The Stillness the Dancing

by Wendy Perriam

  She watched David shade his eyes against the sun, tried again. ‘Don’t you like the heat?’

  ‘Not really.’

  ‘They say our summers are gradually getting hotter. It’s something to do with pollution, I think I read.’

  He didn’t answer, suddenly jumped up. ‘I’m sorry, Morna, but I ought to turn back now. I haven’t packed my bag yet.’

  That couldn’t take him long. A toothbrush and pyjamas. Or perhaps his notes and books.

  ‘Do you have your work here?’ she asked, still sprawling where she was. ‘You know—that stuff in French you were telling me about?’

  ‘Oh, no. It’s all at home.’

  ‘Pity. I’d have liked to have had a look at it.’

  David had turned back towards the path, was waiting for her to catch up. Reluctantly, she struggled to her feet, brushed her skirt down. Go on, she urged him silently, why not say you’ll send me a few pages, suggest I help you with it? He said nothing, even when she joined him, just strode ahead again, his long brown back blocking off the sun. They were skirting the orchard now, trees bandy and distorted, the clustering apples mostly green, unripe. She had bitten into one the day before, spat it out, grimacing. In two months time they would be rotting underfoot or already pulped in pies or jams. And Chris would be back from France, already back at school; she, returned from her mother’s to be a mother in her turn; David, one of seven benighted souls cut off by an ocean. What could she say to him? Keep in touch, give me your phone number, send me a postcard from an island with no shop?

  ‘Hey, David …’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I’ve just thought—perhaps I could help you with that French. I … I’d find it very interesting. And I haven’t got much work on at the moment. You see, the summer’s always fairly …’ She was filling his silence with words. Couldn’t he at least give her an answer, even if it were no? He was embarrassed to say no. She watched him frown, bite his lip.

  ‘The … er … problem is, Morna … I mean, I’d love your help—of course I would—but I … can’t really afford a translator’s fees.’

  ‘Fees?’ She ducked to avoid an overhanging branch.

  ‘Well, of course I’d pay you. It’s just that my … er … budget’s rather tight at the moment. I’m having to watch every last penny.’

  ‘I wouldn’t dream of taking money, David.’ She was embarrassed now herself. He would think she was touting for work, trying to earn herself an easy cheque. ‘I never meant that for a second. I’m just interested—not only in the French, but in your saint as well. It’s a completely new period for me. At school, history started with the Normans—1066 and all that.’

  ‘That’s scandalous. You can’t understand the Normans without the …’

  Morna cursed silently. If they sidetracked to the Vikings or the Saxons, she would never get her papers. Why didn’t she just leave it, stop pestering, behaving in the same pushy, insensitive fashion as the men who plagued her after Neil had left? That was the trouble, though. David was so different. Those bores had been all booze and bun-fights, regarding her simply as a woman on her own who needed a replacement stud; whereas he was diffident, reclusive, had a finesse and vulnerability she valued for its rarity. She sensed a bond between them. They shared the same background, had been brought up with the same God, the same prohibitions, rituals. Did he still worship that God, celebrate those rituals? How did he square them with the tide of new knowledge, the explosion of new thinking, with which he had dazzled her this morning? There was so much she longed to know. Yet they were less than a hundred yards from the house now, five minutes from goodbye. Adieu, not au revoir. David stooped down to tie his shoelace, was silent for a moment. The shoes looked worn and battered as if their owner overworked them. She could see him about to speak.

  ‘W … Why don’t I give you my address?’ she suddenly blurted out, still staring at the shoes. ‘Then you can send me a few pages.’

  David brushed his trousers down, stood up straight again. ‘Well, if you’re absolutely sure it’s no trouble …’

  ‘No, really, I’d enjoy it. Got a pencil?’

  He fumbled in his pocket, produced a leaky Biro. ‘No paper, I’m afraid. Have you got anything?’

  Morna shook her head. She had left her handbag in her room, had no pocket in this skirt. She glanced around for a scrap of litter. None.

