Better Late Than Never

by Len Goodman

  Eventually I decided I could face the people at the Court once again. Pete kept on asking me when I was coming back. It was back to my old routine – Maison Maurice for the usual and home for a bath. When I got to the dance school I almost crept up the stairs, not wishing to be noticed. As I got to the top, who was the first person I saw coming out the ladies' loo but Sally! How would she react – would she brush me aside or, worse still, laugh at me? I think I smiled as she approached me.

  'Hello, Len, where have you been? I've had no one to dance with.'

  My heart soared and before I could really answer her I, in a moment of absolute gay abandonment, said, 'Hello, Sally, would you like to go to the pictures on Saturday?' This was not just asking the girl of your dreams, this was the first time I'd ever had the nerve to ask any girl out.

  'I'll have to ask my mum. If she says yes it's okay, I'll call you after school tomorrow. You'd better give me your phone number.'

  I went home that night with wings on my heels; my heart was fluttering. I, Len Goodman, had actually asked a girl out on a date. In bed that night I lay thinking of Sally when suddenly I got into a cold sweat. Supposing she didn't phone? Worse still, what if she phoned and my mum answered the phone?

  Next day at school I couldn't concentrate. All I could think of was Sally. Will she phone? Won't she phone? As soon as school finished I ran home, desperate for her to call.

  Normally after school I would be in the front room playing records on our Grundig radiogram, one of those large pieces of furniture with a cocktail cabinet on one side and the radio and record player on the other; I was absolutely fascinated by the radio's dial. It had Radio Warsaw, Radio Lithuania and all these other strange places I'd never really heard of. Right down at the bottom of the dial was Radio Luxembourg, which didn't start broadcasting until 6 p.m. when it was, rather appropriately, time for the Six O'Clock Record Show. Later there was David Jacobs, Sam Costa, Jack Jackson and Alan Freeman amongst the DJs. So before it was time to listen to Luxembourg I played records. Jerry Lee Lewis, Buddy Holly and The Everly Brothers were amongst my favourites. I would stand in front of the mirror miming to 'Rave On', 'Heartbeat', 'Great Balls of Fire', 'All I Have To Do Is Dream' and Chuck Berry's 'School Days'; I was word perfect.

  But not that night. I was too nervous to do anything but stand right next to the telephone at the bottom of the stairs in our hall. After a while I got tired of just standing so I sat on the stairs and just stared at it. Ten minutes, 20 minutes, 30 minutes and then at 4.40, 40 minutes after I'd got home, the phone rang. Such was the momentousness of this event in my life I can still recall every detail.

  'Hello, Bexley 237.'

  'Hello Len, I've spoken to me mum and dad and they said as long as I get home by 7.30 I can come out with you.'

  Life would never be the same again. Up to that point my life had been like most young boys'. We lived our lives by an unwritten set of rules that mapped out the whole year. In September and October it was the conker season. Then, for some inexplicable reason, came fag cards – the cards that came free in cigarette packets and later with tea. Next up was miniature cricket using a marble. We used to have a small bat and we'd draw a little set of stumps on a wall. Anyway, all this was no more; girls had entered my life.

  Sally and I agreed to meet on Saturday at half past three at Welling Corner as we were going to the Granada, the cinema next to the Court School of Dancing. It was a double feature at four o'clock, which finished at seven, allowing us enough time to get Sally home by 7.30. In the flicks we sat side by side watching the film, neither of us moving. Now, you'll have to trust me when I tell you that I'm not sure how this happened because suddenly we were holding hands. It was magic. It must have been hot in the pictures, either that or nerves were playing a part, because our hands were both wet with sweat by the end of the first film. During the interval I nipped down the front, because we were naturally sat at the back in the stalls, to where the usherette was selling ice creams and bought us a tub of Wall's vanilla ice cream. I hated the taste of the lid having licked it once and thereafter always thought people that licked the lid of a tub were a bit odd. Luckily Sally didn't lick hers. The second film was barely past the opening credits when I put my arm around her and Sally's head rested on my shoulder. It was like Anthony and Cleopatra. There was only one problem: her hair was so highly lacquered it was like having a Brillo pad rubbing against my face. And it smelled; it was like sniffing glue, which I think added to my feeling that I was getting high. Despite everything, I knew that this was the best thing that had ever happened to me in my life.

