Prologue

The whole city was dancing. Or so it seemed. Everywhere you looked you saw people finding it impossible to keep their feet still and their toes from tapping. They weren't doing that only in the glittering palais-de-danse which studded Glasgow like twinkling stars in the night sky.

In students' unions clever, disillusioned young people kicked up their heels and kicked over the traces, cocking a snook at their elders and the horrors of the world those elders had made. Stamping their feet and shimmying, they laughed in delight when outraged parents and scandalised ministers condemned all dancing as lewd, immoral and shameless.

In spacious Victorian villas Bright Young Things took equal pleasure in shocking the old, the religious and the staid. Then they lit up another cigarette and called for another cocktail.

In lavish Art Deco tea-rooms in Sauchiehall Street, middle-aged women disappointed by their husbands surrendered themselves to the smouldering passion of the tango: and made fools of themselves over the young men hired to dance it with them.

In tennis clubs in garden suburbs couples who'd made it out of the slums before the Crash perfected the intricate steps of the foxtrot and the smooth glide of the waltz.

The people they'd left behind in the tenements danced too. How they danced. At street corners and in tram queues shipyard apprentices, office clerks, factory lassies and the thousands who had nothing to do all day but collect their dole gave themselves over to the exuberance of the Charleston. They supplied the accompaniment themselves, belting out the irresistible and compulsive beat - pah-pah, pah-pah, pah-pah-pah-pah, pah-pah - as they went along.

Once the drudgery of the working day was behind them young men and women spruced themselves up, polished their dancing shoes, put on their best clothes and took to the floor in search of fun, relaxation and romance.

Countless marriages started at the dancing.

People whose paths might otherwise never have crossed met at the dancing.

Part I
Chapter 1
December 1932

Could this be what it felt like to drink champagne? Favoured, if the newsreels were to be believed, by Bright Young Things and dashing royal princes alike, that exotic and expensive drink had never passed Jean Dunlop's lips. Bubbles of excitement were coursing through her veins all the same, plunging from the top of her head to the soles of her feet before shooting all the way back up again.

She was here at last: at a real live dance in a real live dance hall. She was so excited she could hardly breathe. That tonight was Christmas Eve made it all the more special.

Most of the people milling around waiting for the dance to begin would be off work tomorrow only because of the happy accident of Christmas Day falling on a Sunday this year. The big Scottish festival was next weekend: Hogmanay. But Jean's mother had always liked to keep Christmas too.

Fighting the urge to glance just one more time across what seemed like the miles of gleaming wooden floorboards which separated the two genders, instinct told Jean to at least stop fidgeting. She settled for standing with her arms by her sides, her nervous fingers concealed by the generously-cut folds of her frock.

She became aware that she was under scrutiny from her own side of the great divide. The peroxide blonde in the low-necked and sleeveless glittery silver dress and matching evening shoes was giving her the top-to-toe treatment. The young woman's eyes lingered first on Jean's long fall of fair hair before passing down over her dress to her shoes.

She murmured something to her friends, standing next to her on the edge of the dance floor. One by one, with that surreptitious glance which inevitably follows the instruction to 'don’t look now but there’s a girl over there ...', each of them did exactly what she had done.

None of them tried too hard to conceal their amusement at what they saw. Once they'd had their fun they resumed their unabashed scrutiny of what talent there might be among the young men shuffling their feet on the opposite side of the hall.

Jean knew fine well what they'd been laughing at. She wasn't exactly dressed for dancing. Her sensible black leather lace-ups were much too sturdy, she wore no make-up, her hair was unfashionably long and her dress was an unmitigated disaster.

That started with its shade, a quite disgusting green which did absolutely nothing for a girl with Jean's colouring. It sludge-like hue neither complemented her blonde hair nor contrasted with it. The sickly coldness of the shade failed to highlight the warm peach of her complexion. To add insult to injury, the shapeless garment was a good two sizes too big for her and, with its demurely high neckline and wrist-length sleeves, unquestionably an afternoon frock rather than one you would wear to go out in the evening.

Jean squared her shoulders. She had known all of that long before she had summoned up the courage to come here tonight. That had taken her some time to do, even after the onset of winter and the certainty of short days and long dark nights. She'd had plenty of time to consider the possibility of wearing the brown skirt and cream blouse which suited her so much better. After much deliberation she had rejected that idea. She might not know much but she knew you didn't put on a skirt and a blouse to go to the dancing.