  ‘Don’t worry. I’ll jot it on my hand.’ David stopped, leant against a tree, held one palm flat and rigid like a notebook.

  ‘That’s what my daughter does. She keeps a whole address book on both hands.’

  David laughed ‘Why not? Right, fire away.’

  ‘Mrs Morna Gordon,’ she spelt out. Why had she said Mrs? Simply force of habit, or because if she had a daughter, then she ought to have a husband? She had mentioned Neil already, without explaining he was ex; was always wary of being classed as a divorcée. She had soon learnt that divorcées were considered easy prey, and she had been forward enough with David as it was.

  Anyway, it really made no difference. It was his work she found so fascinating, the sheer range of his mind.

  She was surprised to see him writing her name in full, instead of just initials. It took up his whole palm.

  ‘5 Elmwood Drive,’ she continued. He moved down to his wrist, wrote carefully, laboriously, tongue poking between his teeth like a child.

  ‘Okay?’ he asked, when he had finished at last—included even the postcode and the phone number which spread right down his forearm—and holding the arm up for her to check.

  She nodded. ‘Yes, that’s it.’ Felt a sudden stab of excitement as she saw her name—bold, indelible—imprinted on his flesh.

  Chapter Six

  It was a golden day, the noon sun shimmering on yellow potentillas, golden rod; a burst of reddish gold chrysanthemums flaming by the hedge. Wasps were buzzing round the plums, golden plums, yellow greengages; a blackbird boasting on a topmost branch. Morna strolled into the garden, bare-armed, bare-legged—sniffed the late summer cocktail of monbretia and dianthus, cloying carnations, almost sickly sweet, musky helenium. There were other scents—warm grass, cut grass, rotting grass cut a week ago and mulching on the compost-heap; a faint tang of things over-ripe, creeping towards decay; blooms too full, colours already fading in the insistent sun.

  She fetched the ladder, dragged it towards the apple trees. The Worcesters were ripe, but not the russets yet. Neil had planted the Worcester Pearmains, bought them as mere saplings, watched them grow, crunched their first perfect apple in his perfect teeth, then left them, along with everything else in house and garden.

  Morna set the ladder steady, climbed up to the apples, filled two baskets with them. She carried them back to the house, picked out the best and biggest for her daughter’s room, piled them in a bowl. She had already filled the room with flowers, bought a welcome-home card. Chris was expected back that afternoon. She felt excited and keyed up as if she were on holiday; had missed her daughter more than she’d expected. She did a quick check around the room, straightening books, tidying shelves—stopped in front of a photo of Chris and Martin. Bea was right—there was no such thing as divorce. Neil was still around. Bea might ban his photos in her house, but his eyes, hair, even something of his character, had transferred themselves to Chris. Both were lean, dark, ambitious, obstinate, though Neil’s spare sallow wiriness worked better on a man. Chris had boyish hips, timid breasts. Her hair was as dark and straight as her father’s but looked lank instead of sleek. His grey eyes seemed less steely and imperious when transferred to her pale and fragile face. She had his perfect, teeth, but since she rarely smiled, no one could admire them.

  Morna suddenly longed to see her in the flesh—tight mouth, wary eyes and all—longed to restitute her with all the things she should have had, but hadn’t—beauty, security, serenity, a father. It was somehow Neil’s fault that she hadn’t grown more beautiful. If he had stayed around, she would have ripened in his honour. But
since he wasn’t there to notice, she simply hadn’t bothered to fill out; was mourning him still, scowling even in her picture.

