Billy Elliot

by Melvin Burgess

  ‘Is this another boxing move, then?’ I asked him.

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘So did you try the spin, then?’

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘Did it work?’

  ‘Not really.’

  ‘Right. Look.’ I decided to give him a hand. He was just going to get himself into a mess like this. George had obviously decided to let him fanny around on his own. ‘Look, son, you’ve got to keep your hands up at all times, even when you’re leaping. Keep your guard up!’ I put his gloves up round his chin. ‘Do a jump like that.’

  ‘I can’t, Dad, it’s balance, you have to be balanced, you see.’ Then he started to show me how he had to have his arms in the right place so he could leap properly. He had it all thought out, aye, a whole bloody philosophy of pratting about. I gave up in the end. What’s the point? Maybe George was right, maybe all you could do was let him do his own thing and wait for some common sense to work its way into that thick head of his all on its own. Maybe if he got knocked down enough times, he’d start trying to fight back. I wouldn’t count on it myself. The only thing was the bloody fifty pences. I had to scrape and save for that money. I was paying for him to learn how to defend himself, not to prance about like a bloody girl.

  I suppose George knows what he’s doing. I’ve stopped going down meself, after what happened last time. I’ve enough on my plate as it is without trying to turn our Billy into something you’d recognise. Tony, for instance. He scares me worse than Billy, he’s getting so wild. I’m scared the lad’s going to do something stupid.

  The strike’s been going on for four months now with no end in sight. I’ve used up all me savings. I’ve never been so poor. Well, it’s getting us all down, isn’t it, but it’s worst for the young ones. I see my mates on the line and down the club and ... well, no one says anything. You can’t say any-thing, you can’t let the side down. But I reckon I’m not the only one who thinks the same.

  We’ve had it this time. Things have changed.

  It’s not going to end soon, either. Not this week or next week or next month. Maybe not even this year. But some time, sooner or later. It’s just a question of how much we suffer in the meantime and how quickly they close us down after.

  I don’t blame Tony for being angry, but you don’t have to be stupid about it. I can see in his face how much he’d just love to give someone something they’ll remember. I’ve felt it myself. The only difference is, I’m not going to do it. He might. Let’s face it – what’s he got to lose? His job? Like hell.

  We were out shopping the other day, me and him. I was asking him about our Billy – if he’d noticed anything odd about him lately.

  ‘Odd? What do you want, a list?’ he said.

  ‘I’m worried about him.’

  ‘He’s a bloody fruitcake. If he mucks around with my records any more I’ll twat him one, that’s all. They’re getting all scratched.’

  ‘He’s your little brother.’

  ‘I don’t care who he is. How am I going to replace them when he’s finished ruining ‘em for me? I’m not exactly loaded, am I?’

  ‘I’m sorry I asked.’

  He was fuming. Any little thing sets him off these days. It’s not fair, though. It’s not Billy’s fault we’re out. ‘I’ve got enough on my plate without having to play mam to Billy.’

  ‘He needs his mother,’ I snapped.

  ‘Aye, and who doesn’t?’ he snapped back.

  ‘He’s a kid. You’re a working man,’ I said. But I was sorry as soon as I said it. Tony doesn’t mention her to me and I don’t mention her to him, but he must miss her as much as anyone else. It was unfair of me to pull Sarah on him as if she was Billy’s mother and not his.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I told him. But he was already off on something else. It had just come round the aisle of the supermarket. Gary Stewart with a nice full trolley of groceries.

  ‘Well, look at this,’ says Tony.

  ‘Careful now,’ I muttered. It’s only a matter of time before he lashes out, and then what? Straight into nick, that’s what. They don’t bother much about justice when they’re dealing with us lot. They’re flinging the book at any miner who gets done and you can guarantee the company won’t be taking on anyone with a record at the end of it. One punch and that’s it. Steve Willis got three months for kicking someone up the arse. Oh, aye, don’t kid yourself. The law’s a weapon, and it’s not our weapon. When did working men ever have the law on their side? Lawyers, judges, police chiefs. Not exactly from working backgrounds, are they?

