Better Late Than Never

by Len Goodman

  One of them had picked up the English couple's camera. I assumed they were pinching it and was just about to shout out when one of the boys got up, pulled down his trunks and turned his knob towards his mate who quickly took a picture. It was all over in seconds. The two of them calmly got up and put the camera back where it was, before sauntering off down the beach. Linda and I were the only ones to have seen what had happened; we decided not to say anything. I've often wondered if the chemist said anything after the film was developed.

  In some respects it was surprising that I was on holiday with the Baker family at all; my first meeting with Linda's parents had been less than auspicious. We had been going out for a few weeks when I was invited to her parents' house one Saturday night for dinner. As I pulled up in my Jaguar, Mr Baker opened the front door, giving me a casual half-salute, half-wave, as if he was acknowledging my car. I parked in their drive behind Harry's Ford Anglia. Inside their Bexley bungalow it was the very height of modern sixties fashion.

  Once we had sat down Linda's dad said, 'Can I offer you a glass of Mateus rosé, Len?'

  I'd never had one before and wasn't quite sure what it was, but I said yes. It was not quite as nice as I had anticipated, possibly because it was served at room temperature.

  'We've ordered an Indian takeaway, they'll be delivering it shortly. Have you had Indian food, Len?'

  'No, Mr Baker, I haven't.' I didn't even know you could have a meal delivered. Then I thought to myself, well they do live in a particularly posh part of Bexley and maybe that's what you do on a Saturday night. I remembered seeing a restaurant in Bexley called the Taj Mahal and wondered what the food was going to be like; I was about to find out.

  After chatting for a while about nothing in particular, the doorbell rang.

  'That'll be the takeaway, let's go through into the dining room,' said Mrs Baker.

  The dining room was mostly G-Plan furniture but they also had spiky funny little chairs, with spindly little legs, placed around a circular dining table. Over it hung a lamp, one of those that could be lowered from the ceiling by pulling it down to whatever height was best suited to create the perfect ambience. We sat down at the table while Mrs Baker laid out the little tin foil dishes full of the Indian food in a neat formation in the centre of the table. I stared at the various dishes having no clue what this was going to taste like, other than a vague recollection that someone had told me that Indian food was hot and spicy. I also had no clue as to what was in each dish, although they all seemed quite brightly coloured. I may have had a Jaguar but I was way out of my comfort zone. Added to which, generally speaking, in our house the rule was, if your granny cooked it then you ate it and if she didn't, you didn't.

  Just before we are about to start helping ourselves to food Mr Baker stood up. He was dressed in a yellow cardigan, shirt and tie; he gave a small cough to indicate he had something important to say.

  'Len, it's so lovely to have you and to have had a little chat before dinner. It's a pleasure to welcome you here and I do hope you enjoy the hospitality of our modest home.' What's coming next? I thought. 'Len, why don't you propose a toast?'

  I'd never been called upon to do anything like this before and didn't know that's what people did when someone came around for dinner on a Saturday evening. I reminded myself once again that this was Bexley. I pushed back my chair and went to stand up, and as I did I headbutted the lamp, which had been lowered to about three feet over the table. Unfortunately, rather than just swaying backwards and forwards, the glass lampshade shattered into thousands of tiny pieces, most of which landed in the tin foil dishes that were laid out before us. I found myself repeatedly apologising for my clumsiness.

  'Len, don't worry, we'll call the takeaway and order some more.'

  'No, no, Mr Baker, it's all my fault. Let's go out to dinner, the least I can do is pay.'

  I was so embarrassed by what had happened that later I even went and bought them a new lamp. Still, it held me in good stead with the Baker family from then on.

  Back to the holiday, and after our first disastrous day things settled down. Cocktails followed days on the beach – further evidence of the Bakers' sophistication – then dinner and a few drinks to round off the evening. After about four days I noticed that a young Spanish guy who worked in the bar was paying Linda far too much attention. What was worse, she didn't seem to mind. He wore tight black trousers, a crisp white shirt and a black waistcoat; with his sleek black hair, he was quite a looker in a Spanish waiter kind of a way. I actually got jealous, something that hadn't happened to me before.

