Better Late Than Never

by Len Goodman

  'Look, we've got Bill and Bobbie Irvine who are the world champions demonstrating, they are fantastic, Len. You really should come.'

  Just to shut him up I went. On the way I told Dad that there was no way that I was going to dance. When we got inside I sat in the far corner at a table with Dad and a couple of other people; it's amazing how old 40-something is when you're pushing 17. I tried not to upset him and when he asked me how I was enjoying myself I said something about it being all very lovely. The guy who ran the club then came out to introduce Bill and Bobbie Irvine. He was in evening dress and, while he looked the part, he made me think they were even older and out of touch. However, even a surly 16-year-old could see the Irvines were fantastic. It must have rung a little bell in my head somewhere because it made me realise how fantastic ballroom could actually be.

  Chapter Four

  Len the Mod

  Having been sneaking into the Embassy in Welling since before I was 16 I wasted no time, once I was old enough, in becoming a regular. They had great dances on a Sunday, but this wasn't ballroom dancing, it was more pop dancing, a bit of pre-Beatles jiving – this was rock and roll. I also went there sometimes on a Friday and my ritual was pretty much as it had been when I was at school; naturally Maison Maurice still figured, but now that I was working meant that cleaning myself up took a little longer. I'd take the train from Dartford and once I was home it was straight into the bath. My biggest problem was that my nails were always black, despite using the Swarfega that was in giant bottles at the factory. I'd scrub them, I'd rub bleach in them, anything I could think of to make them look presentable, because it didn't look too good holding a girl's hands with filthy nails.

  The Embassy is now long gone but it will always have a special place in my heart. I was pretty good at the jive as I had a natural rhythm that always allowed me to busk my way through whatever song was played, whether I knew it or not. I'd get hold of any pretty girl in those days just for the fun of being able to jive. To be able to dance you have to have the confidence to just get up and grab someone; you need to just do it and not feel bad if you go wrong. I would practise in our front room using the standard lamp, not as a dance partner but to cast a shadow on the wall so that I could see my hip action! I soon met lots of other people just like me who were there for a good time; some I knew from school, but lots were just people who loved to dance. The trouble was there were always some older guys who it was all too easy to upset. If you looked at their 'bird', their 'bint' or them in the wrong way you were in trouble. 'I'll punch your bloody lights out if you look at her again,' was their typical way of warning you off. I got into a few scrapes but nothing very major, as I'm not really the aggressive sort. Always better to make yourself scarce than be a martyr was the way I saw it. In any event, by the following week they'd forgotten all about you and were probably going out with someone different anyway. The Embassy was always full of top talent.

  It was through the Embassy that I indirectly had my very first meeting, of sorts, with Bruce Forsyth. It was not in the flesh, so to speak, but 40 years later, when I did meet him on the pilot for Strictly Come Dancing, it reminded me of one of the most embarrassing things that have ever happened to me.

  I'd dance with lots of different girls at the Embassy but ended up going out with a girl named Mandy Sawyer. Her dad had a tobacconist and confectionery shop in the same Falconwood Parade of shops as Mum's greengrocer's; the Sawyers lived in a house in Hook Lane. Mandy's mum shopped in our shop and we shopped in their shop, so while our families were not friends we were on speaking terms, which is what ultimately made my relationship a problem. Whereas Sally was a school days' romance, Mandy was a step up; being at work changed the whole business of going out with girls. However, to begin with it nearly never started.

  Mandy, like many other girls at that time, had a beehive hairdo and wore black eye make-up and white lipstick; she was very much in the Dusty Springfield mould. She was a skinny girl who loved to jive and she was really good at it too, which was what attracted me to her in the first place. The more we danced the more she grew on me. From just casually meeting up at the Embassy we began to arrange to meet up there and sometimes we went to the pictures – she'd become my girlfriend.

  'Shall we go down the Embassy on Sunday?' I asked Mandy. We had been going out together for about three months at this point.

  'I can't, Len.' She sounded genuinely sorry. 'I've got to babysit for my uncle who's going out with my mum and dad. How about I ask my mum if you can come round and we can stay in and we'll play some records?'

