I don't call the below a memory. An impression of one filtered through the years. It will be different from other members of my family. Parts of it will be mis remembered but emotionally they're real.
When I was growing up we were lucky to go a number of holidays. A lot of the time it was Blackpool!
A MEMORY
OF DANCING BLACKPOOL.
When I was
growing up there were two places we went on holiday—Scarborough or
Blackpool.
This is a
story about Blackpool and in particular Blackpool Tower. A story because like all memory it is part
fact but mostly emotion.
The first
thing that always pops into my head about Blackpool is the excitement on the
journey down at the first sight of the tower.
It turned into a game, a very competitive game between me and my sister
as to who would spot it first. You could
see it for miles before you actually arrived in Blackpool.
The second
thing I remember is arriving in Blackpool itself and the sudden pulse of energy
sweeping your way carrying off any tiredness or tetchiness brought on by the
long journey. Even my dad who had to
drive the long long way—it seemed to takes days when I was eight or nine. It must have seemed like weeks to him with
two crabbit and snarling children in the back of the car. Quiet or sit in your seat weren’t words that
me and my sister understood very well!
Jumping
ahead over the booking into the bed and breakfast; the dragging on parents
along the promenade with its swarm of laughing ‘kiss me quick’ hatted people;
passed the ‘clickety click’ of the bingo callers; the pull of the puggees; the
swirl of sand on the pavement overlooking the beach; the rattle and groan of
the trams my mind is weaving along the corridors of the tower itself to the
huge ballroom.
There we
settle ourselves amongst the well-dressed holiday makers. For day has turned to early evening and the
candelabra is twinkling like the toes of the dancers waltzing around the ball
room. My dad brow furrowed in concentration
as he manoeuvres a tray of drinks onto our table. Coke for me and my sister. Bacardi and Coke for my mum. A ‘half’ and a ‘half’ for my dad—a whisky and
half of lager.
My dad was
never one for dancing as far as I can remember.
My mother on the other hand loved it.
The tower ball room was her holiday.
And a huge part of mine though of course I never really thought of it
like that then—the beach, the pleasure beach that is was my holiday!
The smile
on my mother’s face, the glance my way.
‘Here we go.’
The hush
and then the distant sound of music.
Music getting louder and louder as the stage parted and rising to
thunderous applause was Reginald Dixon sitting at his seat back to his adoring
audience playing ‘I Do Like to be beside the Seaside’ on the huge size of the
stage 3m/14r ‘Wonder’ Wurlitzer pipe organ that became the backdrop to the whole
stage.
‘Remember.
One two three one two three.’ My mum would whisper as we headed for the
dancefloor. I tried to lead and my mum
let me but guided me as best she could.
Looking
back now those moments have risen above the sandcastles on the beach; the ‘log
flume’ on the pleasure beach; the trying to get a glimpse of the crackle of
electricity along the wires above the trams.
The ball
room was packed and sometimes it didn’t matter if I lead or not we just circled
around on one spot since we couldn’t move any direction. When I think back though I can only see my
mum and I dancing. My mum the scent of a
rare night out perfume mixing with cigarette.
My mum not at the kitchen sink or peeling potatoes or straightening my
school tie. My mum humming along to the tunes blaring out from the stage
occasionally the words forming into song especially when it the repertoire
circled back to ‘I do like to be by the Seaside’ and both of us singing me
sometimes in tune.
My mum was
always in tune.