felt a smile form on her lips as Keith looked at her. Her mam smiled as well. Then poked her dad in the kidneys with a very forceful finger, making it clear that, to her mind, Keith had done what he’d needed to – proved that he wasn’t a reprobate at all.
Shirley held her breath. How could her father find any reason to turn him down? He was smart, he was polite and he couldn’t be held responsible for his surname. On those grounds alone, it was only fair that her dad agreed. And it seemed he did agree. ‘Right then,’ he said finally, ‘all right. She can go. But –’ he added, raising an admonishing finger, ‘I’m warning you, lad, I’ll be at this front door at ten o’clock sharp, and if Shirley isn’t walking through it, you are bang in trouble. Understand?’
Shirley was out of the house like a rocket.
‘Phew,’ she said as they rounded the corner onto Bradford Road. ‘That was touch and go there for a minute, wasn’t it? But you did so well.’
The night was young, the air was warm and she was going on a date with Keith Hudson. She felt such a surge of excitement at being out with him finally that it was all she could do not to skip down the street.
He stuck out an elbow for Shirley to slip her arm into, and winked. ‘You don’t grow up in a family like mine without learning a few things,’ he said, grinning at her. ‘Like how to get yourself out of a sticky situation. And trust me, Shirl, your dad’s a pussycat compared to mine.’
A pussycat? Shirley smiled back at Keith as they walked, feeling a little shy all of a sudden, not to mention a bit bemused by what he’d said. Pussycat wasn’t the kind of word she’d have used to describe her dad – not when he was angry, at any rate. He was more like a frigging bull at a gate, in her book.
But not to Keith, obviously. What was his dad like, then? She’d have a chance to find out soon enough, she supposed, and in the meantime the thought that Keith wasn’t afraid of hers sent another thrill running through her. How nice to have a fearless man on her arm for a change. Even though she hadn’t realised it at the time, she’d obviously done right to break up with boring John Arnold. So that a proper man like Keith – home from the army, no less – could come back into her life and sweep her off her feet.
Whatever his surname happened to be.
Shirley loved going to the Ideal. A purpose-built dance-hall in the same car park as the Red Lion pub in Bankfoot, it was her and Anita’s favourite of all the dance-halls; the place where you could always be sure of a night spent bopping to the latest sounds. It was owned by a local man called Bert Shultz. Bert was only in his late twenties, but everyone knew him – chiefly because he’d lived comfortably off his wealthy parents’ money all of his young life and wasn’t ashamed of it, either; he made no secret of the fact that the Ideal was a gift for him from his mother.
This didn’t go down well with everyone – not at first, anyway. Especially the young local lads, who believed men should look after themselves. But they tolerated him, because in the main he kept out of their business and, whatever anyone had to say about him, he certainly knew his – he always put on a good night.
During the week, Bert would provide entertainment by way of a free juke-box, but at the weekends he moved things up a gear. Local skiffle groups would come along and play songs from the current hit parade, and the dance-floor would really come alive.
Shirley loved going dancing at the Ideal more than almost anything. Loved the atmosphere, loved the sense of excitement and anticipation, loved the way all the girls would sit demurely along one side of the dance-floor while all the boys stood along the other side – eyeing them and trying to pluck up the courage to ask them for a dance. She loved that young people from all over Bradford would be there; that sense that you were at the place everyone most wanted to be. And mostly, if she wasn’t dancing herself, she loved to watch. Loved watching how the couples would look as though they’d come straight out of the movies once they stepped out onto the dance-floor, the men so handsome in their long drape jackets, with their coloured collars and suede brothel creepers, and the girls in their ballet pumps, their circular skirts flying as they pirouetted around to Bill Haley and Buddy Holly. It was magical to watch, and looked magical to do, as well, and though Shirley was happy enough dancing with Anita – John Arnold had never been much of a dancer – how she had ached to be in the arms of a lad so she could properly put into practice all those hours she’d spent secretly learning how to jive with a kitchen chair.
And now she had one. Well, she hoped so. If Anita was to be believed, anyway. Knowing everything about everyone, she assured Shirley that Keith loved to bop and that only last week she’d seen him jiving away with his sister.
The walk to Bankfoot took them a good half an hour, but it was a lovely early summer’s evening and they passed the time chatting about what they’d been up to during the day. Keith was dressed in typical Teddy Boy attire and, from the musky smell she kept catching off him, had dabbed on some aftershave as well, and she was pleased that her new boyfriend had gone to so much effort.
‘Come on then, kiddo,’ he said, grinning as they finally approached the entrance. ‘Let’s go show ’em how it’s done, shall we? Though hang on,’ he added, glancing first down at Shirley’s black pumps and then at her bag, ‘you’re not going to pull a pair of high heels out of that handbag of yours, are you? Only you’re two inches taller than me already, and I don’t want to look stupid.’
Shirley smiled politely, and though she couldn’t have cared less about his height, immediately and instinctively tried to lower her shoulders. ‘Don’t worry. I don’t like wearing high heels much,’ she lied, pleased at her foresight in choosing to put the flats on her feet, rather than one of the pairs of kitten heels she often wore for dancing. It made her smile to herself, even so. Here he was, so concerned about appearances and everything, yet the Teddy Boy suit he was currently sporting was so obviously a couple of sizes too big. In fact – and she stifled a giggle at the thought – at first sight, seeing Keith turn up in it had put her a little bit in mind of Norman Wisdom. But the impression had disappeared almost as quickly as it had formed. No, despite his size, Keith Hudson was nothing like Norman Wisdom. There was a glint in his dark eyes that was nothing like Norman Wisdom’s. Something so manly. Something so sexy.
He was the best-looking lad she’d ever been out with, in fact, and being led into the Ideal on his arm – this lad from the notorious Canterbury estate, no less – made her feel ever so slightly weak at the knees. She could only hope they’d hold up once she was properly in his arms so she didn’t go down like a sack of potatoes.
Bert Shultz was on the door, wearing the same thing he wore every weekend: black suit and dicky bow. He nodded his usual greeting at Shirley, and seemed happy enough to take the two shillings Keith proffered for their entrance, but at the same time he narrowed his eyes. ‘Evening, lad,’ he said, dropping the money into his cash box. ‘I don’t want any of your shenanigans tonight, do you hear? Some of the other lads from your end are here tonight,’ he elaborated, ‘and I’ve already had to eject a couple of them. Best behaviour tonight, lad, okay?’
Shirley turned, expecting Keith to nod politely at this, but instead he walked straight inside, dragging Shirley in his wake, and offering a mild, ‘Get lost, Bert,’ as he did so.
Shirley gaped. ‘But –’
‘I can’t stick that stuck-up get,’ Keith said, once they were out of earshot. ‘I don’t know who he thinks he’s talking to.’
Shirley felt a nervous flutter of excitement in her stomach. It was a feeling she was beginning to become more than a little familiar with; a feeling that was becoming synonymous with being around her new, rather dangerous-seeming boyfriend. She’d never tell her mam and she surprised herself by admitting it, but it was a feeling she liked rather a lot. ‘I know!’ she agreed gaily, as he led her into the dance-hall. ‘What a bloody toff he is, isn’t he?’