  This sounded pretty good to me, and next day she said her mum was happy for me to go round to their house. I'd been before, but always when Mandy's parents were at home. We would sit in their front room listening to records; her musical taste was more mature than mine and I have her to thank for introducing me to Frank Sinatra, Ella Fitzgerald, Tony Bennett and Sammy Davis Jr. I really loved their style and their voices and have done so ever since. I'm not saying we hadn't had the odd kiss and a bit of a snog, but we always kept one eye on the living-room door so we could instantly move apart if it started to open.

  'Hello, Mrs Sawyer,' I'd say, trying to sound very polite and innocent.

  'Are you two enjoying yourself?'

  'Oh yes, Mrs Sawyer, just listening to records.'

  Come Sunday I arrived at seven o'clock and Mandy's mum and dad were still there.

  'Everything should be very quiet, Mandy, the two little kids are fast asleep in bed. You two just enjoy yourselves.' Off they went and we decided to watch the telly. It was Sunday Night at the London Palladium starring Brucie. As the music started up it acted as a fanfare or an overture, I'm not quite sure which, to my starting some serious snogging with Mandy – heavy petting used to be the technical term. Pretty soon one thing led to another, as it sometimes does, which meant that Mandy, suddenly and inexplicably, had no clothes on. I should point out that I was a virgin and in all honesty I'd never actually got this close to sex. I think I'd touched Mandy's breast once before, but I made out it was an accident – although she didn't seem to object. Not only did she have no clothes on, but I was also naked – well, not quite, I still had my socks on! We were lying on the carpet, fiddling about, fondling and generally rummaging and, unlike before when we kept one eye on the door, we were totally engrossed – neither of us heard it open.

  To say it was unexpected would be an understatement. Mandy's mum and dad, her uncle and aunt – whose kids were upstairs – and another brother, along with his wife and their eight-year-old son were all in the room; there were seven pairs of eyes and they were all trained on us. I found out later that the other brother and his wife had unexpectedly decided to join them on their night out and had brought their eight-year-old round for us to babysit. After what seemed like an eternity pandemonium broke out.

  'You bastard! Get out!'

  I didn't take a second telling: the bastard was obviously me. I jumped up, grabbed as many clothes as I could and ran for it. I was out of the door in a millisecond, closely followed by one of my shoes that flew past my head; next thing my other shoe hit me on the back. As I bent down and grabbed both of them, the last words I heard were, 'And don't bother coming back, you dirty little bastard.'

  Was he serious? I had no intention of going back. My only thoughts were how an earth was I going to get out of this predicament.

  Their house was in a street where buses ran up and down; I was still naked but rapidly trying to dress myself before another one came along. Once I'd got dressed I suddenly remembered to be petrified. What was Mr Sawyer going to say to my mum? His shop was only a few along from ours. I knew I was in the wrong and I knew what would happen if Mum found out; the embarrassment of being caught was nothing compared to facing her retribution. Imagine if Mandy's mother popped into our shop and, while she was paying for her five pounds of King Edwards, told Mum what I'd done.

  'And you know what, your Len had no clothes on.' Topping myself would have
been the only option. For weeks I lived in a state of perpetual fear; I've never been so scared, before or since. It's another memory that still haunts me.

  After about a month nothing had been said and I began to think – Len, you've got away with it. Having thought about it constantly after it had first happened I suddenly realised that I hadn't thought about it at all for a couple of days. It was then that the phone rang.

  'Hello, Len.' It was Mandy Sawyer. 'My dad's forgiven you and he wants to meet you at Welling Corner. He says he'd like to have a man-to-man chat. Tomorrow evening about seven o'clock, can you be there?'

  'Okay, Mandy,' was about as much as I could manage to say. I'm sure I turned pale.

  The following evening I'd like to say I strolled nonchalantly down to Welling Corner, but the truth is I was too bloody scared to stroll. It was the nervous walk of someone wondering what the hell a man-to-man chat was like. As I got closer I could see Mr Sawyer waiting for me.

  'Hello, Len...'

  Before he could say another word I was off. 'Mr Sawyer, I don't know what happened. It was a moment of madness. Really I don't.' The words came out in a torrent. 'Nothing like that had ever happened before. One thing led to another, you know, we were just sitting quietly watching Bruce Forsyth on Sunday Night at the London Palladium and we kissed each other and I've no idea how we arrived at that situation. How we ended up without any clothes on is still a mystery to me. I've never done anything like that before in my life. I'm so relieved that you came back when you did, because we could have got into all kinds of trouble. I'm not that kind of person and I know your Mandy's not that kind of girl'

  I think that last sentence clinched it for me.

