Dancing with Callas
My ballroom diet
If I got dementia, and coped the way George Melly, my late husband, did, I wouldn’t mind. On stage, with his memory going, he boasted about having something beginning with D. He remained good-tempered and fortunately had forgotten a great many of those tiresome jokes. But it might not be like that for me. I don’t have his sanguine nature and I wouldn’t have me to look after me.
While he was alive, I read everything I could about dementia and I wanted to do anything I could to avoid getting what can be a cruel disease. After George died, I became a patron of Dementia UK. Their advice was to ‘forget crosswords and take up ballroom dancing.’
I thought, wrongly as it turned out, that I could dance already, as I had studied ballet up to Grade 5. I have a ragged photo of myself on points. Then I did old-time dancing in the church hall every Saturday when I was 12.
I was with George for 46 years, long enough to realise he didn’t think much of dancing. He preferred his audience, including me, just to watch admiringly.
Exceptions were made before the mini-skirt made tights obligatory. Girls then could spin and twirl, showing bare thigh and stockings.
By 2010, Strictly had become highly popular and it was easy to find a ballroom class. One near me in Baker Street advertised itself as providing professional partners.
At first, I had a fairly miserable time, learning how difficult it was to dance. But it was obvious why it was so beneficial to the brain: all those neural pathways, built on balance and rhythm.
One lucky evening, when a young Italian kept saying, ‘Stop leaning on me,’ Raymond turned up. He was English and older than the other, mostly European partners.
At 65 and a smoker, he wouldn’t do a fast quickstep – or so some of the young women thought.
By the time they realised what a wonderful dancer he was – he’d been a world champion at 20 – I’d monopolised him.
After a few months, we both left the class. Ray found a small practice studio and he became my teacher. We went to every London town hall that held tea dances and where the wonderful Mr Wonderful organised the music. £5 for tea and biscuits; non-stop music, 1 till 4pm.
We went on a dance holiday to Majorca. I bought twirling skirts and sequin tops that sparkled under the lights at the Blackpool Tower Ballroom. We became best friends.
I would never be a good dancer, but I enjoyed it. Once Ray said, ‘That was nearly good.’ I went down to size 10 and didn’t care when a friend told me I looked ‘gaunt’.
There was a small hiccup when Ray acquired a girlfriend who unfortunately but understandably also wanted to dance with him.
One night, we all watched the dance championships at the Albert Hall. I got chatting to a handsome Greek – Dino, a dance teacher.
No point in being shy. I asked him, ‘Would you like to come with us to a dinner dance in Cambridge?’
Raymond and Dino weren’t exactly jealous of each other. But Dino has never been a 20-year-old champion, and Ray will never be a handsome 40-year-old. And then came the pandemic. Although on March 5th there had only been one British death, my clever, concerned and far-sighted lodger advised me to isolate.
I thought it was just for a week but, 11 months later, I’m still not dancing. I was determined not to loose any skills I’d acquired. So Ray sent me some ballroom classics and Dino gave me an Argentine DVD.
The Argentine is a craze that began in the Nineties. It means higher heels and a tight, short skirt, slit up as far as you dare.
I waltzed mournfully by myself and tried to remember the fan, a rumba step. None of this was much fun. Then, in April, with all the windows open to the sun, the sound of my lodger’s opera music, even four floors up, filled the house and garden. I started dancing to Callas and waving my arms like Simon Rattle having a fit.
Of course it’s not the same. I miss Dino saying, ‘Wonderful, wonderful, darling.’ I even miss Raymond saying, ‘But you learnt the slip pivot last week.’
I miss getting all dressed-up. You can go in jeans, but where else can you turn up looking like a Christmas fairy? I miss dancing at the Albert Hall with the Chelsea Pensioners, who can jive like they did after the war. I miss the dancers who became friends from the crowded monthly dance at the Royal Festival Hall.
I miss watching and admiring the very old woman – said to be 96 – who danced like Isadora Duncan and wore flowers in her hair.
But, for me, there have been compensations. I’ve discovered opera. Callas isn’t just for dancing to. I’ve gone back to size 14. I’m no longer gaunt.
Colette was right. After 40, it’s your face or your figure.
I went down to size 10 and didn’t care when a friend told me I looked ‘gaunt’