Putting the emails and all the correspondence away in a folder I found this with my mum’s things. It was the night she first wore that beautiful dress that had been bought for her.
A demonstration that my young partner and I performed in the Granville Ballroom, it was the first time that they used what I think was dry ice to cover the whole floor giving the impression we were in the clouds, (which believe you me we were) I remember it being very cold on our feet, but it obviously had the desired effect on the audience that night. We were both fourteen years old.
(The following is an extract from one of the reports in the local papers. I think it was the ‘East Kent Times’ but I am not sure because it’s a bit scrunched up and my mum cut out all the borders to fit in her scrapbook. They called it ‘The Dream’) It must be in archives somewhere, but never mind, I have copied it word for word filling in only a couple of lines that have faded over time.
Dreams I have thought are made of moments in time, so this is not an explanation of what we all thought was reality, it is a reflection of a dream that reality must have caused, flowing from what happened, what could have happened and what did happen. It created so many emotions for everyone who witnessed it. The youth of two young people coming together as one, living out their dream that flowed from the dimension we live in to another that had no boundaries.
There were no hard footsteps making a noise, they seemed to float as they glided across the floor, each movement flowed to its destination without effort. There wasn’t so much as a sound either coming from the audience, everyone daring not to breath, as they watched in awe at what they were witnessing in front of them. The melody so soft it could hardly be heard only felt, the hearts of each individual bursting with emotion as the scene of unparalleled beauty unfolded in front of their eyes.
This would be undoubtedly everyone’s description of a dream. This was the fantasy world where winged gossamer beings flitted from one side of a young couple to the other lifting with effortless ease each of them as they floated on a cloud in front of us, no base to their world, no ceiling as they circled the heavens that engulfed them, round and round to a melody of pure singularity, each note lifting them higher and higher away from the reality we live in as they climbed into the clouds.
The young girl’s face seemed to be surrounded by a halo of light that reflected a pure unblemished skin, so soft and transparent it didn’t seem real, giving the impression of transparency.
Her lips slightly parted and moist, inviting imaginary butterflies to circle her red rose that had been placed in her hair, to settle, and to kiss those petals. They delicately sipped the dew in the flower that rested in those golden locks flowing out behind her.
One hand barely touching was the only connection between them as they floated past me. She gently fell backwards from the waist holding the pure white dress with her other hand out to catch the sparkling drops of light from up above. Slowly, so slowly turning to face him again and in a continuous movement she floated up and over his shoulder, leaving her hand free to hold the other side of her dress with just two tiny fingers which made a butterfly shadow to catch more of the reflected light drops falling from the ceiling.
Sinking slowly as if in slow motion from her elevated position where she raised both her arms reaching to the heavens and touching paradise, her little hand closed around a star, which she clutched to her breast as she sank back into his arms.
Still gliding so slowly across the clouds in a movement of silent bliss she opened her hand and held it out to the light, their gaze followed her captive, as its joy in being released climbed upwards to rejoin its companions circling above them. Her slender arm retracted back and came to rest on his outstretched arm in an embrace of what can only be described as pure love, so gentle, so innocent.
(By this time, there were tears even in this hardened reporters eyes, it affected everyone the same, and so beautiful to watch you felt privileged to even be there in the same space and moment in time they occupied.)
A night to remember and a performance that many will never ever forget from a couple so young.
I have cleaned it up as best as I could, it was all in columns when I copied it from the newspaper cutting, so the punctuation might be a bit squiffy.
I remember to this day the steps and routine of that night, we danced to the ‘Toselli Serenade.’ I have found a recent recording on utube by Andre Rieu
of this music with a very similar arrangement to what we danced to if you are interested.
As a footnote, Mr Taylor, who was a teacher at the school I went to and later became Mayor of Ramsgate was there that night. Many, many years later I happened to have the privilege of spending an hour with him in a deckchair on the West Cliff one afternoon. All he wanted to talk about after we had gone through the preliminaries of recognition was the night of ‘The Dream’ how proud he had been to tell everyone I was one of his pupils and how the memory had stayed with him all those years. I think I blushed at such a compliment.
Thanks for stopping by.