  After the pictures finished Sally said she had time for a coffee. Just along from the cinema was a coffee bar where we both had a frothy coffee – the very latest craze to hit north-east Kent. There were some kids from my school in the coffee bar and they started pointing at us and making snide remarks, but I didn't care: I was with Sally. When we finished our coffees we left so that Sally could get the bus home. She lived in Plumstead and under normal circumstances I would have got on the bus with her but having paid for the pictures I didn't have enough left for the bus fare, so I waited with her at Welling Corner for the 696 trolleybus. These were as far away from bendy buses as you can get. They were great big double-decker buses that ran on electricity by being attached to overhead wires, and they had great big fat tyres. As the bus arrived Sally turned to me and kissed me goodbye. It was bloody wonderful and I still remember how marvellous it was and how fantastic it made me feel. If you could bottle that feeling it would sell for millions. I walked home with the greatest feeling of euphoria I've probably ever felt before or since. I was in love.

  Following this first date Sally, who was a little older than me, and I were courting. She went to Elsa Road School in Welling and so after school I'd run down the hill from Westwood to where she caught the 696 trolleybus and we would stand and wait for the bus together. If there weren't too many people around we held hands. On Wednesdays we'd meet at the Court School of Dancing and sometimes on a Saturday we went to the cinema. This went on until well into December. No conkers, no fag cards, no miniature cricket, just Sally. Then something very odd happened. I spotted another girl at the Court School who was also very pretty. And there was something else: Sally had become a little spotty. Obviously, at that age kids do get spotty but I didn't really understand all this, nor did I like it. But there was something even worse.

  'Len, my Mum and Dad would really like to meet you. Can you come around for tea on Sunday?'

  Oh no, this was too much. I was 14¾ almost, and here they were, lining me up as a prospective son-in-law. Of course, that was all rubbish, and they probably just wanted to check me out, but that's how I imagined it.

  'I can't on Sunday, Sally. I'm sorry, it's my mum's brother's boy's christening.' It was the first thing that came into my head.

  Having got myself out of that that, agreed to go to the Embassy ballroom on the coming Saturday. We'd done this a couple of times despite the fact that you needed to be 16 to get in. 'No One Under 16 Allowed, by order of the Management' read the large sign on the window of the booth where you paid to get in. When I queued up to pay I would break out into a sweat worrying about what the lady who took the money would say. It was a pending catastrophe because you were with a girl!

  'Are you sure you're 16 son?'

  ''Course I am. I've been an apprentice for a year.'

  'Okay, this time I'll believe you. It's 1/6 each, so that's three bob for the two of you.'

  I'd always managed to get in; thankfully this was way before anyone had thought of ID cards for teenagers.

  Once inside the Embassy a whole new world opened up. Compared to the Court School of Dancing, which was about the size of someone's very large front room, this was like Buckingham Palace. The Embassy held maybe 300 people on the dance floor, it had a chrome and glass foyer, flock wallpaper, even a silhouette of a lady's head and one of a man's head on the doors of the toilets. The urinals were the poshest I'd
ever been in. Added to which the Embassy had a dance band, a kind of poor man's Joe Loss, but it was a hell of a lot better than the records we danced to at the Court. Most important of all it had a glitter ball. Not that we had too long to enjoy all this as Sally still had to be home by ten o'clock. When it was time to leave I said, 'I'm flush this week so I'll come home on the bus with you to Plumstead.'

  'Oh Lenny, you're so nice.'

  Despite my waning feelings for Sally we held hands on the bus back to Plumstead. I had fourpence, which was just enough to get us both to her place but it would mean me walking all the way back to Falconwood Parade. But first we walked the short route to her home, which was actually a flat above the shoe shop that her mum and dad owned.

