Alex could hardly hear him, he was blocking out all distractions. He could hear nothing, and all he could see was the track ahead of him.
The starting pistol cracked and they were off, Alex pacing himself and hugging the inside lane. At the first bend they were all lined up behind him, very close, and Morgan was too close. Alex put on a spurt of speed and Morgan followed, right on his heels again.
‘What the hell is Morgan doing, he’s pushing him too hard too early, the stupid bastard.’
The runners had reached the farthest point of the track, a linesman waved a flag and they were heading down towards the starting line again. Now Morgan was virtually treading on Alex’s heels. The trainer swore, then clocked the stopwatch. They were already ahead of time on the first lap.
Alex felt the studs rip into his ankle and overbalanced, then righted himself, but Morgan moved up ahead. A cheer went up as he took first place, and Alex was being elbowed by the second man. He put on speed again and crept closer to Morgan. He could actually get heel to toe, but instead he gave Morgan a wide berth and moved again into the first position.
‘That just lost him a second, he’s crazy, and I’ll crack Morgan’s head when he comes in.’
The trainer was running, yelling, along the side of the track, but Alex didn’t hear him. They were on the third lap, with three more to go, and Morgan was still pushing Alex from behind. By trying to bring Alex down he was driving him far harder than he should have, and Alex was taking it. One runner dropped out and collapsed on the grass, heaving for breath. He sat up in time to see the field split in two – Alex and Morgan in the lead, the other two way behind. As the leaders went into lap four, the stragglers dropped out, leaving just the two of them.
Eric was on the sidelines with his cheap Woolworth’s watch, trying to time them. He was beside himself, shouting and cheering his hero on. Round they came, and Morgan was tiring, but both were coming in under the record for the fifth lap. The trainer was jumping up and down. Morgan was neck and neck with Alex, he had two possible contenders, not just one . . .
The final lap, and they moved into a last-minute sprint. Alex’s heel was streaming blood from Morgan’s studs, but nothing was going to stop him. They crossed the line, both inside the record, and Morgan caved in, fell on the track and lay gasping, snorting for breath. But the cheers had stopped, and he looked up, expecting to see Alex close by, only to stare in disbelief. Alex was still running, and running at a crazy pace. Morgan’s moment of glory passed, he was hauled unceremoniously off the track as everyone watched the lone runner continue.
‘If you put your mind to something, son, you can do it, it’s all a question of will . . . and now, ladies and gentlemen, I’d like you to give a warm round of applause for the ex-British Heavyweight Boxing Champion, Freedom Stubbs!’
Alex ran on, still hearing the applause on the day his father had walked with such pride on to the grammar-school platform. He could hear his mother’s voice, urging him on and on, her arms open, and he just couldn’t get to them, couldn’t reach her. She was standing by the white cross, wearing her old brown coat, her flat leather handbag over her arm, and her beautiful hair was braided around her head. She smiled at him. ‘Come on, my love, you can do it, you can be anyone if you want. Put everything you’ve got into it, my son, my own love.’
The trainer stared at Alex, back at his watch, then back at the track. The lad wouldn’t be stopped, round he went again and again, never letting up his pace. The crowd waited quietly as they watched the lone runner, and even when the trainer waved the flag for Alex to stop, he continued to run. They couldn’t cheer, and no one knew exactly what to do. They could see as he passed that his face was like a mask, set, his eyes staring vacantly ahead, his limbs working by themselves.
‘He’s going to run himself to death. For God’s sake, somebody stop him.’
The trainer took off, running at top speed along the track, but it took him all he had to catch up with Alex. He shouted that it was over, Alex had done it. ‘It’s over, Alex! It’s over . . . Alex!’
Alex collapsed in a heap and lay face down, his chest heaving, his hands clawing at the gravel. He felt his head being rubbed, and a voice told him it was all right, it was over, he had done it, he had done it.
The matron bathed his feet and put disinfectant on his cut heel, bandaged it very carefully, and checked his pulse. He was lying with his eyes closed, still, and she pulled up a chair and sat close to him.