  Her boyfriend also looked restive—another thin, dark, gangling type; mouth vulnerable, slick of hair falling into Bournville eyes. All the smiles were Neil’s. Chris still kept her father in her room—three of him, cajoling and posturing from three separate photo frames. Morna always had to steel herself before entering her daughter’s room, coming face to face with Neil in his endless beaming prime—face unlined, hair youthful dark. The room was full of his munificence—lavish presents sent over from the States: a giant-sized Donald Duck from Disneyland, dressed in a rakish cap and waistcoat, an onyx musical box which played ‘God Bless America’, five scarlet satin cushions which spelt the letters of Chris’s name; even an elaborate ice cream sundae complete with cherries, wafer and whipped cream, all in multi-coloured plastic. The clock was his as well—a jokesy one in the shape of an owl with eyes which swivelled back and forth. Morna wound it up, put it right. Five to one. Chris would still be in France—just—drawing into Calais on the coach. An hour to hang around, an hour to cross the Channel, two hours on the road from Dover to Victoria, an hour or less from there. Still half a day to go. She longed to shorten the day, hack into it, go up and meet Chris at Victoria, shout and wave as the coach drew in. But that was the boyfriend’s privilege. Morna traced her finger along the glass-framed leather jacket, the long denimed legs; wished she felt more for Martin. He was a nice enough lad in his way, and on his own, but he wasn’t right for Chris. Bea had used the same phrase about Neil. Perhaps all mothers used it—no one ever right.

  Bea was out for the day, had left that morning—returned to Hilden Cross for a Women’s Crusade of Prayer. She had made a friend there at the July retreat who not only shared her interests but also ran a car. Morna was pleased for her mother, relieved for herself. It helped to ease her burden of being the only chauffeur, left her more free time for David’s work.

  David had been grudging at first, sent her only a few pages, badly photocopied—although at least he had sent them promptly. They had been waiting on the doormat when she returned from the retreat-house on the last day of July. She had pounced on them, devoted every spare moment since to deciphering the shorthand, bringing the French to vivid thrusting life. She had returned to stay at Bea’s again until just two days ago, working at the same inlaid walnut table she had used as a student. It was like being back at college, slaving away all hours, trying to impress her tutor—except this time he was five years younger instead of more than forty older. David had certainly been impressed, or so he said in his letter which arrived with a further four chapters of the manuscript. Now she had the whole three hundred pages; was nowhere near finished yet, but was finding it one of the most absorbing jobs she had ever taken on. Other translations she had always done alone. This time she had a collaborator, one she never saw, but who wrote or even phoned, discussed phrasing with her, shades of meaning, filled in the background, quoted the Latin Life. They had argued about money—David insisting on paying her in some way, she equally insistent that she wouldn’t take a penny. They had finally let the matter rest, spent their time on more important matters, such as the dating of the second Latin manuscript or the extent of the borrowings from earlier classical writers.

  She ran down to Neil’s old study, settled herself at the desk. Better to get another chunk completed than waste the time fretting about her daughter. You couldn’t hurry ferry-boats or trains—nor translations, either. There were still passages she wasn’t happy with—one in particular where the French professor had used the word ‘l’esprit’ nine times in as many pages. She had translated it as ‘soul’ at first, though that was strictly ‘l’âme’; then, less sure, she had substituted ‘mind’; considered spirit, essence, mentality. None was quite exact. The French suggested all of them, whereas every English equivalent seemed to rule the others out. That passage had given her more problems than any other she had tackled. It was more speculative and philosophical than the rest, language matching thought with a string of abstract nouns which sounded less pretentious in the French. She had still not succeeded in ironing out the lumpiness, bringing it alive, though David had written that he understood the gist of it which was surely all that mattered. She disagreed. Translation was art as much as craft, and she hated to give him something stilted and imperfect when his own standards were so high.

  She picked up her pen, found a virgin piece of paper. ‘L’esprit,’ she wrote, sat staring at it, frowning. ‘Psyche’ was a possibility, though Freud had spoilt the word. ‘Superego’ was far too modern; ‘pneuma’ sounded like a tyre. Perhaps she’d leave it for a moment, try and improve the general feel and flow. She read through the whole section, crossing out words and substituting others. ‘Ambivalence’ was better than ‘ambiguity’ in that particular context, and why use ‘veracity’ when simple ‘truth’ would do every bit as well? Only now did she realise that it was simplicity it lacked. David was right. He needed clear unequivocal meaning above all else. She had sacrificed it for effect, let the professor’s highfalutin French distort her own style. She would have one more try, using a simpler English which was still faithful to the French but without its frills.