  The shop was a double-fronted affair with the door set back about ten feet so that the shoes could be displayed in the windows. Men's shoes were on one side, women's shoes in the other window. We walked to the shop's door where we stood huddled against the cold and had a bit of a snog; actually it was hardly a snog, more like a kiss goodnight. The whole thing was rather farcical. I was wearing a mac and as I went to kiss her the lapel of my coat went up her nose. How cool is that? First it was my shirt, now my coat. Things got a little better and I was just beginning to get into the swing of it when suddenly the lights of the shop flashed on and off three times.

  'Oh Len, that's my dad. He knows we're down here. He'll be wanting me to go indoors now.'

  After one more lingering kiss I turned around to go, but just then Sally said, 'Len, I've dropped my glove.'

  The pair of us began feeling around on the floor in the pitch black looking for it, when suddenly she said, 'Found it.' At that precise moment my hand came into contact with a dog turd. As we kissed, one more romantic embrace, I rubbed my hand on the back of her coat. With that, Lenny left Sally and walked home. I didn't go back to the Embassy in Welling for a few weeks. At that age I had no concept of cruelty, and little understanding of another person's feelings.

  I should point out here that I hadn't gone to the Court School of Dancing or the Embassy ballroom because of any real love of dancing: there was no desire on my part to take it seriously. I went because that's where you met girls and that was my mission. To be honest it was the same for all my mates; it could have been dancing, bowling or even flower arranging if that's how you met girls and got to go out with them. I was doing what hundreds of thousands of kids across the country were doing. As more old-fashioned forms of dancing seemed to be giving way to rock and roll in a big way, our lives were a little different from what our parents got up to, although it's funny how dancing has been a constant in the whole process of getting to know the opposite sex. I was about to get to know the opposite sex a whole lot better, and naturally dancing played a part, but first there was the small matter of my employment.

  Chapter Three

  Tradesman

  In July 1959 it finally came time for school and me to take leave of one another – there was certainly no sense of loss on their side and I have to say the feeling was mutual. As one of my last school reports said, 'Leonard has, as always, worked hard throughout the year and has made steady progress. Unfortunately he has still not managed to curb his anxiety to be the first one to finish. He must concentrate on carefully finishing work next term.' All my life I have done everything fast. When I play golf all my mates tell me to slow down. 'Len you're the only person I play golf with, where I end up getting the stitch,' is how John Knight so tactfully put it. On the other hand if I hadn't reacted as quickly when the BBC telephoned about the Strictly interview, maybe things would have worked out differently. Life is sometimes like two sides of the same coin, that's how close your strengths and weaknesses are. It's difficult to curb one facet of your character, one that might need a little taming, without adversely affecting something that's a really positive trait.

  One thing I wasn't fast about was actually starting work. I had a job lined up but it wasn't to start until September, which meant I had the whole of the summer off. The strange thing is that one day you're a schoolboy, then a couple of days later you're a man. No more conkers, French cricket, fag cards, five-a-side football in the playground with a tennis ball, marbles or British Bulldog. 'Son, you're a man now.' I was 15 and a bit.

  Peter Dawson and I decided that because we were now men we should go for a week's holiday to Brighton before we started our respective jobs. First of all, to prove we were real men we had to persuade both our mothers that this was indeed a good idea – no easy task. We were helped in this because Pete's mum and dad liked to go to Brighton on holiday and always stayed in the same bed and breakfast; somehow this seemed to give everyone a degree of confidence and comfort. Pete's mum spoke to the landlady who agreed to keep an eye on us; his mum also sent a cheque to the woman to pay for our digs, breakfast and an evening meal. Mum still didn't believe in banks and so she paid my share to Pete's mum in cash. Once the finances were sorted they probably tried to put each other's mind at rest. 'What possible trouble could those boys get into?'

  To cover everything else Pete and I had a fiver each, which was to last us the week. Nowadays that doesn't sound a lot, but as the fifties were ending it was the equivalent of about £200; we were well set up.

  'We can spend our days on the beach lying in the sun, watching birds and having an ice cream, can't we, Pete?' Although the ice creams bit sounded a little less manly than I meant it to.

