At The Hop

Penny’s memories of the Sixties dances all came flooding back when she saw the photo . . .

THAT’S me, Penny thought, staring in disbelief at the photograph in the gallery window. It was labelled Saturday Night Hop, 1965.

She remembered that year. She remembered that dance hall, and she remembered the dress. But she’d never seen this photo.

She gathered herself enough to push open the door of the gallery and go inside. Framed photographs lined the walls. Most were black and white, but some were in that unreal sort of bright colour that made Penny realise just how long ago the Sixties had been.

In a corner of the gallery, a woman about Penny’s age was talking to a younger woman who might have been her daughter.

Although Penny couldn’t hear their conversation, she could read the older woman’s gestures perfectly.

“Then you back combed, and your hair was this high!”

“Morning,” the gallery assistant said with a welcoming nod to Penny from behind his desk.

“About the photo in the window – ‘Saturday Night Hop’ . . .” Penny began.

“It’s great, isn’t it?” he said so warmly that Penny was put at ease. “It was taken at a dance hall round the corner. It used to be where the cinema is now.” 

“I know,” Penny said. “That’s me in the photo.” He looked thrilled. 

“Really?”

He went to the window and came back with the photo in his hands, stopping beside her so she could point herself out.

“Wow!” he said. “That’s an impressive spin you’re doing there.” 

She laughed. 

“It is, isn’t it?” The skirt of the red and white spotted dress she’d been so proud of was flared around her as she twirled. “I had no idea there was a photographer there.”