The Stillness the Dancing

by Wendy Perriam

  ‘This dinner wasn’t meant to be a penance, David.’

  ‘I … I beg your pardon?’

  She fetched the tray with the four glass dishes on it, banged it down. ‘Don’t worry, I expect I can eat all four myself.’ She heard the edge of sarcasm in her voice, went back for the cheese. ‘Not to mention a pound of Dolcelatte and some Doux de …’

  David flushed. ‘Look, I … I can manage a few strawberries, I’m sure I can. They look fantastic.’

  Morna passed him a dish, suddenly remorseful. He seemed so easily cowed, so eager to please, like an over-sensitive child on its best behaviour. She had been rude and boorish, longed to start again, put the clock back, re-run the whole failed evening—for Chris’s sake, as well as hers and David’s.

  ‘Just try one or two,’ she urged. ‘And have a biscuit with them. They’re rather special biscuits, those—made with ground-up hazelnuts instead of flour. A friend of mine brought them back from Spain as a little present.’

  David leapt up, as if the biscuit had burnt his fingers. ‘Gosh! That reminds me … Excuse me just a minute, will you?’

  He was back in seconds, holding out the crumpled paper bag he had been clutching when he first arrived. He pressed it into her hand. ‘It’s … er … nothing much, I’m afraid. I mean, I owe you such a lot and …’

  ‘Owe me?’

  ‘Well, all that translation work.’

  ‘David, I told you, I enjoy it. I’d be most insulted if you …’ Morna fumbled in the bag, drew out something small and hard, well wrapped in tissue paper. A brooch? A pendant? She only hoped she’d like it. It was embarrassing when people gave you jewellery and you had to pretend it was just your taste and style. She unwrapped the tissue, revealed a battered silver coin, stained greenish-brown and covered with a sort of hard and dirty scale.

  ‘Er … what exactly is it, David?’

  ‘What we call a piece of eight—eight reales. It was found just off St Abban’s Island by a marine archeologist friend of mine who was working on a seventeenth-century Dutch wreck. His divers discovered a horde of about a thousand with bits of wood around them which might have been the remains of a money chest. The rest are now in the Museum of National Antiquities in Edinburgh, but this one—’ David grinned—‘got away.’ He held it up to the light. ‘See the date? 1687. It was minted at Potosi. Those are the quartered arms of Spain, and if you turn it over—’ David did so, rubbed it up with the tissue—‘you’ll see the Pillars of Hercules.’

  ‘B … But David, this is …treasure.’

  ‘Not really. I’m afraid it’s less valuable than it sounds, and in pretty poor condition, but I thought it might appeal to you because of its—well—history. It’s been lying on the sea-bed for nearly three hundred years, went down when James II was King of England and Charles II King of Spain, and Louis XIV still throwing his weight about. The coins were found lying around the bones of two dead seamen. They brought those up as well.’

  Morna shivered suddenly. ‘David, I … I can’t take it. Even if you say it isn’t valuable, it must mean a lot to you.’

  He shrugged. ‘In a superstitious way, maybe. I’ve always used it as a sort of … lucky charm. I’ve been carrying it around for the last few years.’

  ‘Well, there you are. You can’t just give it away, when …’

  ‘I want you to have it, Morna. Please.’ David passed it over, laid it on her place mat.

  She picked it up, cupped it in her hand. She felt excited by the gift, not only by its history, but because he valued her enough to entrust her with something which was obviously important to him. He was giving her his luck, making her part of his work. That coin was precious not just because it had been lying on the sea-bed for three long centuries, but also because it had sat in David’s pocket for the last few years, so it was as if she now had part of him captive in her palm.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘I … I hardly know what to say. I mean, it’s such an unusual gift, and so generous of you to …’ The phone cut through her words—almost a relief. David was looking embarrassed by her effusions, which only made her nervous in her turn. She got up from the table, still holding the piece of eight. ‘I won’t be a moment. Help yourself to cream.’

  She picked up the receiver, listened to the rush of words, squeezed the lucky coin tighter in her other hand. It must be working already. ‘Good,’ she said, smiling. ‘I’m really glad. Yes, of course it’s all right. You stay. I’ll see you tomorrow sometime. No, I don’t mind, I’m only relieved you’ve … Daddy’ll understand, I’m sure he will. I’ll write myself if you like. There’s always next year, anyway …’

  She returned to the kitchen, smiling still. ‘She’s not going.’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘To Los Angeles. I’m sorry, you don’t know what I’m talking about. That was Chris.’

  ‘Is she … better?’