Down in the canteen the group of boys whispered, and Morgan, his nose out of joint because he realized he was losing his position as the ‘Guv’nor’, knew he had to do something to reinstate himself. Drinking his cocoa he rolled a thin cigarette, clicked his fingers for one of the lads to snap to with a match. ‘I’m gonna have ta show that creep Stubbs, wipe him out, he won’t make that run, I’ll bloody see he doesn’t.’
‘Pssst, Alex, Alex, a few of the lads thought you might fancy half a Mars Bar . . . You okay?’ Eric’s sweating face was close to Alex, his bad breath swamping him. Alex propped himself on his elbows and gave the thumbs-up sign. He accepted the half Mars Bar and a packet of five cigarettes. Two more boys crept in and whispered, ‘We’re all gunnin’ for yer, Alex, an’ we got a few suggestions, like. If the Chief, the boss man like, asks yer if yer want anyfink – we all bin discussin’ it – we wanna learn how ter dance, like. Yer know, ballroom stuff. Will yer suggest it? We’re serious, like, all of us wanna dance, so will yer put it ter the Chief, Alex?’
Alex thought they were joking, but they insisted they were serious, so he gave them his word that should the Chief offer him any perks he would ask for a gramophone and a dancing instructor.
The Governor did appear the following morning, in high spirits, and wanting detailed medical reports on his prized boy. The matron assured him Stubbs would be up and about in a day or so. Alex watched the man stride down the row of empty beds, wearing suede boots, his Merchant Taylors’ old school tie, blue shirt with stiff white collar, the creases in his trousers like razors. ‘Well, you gave us all a good day, I must say, never seen anything like it, congratulations! You know we had the clock on you, Stubbs, bloody marvellous.’
The Governor wandered around the ward, coughing and picking his nose, then stared out of the window. ‘Inter-Counties race, what you reckon on your chances, Stubbs?’
Alex shrugged, he had no idea of the times set by other runners.
‘The other schools happen to have some of the best running clubs, son, Merchant Taylors’ best, and the Harriers . . . I think you can take them on, all of them.’ He moved around the bed and sat down, took out a packet of cigarettes. He lit one and blew a smoke ring. ‘Thing is, to date we’ve not had a chap good enough or trustworthy enough to try for a place.’
Alex sat up and hugged his knees, saying that no matter what, they could trust him. He gave his word, which was greeted with a hearty slap on his shoulder. The Governor had reached the door before he turned to ask if there was anything Alex wanted.
‘There is something, sir. The lads I’ve been training with, they sort of asked if I’d put in a word . . .’
When Alex mentioned ballroom dancing the Governor almost keeled over. ‘Ballroom dancing? You serious, Stubbs? You any idea what the rest of the lads’ll do if they hear about it? Good God, I’ve been asked for some odd things in my time, but this takes the medal. Ballroom dancing? How many lads want to do this fancy footwork, then?’
Alex shrugged and said about eight of them, with a gramophone.
‘You’ll take a hell of a ribbing, you know that? But if it’s what you want then I’ll see what I can arrange.’
Vic Morgan roared with laughter – friggin’ ballroom dancing! Ponces headed by friggin’ ‘Goody-Two-Shoes’ Stubbs. This he had to see to believe. Stubbs’ popularity was eclipsing Morgan’s, and his hatred was intensified when he discovered that three members of his inner circle had joined the ‘fairies’.
Fully recovered, Alex returned to classe
s a hero. Along with eight other boys, all serving long sentences, he was called into the Governor’s office.
He had kept his word, they were to have the use of a gramophone two nights a week between tea-break and dinner, and there were four records – a waltz, a foxtrot, a rumba and a tango. They would be taught by the Governor’s wife. Mrs Dennis stood by her husband’s desk, a pleasant, plain-looking woman in lisle stockings and brogues. ‘You will start with the waltz, and work your way through the other routines. But any boy abusing this special privilege will ruin it for the others.’
The sarcastic references to the ‘pansies’ special brigade’ were ignored, and twice a week the ballroom-dancing lessons took place in the drill hall. But before long the other lads began to envy the group as they marched across the quad to the hall and the sound of the Joe Loss Orchestra belted out. Mrs Dennis’ strident voice was heard, ‘One, two three, one, two three, one, two three . . . No, no, you must walk backwards . . . One, two three and fishtail, one, two three . . .’
