A Face in a Photograph

Last Saturday being 1^st May many morris dancers made up for not being able to dance out by sharing photographs of May Days and dance outs of the past on Facebook.  

One of those was Jay, who was a member of the first Morris team I was part of.

Back in 1982 I joined New Tyne Morris, a mixed Cotswold Morris team – quite scandalous in those days.  Our kit comprised black corduroy breeches for the men, coulottes for the ladies (women dancing in trousers would have been a step too far), black shoes, yellow socks, white shirt and a waistcoat made from striped deckchair materials.  Before long we’d been nicknamed the Dancing Deckchairs. 

The first image Jay shared was a black and white photo of us dancing on Armstrong Bridge.  

I'm looking very demure and serious as she hits the stick I’m holding.

I commented “Blimey there's me! I walked across Armstrong Bridge today with Mrs Leftfoot.”

Jay replied “I’m wondering why Wilko is staring at us.  Are we doing something wrong?”

“I think he's looking down the lines to check they're straight.   

I'm wondering how I managed to keep my hair up in a bun whilst dancing!”

“My hair always flops out of a bun.  I just do plaits now.”

Then Bess Cavalier (who has only known me since 1975) chimed in with 

“That's a real look of concentration on your face Bentonbag.  I didn't recognise you.”

The next photo was in colour and was obviously taken at a Morpeth Gathering sometime between 1982 and 85, when Jay moved South.  Another stick dance, 

I’m not visible, but I might not have been there as I slipped a disc in 1984 and was immobile for some time.  

Something in the background caught my eye; dark curly hair and beard, hands in pockets, feet crossed, leaning nonchalantly against a bin or bollard, looking pensively at the dance. 

Phil, my first, late, husband.

My heart turned over in sudden joy and sorrow.

But it was Phil before I knew him.

Phil when he was a musician for Sandgate Ladies Morris.

When his first marriage was breaking down …

It’s amazing how two people can be in the same circles, attending the same events, yet never bump into or notice each other.

A few years later, when he and I had come together, we were looking through some old Sandgate Morris photos of his.  

Sandgate used to hold annual Feasts and ceilidhs.   

I went to some of them.   

In the corner of one of his photos there was some bright turquoise material, flying as the dancer spun.   

It was a silk day dress that had originally belonged to my mother, ideal for dancing as the full skirt swung beautifully.

“That’s me!  That’s my skirt”

“I don’t remember you being there” said Phil.

“I don’t remember you either” I replied, quite truthfully.

We didn’t meet until the Summer of 1985 when the Squireen (we were flatmates) dragged me along to a Folkmoot event.  But that’s a story for another day...