  'Well, Len, I know that things do happen and I'm prepared to let bygones be bygones. We love our Mandy and we only want to see her happy. The fact is she still carries a candle for you, so we are happy for you to start seeing her again.'

  Oh bugger! is what I thought. By now I'd lost interest in Mandy Sawyer, as there was a girl at the Embassy who was an even better jiver. What I thought bore no relation to what I said. 'Oh, thank you Mr Sawyer. I feel the same way about Mandy.'

  What a bloody coward! I knew if I said or did anything else he'd be straight round to see my mum. I spent the next six months going out with MS, all the while trying my hardest to get her to hate me. Eventually I succeeded.

  Shortly after finishing with Mandy I turned 17. Being an only child has its downsides, but it also had some big upsides as far as I was concerned. None more so than my present this particular year, which will give you an idea of how much my mum spoiled me. She bought me a car, and not just any old car, but a brand-new, 2.4-litre Mk2 Jaguar, the kind that Inspector Morse drove on his TV series. She paid 1400 quid for it from Richard's showrooms in Bexley Heath. My mum was really daft because it would be another eight months before I could drive it, having not passed my test or even had any lessons. God knows what the insurance was, but it must have been huge. Not that I even thought about it because I wasn't the one paying it. That was Mum as well. Her justification for buying such an expensive car, daft as it sounds, was, 'Len, I'm petrified that you might have an accident and kill yourself...or worse.' I'm not sure what was worse than killing yourself but there you are. 'The thing is, Len, you've got to have something that's sturdy, something with good doors.'

  Now my mum's yardstick by which she judged cars were ones that had doors that closed with a nice clunk. Never mind the chassis, just as long as the doors were good clunkers. I was more interested in the fact that it had so many buttons and great-looking dials with a fascia of walnut veneer. I know I was spoiled, but at that age who wouldn't love it?

  After I'd passed my test I enjoyed being out and about with my Jag. One evening, a month or so shy of my eighteenth birthday, I had a little accident in the car park of the Black Prince pub in Bexley, just off the A2. I was backing out of a parking spot when a car came along and bashed into the back of my Jag. I'm not sure whether it was my fault or his – it was probably 50–50. When I got home I told Mum, who despite the fact that it was the slightest of knocks, said, 'That's it, Len. You can't drive that car any more. It might have knocked the wheels out of place.'

  What that meant I'm not sure but she promptly said we'd have to sell it.

  'Don't worry, Len, we'll just get you another.'

  This time it was a 3.8 litre Mk2 Jaguar. From memory the doors didn't clunk shut any better.

  That little greengrocer's was a goldmine; there were often queues of people outside waiting to be served. This was before the supermarkets took hold and people started shopping once a week. Back then everyone bought their fruit and vegetables every day, or perhaps every other day or so. Most people didn't have fridges, although we had one for the shop. It was one of those big walk-in butcher's fridges in which we kept the more perishable produce. What's interesting is that shops didn't open up and then disappear after a few months; there were certainly no charity shops. Along Falconwood Parade were two butchers', an independent and Dewhurst's which was a big chain of butcher's shops. There was Burford's the baker, where old Jack Burford baked all his own stuff, there was a barber, two newsagents' and tobacconists' and a Co-op. Mum got all her other groceries from there as well as the divi – the dividend. When the Co-op started trading in the nineteenth century they made all their customers members of the 'Co-operative Society'. Everyone received an annual dividend in proportion to their purchases. Shortly after we moved to Falconwood Parade, we had been followed there by my Uncle John and Aunt Ruby, my dad's sister. They had a crockery shop called John Petty's in which they sold tableware, glasses, some hardware and little porcelain knick-knacks. John had been in the Navy, where he was Petty Officer Petty.

  By the spring of 1962 I was going out with a girl who I had met at the Embassy. We only went out together a few times but she was a really good dancer. One night I asked her if she'd like to go to the pictures during the week.

  'Only if we can go and see West Side Story,' she said.