  ‘All right, scab?’ called Tony. You could tell Gary was a scab just by looking at his trolley. No striker gets a load of shopping like that six months into this strike. Gary had it hard, he had a lot of commitments, but who doesn’t? It’s this sort of thing that’s the worst of it. Gary and Tony went to school together. They were mates once. Not any more.

  Tony was heading over there.

  ‘Scabs eat well,’ I called out.

  ‘Got enough food there, have you? What are you doing, eh?’ Tony banged his basket against Gary’s. I wanted to tell him to leave it out, but I bit me lip. He’s old enough to look after himself.

  ‘You were me best mate. First rule of the union, Gary, you know that. Never cross a picket line. We’re all f***ed if you don’t remember that.’

  ‘We’re already f***ed, Tony, mate.’

  ‘I’m not your f***ing mate. And if we do lose, it’ll be because of the likes of you!’

  He was getting worked up. But Gary’d had enough. He pushed the trolley and let go. ‘F***ing hell,’ he said. ‘Bollocks! So it’s all my fault then. Fine!’ He turned his back and walked out. I thought Tony was going to go after him but he just stood there staring.

  ‘Shit. Pity he hadn’t paid for that food, we could have had it,’ he said. He picked up a bottle of wine from the top of the heap. It looked like bloody Christmas, that trolleyload.

  ‘F*** it,’ he whispered. ‘F*** it!’

  He’s going to lump someone. I know it. I just hope it’s not a bloody copper.

  * * *

  On the picket line, Friday morning, it gets worse. More and more pickets, more and more anger. Everyone’s getting in on it. Students, commies, teachers on holiday, people from halfway round the world – and half the bloody police in Great Britain fencing us off from the scabs on their scab bus going in to do their scab labour. You wouldn’t get me on that bus, not for all the money in the Bank of England. If I’m going down, I’m going down fighting.

  There was eggs going over me head. Couple of bricks. Things are getting tough. I was right next to George, we had our arms linked and the whole crowd was heaving forward, and then the coppers were shoving us back, and we were heaving forward again. It was open bloody warfare.

  There was a lull in between buses, George had a word with me. ‘Listen, Jackie,’ he says. ‘If it’s the fifty pence a session, forget it. I can do without it. I don’t do it for the money, you know.’

  ‘What are you on about?’

  ‘The boxing, man. I haven’t seen hide nor hair of young Billy for months, I was gonna say something but I thought it might be embarrassing.’

  I was amazed. He’s been away every Saturday morning.

  ‘First I’ve heard about it,’ I said. ‘He’s always at it. He never has the gloves off.’ I didn’t tell him about the spins and the jumping, though.

  ‘Send him round to my house and I’ll knock some sense into him,’ said George. Then the police came surging forward. Someone lobbed a brick overhead – crash – right into the side of the coach.

  ‘SCAB SCAB SCAB SCAB!’ We pressed forward so hard I was lifted almost off my feet. If you fell down in the middle of this lot, you’d never get up.

  If our Billy was pocketing them fifty pences, I’d bloody kill him. He knows how hard things are. I meant to say summat to him that evening, but we had a meeting at the Social and I forgot. Next morning was a Saturday and I was going to get him at breakfast befo
re the picket, but I never had a chance. He came running downstairs stuffing something up his coat and off out the door before you could say a word.

  ‘Oi! What about your breakfast?’ yelled Tony.

  ‘See yer!’ He was off and away. I just caught sight of him disappearing round the corner as I stuck me head out of the door.

  ‘Billy! Billy!’ I yelled. But he was gone. I thought, What the hell’s he up to? What’s he doing now?

  I was jumping so high, I could see out of the window and right over the shed where they keep the sports gear. Miss kept saying to me, ‘It’s not just height, Billy. Where’s your control? You’re not concentrating!’ Well, I was concentrating. I was concentrating on getting up high. It just made me feel so good, floating up over the heads of them little lasses. They were like little bits of fluff floating around me knees.

  I could do all the plies and the jumps and font de bras and all that. Miss says I’ve got promise. She spends half the lesson just teaching me – she doesn’t bother with the others half the time. They’re always moaning on about it.

