The trainer stared at Alex, back at his watch, then back at the track. The lad wouldn’t be stopped, round he went again and again, never letting up his pace. The crowd waited quietly as they watched the lone runner, and even when the trainer waved the flag for Alex to stop, he continued to run. They couldn’t cheer, and no one knew exactly what to do. They could see as he passed that his face was like a mask, set, his eyes staring vacantly ahead, his limbs working by themselves.
‘He’s going to run himself to death. For God’s sake, somebody stop him.’
The trainer took off, running at top speed along the track, but it took him all he had to catch up with Alex. He shouted that it was over, Alex had done it. ‘It’s over, Alex! It’s over... Alex!’
Alex collapsed in a heap and lay face down, his chest heaving, his hands clawing at the gravel. He felt his head being rubbed, and a voice told him it was all right, it was over, he had done it, he had done it.
The matron bathed his feet and put disinfectant on his cut heel, bandaged it very carefully, and checked his pulse. He was lying with his eyes closed, still, and she pulled up a chair and sat close to him.
Down in the canteen the group of boys whispered, and Morgan, his nose out of joint because he realized he was losing his position as the ‘Guv’nor’, knew he had to do something to reinstate himself. Drinking his cocoa he rolled a thin cigarette, clicked his fingers for one of the lads to snap to with a match. ‘I’m gonna have ta show that creep Stubbs, wipe him out, he won’t make that run, I’ll bloody see he doesn’t.’
‘Pssst, Alex, Alex, a few of the lads thought you might fancy half a Mars Bar... You okay?’ Eric’s sweating face was close to Alex, his bad breath swamping him. Alex propped himself on his elbows and gave the thumbs-up sign. He accepted the half Mars Bar and a packet of five cigarettes. Two more boys crept in and whispered, ‘We’re all gunnin’ for yer, Alex, an’ we got a few suggestions, like. If the Chief, the boss man like, asks yer if yer want anyfink — we all bin discussin’ it — we wanna learn how ter dance, like. Yer know, ballroom stuff. Will yer suggest it? We’re serious, like, all of us wanna dance, so will yer put it ter the Chief, Alex?’
Alex thought they were joking, but they insisted they were serious, so he gave them his word that should the Chief offer him any perks he would ask for a gramophone and a dancing instructor.
The Governor did appear the following morning, in high spirits, and wanting detailed medical reports on his prized boy. The matron assured him Stubbs would be up and about in a day or so. Alex watched the man stride down the row of empty beds, wearing suede boots, his Merchant Taylors’ old school tie, blue shirt with stiff white collar, the creases in his trousers like razors. ‘Well, you gave us all a good day, I must say, never seen anything like it, congratulations! You know we had the clock on you, Stubbs, bloody marvellous.’
The Governor wandered around the ward, coughing and picking his nose, then stared out of the window. ‘Inter-Counties race, what you reckon on your chances, Stubbs?’
Alex shrugged, he had no idea of the times set by other runners.
‘The other schools happen to have some of the best running clubs, son, Merchant Taylors’ best, and the Harriers... I think you can take them on, all of them.’ He moved around the bed and sat down, took out a packet of cigarettes. He lit one and blew a smoke ring. ‘Thing is, to date we’ve not had a chap good enough or trustworthy enough to try for a place.’
Alex sat up and hugged his knees, saying that no matter what, they could trust him. He gave his word, which was greeted with a hearty slap on his shoulder. The Governor had reached the door before he turned to ask if there was anything Alex wanted.
‘There is something, sir. The lads I’ve been training with, they sort of asked if I’d put in a word...’
When Alex mentioned ballroom dancing the Governor almost keeled over. ‘Ballroom dancing? You serious, Stubbs? You any idea what the rest of the lads’ll do if they hear about it? Good God, I’ve been asked for some odd things in my time, but this takes the medal. Ballroom dancing? How many lads want to do this fancy footwork, then?’
Alex shrugged and said about eight of them, with a gramophone.
‘You’ll take a hell of a ribbing, you know that? But if it’s what you want then I’ll see what I can arrange.’
Vic Morgan roared with laughter — friggin’ ballroom dancing! Ponces headed by friggin’ ‘Goody-Two-Shoes’ Stubbs. This he had to see to believe. Stubbs’ popularity was eclipsing Morgan’s, and his hatred was intensified when he discovered that three members of his inner circle had joined the ‘fairies’.
Fully recovered, Alex returned to classes a hero. Along with eight other boys, all serving long sentences, he was called into the Governor’s office.
He had kept his word, they were to have the use of a gramophone two nights a week between tea-break and dinner, and there were four records — a waltz, a foxtrot, a rumba and a tango. They would be taught by the Governor’s wife. Mrs Dennis stood by her husband’s desk, a pleasant, plain-looking woman in lisle stockings and brogues. ‘You will start with the waltz, and work your way through the other routines. But any boy abusing this special privilege will ruin it for the others.’
The sarcastic references to the ‘pansies’ special brigade’ were ignored, and twice a week the ballroom-dancing lessons took place in the drill hall. But before long the other lads began to envy the group as they marched across the quad to the hall and the sound of the Joe Loss Orchestra belted out. Mrs Dennis’ strident voice was heard, ‘One, two three, one, two three, one, two three... No, no, you must walk backwards... One, two three and fishtail, one, two three...’
The eight members of the formation dancing team became friends. They laughed as they partnered each other, but they were obviously dedicated to learning. Ted Smith took it upon himself to divide the group into male and female so they could learn to move backwards as well as forwards. Alex, being so tall, rarely had to be the lady. Ted, a small-time spiv, was mastering the tango, and encouraging the others. ‘When ya get out, all of yer, yer gonna need ta know how to move on the floor, best way of pickin’ up girls, right? Yer come out not knowin’ one move from the next an’ yer sunk. We gotta learn, only way yer can pick up the chicks, I’m tellin’ ya...’
The lads laughed a lot, especially at poor Eric, who tangoed across the floor on his own.
More and more, Alex was becoming the hero, and Vic Morgan slunk around trying to find any way he could to sabotage Alex. He managed to steal a small file from woodwork class, and every night he worked on carefully sharpening the spikes on his running shoes. He cajoled and threatened one of the lads in the mailbag section to get some thick cotton and a strong needle without saying what he wanted them for.
The news came through that Alex had been accepted for trials, and he was called to the Governor’s office to fill in an application form. This was the first time any borstal lad had been allowed to take part in the Inter-Counties Cross-Country race. Mr Dennis checked the form and clapped his hands, smiled his satisfaction and asked how the dancing was coming along.
‘It’s very good, sir, thank you very much. We’re on to the rumba now.’
The Governor was surprised and impressed at the way the lads had conducted themselves. He knew the other prisoners had been merciless, but they had kept themselves to themselves and there had been no fighting. His wife told him the lads were always on their best behaviour and really did want to learn to dance.
‘Tell the others that next Saturday night they’ll be allowed to wear their own clothes. I’ll rope in a few girls, give you a small dance — no alcohol, mind, just fruit juices, but it’s about time you had female partners.’