You wore a dress. She was wearing the only one she possessed. Her shoes were well-polished and her hair well-brushed. Before she had come out, carefully and making sure both sides were exactly equal, she had scooped some of those bright waves back from her face. A pretty clasp secured them high up on the back of her head. She was neat, clean and presentable and she wasn't going to allow some nasty little madams to put her off.

Jean cast a defiant glance in their direction. One day she was going to have dozens of pretty dancing slippers and scores of beautiful evening dresses. And, in the same way that her hair colour hadn't come out of a bottle, neither would her future wardrobe be made of tawdry and garish materials like the artificial silks those girls were wearing. Miss Jean Dunlop's clothes would be fashioned from the finest fabrics money could buy.

Quite how she was going to achieve this particular ambition was something about which she remained a little hazy. When it came to visualising those luxurious materials, her imagination was more than equal to the task.

Lying on a dressmaker's table ready to be turned into beautiful clothes, she could see those huge bolts of cloth so clearly she felt she could almost reach out and take them between her fingertips. There were heavy satins and crepe-de-chines in gleaming yellow and glowing red, ornate brocades in pink and purple and gold, soft-to-the-touch velvets in midnight-blue and emerald-green ...

The band struck up. Head snapping round towards the drum rolls and crashing chords, Jean saw a man in a dark evening suit walk forward to the microphone which rose like a black sunflower at the front of the stage. His fair hair was slicked back, a neatly-trimmed moustache crowned his top lip and his clothes had obviously been cut by a tailor who knew his trade.

'Ladies and gentlemen,' said the bandleader, his smile a mile wide and his arms opening to the full extent of their reach, 'Welcome! Before we ask you to take your partners for the first dance, we'd like to play a little number to get us all in the mood.'

Entranced, Jean gazed up at him and the musicians who sat behind him. There was a saxophonist, a trumpet player, a pianist, a banjo player and a drummer. Och, but was this not wonderfully, unimaginably better than straining her ears to hear snatches of music floating out through someone's open window?

She recognised the tune immediately. Button Up Your Overcoat. A big hit when it first came out, it was still hugely popular. Lots of people played it on their gramophones.

Her foot was tapping well before the man in the beautiful evening clothes began to sing the words. It was impossible not to join in, impossible not to move along to the bouncy and devil-may-care rhythm.

Experiencing for the first time the pleasure of watching and listening to real musicians, Jean wanted to laugh out loud with joy. There couldn't be anything wrong or sinful about wanting to do this. There simply couldn't.

The first number came to an end and the announcement was made that the gentlemen should now choose their partners. A bolt of sheer holy terror struck Jean. What if nobody asked her to dance? What if her dowdy dress and old-fashioned hairstyle made her look like a schoolgirl and not the poised young woman of nearly eighteen she tried so hard to be?

The girls who had laughed at her clumpy footwear and unshingled hair would laugh even harder as they whirled past her shod in their dainty little shoes and clasped in the arms of the boys who would undoubtedly ask them up onto the floor.

Bracing herself for the humiliation and the disappointment, Jean dropped her eyes to the wooden boards at her feet. Feeling the vibration as one half of the hall moved towards the other half with all the determination of an advancing army, she thought wildly about the Bible stories with which she was so familiar.

Perhaps the floor might open up in front of her like the Red Sea parting to allow the safe passage of the Israelites and she could make good her escape. Maybe she should simply put one foot in front of the other, thread her way through the advancing hordes, and head for the exit -

'Are ye dancing, hen?'

She raised her head and found herself looking into warm and laughing eyes. They were blue, but not at all like the colour of the sky. These eyes were the same deep shade as the ink she remembered using at school.

Somehow she succeeded in stuttering out what even she knew was the traditional reply to the question the young man had put to her. 'Are y-you a-asking?'

His wide mouth curving, he cocked his head to one side. His black hair was thick and wavy and his teeth were very white. 'I’m asking.'

Jean took a quick breath. 'Then I'm dancing.'

'Good,' he said, 'I'd feel a right eejit staunin' here if you were gonnae turn me doon.' He extended his right arm towards her, inviting her to put her hand in his. His speech was rough and although his charcoal-grey suit was well-brushed and pressed, it was also worn and shiny. Yet the gesture was both confident and graceful. He had a really nice smile too, open and friendly and a wee bit mischievous all at the same time. Spirits soaring, Jean allowed him to lead her out onto the dance floor.

To find out what happens next read THE DANCING DAYS. Out now.