  ‘Can we have a go, miss? When’s it our turn, miss? It’s not fair, miss, just because he’s a boy, miss ...’

  ‘Shut up, Debbie, I’m busy.’

  Oh, I’d got right into it. I was looking forward to the Saturday lesson all week. Once I started, I could just go on for ever. It was right what Debbie said about stamina. It may look easy, but it’s not. It’s hard. I’d got so fit it’d made me better at footy and running and everything. I could keep going for hours.

  I must have been mad.

  It had to happen. I was kidding meself. Michael kept warning me. ‘He’ll find out. What are you going to do then?’ I knew he was right, but it was like, if I kept on doing it and not thinking about it, nothing’d happen. I kept thinking, Just this week, just one more lesson, then I’ll go back to the boxing. But I got more and more into it, and better and better at it, and Dad never turned up to watch me at George’s any more ... I just thought it was going to go on for ever.

  And of course, when it did happen, it wasn’t just questions and getting suspicious and everything. He only bloody turned up right in the middle of class.

  ‘Pick up your leg, Billy. Swing it! Swing two three, round two three, up two three. What do you call that? Let’s have a bit of grace, Billy Elliot!’

  I was swinging me leg round, slow circle, trying to make it as smooth as cream – and I looked up and there was me dad standing in the door.

  Christ! I just froze in me tracks. I thought I was going to die. I thought he was going to rush out and kill me. Miss was still going on ...

  ‘Up two three, swing two three. Like a princess, Deborah. Beautiful necks! One two three ... what’s up with you?’

  She said that when she saw me standing still. Then the music stopped and she turned round and saw Dad. He’d gone blood red.

  ‘You! Out! Now!’ he snapped.

  I could see her out of the corner of me eye, leaning forward towards him as if she could eat him for breakfast – and she would have done, and all. Well, she’d’ve tried anyhow, she doesn’t take anything sitting down. The last thing I wanted was a screaming match between her and me dad. I started walking towards him. ‘Please, miss. Don’t,’ I hissed as I went past. It was so embarrassing. Dad thought I was a pansy for dancing; she thought I was a pansy for not standing up to him. I’d had it.

  The door banged behind me. He grabbed my arm and pushed me in front.

  ‘Right, you’ve got some explaining to do,’ he said. And he marched me home.

  He didn’t say a word all the way back. That’s how he does it, he makes you sweat. All the way home, down Union Street, up the High Street, along Macefield Road. Not a word. The bastard.

  Back home he pointed at a chair behind the table, staring at me all the while he was taking his coat off. Then he sat down opposite me. And he still hadn’t said a word. See? The longer he goes without saying anything, the worse trouble you’re in. This time I was wondering if he was every gonna speak to me again.

  I knew what he wanted. He wanted to me to say sorry. Well, I wasn’t going to. He could wait for ever. It was stupid! What had I done wrong?

  ‘Ballet,’ he said at last.

  ‘So what’s wrong with ballet?’ I said. Me nan was sitting on a chair by the window eating a pork pie and watching us like we were on the telly. I looked at her. It was easier than having to look at him. I could see him turning red again out of the corner of my eye.

  ‘What’s wrong with ballet? Look at me, Billy. Are you trying to wind me up?’

  ‘It’s perfectly normal,’ I sad, turning to face him.

  ‘Normal?’ I was scared. He’d gone all white around the lips.

  ‘I used to go to ballet,’ said me nan.

  ‘See?’ I said.

  ‘For your nan. For girls, Billy. Not for lads. Lads do football or boxing or wrestling or summat.’

  ‘What lads do wrestling?’ I asked, and I had him there, because no one I know does wrestling round here.

  ‘You know what I mean.’

  ‘I don’t know what you mean.’

  ‘Don’t start, Billy.’

  ‘I don’t see what’s wrong with it, that’s all.’

  ‘You know perfectly well what’s wrong with it.’

  ‘No, I don’t.’

  ‘You do.’

  ‘No, I don’t!’

  ‘Yes, you bloody well do. Who do you think I am? You know quite nicely.’

  ‘It’s just dancing. That’s all. What’s wrong with that?’