  Now I've always enjoyed musicals and so she got no argument from me. From the opening sequence, which features the Sharks and the Jets, I was hooked and have continued to be. Nothing could compare with the dancing in that film: for me it's one of the greatest films of all time and I've watched it umpteen times. I love the songs too – 'Somewhere', 'Something's Coming', 'Tonight', 'Maria' and 'America' take me back to that first time I saw the film at the Granada in Welling.

  Around the same time I saw West Side Story for the first time, a fantastic event took place in Welling – Lorraine's coffee bar opened; this was the place where the in-crowd met. This was shortly before I started work at the docks and so I was still on apprentice's wages of two pound 50 a week.

  In the late fifties Welling High Street was a mass of small shops, like a slightly bigger version of Falconwood Parade; Dixon's furniture store had closed down and for about two years it had stood empty. Its windows were covered with stickers saying 'Bill Posters will be Prosecuted'; I never could work out who Bill Posters was. One day a sign had gone up in the window saying 'Opening Soon: Lorraine's'. Bugger me, I thought, another ladies' dress shop. One Saturday afternoon I'd been having a kick-around on Shoulder of Mutton Green with a load of mates when we decided we'd had enough and so we headed off down the High Street to go to the pictures. For some reason the 20 or so of us were walking along, one behind each other like a snake. We'd just passed Marzell's, men's outfitters, where they sold cutaway-collared shirts, when all of a sudden we ground to a halt. We were stunned. The new shop opening up was not for ladies' clothes – it was a coffee shop. Blimey, not even Bexley Heath had a coffee shop and here was Welling with its very own 2i's! We all piled in where the owners, whose names we later found out were Mike and Lorraine, must have thought all their Christmases had come at once, as we all had a couple of coffees each at two shillings a cup. It had the very latest in plastic-moulded chairs, Formica-topped tables, glass cups filled with coffee and froth, and machin
es with levers and knobs. It may have been a far cry from Starbucks, but it was worth mega bucks to us.

  On most weekday nights I would be in Lorraine's or sometimes at the Embassy or the Savoy in Catford, another dance hall I used to frequent. It wasn't long before I started going up to London with some of my mates. Sundays were the best days for going up town because there was an afternoon dance at the Lyceum in the Strand. I went with some lads that Pete Dawson and I met at Lorraine's – it was our regular hang-out. One evening a group of blokes came in who neither of us knew; they'd pulled up outside on their scooters before coming to sit at the adjoining table to ours. The four of them were all drinking frothy coffees and I had the feeling if we were not careful trouble could start; they all looked a bit hard to us and were a couple of years older. I decided to speak up.

  'Hello, I love the scooters. Are they Vespas?' knowing full well the answer was yes.

  One of them nodded.

  'Mind if I take a look?'

  Another nodded his approval. Out I went to find they were not just Vespas, they were Vespa GS models, the top of the range. After a few minutes I went back in and sat down, saying how much I liked them. We started having a chat, with Pete and I quick to say how much we would like to have a scooter – it was our way of letting them know that we looked up to them. They introduced themselves as Tommy, Tony, Kenny and Ray; next thing Pete and I were roaring up and down Welling High Street, riding pillion on their Vespa GSs. They all came from Kidbrooke and were a bit more worldly than either Pete or me.

  I bought another round of coffees and we started chatting about how to be a Mod. Pete and I had been aware for a little while that this was the thing to be, but were unsure what you had to do to become one. They explained how you had to wear certain clothes, but just as important you had to walk and act in a certain way. We arranged to meet them that coming Saturday night and go down to the Embassy. From then on Pete and I began slowly to become Mods. You couldn't rush these things, as it cost quite a bit of money for one thing. To be a proper Mod you had to wear a Fred Perry shirt, you had to wear Levi's jeans, which you could only buy at one shop – Moray Marks in Whitechapel. Levi's were one pound 19 and 11 a pair, a penny under two quid; it was not much less than a week's wages, but you had to wear them if you wanted to be a proper Mod. You also had to wear a certain type of jacket, one worn very short, known as a matador jacket. You also had to wear special shoes called short points, which were quite different from those big long winkle-pickers – they were for the guys that drove motorbikes. You couldn't buy short points in any old Freeman, Hardy and Willis shop; you had to have them made.