  She scribbled on, forgetting lunch. She had come to like the French professor, even to share his and David’s passion for their saint. Impossible to resist Abban’s full-blooded Celtic charm—his extremes of feeling, hot temper, love of birds and animals. He converted stags and even fieldmice, as well as pagans, rebuked donkeys for their stubbornness or foxes for killing hens, was fed by two black crows when starving in a wilderness. The miracles both astounded and amused her—spanning, as they did, both the sublime and the near ridiculous. One in particular made her feel uneasy. It concerned a married woman who had long ceased what Le Goff described coyly as rapports intimes, since she longed to be a nun. Abban prayed. Two weeks later, the husband died a holy and painless death. The widow, both grieving and rejoicing, departed to a desert place to found a convent, using her late husband’s riches to endow it. A less credulous age might have suspected foul play, Morna reflected, as she tried to find a better English equivalent for lieu sauvage. St Abban, like Mother Mary Michael, regarded the married state as unquestionably inferior to the monastic one; exhorted married couples to abstain from sex as long and often as they could. A pity, she thought, she hadn’t had the saint around to help her temper Neil’s demands.

  She got up to stretch her legs, make a cup of tea; was still watching the kettle when the phone rang in the hall. The line was bad, sounded like long-distance. Maybe it was Chris, just arrived at Dover.

  ‘Hallo. Can you speak up, please. I’m sorry, I can’t hear at all. Oh, it’s you, David! How are you? Funnily enough, I was just hoping you’d ring. I’m having a few problems with that … What? In London? Oh, I see. Next week? But why so soon?’

  She slumped down on the settle. All the time she had been translating David’s work, she had somehow managed to block out the fact that he would be leaving for the island. Late September was always weeks away—even now, when the month was already eight days old. But he had brought it forward, planned to leave next week; had been offered a lift to Oban in a colleague’s car which would save him expensive rail fares, solve the problem of transporting all his books. She tried to sound pleased for him, steel herself against saying stupid things like she would gladly drive him to Oban herself, so long as he didn’t leave so soon. They were only casual acquaintances, after all.

  David was speaking again, his voice still muffled as if he were phoning from a far and distant country. In fact he was in London, only twenty miles away from her, staying with a cousin. He had come down just two days ago, to make some last-minute forays to libraries and bookshops before he left for Scotland. He also needed his translation. Was there any chance of fetching it, he wondered, any chance of seeing her? Perhaps he could come right now, if it wouldn’t be a nuisance, catch a train to Weybrid
ge, maybe take her out to dinner as a tiny return for all her …

  Damn, she thought. She would have jumped at the invitation had it been any other day. David would hardly relish a teenage daughter and her boyfriend tagging along as well, quite apart from the expense. She had planned to take Chris and Martin out herself—partly as a little celebration and partly to prevent the dinner spoiling if Chris were, in fact, delayed. She had booked a table at Roxy’s—Chris’s favourite place—a noisy crowded dive where you had to shout against the rock music and the waitresses wore minis and muddled up the orders. She couldn’t see David there. She checked her watch, still dithering. Even if he came for tea, how could she get rid of him before Chris and Martin arrived? She didn’t want to get rid of him, had been hoping all through August to set eyes on him again. Why couldn’t he have rung before—last night, or even this morning? They could have had lunch together then, or a whole evening to themselves, before Chris was even back.

  ‘Hallo? Are you still there, Morna?’

  ‘Yes—sorry. There’s just a minor problem. My daughter’s expected home from France today, so …’

  ‘Oh, I see. Of course I shan’t butt in then. I’m afraid I shan’t see you, though. I’m returning home tomorrow and I’d planned to catch a fairly early train. Would it be an awful chore for you to post the stuff? If you send it first class, it should arrive before I leave for Oban. Or take your time and send it direct to the island. The post’s a bit sporadic there—depends on the crofter’s boat. But at least it’s summer, more or less, so he should be able to get across to the mainland.’

  Morna jabbed her foot against the settle. Summer was over. It was winter in her mind, a cold sea crashing between them, cutting her off.