Billy Elliot

by Melvin Burgess

  By that time my hands were freezing. Have you ever had that, where suddenly your hands are so cold they hurt? I started dancing about and moaning.

  ‘God, my hands, my hands! Ouch!’

  ‘Do you want some more cider?’

  ‘I couldn’t hold the f***ing bottle. Ah!’

  ‘Give us ‘em here.’ He grabbed hold of me hands and stuck them underneath his jumper, right in under his clothes onto his skin. It was lovely and warm, but. Well. You know? We were standing dead close to one another. Michael glanced up and down the road to make sure no one was looking. We were under a streetlamp and we had to sort of shuffle a little bit out of the light, without saying anything.

  Then we stood there looking at each other.

  ‘What are you doing?’ I said.

  ‘Nothing. Just warming your hands up.’

  It felt very warm. It was nice but – I had this feeling it was nice for Michael in another way.

  ‘Aren’t my hands cold?’ I asked him.

  ‘I quite like it.’

  I thought about it a bit and then I said, ‘You’re not a poof or owt, are you?’

  ‘What gave you that impression?’ said Michael. He stood there blinking at me, then suddenly we both started laughing. I mean, was he a poof or owt? Of course he f***ing was! It was funny. Then he leaned across and kissed me on the cheek.

  ‘Just because I like ballet doesn’t make me a poof, too.’

  ‘You won’t tell anyone, will you?’

  ‘Course not.’

  We stood there a moment longer. I didn’t mind having my hands there if he liked it, so long as I didn’t have to do anything else. I suppose I was flattered really, even though I never fancied him. He was my best friend, Michael. It was nice to be ... well, nice to be fancied, I suppose.

  Then I had a stupid idea. ‘Tell you what. Come on.’ I grabbed his arm and pulled him away with me to the Social.

  I don’t know what Billy was playing at. I suppose he just wanted to dance, he hadn’t done any dancing for ages. Maybe he thought he was giving me a treat by getting me to wear one of the tutus that the ballet girls wear. Well, I didn’t mind, although if I had a choice, I’d rather have a sharp suit like them Motown singers wear meself. But it made Billy happy, and he needed cheering up, so I did it.

  I looked quite good in the tutu. I mean, silly, but quite elegant, really. I can carry that sort of thing off.

  ‘You’re the girl,’ he said.

  ‘No, I’m not. Just because I might be a poof doesn’t mean I’m a girl. It’s not the same thing.’

  ‘I don’t mean that. I mean, for the dance.’

  ‘Oh. Right.’

  We were in the boxing ring, standing opposite one another. Billy made me do some exercises – about the only exercises I’ll ever do, I’ll tell you that! – and then we did some of the moves.

  ‘Plie,’ he said.

  ‘That’s French,’ I said.

  ‘I know that. Second and down. And first. Fifth. Up. And one and two. That’s it, you’re not bad, for a poof.’

  ‘Piss off.’

  Off he went. His eyes half closed and he was off some-where I can’t follow him. I felt jealous, actually, because I know there’ll never be anything that makes me feel like that. And I was jealous as well because I wanted him to dance with me, and really he was just dancing by himself. I was just someone to dance around. I just happened to be there.

  After he’d danced about a bit, we had a bit of a laugh. We started swinging round on the ropes and pushing one another to and fro on the sliding frames and posing on top of the horse and all sorts. Then, finally, we were standing opposite one another, holding hands and looking into each other’s eyes – it was just part of the dance, it didn’t mean anything, you know? And then I heard a noise and ...

  Christ!

  It was his bloody dad.

  Listen. Everyone knows Jackie Elliot. You wouldn’t want to cross him. He chopped up Billy’s mam’s piano just to keep the house warm at Christmas. He’s a really hard bastard. And there was me, dressed in a tutu, holding hands with his Billy and gazing into his eyes like a bloody ... well. You know. Like a bloody poof. I was out of that ring and in the corner and the tutu was off before you could scratch your ear. I thought, run for it, Billy ...

  But Billy wasn’t going anywhere. His dad looked like he was going to pass out. He was pulling these faces and rolling his eyes. I’d’ve run for it but Billy got down out of the ring and walked up to him.

