For those of you that are, (very
politely I may add) taking me to task over starting another story, a little
explanation perhaps is in order. Many have requested a continuation of the
piece I put together about the Granville and the years of my youth that I spent
ballroom dancing there. There have been so many questions, as to the outcome of
that Saturday morning, when Mum sent me with my sister to dancing class. The
link to that post for those that have not read it is below, just click on it
and it should take you to that particular post.
A couple of years ago I started
writing for the family, actual chronicles of those times and never thought for
one minute they would be of interest, other than to my children and
grandchildren, to anyone. But as one kind person so bluntly pointed out to me,
“Alan, its our heritage and history of the town you purport to cherish, your
chronicles should be available for everyone to read!”
An argument then commenced that
continued over the next couple of weeks, myself coming up with different
excuses each time, but slowly I began to realise, as the emails mounted up I
could be wrong, even though I still consider the chronicles personal in many
ways.
To protect the many people
mentioned in the original chronicles, with the distinct possibility they, like
myself, are still around to by chance read what I have written, I am having to
change their names, turning it all into a story, rather than a factual account.
Because of my age I suppose, the
memories I have of those times have gaps in, that have been blended with my
story telling nature, making it more interesting for my children, but basically
it all is how it was.
So be patient, there is a lot of
editing to do.
To give you a taste of what took
place, I will post today a very small part of one of the chapters, a couple of
days before a demonstration, we were about fourteen at the time, my partner and
I were presented each with a gift from our dancing teacher, the following is a
reaction it created from one of those gifts:
*********************************
extract from chapter nine
The
dress, made from many yards of fine net and lace, had been carefully arranged
and laid out on the bed. There wasn’t any colour; it was pure white,
transparent; the net that the skirt was made of seemed to reflect a rainbow of
hues that the light in the ceiling up above the dress cast down through all the
layers, catching her eye as she moved from side to side. Walking round the bed
fearing not to touch this beautiful creation, spread out in all its wonder that
she had a tantalising glimpse of when walking past the door that was ajar
slightly, just a few moments ago. Slowly she sank to her knees to be as close
as she could and level enough to smell the freshness of the vision that
confronted her.
Her hand was shaking as she carefully reached out to
touch the sequins that covered the bottom of the skirt above the fur; there was
a compulsive need to satisfy herself she wasn’t dreaming, each tiny stitch
seemed to be magnified as her eyes travelled from one part to another trying to
absorb what had been so delicately and caringly laid out, without a fold out of
place or wrinkle to spoil the perfection that she had often dreamed of wearing.
In those dreams of the past, she had foreseen, in
the drifting moments before sleep, the vision of beauty she was now looking at
with misty eyes and also touching. Was this beautiful dress really meant for
her? Had it really been laid out ready to be worn by her? Shakily rising to
view it again from above, her young legs once more took her round the bed, not
taking her eyes for one moment off what lay in front of her.
This feeling that was welling up inside she couldn’t
come to terms with, her young body was fit to burst with emotion, every part of
her was shaking, tears of utter joy started to fall from her young eyes, a
little hand that was meant to wipe away the tears, instead, clasped her mouth
to prevent a cry that was about to shatter the silence of the room. Still
staring and trying to take in the moment, she literally fell into the small
armchair missing the seat and falling against the arm, her focus couldn’t be
dragged away from what lay on the bed.
She had sat there for what seemed an age,
mesmerised, little sobs caught in her throat and her hand came up to join
together the other one as if she couldn’t contain her emotion with just one.
Staring at what was put there to cover her young body, never expecting to
touch, let alone wear or even own such a beautiful dress, the warm excited
blood in her veins rushed up her legs, creating goose pimples, and without moving
from her seat she could feel the silk-lining caressing her thighs.
As she sat there a completely fresh dimension to her
life took on a new meaning, the thrill to dance across a polished floor would
bring, she knew, a completely different dimension to everything she lived for,
to dance until she dropped with exhaustion. Just to feel the net that was lined
with pure silk, not taffeta or cotton, but silk as it brushed up against her
skin with her movement to that music, that wonderful, wonderful music. It would
take her into that realm of paradise so often promised long ago by her teacher,
that one day, one day in the future, her dreams would be fulfilled exceeding
anything her young mind could imagine, this, she thought, had to be that day!
She was dizzy and couldn’t think of anything
that was missing, the dress, the music, the story of love they were about to
demonstrate this coming Saturday, with the partner she had found who thought
the same as she did, everything was falling into place, her vision over the
years had persisted each night and was finally, at long, long last being
realised. Was this all real? She thought, was it a dream?
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