday, that’s all.

  There’s no one to cook it anyhow. Tony has a go but he’s not as good as our mam was.

  Not everyone thinks ballet’s crap. Some of them lasses at school said it’s dead brave of me to do a ballet class. Aye, and some of ’em told the other lads what I was up to. I had Dave Sullivan and that crowd on at me in the playground the other day.

  ‘Eh, Billy, give us a turn. Show yer fanny, will you?’ But I don’t care about them. What do they know? I’m used to being picked on. That Debbie’s latched onto me an’ all, which doesn’t help either. I reckon her mam wants me to go so’s she can get more customers. If the boys started ballet there’d be twice as many takers, wouldn’t there? Not that sh
e’s short of a bob or two, I reckon, with her posh voice and all. Bloody middle-class Millie, that’s what she is. Not like us. Not like mining. Try her down a mine! It’d bloody kill her!

  Debbie was on at me on the way home from school the other day.

  ‘Plenty of boys do ballet, you know,’ she said.

  ‘Do they f***. What boys?’

  ‘Nobody round here, but plenty do.’

  ‘Poofs,’ I told her.

  ‘Not necessarily,’ she said.

  We got to the top of the hill and looked down. You could see the mine from there. All around it were rings and rings and rings of miners and coppers. They had their shields shining in the sun. There were some of them on horseback. One of the shifts was coming out.

  ‘That Wayne Sleep. He’s not a poof,’ she said.

  ‘Sounds pretty poofy to me,’ I told her. Down below there was a noise like drums. I peered down. The coppers were beating their shields with their batons.

  ‘It’s like Zulu, isn’t it?’ said Debbie.

  ‘Aye, like Zulu.’ There were bloody thousands of them and they were still coming. You could see more vans coming down the hills, like lions gathering. Or vultures. One drove past us. I could see the faces of the policemen inside staring out at us.

  ‘He’s as fit as an athlete.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘That Wayne Sleep. He’s as fit as an athlete.’

  ‘I bet he couldn’t beat Daley Thompson.’

  ‘Maybe not in a race, but in stamina. Why don’t you come next time? You could just watch.’

  ‘I gotta go boxing, haven’t I?’

  ‘Please yourself.’ She turned off to go. She lived on the other side of the village. Big houses, gardens. Middle-class Millie. ‘See you, then.’

  ‘Aye. See you. Ta-ra.’

  Debbie walked off up the hill. I stared down at the mine. The miners on the picket line started hooting at the police-men banging their shields, as if they were monkeys. What a racket! It was a war all right, but you know what? They looked like a bloody chorus line in a Fred Astaire movie. I bet I could have made a great film director if I was given the chance. I bet no one else would think of using all those policemen in a chorus line. I began to tap my foot and sing ... “High hat”.