  ‘Dad?’ he said. His dad just put his hands to his face, in a kind of oh-my-god gesture. I could see everything from where I stood. But Billy – oh, I was proud of him. He never even glanced round. He set his face. And he began to dance.

  Man. I hadn’t seen it all before, just bits and pieces. It was what he’d been doing with Mrs Wilkinson and it was – well, it was just something else. He was f***ing brilliant. F***ing brilliant. There’s no other word for it. Old Jackie Elliot just stood there watching and Billy tapped and leaped and spun and danced like he was on fire. It went on for, I dunno, five minutes or so, and all the time Jackie stood there like a statue. I bet he’d never seen anything like that before. I know I hadn’t. I wanted to shout out, ‘Hey, man, look at your son! Isn’t he just amazing!’

  When he finished, Billy was just a few feet away from the end of his dad’s nose. He stood there and stared at him. I didn’t know what was going to happen. I thought his dad might lift off and hit him but they both just stood there staring at each other. I didn’t know what to do, but I did it without thinking – I started to clap. I clapped as hard as I could. Mr Elliot looked at me like it was the first time he realised there was anyone else there, then suddenly he swung round on his heel and walked out. Billy glanced at me and ran out after him.

  I went to the window to look out, but I couldn’t see much. I caught sight of Mr Elliot going down the road, he was going so fast he was practically running. Then the door banged. I couldn’t see Billy but I could hear him.

  ‘Dad!’ he yelled.

  ‘Go home, son!’ yelled his dad. He didn’t even stop walking, just yelled at him over his shoulder. Then he disappeared out of sight. A minute later, Billy came back up.

  ‘F***ing hell,’ he said.

  ‘You better go back home like he said,’ I told him. ‘He’s gonna kill you.’

  I practically ran down that road. I felt like crying but I’d had enough of that. I was thinking, I’ve got to do something about this. I was screwing up my face to hold the tears back.

  It’s been hard for everyone these past months, but I think most people would agree that the strike couldn’t have come at a worse time for me. My wife dead. Two lads to bring up on me own. Tony running wild. The wife’s mother living with us, half off her head. And Billy. Well, no one really talks to me about Billy. They just look at me and smile. What can you say about our Billy? He’s all half-cock and up in the air and – and, well, he’s our Billy, that’s all.

  But there was something else to say about our Billy that I hadn’t realised, and it was this. He was bloody good at some-thing.

  Now. All right. I don’t know anything about dancing or ballet or owt like that, but I’ve seen it on the telly and I’m just saying that was as good as any of them. Right? And you see, I’d never thought about it. I never thought it was a runner. The Royal Ballet School! I thought it was just that middle-class lass pissing around finding more ways of spending money I hadn’t got. But. What if? And then, well ... why not? If he can do it. If he really has some talent. What then?

  My head was spinning. There was nothing I could do about it even if he was Rudolf bloody Nureyev. But see, now. That’s not good enough. I mean, if he was good enough to be a ballet dancer, and if he wanted to be a ballet dancer, then I had to be good enough to find some way of making it happen for him. I’m his dad. That’s what it’s about. Right?

  I ran around in the snow on me own like a chicken with no head. I had some thinking to do, and this was
how I was trying to work it out. I was thinking, now – what would my Sarah say? She’s his mother but she isn’t here to help him, so I have to think it out for her. What would she do? Would she threaten this dance teacher with a slap and send her packing? Would she tell Billy that if she ever caught him dancing again she’d smash his face in? No, she f***ing would not. She say, Bloody well done, Billy Elliot, bloody well done! You bloody go fer it! And we’ll back you up all the way.

  It made me smile, the way my Sarah used to take no shit and I knew for true then that what I’d been doing about it so far was just so much shite. I ran about till me boots were soaking wet and I was just about sobered up – I’d been out for a Boxing Day piss-up with the lads, see. Then I rang up old George and found out where that dance teacher lived, and I went over to have a word.

  It was her husband opened the door to me. He stood there swaying and breathing beer on me, then he yelled over his shoulder, ‘Is this a friend of yours?’ and he walked off without even saying how do you do.