  The thing is ... All right, I knew what he meant. At least, I used to know. Ballet isn’t what boys do. It’s not football and boxing and being hard. And it’s not going on strike and standing up for yourserlf and sticking it out with your mates and all hanging in together. It’s not mining. It’s not the union. It’s not what we do.

  Well, maybe I’m not mining either. And even if I was, so what? Why isn’t it what we do? Just because no one’s ever done it before, that’s all. Well, once I’ve done it, it is what we do, because I’m one of us too. It doesn’t have to be like him or not at all. Just because I like dancing doesn’t mean I’m turning into someone else.

  Does it?

  ‘You’re asking for a hiding.’

  ‘No, I’m not. Honest, Dad, I’m not!’ As far as he was concerned I was just being stubborn, but I really didn’t under-stand why it was so bloody important that I shouldn’t do ballet.

  ‘You are, Billy!’

  ‘It’s not just poofs, Dad. Some ballet dancers are as fit as athletes. It’s hard work. What about Wayne Sleep?’

  ‘Wayne Sleep?’

  I wish I hadn’t said that. Wayne. Even as I said it I remembered how it sounded when Debbie first said the name to me. Wayne Sleep? Poof! That’s what it sounded like.

  But now he’d had enough. ‘Listen, son, from now on you can forget about ballet dancing. And you can forget about the f***ing boxing as well. I’ve been busting my arse for those fifty pences. You know how tight money is. You can stay here and look after your nan. Got it? Good.’

  ‘I could have been a professional dancer if I’d had the chance,’ said Nan.

  ‘Will you shut up!’ Dad turned round and roared at her, the sod. He had no business speaking to her like that.

  I jumped right up and screamed in his face, ‘I hate you! You’re a bastard!’ He made a lunge for me but I was away.

  He was up and after me. ‘Billy!’ – but I was gone. Suddenly I had tears streaming down my face and I knew he’d just think I was being a poof all over again. I could hear him bellowing, but I’d had it with him, the bastard. I was out the door and up the street and across the field and down the beck and gone. Bastard! It was the only thing I’d ever been really good at and he was stopping me doing it. Bastard! Bastard, bastard! I ran for miles. That was it, that was really it. He meant it. If Dad says something like that, he sticks to it. If he caught me anywhere near the Social, he�
�d leather me.

  I ended up down on the beach, miles away. It was a big windy day, waves coming in crashing on the beach. I can understand why me nan comes down here. Just listening to the water munching away on the stones – it clears your head, calms you down. Helps you think. I started chucking stones at the waves and watching the water swallowing them up. The sun was going down. I’d been out hours.

  There was Everington behind me on the hill. I was on the posh side of town. Miss’s side. I wondered, if I’d been posh like her, I’d’ve been allowed to do ballet. But it wasn’t that. I was the only boy in the class. Middle class, working class, it makes no difference. Boys don’t do ballet, full stop.

  There wasn’t anything she could do about it.

  Actually, her house was a lot smaller than I thought it’d be. I’d only ever seen those houses from the beach before. It was more of a bungalow than a house when you got up close. It had a garden at the front and a garage and all that, and it was on its own, not a terrace like ours, but when you got inside it was a lot smaller than you might think. I don’t know why they bother building houses on their own unless they’re bigger. I mean, what for?

  I went up and knocked. I didn’t know why. Me dad was me dad. What could she do? Middle-class Millie.

  The door opened and there she was, breathing fag smoke.

  ‘Oh. It’s you, is it?’ she said.

  I said, ‘He’d kill me if he knew I’d come here.’

  ‘He’s stopped you coming to classes, has he?’

  ‘It’s not his fault, miss,’ I said.

  ‘And that’s fine by you, is it?’

  I shrugged. ‘I suppose so,’ I said. I wasn’t going to slag Dad off to her, I don’t care what she thought of him. He’s still me dad.

  ‘You should stand up to him,’ she said.

  ‘You don’t know what he’s like, miss.’

  ‘Well, that blows it,’ she said, and she dragged on her fag and blew smoke all over me.

  ‘Blimey, miss!’ I said, trying to waft it away.

  ‘Sorry.’

  ‘Blows what?’ I said, but she’d already turned back into the house.