by Len Goodman
There was a young lad, Ken was his name, who was about 19 who used to come to the dance school to help out a bit. He went to see Saturday Night Fever over and over again and started to nag on at me about going to see it. He said we could teach people to dance like that. I went to see the film. I didn't like it much to be honest; so it wasn't a case of 'cor, what a film', but I took his point and we decided to try and capitalise on it. We worked out some little things that we could teach and then put an advert in the paper. 'You've seen the film, you've heard the music, now learn the dances. Saturday Night Fever class commencing next week.' Well, come the day and the hall was full: there were people down the 54 stairs and halfway up the High Street in Dartford. I ended up having to cancel loads of other classes just to fit in extra Saturday Night Fever fanatics – it was packed night after night. The fact was the school had not been bringing in a huge amount of money and, while I wasn't quite down on my uppers, it revived my flagging finances. Thirty years later we still have 300 kids that come to do disco dancing and street dance, all as a direct result of that film. Lesley had encouraged me to start disco classes and when Grease came out, followed by Fame, the floodgates opened; the seam of gold turned into a whole goldmine.
Lesley also had a very good idea, and suggested that we should get a freehold property as the Dartford school was leasehold and offered no security. Whereas my epitaph will be 'He couldn't be bothered', hers will be 'Let's get on with it'. She was absolutely right.
As usual Lady Luck smiled on me, this time in the form of Margaret Radcliffe. She was a dance examiner who regularly came to us so that kids could take their dance medals. There were actually very few schools that Margaret went to because she lived in Folkestone and didn't drive, which meant she only did places that she could reach by train. One Saturday after she had finished the examination, we sat having a cup of tea and chatted about dancing in general. Towards the end of the conversation I said, 'Margaret, if ever you are examining in a dance school and it's a nice property and you hear they might be selling, can you let me know?'
'Len, that's amazing you mentioning it, because just last week I examined in Gravesend for a man named Leslie Mineer who has got a lovely ballroom dance studio. About four months ago he had a heart attack and so he's looking to retire to Spain with his wife and he's about to put it on the market.'
Margaret had to give me his number because I'd never heard of either him or his studio. I didn't hang around and as soon as Margaret had left to catch her train home, I was on the phone.
'Well, yes, I am going to retire and I'm so glad you phoned me because I would hate it to become something other than a dance school because I've had lots of pupils who have been loyal and I really would love somebody to keep it going.' We arranged for me to go up to Gravesend and have a look at his place early the next week. It was an old Victorian semi-detached house; the whole of the back garden was a building, which housed the dance school. It was perfect and I bought it for £47,000. It became a very important feature in my life for all sorts of reasons and I still have it.
Lesley had a lot of drive, and while that was a good thing, there was also a downside to the get-up-and-go aspect of her personality. Lesley didn't feel very comfortable living in my house at Hill Crescent because it was the home that Cherry and I had once shared; I can understand that. And we had only three bedrooms, one of which was James's nursery and the spare was used as an office, which meant there was no room if anyone came to stay. That was the practical side of things, but I was happy with it because for one I didn't have a mortgage. But Lesley made her case and in the end I agreed that if she found somewhere nice then we would move.
I must admit I was bloody awkward about the whole idea of moving. Whenever Lesley found somewhere she thought might be suitable I found fault with it. I could see her point of view, but I liked my home and I didn't go out of my way to be accommodating. However, like most men I'm pretty keen on a quiet life, although I've done my best to avoid having one. One morning in the spring of 1981 Lesley announced she had found the perfect place to set up our new home. It was about six miles south-east of Dartford in very small hamlet called Culverstone. She read me out the details.
'It's called Rose Cottage, a lovely six-bedroom house set in two acres of garden with woods extending to 14 acres, and there was also a two-bedroom cottage in the garden. It's on the market for £108,000.'
I think I said something like, 'It can stay there too.'