  I thought, Bloody middle classes! Who does he think he is?

  I went through. She was sitting on the sofa. I got straight to the point.

  ‘How much is it going to cost?’ I asked her.

  ‘And a merry bloody Christmas to you too.’ She shook her head and sipped her drink. ‘Not as much as you might think,’ she said. ‘Maybe two grand. But there’s a good chance the council’s got some scheme or other.’

  ‘Two grand? I was ... well, I was thinking of just the audition.’

  ‘The audition? Oh, I see.’ She laughed. ‘Well, it’ll have to be in London now, he’s missed the ones in Newcastle. It’s just a question of the fare down there and somewhere to stay. Look, if it’s the fare I’ll give you the money.’

  I’d been in there not five minutes. ‘I didn’t come here to be patronised,’ I told her.

  ‘Oh, no one’s trying to patronise you. You’re being ridiculous.’

  ‘Am I?’

  ‘Yes.’

  I walked up and down the room trying to think. ‘Do you want a drink?’ she asked, trying to be sociable, but I shook my head.

  ‘So, how good is he then?’ I said.

  She shrugged. ‘I dunno.’

  ‘You don’t know? What the f***’s that supposed to mean?’

  Her husband in the corner woke up. ‘That’s my wife you’re speaking to,’ he said.

  ‘You shut up,’ she told him. Then she sighed and looked at me. ‘Look, I don’t want to make any promises, you know? I don’t get that many boys, not many do it round here, you might have noticed. But I suppose there’s not that much difference between boys and girls at that age and ... well. Put it like this. Billy’s the best I’ve seen. I’ve been doing this for twenty years now. And he’s the best.’

  ‘The best?’

  ‘Oh, yes.’ She nodded. ‘I don’t know, but if you ask me what I think – and it’s just what I think – then I’ll tell you.’

  I nodded.

  ‘Well, I think Billy’s brilliant.’

  It was obvious she didn’t want to take any shit. That was good enough for me.

  ‘Thanks for all you’ve done for him. But he’s my son, isn’t he?’

  ‘Oh, aye.’ She nodded and glanced over to her husband, but he’d fallen asleep. She smiled at me. ‘Great, innit.’

  I thought, at least she’s got one. A partner, I mean. A spouse. But then, looking at that fat piece of shite in his armchair, I thought, maybe I was better off than she was after all.

  Outside on the road again I didn’t stop thinking. It was freezing cold, my feet felt like blocks of ice. I went out to have a few jars on me own before I went back. The lads were in bed at home. I went in to have a look at Billy, just to remind meself who he was. I was thinking – the best? Our Billy? Cack-handed, silly Billy. That’s what his mam used to call him when he was little. He was always dropping things. Our little Silly, she used to say. I sat down on the bed next to him and he woke up, but I just put my hand on him and pushed him gently down onto the pillow.

  ‘Go to sleep, son,’ I told him. I sat there listening to his breathing. He was my son. He was Billy Elliot, that’s all. But maybe ... well, maybe he really was brilliant at something as well. Maybe he had a gift. And what was I going to do about it? I needed money. The trouble was, see, I’m not the best at anything, certainly not making money. All I know how to do is dig coal up out of the ground.

  If it was anything else at any other time I know what I’d’ve done. I’d’ve gone and asked the Relief Committee for help. But what a time to ask for money – and for ballet? Forget it! I’d get laughed out. No one had a bean – not for food, not for fuel, not for a patch to mend our old clothes. The village was half frozen to death. All the wooden fences had been uprooted and burned, sheds and houses and even the little bandstand in the park had been taken down and burned up. People were going hungry, and I was going to walk in and say, ‘My Billy wants to be a ballet dancer’ ...? I could see it now.

  ‘Aye, and our kid wants a new winter coat but he can’t have that, either.’

  No chance. I couldn’t ask the men to help me out on this one. I had to do it meself.