  'Yeah! Then in the evenings we can have a beer.' Although how Pete thought we would suddenly look old enough to go into a pub and order a beer, having never done so in our lives before, I'm not too sure. Still, we had it sussed and it made us sound a bit more like real men out on the razzle.

  When we got on the train at East Croydon it was a lovely sunny day and all the way down to the coast it remained that way. 'Can't wait to get on the beach, can you, Pete?' However, as we came out of the tunnel just to the north of Brighton that goes under the South Downs, it was raining and it was still tipping it down as we pulled into the station; it would carry on like that for days. I'm not talking showers; I'm talking stairrods. Spending long lazy days on the beach and soaking up the sun went straight out the window. But not to worry, we had another plan: the penny slots and the amusement arcades on the pier would be our entertainment. After about three days we realised that we had a looming problem. We were shelling out money way too fast. One afternoon, having tired of the pier, the slots, cafés and frothy coffees, as well as hot dogs, we started to rather aimlessly walk around Brighton's famous lanes.

  We'd been wandering about for close to an hour, looking more like a couple of drowned rats than the Jack-the-lads we fancied ourselves to be, when suddenly Pete stopped and pointed across the road.

  'Len, look!' At the end of Pete's finger was a tattoo parlour.

  'Not likely mate, my bloody mum'll kill me.'

  'Not if you have it done where she can't see it she won't.'

  With that, Pete started across the road to the shop's front door; Pete strode through it with confidence while I followed in his wake. My mum would have killed me, of that there was no doubt, but I was also thinking how much having a tattoo done was going to hurt. The problem is not my low-pain threshold; it's the fact that I have no pain threshold!

  Once inside, Pete stood admiring the vast array of designs that adorned the shop's walls. 'What do you think, Len?' Next he pointed to a tattoo with the words 'Mum' and 'Dad' entwined around a decorative staff.

  'I'll have that one on my arm, just here.' Pete indicated his right forearm. 'What are you going to have, Len?'

  'I'll just have a look while you're having yours done,' I replied, trying to buy myself some time.

  Meanwhile Pete followed the tattoo artist through a curtain into the back of the shop so he could begin working on the design. Every now and then I heard a groan, which did nothing to help me concentrate on finding something for myself, one that was both small...and quick.

  Finally Pete emerged, grinning from ear t
o ear.

  'Sounds like it hurt, Pete, did it?'

  'Nah, not really,' he said.

  I wanted to ask him why then had he actually screamed at one point, but decided I might come over as a bit of a wuss.

  'So, young fellow me lad, have you decided what you want?' asked the tattoo man.

  'Err, yes, I'll have that one.' I was pointing to what was the smallest design in the shop. Tattoo man had to put on his glasses to see what I was pointing at.

  'Ah, you want the Saint,' he said. It was a little matchstick man with a halo over his head, no more than half an inch from the tip of his matchstick leg to the top of the halo.

  'How much is it?'

  'It's half a crown.'

  'Okay, that'll be fine.'

  Tattoo man and I went behind the curtain into his operating theatre. Once inside I sat down, and before he could begin I said quietly so that Pete couldn't hear me:

  'I've gotta be honest, if it starts hurting at all I'm not having it.'

  'You're not going to feel a thing.' And with that he started. The needle had barely touched the skin on my right shoulder.

  'Oh no,' I said through clenched teeth, 'I can't. Get off.' It bloody hurt like hell.

  'Don't worry, lad, we've all got a strong side and a weak side, this must be your weak side.'

  With that he switched to my left shoulder where exactly the same thing happened, except my left side is obviously my weak side because it hurt even more than the right side. I was out of the chair in a flash and back in the front of the shop.

  'No, no, I'm not having it, here's your half crown but I cannot go through with it. C'mon, Pete, let's go.'

  I was not hanging around, in case he should try to convince me to have it.

  The following day we decided to give up on our holiday and head for home – we'd lasted just four days. There was no sun, no beach, no birds and by the fourth day there was also no money – it had completely run out. It was a good job that we'd bought a return ticket. The legacy of that first holiday on my own is two tiny tattoo full stops – one on each shoulder.