The eight members of the formation dancing team became friends. They laughed as they partnered each other, but they were obviously dedicated to learning. Ted Smith took it upon himself to divide the group into male and female so they could learn to move backwards as well as forwards. Alex, being so tall, rarely had to be the lady. Ted, a small-time spiv, was mastering the tango, and encouraging the others. ‘When ya get out, all of yer, yer gonna need ta know how to move on the floor, best way of pickin’ up girls, right? Yer come out not knowin’ one move from the next an’ yer sunk. We gotta learn, only way yer can pick up the chicks, I’m tellin’ ya . . .’
The lads laughed a lot, especially at poor Eric, who tangoed across the floor on his own.
More and more, Alex was becoming the hero, and Vic Morgan slunk around trying to find any way he could to sabotage Alex. He managed to steal a small file from woodwork class, and every night he worked on carefully sharpening the spikes on his running shoes. He cajoled and threatened one of the lads in the mailbag section to get some thick cotton and a strong needle without saying what he wanted them for.
The news came through that Alex had been accepted for trials, and he was called to the Governor’s office to fill in an application form. This was the first time any borstal lad had been allowed to take part in the Inter-Counties Cross-Country race. Mr Dennis checked the form and clapped his hands, smiled his satisfaction and asked how the dancing was coming along.
‘It’s very good, sir, thank you very much. We’re on to the rumba now.’
The Governor was surprised and impressed at the way the lads had conducted themselves. He knew the other prisoners had been merciless, but they had kept themselves to themselves and there had been no fighting. His wife told him the lads were always on their best behaviour and really did want to learn to dance.
‘Tell the others that next Saturday night they’ll be allowed to wear their own clothes. I’ll rope in a few girls, give you a small dance – no alcohol, mind, just fruit juices, but it’s about time you had female partners.’
The news spread like wildfire, and those who had done nothing but send up the dancers were green with envy. Allowed to wear his own suit, Ted Smith oiled back his hair and even let two of the lads have a small dab of his Brylcreem.
Eric was happy, and his twisted back seemed straighter. Either that or Ted’s padded sports jacket, on loan for one-and-six, disguised his curved spine. Watched enviously from the windows by the other prisoners, dolled up and reeking of aftershave, they walked across to the drill hall. Mrs Dennis had been seen taking cakes and sandwiches over, and the others were thoroughly disgruntled.
Mrs Dennis had had quite a time finding eight suitable girls. They included her own daughter, two of her school friends and a couple of aunts. They were all gathered in the office.
‘Now, these boys are juvenile offenders, but they are offenders, and they are serving time. Please treat them kindly. This is a very special treat for them, and they have been looking forward to it for a long time.’
The women stood silent as Mrs Dennis tried to put her next point as delicately as possible. ‘If any of them makes any kind of move that is distasteful, approaches you other than to dance, you must inform me immediately and we will cancel the dance there and then. You are invited as dance partners, to put into practice what they have learned. There’ll be a few sore feet at the end of the evening, but I am sure you are all aware that this is in a very good cause, some of the boys come from dreadfully deprived backgrounds . . .’
Extremely nervous by now, the women made their way across the quad to the drill hall. Every available window was filled with faces, and the odd lewd remark was heard, quickly silenced as Mrs Dennis frowned up at the offenders.
In their cheap suits and with their slicked-back hair, the boys sat at one end of the drill hall, close to the table where the food and lemonade was laid out. The gramophone with the worn records was on the stage. The sight of the women drew veiled looks and nudges, and Ted whispered that there was only one worth attempting to pull, the rest were old ponies.
‘Now, boys, the first dance is a waltz, please take your partners.’
The boys stood in a solemn line, no one having the guts to make the first move. The women, standing on the opposite side, were equally embarrassed, and after Mrs Dennis’ warnings they were beginning to think they should never have agreed to come.
‘I’m going for the Old Man’s daughter, all right, lads? Here goes.’ Ted sashayed across the floor in his brothel-creeper shoes, his skinny tie only an inch wide, his spivvy suit shiny at the bum and showing the lines where the trousers had been let down. But to the rest of the lads he was Clark Gable showing them how it should be done.
