Review - The Dancing Floor

I had this review from W_.  We were both guests at a friend’s place and, Scottish weather being Scottish weather, the haggis hunting that day had been postponed due to the traditional sleet and snow that typifies Spring in the Highlands.  Seeking distraction and entertainment, I wandered to the library hoping to find at least our host’s selection of plainly bound pornography.

W sat by the fire, both were smoking.  Beside him on a small table rested an oversized decanter.  The glass was in his hand.  W was known to bring his own supplies on these trips, having once being forced to spend a weekend snowed in on the moors with only the host’s blended scotch to pass the time.

‘You’ll want the Buchan.’  He advised, gesturing to a bookcase with his foot.  ‘To your left, second shelf, yellow dust jacket.  ‘The Dancing Floor’.  That’s what you want.’

He topped up his glass and, without invitation, began.

‘The Dancing Floor may not be the greatest book ever written, but it’s the greatest adventure story I’ve ever read.

Its construction is superb.  Its author’s audacity breathtaking.  It begins with an admirably short introduction where the writer explains that this is a story he heard from a friend as they both passed the time when taking civilized refuge from an unseasonable climate.  By the end of that first paragraph, one is hooked.

The astonishing thing is that, for a novel of adventure, so very little happens for so very long.  Buchan shows exceptional nerve, and prodigious skill, in maintaining, and building, tension, moving inexorably towards the climax, where a lot happens in a very short period of time.

The premise is intriguing.  The first portion of the book deals with the storyteller’s friendship with a young friend of the family, and how this singular young man is visited by an annually recurring dream.  Surely, the reader thinks, this must be the key to the adventure and not just mystical tosh.

It’s a measure of Buchan’s confidence that the Great War is briefly explained as an wholly unexpected interlude offering adventure and excitement.  One cannot but help admire Buchan’s mastery of understatement here, as both central characters are clearly profoundly affected by their experiences at the front, most markedly in it being confirmed to them, on a grand scale, that when beastly things are in the offing, a British gentleman is justified in grabbing a pistol and the initiative and jolly well sorting things out, no matter where this might take him.

Then the book takes a most unexpected turn, the young man and his strange dream all but vanish from the narrative and we are introduced to a rare and exotic bird, a young and, naturally, beautiful woman who is far braver than any of the male characters.

Her somewhat shocking behaviour in London society is explained away by her growing up abroad and, page by page, we learn more about her background, and the terrible fate that awaits her.  She is determined to make amends for her father’s misdeeds at the family home on a remote Greek island.  The islanders however, think that this can best be achieved by torching said home, and her.

And so the book races towards its conclusion, but not before Buchan pulls off a masterstroke, changing narrative perspective at a crucial point but in such a way as to excite the reader rather than to frustrate.

This is a masterpiece.  Its depiction of London pre and post Great War is superb and Buchan’s depiction of the effect of the conflict on even the stoutest of English hearts is surprisingly compassionate in a tale of high adventure.  He is also gifted in describing the society of the time.

The Dancing Floor is a tale of high adventure, dazzlingly well written.  It is about destiny, self determination, family, friendship, conflict and Bad Blood.  It even manages to combine a dash of mysticism with what some might consider heroics, and what other will recognise as the British gentleman at his best, under pressure, with nothing but his wits and a firearm to save the day.

An astonishing tale of high adventure, astonishingly well written.

Anyway, you should read it.’

I bought my copy of ‘The Dancing Floor’ in the Brazen Head second-hand bookshop in Burnham Market, North Norfolk.  This book is the epitome of why it is simply wrong to own a Kindle.  It’s hardback, it’s got its dust jacket and it’s in fairly good condition.  I’d guess from the ‘reprinted’ history at the front that it’s the June 1938 edition.  Knowing this, it’s not too much of a stretch to think that somebody may have been reading this very book, a thrilling tale of high adventure that includes a passage on the characters adventures during World War One, whilst World War Two raged about them.

What really thrilled me though was when a bus ticket fell out of it as I read on and turned the page.  Then a few pages later, another appeared.  Two tickets, both dated July, one for 9:23, another 10:49.  A return trip…where?  To enlist?  Was some young man reading this book as he bumped to and from an appointment with destiny?

What could make this better?  Only one thing, the tickets have an advert for ‘Turners quality sausages’ and ‘Turners pork pies’ on the reverse!

Those tickets have remained there for what must be decades, and one can only speculate why.  I certainly hope that whoever originally owned the book finished it.

I do know this.  It cost me £4 and it is now the most precious volume in my possession.  The bus tickets still sit inside it, holding place.

You don’t get that with a Kindle.

And as we’re discussing war, the other thing you don’t get with a Kindle is stopping power for a bullet.  It might hold 20,000 books, but the only way a Kindle is every going to feature in a ‘I’d have been a goner if it hadn’t been for my hardback copy of ‘Reform School Girls’ I always carry in my breast pocket’ story is if they bring out the Kindle Kevlar.