But Lesley was undaunted. I didn't know it at the time, but she had already been to see it once or twice and had decided that if I was to be won over, then timing was everything. Lesley had been waiting for a glorious spring morning and this day was just that. I knew there would be no peace so we went over to have a look at it. She was right. It was beautiful, the bluebells had just come out in the woods, the gardens looked immaculate, the sun was shining, there were three beautiful greenhouses glistening in the sun and before I even entered the house I fell in love with the place. Once we got inside, a fire was glowing in the grate, you could smell the coffee brewing and I swear they were baking a loaf of bread. It was the perfect pitch. I shook hands there and then saying, 'If you can wait while I get my house on the market the deal is done.' Luckily my house sold very quickly to the first people that came to see it. They paid £67,000 for it, which was a great deal as Cherry and I had bought it for just £13,000.
In August 1981 the old occupants vacated Rose Cottage and we moved in – I had to admit the house seemed perfect. It was within easy striking distance of both dance schools, which made it easy for me. Lesley was left to sort out the house; I was having nothing more to do with decorating. I put myself in charge of the garden; from never having taken any interest in gardening I found I loved it. Being a bloke, the first thing I did was to go straight out to buy a sit-on mower; I used to drive up and down even when the grass didn't need cutting. A day or so after moving in, I was mowing, sipping my tea as I did so, when a rough-looking bloke came up the drive. He looked as though he'd had a hard life and I guessed he was past retirement age.
'Hello,' he said, 'I'm Bill. I live up the road. I saw you moving in the other day and wondered if you needed a gardener or handy man?'
I didn't know I did but looking around the garden I knew it was a bit of a handful so I just said, 'Yes.'
I'm so glad I did. In time I learned that he had been a bareknuckle boxer and a circus trapeze artist, but he turned out to be not just a lovely bloke but also a hard-working one, and an invaluable help.
The first thing I needed help with was the cesspit, but this was out of Bill's league. 'You'll be needing ol' Tom.'
If Bill didn't know how to do something, or something was too big for him, he always knew a man who could. Tom came round and from then on he would turn up once a month to empty it. The funny thing he did after emptying the pit, never before, would be to ask if he could use the toilet. Afterwards he would always say the same thing as he climbed back into the cab of his wagon.
'I like to put a little bit back into the job.'
After a year or so I managed to get main drainage from an estate on the opposite side of the road and had the gas laid on rather than the oil-fired central heating. I must admit I missed Ol' Tom's visits.
To begin with I thought I would only need Bill in the summer to help mow and suchlike, but I had underestimated the size of the task. In the autumn there were so many leaves because of the wood that we were knee deep in them – they needed cleaning up. Come winter it was snow! The drive was 100 yards long and that needed clearing, then it would be a pane of glass out of the greenhouse, then it would be planting seeds for the vegetable garden. Bill and I spent hours discussing how to improve the garden. We had lovely rhododendrons everywhere but we decided we needed a new one to fill in a particularly bare spot. A couple of miles up the road, near Sevenoaks, was a specialist rhododendrons centre where people came from all over Britain to buy special plants – the owner exhibited at the Chelsea Flower Show s
o he was obviously top drawer. His place was not so much a garden centre, more like a huge wooded area, maybe five or six acres, with little clearings in which were the plants. I drove up there and parked the car but there appeared to be no one around so I started having a look for myself. I wandered through the woods and about ten yards into the first little clearing I was looking at this largish bush that I thought would be just right. I had just touched its leaves when suddenly a man shouted, well almost screamed.
'What are you up to?' I jumped as if I was a shoplifter getting caught in the act. I spun round and a huge scruffy-looking man was stomping towards me. 'Don't touch anything and don't talk directly at the plants, just whisper.'
Suddenly I felt uncomfortable; here I was in the middle of a woodland glade whispering to a man in case the plants heard. 'Step away from that Japonica neurosis' – I think that's what he called it – next he's going to tell me to keep my hands where he can see them.
