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When I was eighteen, in the second year of my apprenticeship, I spent most evenings in dance halls (where the women were): The Palais in Caerphilly, The Library in Senghenydd, The Premier Hall in Abertridwr, The Institute in Blackwood, and not forgetting the very large wooden shed in Caerphilly that we called by many names, and where almost everything took place. It was the sort of meeting place where youngsters learned to socialize.
On Saturdays,
The Shed, as we called it, was crammed from end to end with sweaty bodies,
swaying involuntarily like waves of the sea, until the band stopped for a few
breaths. Then the band started up again, as did the heavy thuds of feet
stomping to the music. Only occasionally could the band be heard above the
bedlam. Those jiving did so with complete abandon On a quiet evening it could all be heard a quarter of a mile away. If you sat down during a dance, bodies just fell over you, so you continued dancing for your own safety, allowing yourself to be taken round with the heaving mass whether you could dance or not. Some would be eating cake or sandwiches or having a soft drink, and on leaving the canteen would be swept around the floor.
By 9:30pm, there
had been half a dozen fights in the cloakroom, and heaps of garments that were
previously on coat hooks strewn all over the floor like discarded rags. After
10:00pm you couldn't get into the gent's toilet. Those already there had
difficulty leaving. Drunks blocked the doorways. The air was thick with
cigarette smoke, hair cream, and beer. Finally, the band played a soothing
refrain. Around 10:30pm when a loud voice shouted, "Last dance!" there followed
a desperate scrabble for the cloakrooms. We fought for doorways and girlfriends,
and finally spilled out through the exit, only to be met with street fights
going on outside on the pavement. If you picked the wrong moment to pass by, you
could easily be involved in a punch That was the place where I met a lovely girl called Jean, who I caught mid-flight during one of her jive sessions. Jean was short, delightfully plump, but had something else, an indefinable quality. When we danced the next waltz, she hardly seemed to notice me. I had a strong urge to see her again, away from the crowd. But having failed this time, I went home feeling despondent and moody. A week later, while leaving the local fleapit (cinema), I saw her just a few yards away, walking to the bus stop. She had been to see the same film. My heart pounded. She may remember me, I thought. I caught up with her and said, "Hello, Jean." She glanced at me, and instinctively grasped my arm with both hands, as if she had been waiting for me. She gave me a lovely smile. Though we walked on together, we didn't speak. It wasn't necessary. We were both delightfully happy.
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