#dancingfeet

Whilst fashion was my mother’s god, dancing was her vice.  She, a Protestant, could attend country dances though social mores dictated she, a married woman, be accompanied.  Alas, my father wouldn’t take her.  The Lutheran Church considered dancing to be a heathen practice; but that wasn’t Dad’s argument.  Saturday evenings, he drank beer with his mates then went to bed early ready for Sunday cricket.  Their marriage had become an outward pretence to avoid social stigma.  They had no way out of it.

When Waterford Primary School decided to fundraise with a monthly dance, Mother’s footsteps picked up a beat.  The community hall had reopened with the rebuilt Logan River Bridge’s completion.  She could go dancing again.  She hadn’t been since my brother’s birth, a few years previous.  She could wear her fancy dresses and catch a few bygone boyfriends’ eyes.  Her quandary was how to avoid the local gossips’ scrutiny and consequent humiliation.  Besides, nasty gossip would destroy her dressmaking business.  So, her eyes fell my way, her only male blood relative.  I was ten years old.  Afterall, I should be going to the dance to support my school.  Country dances were family activities.  Her ploy, to teach me to dance, would protect her dignity perfectly.  This would become the one thing she’d teach me, I’d be grateful for, even if it became my vice too.

Just before 9pm, we walked to the community hall, one and half kilometres away, along a gravel road.  We returned the same way at 1.30am.  Mother carried her good shoes then hid her old ones outside the hall.  We left my annoying young brother sleeping at home with Dad.  Mother was happy for that rare moment!

Soon, we regularly attended the bimonthly school dances at the hall held by the Waterford and Logan Reserve Schools.  Various male somebodies in cars picked us up and dropped us off near home.  I kept my lips zipped.  The dances were popular.  No other local Saturday night entertainment existed.  At the suppers, everybody also caught up on news.  I looked forward to the thickly iced cakes.  Mother had never been so supportive of community activities before.

A pianist and an inebriated drummer played the music at the Waterford School dance.  I suspected Mother had a memorable history with the pianist’s husband.  Although she and he discreetly hid their mutual affections, she always saved a few dances for him.  He had to dance with somebody!  The locally acclaimed Watts family three piece band from Beenleigh fired up the dancefloor at the Logan Reserve School’s dance with its drummer, saxophonist and pianist.

Mother danced well enough for the local scene.  She held her posture straight and always looked elegant.  I learned her lessons and from somewhere unknown inherited natural grace.  When Mother didn’t dance with me, men vied for her attention.  If their hands or feet ever ventured where these shouldn’t, she ignored them for forevermore.

The taller I grew; the keener the girls became to dance with me.  I spoke politely to them, held them respectfully and never stood on their feet.  I impressed them with reverse turns and double or triple pivots.  I promised each of them two or three dances a night.  This made them happy.  They dressed too fine to be wall flowers or worse to be groped all over by buffoons.  By thirteen, I hitched lifts with other families to the five dance halls within a thirty kilometre radius and had regular partners at each of these.  These halls ran their own programmes of old time dances.  I was keen to master the different dance steps and perhaps add my own spins.  With the Canberra Two Step, I added a reverse turn to my partners’ delights.  Mother couldn’t shut the door she opened!

When I was fourteen, a vibrant lass made a quick step towards me at the Logan Reserve School’s dance.  She was the pianist’s daughter, Margaret.  Though we didn’t dance exclusively with each other, we became the best duo on the floor, she with her musical ear and I with the leading feet.  Except once, when we attempted a pivot.  We slipped and ended up a tangle of bodies on the floor with our legs and Margaret’s dress in the air.  This earnt much laughter from the onlookers.  My school girlfriend, Lou Lou, probably heard about those antics.  Lou hated that she was forbidden to enjoy this form of fun.

When the annual ball season swung around, my calendar filled quickly.  Most local balls were held at the Beenleigh hall; it being large and grand by community standards.  The Masons, the Catholics and the Anglicans all organised debutante balls to introduce their young women to society.  The debutants were presented to high ranking clergy, in reality old codgers, and were photographed for the local newspaper.  These events were posh with the girls’ parents spending much money on beautiful gowns.  The girls also needed well mannered male escorts, who could dance.  Most knew I’d willingly oblige.  My fine figure and two dancing feet appeared to excuse me from owning a suit.  I just stepped away whilst they were presented.