'What do you want?' he snapped.
'Well, I've come about a rhody. I'd like to get a nice rhododendron. I want quite a big one about the size of an armchair.'
'What sort of soil do you have?'
'It's normal,' I said. 'Just normal soil.'
'Is it loamy?' It was beginning to feel more like the Spanish inquisition than buying a plant. I assumed he wanted me to say yes, so I said:
'Oh yes, it's very, very loamy.'
'Ah good.' I liked gardening but I was no Alan Titchmarsh. After a 30-minute interview it was agreed that I could have one of his plants if he could place it where he felt best in my garden. I agreed, thinking well once he's gone I can dig it up and put it where I want it.
'Could I have it next week?' He looked at me as if I'd asked if I could tie him to a tree and whip him with a holly bush!
'Next week? Next week? You can have it in October.'
'But that's four months' time.'
Apparently, as he explained at some length, there was no touching anything until October. There was no discussion. I would just have to wait.
When it arrived it was a bush as stipulated, about the size of an armchair, but the root ball was four times bigger than the plant. The lorry had a digger thing stuck on the back and the gardener dug a hole about six feet deep by six feet wide, then a crane attached to the lorry lowered the plant into the hole. The look on the gardener's face was that of a son burying his beloved mother. I fully expected him to say a prayer as it passed into the hole. Instead, his only words to me were, 'and I'll be back.' He said this in a threatening manner as though if anything happens to that shrub you'll be in the hole and the rhododendron will be out. I realised that gardening is a lot more complex than I had imagined.
Near to where the rhody was planted was the large stump of a tree that had been cut down before we bought the house. Bill and me had tried, unsuccessfully, to dig out this stump, although with hindsight it was a daft thing to attempt. Finally Bill suggested getting Arthur Chamberlain to do it.
'Arthur's got the right equipment, Len.'
I knew Arthur because he had done some fencing for us with his son and he was a good bloke.
'Oh, that won't be any trouble for me and the boy. We'll come and do it next week.'
Between them taking a look at the stump and coming round to remove it, I went up into the attic to put some stuff up there for storage. While I was rooting around I found a plastic skull: it said on it that it was the property of some hospital or another, so it was one of those that must have been used for training. Despite this it looked very real. I brought the skull down so that Bill and I could stuff some earth in it, put a twig poking out of the eye socket and then put it in an old sack before burying it at the base of the tree stump. All this was a few days before Arthur and his son were due to arrive. Come the day, and it was not Arthur, but just his son and another old boy. Old Bill and I chatted with them for a bit before retreating to the utility room where we had a good view of them dealing with the stump. Soon enough they dug up the sack and probably thought it was a crock of gold or something. Arthur's son picked up the sack, turned it upside down and out fell the skull. Well, the lad fell backwards and landed on his bum, so shocked was he. He shouted out and next thing the two of them are in their vehicle heading out the driveway. Before long the police turned up along with Arthur, his son and the old boy; the police began putting plastic tape around the 'crime scene'. I had to come clean and tell them. I got such a bollocking for wasting police time, despite the fact that it wasn't me that called them.
Not only was Bill great around the garden, he was also James's best pal. From the age of two James would spend all day, every day, in the garden with him, and the two of them became inseparable. I loved watching old Bill and James messing around in the garden. I also found I loved being a father much more than perhaps I would have thought if you had asked me before I knew Lesley was pregnant; although I sometimes found being a dad a bit of a challenge. I'm sure I was no different to many fathers in that I remembered what my own dad had done with me when I was a kid. He had a few rules that he used on me, which I tried using with James. The first rule was, no meant no, and yes always meant yes, whereas maybe also meant yes as well. When I was about five or six there was a cheap sixpenny toy that I wanted. My dad had told me, no you can't have it, and nothing would make him change his mind, despite my crying or begging. Years later he said the sixpence was of no consequence but you have to teach that no means no and if he gave in to me over this toy then the battle was lost. Interestingly my dad was the complete opposite with James. If he wanted a toy or something Dad never said no to him. One day I asked my dad why he was never like that with me.