  ‘Mmm. Fine. She’s staying the night at Martin’s place.’ She wished she hadn’t said so. Unfair to Chris. Martin’s parents had no spare room. But there were camp beds, sofas. Christmas was safe now, Chris and Martin safe. She dug into her strawberries, watched David toy with his, wave away the cheese.

  ‘Fancy a glass of mead?’ she asked, getting up to fetch it from the dresser. ‘And don’t say no again.’ She removed the bottle from its wrappings, broke the seal. She had spotted it in the bargain bin, bought it simply because it was labelled ‘Made by the monks of Buck-fast Abbey’, which seemed appropriate. Only when she got it home had she seen the smaller print: ‘Mead, the honeymoon drink’; returned it to its paper. She eased the cap off, found two glasses. She had drunk too much already—sparkling wine sparkling in her veins, and now the mead, sickly sweet and velvety. But there were things to celebrate—a reprieve, a change of luck.

  ‘Let’s take our glasses in to the other room. It’s so hot in here.’

  David stood up. ‘I’m afraid I’ll have to be going soon.’

  ‘Oh no, you’ve only just arrived.’ What she meant was that she was only just beginning to enjoy him, only just relaxing.

  ‘I asked at the station and they said the last train goes at midnight, but I’m not sure about the bus.’

  ‘Don’t worry about the bus. I’ll drive you to the station. It only takes ten minutes.’ Perhaps the car would refuse to start.

  David was holding on to his chair-back, staring down. ‘Do you … er … think you ought to drive, though?’

  ‘What d’you mean?’

  ‘Well, the …’ He paused, flushed. ‘You know—breathalyser.’

  ‘I’m not drunk, for heaven’s sake.’ Her elation burst like a balloon. He was a prig. Best to close the door on him, get some sleep. ‘I’ll make some coffee if you like—black and strong.’

  ‘Have we time?’

  ‘Yes, ages.’ He couldn’t wait to get away—that was obvious. She filled the percolator, switched it on. ‘And don’t forget your translation. I suppose you’ve got to take it, have you? I’d have liked more time on it.’

  ‘There’s no need, honestly. You’ve done wonders, as it is.’

  ‘No, just for my own enjoyment. I’m getting quite fond of Abban.’ She fought a sudden wave of desolation. She was about to lose him—lose them both. In just a few days’ time, David would be at the other end of the country, following in the footsteps of his saint. Prig or no, she couldn’t bear to let him go like this, remembering her as tipsy and incompetent, even rude. She got out the best Spode cups, the silver apostle spoons, refilled the cream jug.

  David let go his chair. ‘Could you … er … point me in the direction of the bathroom?’

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry, David.’ She had failed again—failed to show him what Bea described as the geography of the house. Bea was fond of euphemisms. So was Neil—strangely—not in bed or bathroom (where piss, shit and screw had shocked her profoundly at first), but in his job. Advertising was the art of euphemism. Even love-bite was a euphemism—lust and bragging ownership, rath
er than love. Neil and Co. had spoilt so many words, poured peace and love and happiness into face cream or detergents, used them to wrap chocolate bars or nappies.

  She ushered David up the stairs. The downstairs cloakroom still had Neil’s Playboys in it, five years old. ‘There—just in front of you.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  She went into her bedroom to fetch a jacket. It was cooler now, pitch dark outside. Los Angeles was eight hours behind—light there still, bright sunshine. Bunny in a bikini and in love. She sat on the bed. Once David left, there would be silence as well as dark, black thoughts crowding in again—Neil at Bunny’s, Chris at Martin’s. Martin’s mother wouldn’t patrol the sofas at three a.m., listen for gasps. She saw Martin’s thin, pale, not-in-the-nuns’-dictionary penis knifing between the gaps in Chris’s ribs.

  Couldn’t David stay—block the thoughts out, keep away the darkness? But if she offered him a bed, he might misinterpret it, suspect that she was hoping to seduce him. Why, when you were adult, was sex always ticking away in the background like a time bomb—unless you lived in a convent and deliberately locked it out? The whole week of the retreat, the subject had been studiously avoided. All man’s different facets had been mentioned in their turn—the spiritual, the rational, the emotional, the metaphysical, even the physical—but never actually the sexual. Most of the retreatants had seemed sexless, anyway, judging by their dress and conversation. Maybe Freud and Cosmopolitan were wrong and sexual feelings were far from universal—some people born frigid in the same way others were unmechanical or had no aptitude for music or mathmatics. Was she like that herself, or just a failure when it came to Neil? No, that wasn’t the right word. They had rarely missed a day. Three-hundred-and-sixty times fourteen could hardly be called a failure.

  She heard David flush the lavatory, start downstairs, and sprang to her feet.

