#book taster

The Palais Royale Dance Hall was originally intended as a venue for ballroom dancing – the Bossa Nova, Waltz and Cha-Cha-Cha were all to be daintily executed at tea dances for the over fifties, but its fortuitous location just off the Old Kent Road meant it attracted the attentions of a local medium-time gangster with the right connections. He knew a prime business opportunity when he saw one and had taken over the ownership with the help of his hard to refuse friends.

The club retained its veneer of fin-de-siecle Parisian glamour, with gilt- cherubbed balconies and crimson velour drapes scalloping the edge of its dark, highly polished parquet flooring and compact semi-circular stage, but its clientèle were now a lot less in favour of a quick waltz across the ebonied boards to a frenetic shake in appreciation of an up-and-coming young band, or the occasional local radio disc-jockey. With a few well chosen representatives on the corruptible local council a licence was gained to install a bar and a closing time of two in the early morning.

Its previous incarnation as a rather elegant ballroom deceived the surrounding residents into thinking it was still an establishment of taste and discernment, but in actual fact it was the meeting place for a varied cross section of South Londoners. Music lovers, gangsters and young kids just wanting a place to hang out; West Indians, East Enders, bands and their ever hopeful managers; talent scouts, hairdressers and aspiring fashion designers looking for inspiration from the eclectic young crowd of Mods, Rockers, Greasers and purist fans of R&B and Motown. All catered for by the coterie of disc- jockeys and bands playing for their love of music, because apart from the drinks on the house, they certainly weren't going to get paid for their troubles and the club owners were not the sort one argued with. The atmosphere was the kind money never has been able to buy, and a certain fateful alchemy produced a venue that would remain in the memory of its regulars long after their dancing shoes were thrown on the back of the rag-and-bone cart.

Bridie and Midge were among the group of cusping adults who were completely unaware of its seedier background. They were going along purely for the music and dancing, although boys were also coming of interest to Midge. The reality was they would be communing with pimps and their badly treated prostitutes, or a man who would happily hammer your fingers flat for an unpaid debt, and were blessedly ignorant of the fact. Midge had her suspicions some of the Palais faithful lived on the far side of the law, but in all fairness it was a world apart from her life and she had no reason to know about their less than honourable affairs. Some of the girls at Midge's factory told half-truth tales of behind the scenes rackets, and a handful of unfortunate ones dated the wrong sort you could meet at the Palais. But they were either scared to get too close, or had their fingers burnt in doing so and were too shocked and ashamed to talk about it, so Midge was spared the details.

Only two years out of school and just sixteen she was at the cusp of life experience and had only high expectations and hopes for what was to come. In any case she had eyes for one man only and she was sure, despite his rough exterior, George would make a wonderful boyfriend, for among many other things in his favour he came from a close, churchgoing family. Even if she did think religion was all hokum, she liked the fact that they were playing on the same team so to speak, and therefore would have some common ground.

Cousin Jimmy, however, was not so blind to the darker side of the Palais Royale, and indeed had to stay off its radar for the foreseeable future, having been caught rolling a smoke in the men's cloakroom. It wasn't that the owners of the Palais Royale were against his misbehaviour on moral grounds, but they were keen to get a foothold on the monopoly of drugs taken inside the club. Jimmy was known to have purchased his cannabis from a source outside of the Palais vanguard, and therefore he was not welcome to smoke someone else's goods on their premises. Warning taken, Jimmy thought it best not to show his face too soon, and to refrain from mentioning the incident to his green, and in his opinion, over-protected young cousins.

The Palais could be found in a back street at the north end of the Old Kent Road, adjacent to the railway arches Eileen Mulligan had rushed to with her family during the Blitz, when they had doubled up as air raid shelters. From the exterior, the area hadn't changed much in twenty years, but once inside it was a different world entirely.

Nearing their drop off point, Jimmy interrupted his cousins, now deep in an animated conversation in the back of his black cab, “What time are you two due home?”

“We have to be in by eleven,” Bridie said, “I know Mum won't sleep till we're home in our beds.”

“I wish we could stay 'til the end,” said Midge. “The girls told me the best bands don't come on 'til ten.”

“Let's not push it, Mum's done us a big favour letting us come at all. If we get back in time tonight she'll trust us again next time we ask,” Bridie countered.

“Oh yeah, good thinking.” Midge leaned towards Jimmy's open partition glass, “She's not daft is she? That's why I'm on the Garibaldis and Bridie's up West every day.”

Bridie flushed red at the discrepancy between the life Midge believed her older sister had, and the reality.

“Bridie's always been clever though, haven't ya?” Jimmy said as he necked to address his reluctant cousin in the rear view mirror. Bridie was uncomfortable being the object of praise, invariably it was followed by an embarrassed pause, whereby one should display their modesty by refuting the compliment, or instead, bring a rush of pride you had to feel guilty about. Compliments were not easy to receive with the appropriate grace, so Bridie believed they were best ignored.

“Mum always said you were a bright kid,” Jimmy continued cheerfully, “especially when she was counting up her short straws. Me bein' a thicko an' all.” Bridie and Midge stopped themselves short of correcting Jimmy. He wasn't looking for a contradiction, clearly only stating what he believed was so. “Here you are ladies,” he said turning his cab to the kerb, “the Palais awaits you.”

“Thanks Jimmy,” they chirped in unison.

“Pick you up at ten thirty then. Right here. Have a dance for me,” and as they left the back door of the cab Jimmy stuck a small packet into Midge's hand, Bridie just ahead and already out of view. “Hey. You wanna give one of these a go, keep you dancin' all night,” he whispered, “the life and soul of the party. Don't tell Bridie tho', she wouldn't approve.”

Midge reluctantly took the packet and gave Jimmy a puzzled look, “What is it?”

Jimmy just grinned back.

“Its not funny drugs is it Jimmy?” she hissed, “I don't want it”. She tried to hand the packet to Jimmy but he'd already wound up his cab window and was pulling away, still grinning through the glass at a bemused Midge. “You bugger,” she shouted to the rear of his taxi cab, and hurriedly slipped the packet into her purse.

Midge linked her arm in Bridie's as they joined the queue outside the heavy double doors with its red and white-striped awning. It was the sort of canopy found outside a New York apartment building, usually flanked by a burly doorman in an overdecorated uniform, and it seemed to Bridie and Midge to give The Palais the sort of glamour they'd only ever encountered in the movies.

“I love this bit,” Midge whispered, “it's just as exciting as going inside.”

Bridie laughed, “You are funny, getting excited about a queue.”

“It's the beginning of who knows what, the lure of things to come.”

“Yeah, you're right I suppose. Who knows what?” Bridie was also starting to feel Midge's anticipation as she strained to hear the music coming up the narrow stairs and around into the warm evening air. As she caught the song on the passing breeze she said happily, “Sounds like a 'Martha and the Vandellas' song. Oh, what's it called?”