'Len, your role as father is to bring him up properly, my job as grandfather is to spoil him rotten.'
The funny thing is, when I was 16, Dad talked absolute rubbish, but by the time I was 21 he spoke only pearls of wisdom. It was amazing how intelligent he became in five years. I'm sure that is a quote from somewhere but it's so true. I used to think, 'oh shut up, you silly old sod', when I was a teenager but several years later I found that what he said was right on the money.
At three years old James went to nursery in the village hall so I made sure I had the mornings off so that I could take him. Two ladies run it and two parents were asked to stay each day to help out; it was on a rota and so once every couple of weeks I was expected to stay. Unfortunately I lasted just one week. I was asked to read a story about a frog and a fairy to five or six kids: no problem with that I thought. I tried to make it a little more exciting by using a froggy voice and a squeaky one for the fairy. Things started off okay but I soon ran into trouble when the fairy and the frog met.
'Hello, Mr Frog,' I said with a squeaky voice. 'Hello, pretty fairy,' I said with a gruff froggy voice, that with hindsight sounded more like Darth Vader. Immediately a little girl started crying and this started a chain reaction amongst the whole nursery, and every kid started crying or whining. The two ladies came over to suggest it would be better if I didn't come back again.
As James was just coming up to five years old he went to a convent in Gravesend. I believe the only tangible thing you can give a child is education and the convent had a good reputation for discipline and schoolwork. It was a 20- to 30-minute drive to take him to school in the morning; in the evening it was a repeat performance. I used to take James to school whenever I could but I was spending a lot of time abroad, both judging and teaching. I had started working abroad much more in the year after James was born. I had been back in Germany working regularly as well as going to America and even Japan. Getting the job in Japan was the strangest thing. I had never been to the Far East, until, one morning at 3 a.m., the phone rang. It was a man called George Fujimura who was like the big dance boss of Japan, who I only knew by reputation.
'Hello, Len?'
'Yes.'
'We want you come to Japan to judge Japanese championship. Okay?'
'Yes, lovely.'
'I send you details.'
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'Thank you very much, very kind of you, George, to think of me.' Despite him waking me up, I was ecstatic at the prospect of going to the Far East.
The next day, again at three in the morning, the phone went.
'Len Goodman?'
'Yes.'
'Very sorry, George Fujimura here, I thought I was speaking to Len Armstrong. We don't want you.'
Shortly afterwards they got in contact again, properly this time, and I went to Japan for the first of many visits.
As well as all the travelling, I was busier than ever at the dance school with classes and private lessons, which all added up to Lesley becoming thoroughly sick of our lifestyle. I was often not getting home until ten o'clock and the last thing I wanted was a conversation, as I'd spent the whole day talking. I kept telling myself, and Lesley, that I had to work while it was available, but looking back I perhaps should have eased up a bit. There was another problem in that Lesley was feeling increasingly isolated, living down a country lane with virtually no neighbours. She found the drive to and from James's school just allowed her so little time to do anything else. The rural dream turned into something of nightmare and there was only one logical alternative: we needed to sell up.
Chapter Eleven
Nearly a Very Grave End
The decision to sell Rose Cottage proved to be a watershed in my relationship with Lesley; it was one of those decisions that seem to have repercussions way beyond how it appears at the time. It would eventually lead to me spending most of the nineties in limbo, and I don't mean the dancing kind. Approaching 50 I couldn't really complain about my lot, but it wasn't what you'd call an exciting existence; it was like I was treading water, and this time turned out to be the unhappiest period of my life. Love had flown out the window. But for James's sake I didn't want to split up. We became like too many couples that simply stay together for their child's sake. Deciding to sell Rose Cottage was the easy bit: doing it turned into a nightmare situation of legal wrangling, lawyers, barristers and unpleasantness all round.