  After I left Billy that night, I went upstairs to my bedroom. Our bed was there still. Me and Sarah. Our double wardrobe had gone, though, I’d put that in the fire weeks ago. All her things were in boxes in the corner. After she died I wanted to chuck everything out, the lot, right down to the bed so I wouldn’t have any reminders, but Susan Harris stopped me. She said I wouldn’t need any reminders, Sarah’d be on my mind for the rest of my life anyhow, I just had to get used to it. And she was right. I think in the past two years not two hours have gone past without me thinking about what I’ve lost. What we’ve all lost.

  In the chest of drawers, underneath her underwear – no, I haven’t thrown that away either – there was an envelope and in the envelope was where I kept her jewellery.

  There’s not so much. We were never rich. Her wedding ring, a couple of gold bracelets, a gold chain, a few other bits and bobs. The ring was the most valuable. I didn’t think it was going to fetch a fortune, but I reckoned it’d pay for me and Billy there and back. A hundred quid or so should do it. It’d be enough. There might even be a bit left over to celebrate afterwards, when he got in.

  It was the one thing I had left of any value; and it was the only thing I had that I’d sworn I’d never sell, no matter how hard things got. But I had no choice. It wasn’t up to me. Sarah was telling me I had to. But I think I must have broken my heart doing it.

  I knew Mr Elliot. I’d had him in quite a few times in the past few months. A leather jacket, a suit, a watch, some cut glass. People thought the strike was good business for me, and maybe it was, but only in the short term. I’ll be honest, I think the miners are misguided, I think Mrs Thatcher probably has the right ideas about the way the future is going. Sometimes hard decisions have to be made, but I don’t always like the way she goes about it. This is my community too. In the long run, what good is it going to do me if all the local industry closes down? Poor people don’t buy much jewellery and they soon run out of things to pawn. So I tried to give good prices and I kept the interest low as I could for the duration of the strike. People have long memories about this sort of thing around here, and I wanted them to remember that Dainty and Sons were fair about it.

  I’d seen an awful lot of jewellery at that time. Chains and bracelets, that sort of thing, I’d been seeing those for months, but the rings only really started to come in as Christmas got close. Everyone wanted to give their families a good Christmas after going without for so long, and by that time they had nothing else left. They’d been scrimping and saving and selling off the family treasures one by one, and now it had come to this. It was awful – not the sort of thing you want to evaluate in terms of hard cash. People coming in with the pain all over their faces. They were so desperate, they had nothing left, absolutely nothing. Some of them tried to explain it to me, so
I wouldn’t think badly of them. It was heartbreaking, really. And so unnecessary. It was just a matter of time by then, everyone knew that except for the real diehards. It was just a question of how much Scargill was prepared to let them suffer.

  I’d never seen it before, the wedding rings. The odd one or two of course, but never like that, half a dozen a day or more for a while. People had never been that poor before, not in my lifetime. In they came, husbands and wives, singly or together, and they’d put their little band of gold down on the counter and look at me, and my heart just sank every time. I knew I was bound to disappoint them. The thing is, people can’t separate their feelings from the pure value. Your wedding ring is your romance, your marriage, your kids – everything. You’ve probably been thinking about it for weeks, plucking up courage, steeling yourself for it, trying not to think of all the memories it represents, all the love and heartache. But to a jeweller, you see, it’s just a piece of gold. It might be worth the world to you, but to me – well. My scales only measure the weight, put it like that.

  Like I say, I’d seen Mr Elliot a few times before. I’ve come to be a bit of a judge of character. People get excited at times like this – violent even. I’ve been threatened more times than I can count. Not that I think Mr Elliot was going to do anything rash, but I could tell at once that this was costing him dear. If I’d known at the time that his wife had died a couple of years ago I might – well, I don’t know what I’d have done. He was a man right at the end of his strength. He needed that money badly, very badly indeed, I knew that. Why else should he come in to sell his wife’s wedding ring now, of all times? He’d got through Christmas, which was when people usually reach out and cash in the very last whisper of wealth. Why was 5 January any different? Something must have happened. He really needed that money.

  ‘How much?’

  ‘Are you sure about this, sir?’

  ‘I know me own mind. How much?’

  Well. What could I say? People come here for money, not advice. I picked it up, checked the hallmark, weighed it out. Went through the other bits one by one.