‘Er, you want to dance, love?’ The Governor’s daughter blushed at being the first on the floor. Guided by Ted’s firm hand at her waist, they moved into a waltz.
Eric gaped, mightily impressed. ‘Gawd, he looks like Fred Astaire, he’s got the fishtail down all right, ain’t he? Gawd, I’m gonna have a hell of a time, I’ve always been the bleedin’ woman, I can’t go forwards.’
Slowly the boys summoned their courage and asked the women to dance, and one by one they moved their partners on to the floor.
The drill hall resounded to the rumba, and the envious listeners at the windows groaned, ‘Not again.’ Later, they watched the ladies leaving, the boys walking back to their dormitories. They were all agog, wanting to know if anyone had ‘pulled a bird’, but Matron was patrolling and ordered those not in bed to get in, it was lights out.
Morgan watched two of the boys enter his dormitory, laughing together and telling stories about how Ted Smith had been the first on the floor, and that he had vowed to date the blonde with the big knockers as soon as he was released. Alex, with two more of the lads, passed the dormitory and gave the thumbs up. From the bed nearest the door he heard a voice whisper, ‘Eh, Alex, is it true you gave Mrs Dennis one?’
Chuckling, Alex moved on towards his own dorm. He got into his pyjamas and hopped into bed. The door creaked open and he heard whispering. Then Eric and Ted, followed by the other formation team lads, crept into the dorm. Eric whispered hoarsely, ‘One, two, three . . .’ They each struck a match in unison, held them up and sang, ‘For he’s a jolly good fellow, for he’s a jolly good fellow, for he’s a jolly good fellow, and so say all of us.’
Unceremoniously they dumped their token gifts on Alex’s bed and scuttled out, embarrassed. Alex now owned half a tin of Brylcreem, a comb, five cigarettes and a skinny-jim tie. He snuggled down and, happier than he had been in years, he whispered, ‘Going to be a champion, Ma . . .’
Chapter Six
Edward packed up his belongings to take to London, and made arrangements to keep his rooms for the following term. He had taken up Allard’s offer to spend the Christmas vacation at his family’s country house.
With so many trains commandeered to ferry soldiers around, there were long delays on the passenger trai
ns, and it was late when they arrived in London. A chauffeur-driven Rolls-Royce was waiting for them at Paddington Station, and Edward and Allard were driven across the park to Kensington. The house was in a very exclusive area, the Boltons, and had large gardens with high, wrought iron gates.
Allard’s parents were already in the family’s country house, and there was only a housekeeper waiting for them. Allard, with little pretence at being a good host, muttered that he was tired out. Edward was flippantly introduced and shown to a large double bedroom with a bathroom adjoining. He was impressed, and pleased that he had made the decision to take up Allard’s invitation. If the family’s town house was anything to go by, he reckoned their country place would be even better.
‘Alleyyyyy! Yooo-hooo! Alleyyyyy, where are you?’
Edward’s bedroom door was flung open by a very tall girl with a thick mop of red hair very like Allard’s. ‘Oh gosh, sorry! I was looking for my brother, who are you?’
Edward shook hands with the long-legged girl, who said her name was Harriet. She stood back and grinned.
‘Well, you look better than the weakling he dragged back last vac. Do you play table tennis?’
As Edward was admitting he didn’t but was willing to try, Allard came in and caught the girl up in his arms, swinging her around. She squealed with delight, then went into a boxing stance, trying to get a punch at her brother.
‘Don’t they teach you anything at your posh finishing school, brat-face? Look at you – my God, you’re filthy, and your neck looks as if it hasn’t been washed for years. You dirty, scruffy gel, you nasty, dirty little fink rat!’
Brother and sister chased each other around Edward’s bedroom and fought on the bed, bashing the hell out of Edward’s pillows. Harriet, with her skirt up round her waist, was a real tomboy, and the noisiest girl Edward had ever come across. She never walked, but hurled herself around like a human tornado, causing anything within her range, ornaments especially, to fall to the ground. Her laugh rang out like a schoolboy’s, and she shouted at the top of her voice. She was so tall, and Edward could see the nipples of her small breasts, formed like two tiny hills, showing through her school shirt.
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