  The following night I said I was going to go up to my room as soon as we finished dinner, to which Linda said, 'I'll sit with my mum and dad for a bit.'

  I didn't like the whole scenario; I felt she was too familiar with this waiter. The next morning I had a blazing row with Linda before trying to get a flight home, but of course I was on a package holiday and flights couldn't be changed. The final two days were not much fun, and so when we got back home I finished with Linda. I knew that I was being daft, but she had wounded my pride and I wasn't having any of it. However, there was one problem, a big one. I was due to take my bronze medal in ballroom dancing in a couple of weeks and Linda was my partner.

  The Tuesday after getting back from Spain I decided to go up the Erith Dance Studio to tell them of what had occurred, or at least that Linda and I were no longer a couple. I was really fed up because I really enjoyed the dancing. All the way there I worried about whether or not Linda would be there and about exactly what I was going to tell them at the school. I got to the studio 15 minutes early so I could get in and get out before anyone else showed up.

  'I'm sorry, Miss Tolhurst, but I'm afraid my partner and I have split up and so I won't be coming any more, because it's all couples and everyone is paired off. It means that I couldn't possibly get it together in time to take my medal exam.'

  'That's a real shame, Len, because I think you have talent.' At this, I felt myself go a little red in the face. 'You are doing so well that I think you would get a highly commended at your Bronze medal.' I reddened a little more.

  'That's all very well, but I can't just dance around by myself can I? It's best that I just nip off now.'

  I turned tail and headed back down the stairs. As I reached the bottom, Pauline, Miss Tolhurst's assistant, came out of the studio and called after me. 'Len, Len, Miss Tolhurst wants to have a word with you, can you come back upstairs?'

  Back up the stairs I trooped.

  'Len, I've got an idea. I've spoken to my daughter Cherry and she's said she'd be happy to dance with you for the three weeks until you take your medal. That's right, isn't it Cherry?'

  'Yes, Mum,' said the petite 16-year-old that I was used to seeing behind the tea bar. I'm not sure, before that fateful moment, that I even knew she was their daughter and I certainly had no idea she could dance; was I in for a shock.

  'Well, that's all sorted isn't it, Len?'

  'Err, yes, Miss Tolhurst. I guess it is.'

  I looked at Cherry who was pretty but couldn't help thinking – she's just a kid.

  I had to admit dancing with Cherry was way easier than with Linda, not because Linda wasn't okay – it was just that Cherry had been dancing since she could walk and lived in a household that was 100 per cent dance. Cherry had done all her medals, she was a really accomplished and lovely dancer, and so it certainly made me look so much better because I had a fantastic partner.

  In the run-up to the medal examination Henry Kingston would pop in as he had done before and I began to notice that he took a keen interest in what we were doing. On the day of the medal test Henry Kingston stood and watched, and afterwards he said to me, 'I've watched you dancing with my daughter and I think you have the potential to become quite a good dancer – if you work at it. Would you like to continue dancing with Cherry, and I will give you private tuition? You can see how you get on; needless to say there will be no charge. She has never had any in
terest in dancing competitively, but you've changed all that, Len.'

  'That would be great, Mr Kingston.'

  Cherry must have told her dad that she enjoyed dancing with me, but I wasn't at all sure what 'dancing competitively' really meant. He would have been thrilled that at last she was entering fully into the family business, rather than just serving the teas. It was just like my old dad had said. 'Len, you're just a leaf in a stream.' The luck of that Spanish waiter making me jealous had given me an opportunity that would change my life for ever.

  Chapter Six

  A White Tie...and Tales

  Achieving bronze-medal standard with Cherry's assistance was none too difficult, especially when you factor in the advantage of being taught by one of the world's top coaches. It's fair to say that dancing began to take over my life. I was no longer in a class alongside Mr and Mrs Rose, the rotund couple, or Tommy the plasterer; I had been let into Henry Kingston's inner sanctum. Having just had my twenty-second birthday I was still a little unsure about dancing with Cherry, who was so much younger than me, but her talent overcame all my apprehensions. What had happened to me was a bit like travelling economy and suddenly being upgraded to first class on a flight – not that I knew anything about all that at that point in my life.

