The Maypole Dance

I am at the stage of life where most of my conversations start by recalling the past, I much prefer this of course to that of the inevitable alternative. Unfortunately, my memories are fading to a watery sepia, albeit not as fast as my dreams which vaporise moments after waking.

Olfactory recollections are instantly able to take me back to my grandfather’s house, winging me up into the topmost attic rooms where golden russet apples were heaped upon sacking. filling the air within the roomy attic with the heavy and sumptuous aroma of winter stored apple. I also loved the summer aroma of boiled soft fruit; in particular blackberries whose heady perfume filled my grandmother Beatrice’s house in August until the end of September. The sour smell of tired beer lying gentle upon the stale air of an open pub door, with just a distant hint of the gentlemens urinal, takes me back instantly to my Sunday morning walks past ‘The Castle’ pub on my way down shore to fetch shingle for my grandfather’s pigeons.

The sweet delicate aroma of freshly mown grass instantly takes me to school at May Day following the first council tractor grass cut in readiness for summer. May Day celebrations were always held outside on the Public Recreation ground, known by all as The Rec, which served as our playing fields at Grange Road Junior School in East Cowes on the Isle of Wight.

Thirty or forty coloured ribbons hung dancing in the light breeze as we children were rehearsed by Mrs Green, rehearsed and rehearsed again in our little school assembly hall in order that we were in readiness for the May Day Floral dance around the Maypole. Mrs Green shrieked her venomous instructions to us, or to be more truthful to me in particular, whilst my pretty partner Patricia continued to blush with angry embarrassment at my clumsy incompetence.

May Day came at long last; the grass had been freshly mown and punctually at three o’clock families friends and parents, including my own mother, began arriving to watch the spectacle of the Maypole dance. An opportunity to watch their children dancing, deftly cross threading handheld brightly coloured ribbons into intricate pattern whilst skipping and weaving in and out, first one way then another, all around the Maypole.

Mr Weeks and Mrs Thomas were leading out the rest of the school together with the infants, they were all giggling and very excited, sitting cross legged immediately in front of the Maypole.

Mr Dunford was seated precariously upon a tall desk stool, toying nervously with his accordion keys whilst shouting loudly at a group of the older boys.

“For goodness sake lads stop playing football and help Mr Armitage with that piano then after that get yourselves sat down with the rest of your class, they’ll be out in a minute.’’

Mr Armitage, our school caretaker, was finalising the positioning of the school piano which he and two other teachers had manhandled across to The Rec in order that Mrs Green could accompany ‘Form C’ who were in noisy unreadiness waiting to sing the Maypole song, whilst we the dancers nervously awaited our skipping bobbing and weaving, each one of us with our coloured ribbon a flying.

Soon Mr Peach, the headmaster, was heading towards us together with a small number of local council dignitaries, each one carrying a small sized school chair to join the growing crowd of noisy children and excited parents. Soon after Mr Peach had joined us, he quickly took control. Clearing his throat noisily he clapped his hands together loudly to gain attention. Bidding all welcome he lost no time in explaining and briefly outlining the ancient and quintessentially English age-old custom of heralding the beginning of summer by watching children dancing and singing around the Maypole.

No sooner had Mr Peach finished than Mrs Green quickly hustled and bustled the children to their respective positions. ‘Form C’ were now stood along three trestle forms one behind the other, whilst we Maypole dancers were hurried into position with our respective dancing partners. Mr Dunford and Mrs Green, fingers poised over both accordion and piano ready to commence the festival of May Day. If the butterflies in my stomach were not enough to contend with my partner Patricia Shields was already scowling at me askance as we each held a different coloured ribbon awaiting the Form C choir’s musical introduction which was to be sung to no less than the tune of ‘Here we go round the Mulberry Bush’

Here we go round the Maypole high

The Maypole high, The Maypole high

Here we go round the Maypole high

Let coloured ribbons fly let coloured ribbons fly…

See lasses and lads go tripping by…

Go tripping…

Suddenly, somewhere within the deepest confines of my nervous confusion I heard the persistent voice of Patricia followed by a hard tug on my ribbon,

“Turn, turn”!

“You’re going the wrong way”, she screamed, turn around...

Patricia screaming at the top of her voice and waving her arms madly at me like a banshee was possibly the catalyst that initiated my irrational and mindless terror.

In a blind panic and in an instinctive effort to correct my errant dance steps I pushed hard into the poor girl in front of me, unfortunately in so doing I trod down heavily upon the heel of her shoe. At that same moment her pretty patent leather pump flew past my ear as I grabbed onto several other nearby dancer’s ribbons. In a brave attempt to remain upright I turned to skip and bob as deftly as I could muster in the opposite direction. Unfortunately, this manoeuvre led me straight into the oncoming dancers, it was in a word, carnage.

Where was Patricia?

My heart was beating loudly like a drum, and in sheer panic I immediately turned about to right the situation only to find due to my actions thus far boys and girls had, with lots of screaming and crying, fallen over one another. Nonetheless I decided I should dance on. I was surprised to find that I was now grasping no less than five coloured ribbons and for some inexplicable reason I was only a foot or so from the centre of the Maypole itself and Patricia.

It was at this point I became aware of the deafening silence, one frozen moment in time when the whole world stood still. No longer could I hear the dulcet tones of ‘Form C’ or the skipping clatter of dancer’s feet or the enthusing cheer of the gathered school children, parents and council dignitaries. I watched in a still moment of panic and fear as my own mother picked up her carrier bag and began walking slowly off towards York Avenue. Silent astonishment and disbelief were written upon the faces of the families and friends as they continued to watch on.

At that same moment I became aware of the spectres of Mrs Green and Patricia’s mother looming toward us. Patricia was an array of coloured ribbons, both her shoes were missing, as were her spectacles, her left knee was grazed and bloody. Her rage had now turned to loud throaty sobbing as she had found herself tied by coloured ribbons hand and foot to the pole and making matters worse by her tugging and pulling at them in an effort to escape her secured bondage.

Mr. Peach meanwhile was busy rounding up the dignitaries whilst the rest of the teaching staff were struggling to quieten and control the children who were now very loud and gleefully appreciative of our performance of the Maypole dance.

My recollection of the rest of that afternoon has faded into obscurity together with the sadness that the Maypole dance had been the only school activity my mother had ever deigned to attend and due to her illness thereafter she never attended another.

Later that night, after a scalding from my mother I lay in my bed so grateful that the noisy calamity and embarrassment of the day was over and equally that of Mrs Green’s and Patricia’s mother’s very firm rebuke. Hopefully, the stinging humiliation would now slowly fade, notwithstanding I was mindful of Mr Peach’s request to ensure I was to attend his office in the morning immediately following assembly.

As sleep finally encompassed me, I knew that whatever adversity or challenging times I was to face in life, nothing would compare or be any worse than the school Maypole Dance.