  It was an incredible experience to be coached by Cherry's father, although initially we were still only doing the waltz and the quickstep. His teaching methods were rigorous and centred upon the fact that it was vital to perfect each and every dance, to have it so ingrained upon your brain that you never, ever lose the technique. Even today I can look at dancers and instinctively know something is wrong. I can look at a couple's heads and I know there's something not right with their feet, because I know the rise and fall is all wrong. Initially I learnt this from Henry Kingston's coaching: he taught me a lot about the technique and the kinetics of movement. It's probably the same for an orchestral conductor who knows which violinist, among a whole symphony orchestra, has just played a bum note.

  Cherry and I would practise week after week and I kept thinking perhaps this week we'll move on to the slow foxtrot or the tango, but no, it was the waltz and quickstep over and over – or more like round and round. Henry would show me some slight variations or extra steps that I could put in to move us across the floor more freely, the slight changes that help to give you (what appears to be) effortless progress around the dance floor. I came to appreciate the tremendous subtleties of dance and how this makes the difference between the good, the really good and the brilliant.

  During the summer, having learned some additional dances, I was beginning to feel a lot more confident. One day Henry made a suggestion. 'There's a big competition run by Pontin's that has its final at the Royal Albert Hall and I think you two should go in for it.' I was a bit shocked, but before I could say anything he continued, 'As you may well know, Len, the first dance grade is novice, and this is an event for novices. If you win three novice events you become a pre-amateur and then if you win three events at that level you become an amateur. So if you really want to progress in this business it's time to start along the road.'

  It's somewhat different nowadays but that was the form back then; novice was the lowest echelon of competitive dancing and I was very much a novice.

  Pontin's holiday camps had been started by Fred Pontin in the late 1940s to give people an affordable place to go on holiday at the seaside in Britain. They not only offered accommodation but there was also an extensive programme of nightly entertainment of all different kinds, although the emphasis was very much on family fun – it was all very Hi-De-Hi. During the season, at every one of their 30 camps, Pontin's ran competitions; including darts, Miss Lovely Legs, the Most Eligible Escort, Miss Pontin, singing contests and not surprisingly dancing. If you won through the various rounds you eventually ended up at the final at the Royal Albert Hall. It meant that we would have to spend a week at a Pontin's holiday camp. At the end of the season one of their camps was designated as the 'host camp' for the dancers and so the winners from all 30 camps throughout the summer would go there for the first phase of the dance-off. It was the same process for all the other competitions, although each one took place at a different camp.

  If we wanted to qualify for the later stages, Henry explained that we would initially have to go to Camber Sands, which is near Rye in East Sussex.

  'Before you go there's one thing you're going to have to do, Len,' Henry told me. 'You'll have to get yourself a tail suit.'

  When I told my mum she was over the moon. 'Oh, Len, you'll look lovely, you'll be my very own Fred Astaire.'

  Having loved dancing so much when she was younger, Mum was delighted that I had taken it up; if anything she was even more pleased than Dad and my stepmum were. She also really liked Cherry, who really was a sweet, lovely girl. This meant that, for her spoilt little Lenny, nothing was too much trouble.

  'Len, you'll have to go to Savile Row to have your tail suit made,' Henry announced, as if this was the most normal thing in the world. 'Everyone does.'

  'Oh right.'

  'Yes, and there's only one tailor to use – Hawes and Curtis.'

  When I told Mum all she could say was, 'That's where all the toffs go, Len.'

  'I know. Henry said that they've been tailors to the Duke of Windsor and Lord Mountbatten. They make all of the Duke of Edinburgh's riding clothes as well.'

  And now Len Goodman's tail suit, I thought, but didn't dare say anything sarcastic to Henry as I sensed this was very important to him, nor did I say anything to Mum, who was equally impressed, although for different reasons. Henry explained to me exactly what I had to order and so on the following Saturday morning I caught the train up to London.

  'May we be of service, sir?' the Hawes and Curtis assistant asked.

  'Yes, mate, I'm a ballroom dancer and I would like to have a tail suit made.'

  He was probably shocked when he heard my East End accent, but of course he didn't bat an eyelid. 'Ah, perfect, sir.' He was like an even posher version of the man in Are You Being Served? Henry had told me the suit needed to be made from barathea. I knew it was a fabric of some kind, but I'd never heard of it.

  'It's got a lightly ribbed or pebbled weave in it, Len, it looks brilliant when you dance.'

  I told the tailor that it was barathea or nothing and added, as instructed, that the trouser leg had to be no wider than 16½ inches at the bottom.

  'It must just break over the shoe and the jacket must be cut very tight in the body.'

  'Naturally, sir,' said the tailor.

  While I was there I ordered two wing collar shirts to be made; I also ordered ten detachable wing-collars to go with them. In total it came to £100, a huge amount of money, especially when you think you could get a suit at Burton's, underneath the Erith Dance Studio, for 15 quid. Before the rather common business of money was discussed I had to be measured; this turned into a real pantomime.

  The man who had originally greeted me turned out to be the under-tailor, the man who did all the writing down of measurements and recorded the finer points of the suit that was to be made. The man who did the measuring was the master tailor.

  'Yes, sir, we have 14½ inches from shoulder to spine, got that Mr Lucas?'

  'Fourteen and a half inches, Mr Jenkins.'

  This process went on for ages, with every conceivable measurement being called out by Mr Jenkins and repeated by Mr Lucas, the latter getting more camp as the whole thing went along. No chance of this going wrong, I thought to myself, no wonder it costs a lot.

  'Where would we like the tails to reach down to, sir?' asked the master tailor.

  'Oh, I'm not sure.' Bugger, Henry had not mentioned that. 'Can I use your phone?'

  'Hello? Mr Kingston? They're having a steward's enquiry here about how far the tails should reach down. Oh, right, to the bend at the back of my knees. Yes, Mr Kingston, it's all going swimmingly.'

  Having got all that sorted all that was left was to be measured for
my white waistcoat.

  'Right, we're all done, sir. We'll be in touch in due course so that you can come back for your first fitting.'

  'First fitting? How many are there?'

  'There's three, sir, we always do three fittings.'

  He said it in such a way as to make me feel more than a touch daft for not knowing something so obvious. With that all sorted off I went; three weeks later I was back in Savile Row for my first fitting.

  The camp writer-downer was in charge of the first fitting. After I'd put on the suit, which was all covered in white stitching, he got down to work on ensuring everything was as it should be. He spent what seemed like an overly long time dealing with my trousers. This was the first time in my life that I'd had a man push his arm up between my legs and around my bum.

  'How's the fork, sir? Are we all right with that?'

  Bloody hell, I thought, a bit personal having a bloke shove his arm up around your Jacksy. Fork was their polite way of referring to my crutch.

  'I think we should let it out a little, don't you, sir? It does feel a little tight there, doesn't it?' As he said this he was kneeling at my feet gazing up at me. With all this close contact sport I was quite relieved when all three fittings were finished. Apart from having to hand over £100 for the privilege I was really excited about getting back down to Kent to show everyone my new tail suit.

  When I got home Mum was waiting for me. 'Put your suit on, Lenny boy, I want to see it before you go down the studio.'

  I dressed in my wing collars, which were as stiff as a board, my white bow tie, the white waistcoat and finally the suit itself. I felt brilliant.

  'Oh Lenny, oh Lenny. Oh, oh, my lovely boy.'

  To Mum it was worth every penny – and more.

  Then it was off down the Erith Dance Studio where I went through the whole routine again. As I came out of the toilet Cherry and Henry Kingston were waiting for me. With just two weeks before the Camber Sands competition I'd left it tight to get the suit, so everyone felt a sense of relief. Henry was also insistent that we should practise with me wearing my tail suit as he felt it made a difference.