  ‘David …’

  The footsteps hesitated, stopped. She could always agree she was too drunk to drive. She had brought her glass up with her, drained it at a gulp now. No, better not say that. He would only judge her harshly.

  ‘I’m in here. Just … er … trying to find my car keys. D’ you find you’re always losing yours?’

  ‘I don’t drive, actually.’ He had stopped just outside the door.

  ‘Oh, I see.’ Was that privation again, or impecuniousness, or was he one of those born unmechanical? ‘Come in, David. I won’t be a minute. They’re probably in the pocket of my other jacket. No … Hold on a sec. I’d better tip my handbag out. Do sit down.’ She sat herself—on the bedroom stool—saw four of him behind her, still standing tall and dark against the expanse of white fur rug. ‘I hate this room, don’t you?’

  ‘Well, no, I …’

  ‘Not just the furnishings. They’re bad enough, but …’

  David was at the door again. ‘I’d better go and check the coffee. I can hear it sort of seething.’

  ‘Don’t bother. It switches itself off.’ Morna sorted through her bag, capped an unsheathed lipstick. ‘I suppose it’s just the … memories. I was sitting there, exactly there, on that side of the bed, when Neil told me he was leaving me. He blurted it out, just like that. I didn’t even know the girl existed. He was often away, you see, on business trips and …’

  Of course David didn’t see. He wasn’t even interested, was chafing to leave. She was blurting things out herself, letting the mead talk and the wine. She had never told anyone before, not even Bea or Chris. She, too, was good at euphemisms. (‘We decided it was best to separate.’)

  ‘I didn’t say a word. I couldn’t. There was nothing to say. He loved her.’ She broke off. The words still hurt. ‘I’m afraid we love each other, Morna.’

  She was glad he’d said ‘afraid’. She had said nothing still, just sat staring at his shirt. The middle button didn’t match the rest. She hadn’t noticed before. It was the same blue, but just a fraction larger. She was the one who always sewed his buttons, matched them perfectly. That was service, part of her marriage vows. Till death do us part.

  It had been death. Darkness again, like when she had lost her first God. They had sent her to a priest then and the Jesuit had droned on and on, trying to fill her void with words—sterile proofs and arguments. But she still sat in the dark. Neil had used proofs as well—proofs that they were unsuited, would be happier apart. It had been September when he told her, September the fourth. Today was the eighth—four days off the fifth anniversary of the break-up of their marriage. Perhaps she should have drunk to it. They were happier apart. He was. Bunny was. It had been a warm day then, as well—tactless sun streaming into the bedroom, smirking in the mirrors. Neil’s words had switched the sun off, put an end to summer.

  ‘I’m going back with her. My firm has arranged a transfer to Los Angeles. Promotion, actually. Don’t worry about money. We …’

  ‘We’ meant him and Bunny, though she hadn’t known the name then, just ‘the other woman’, a woman thirteen years younger who lived always in the sun; a woman who could sew, but was something of a slattern. If you loved a man, you made sure his buttons matched.

  ‘We decided it would hurt less if we went away. I know it’s hard on Chrissie, but …’

  Chrissie. Neil had only called her that since he met his Angeleno. Non Angli sed Angeleno.

  ‘And she can always come and visit.’ Five years had passed and the visit hadn’t happened. Chris had resented that, and now at last, when the invitation had arrived, she’d had to turn it down. Pressured by Martin, blackmailed by her mother. They would probably never discuss the matter again. Silence was safer. Five years ago Neil had been angered by that silence, sprung up from the stool where she was sitting now herself.

  ‘Can’t you say something, Morna? We want to know what you feel.’

  ‘We’, again. What could she say? He and Bunny were married already, before the divorce. Divorce was forbidden, except she had left the church which decreed that. She had stared at the button, tried to fix on something, keep away the tears. Tears were undignified and too late, in any case. It had been difficult to speak. Her lips felt dry and taut, her mouth broken off at the hinge.

  ‘Th … That button doesn’t m … match,’ she had whispered at last.

  Silence again. She looked up. Neil had gone. It was David who was standing over her.

  ‘Are you … all right, Morna?’

  ‘Y … Yes. Fine.’ Mustn’t bore him, mustn’t scare him off. She had learnt long ago that grief was embarrassing, cost you friends. Even at school she hadn’t told her classmates how terrifying it was once you lost your God; how life closed off like a cul-de-sac instead of opening up to heaven; how morals, ritual, purpose, all collapsed. When Chris was three or four, they had sprawled on the rug together and built multi-coloured towers of bricks. Chris had laughed and clapped as each tower grew higher, brighter. ‘Wait,’ she’d said. ‘Watch this!’ And she had pulled the bottom brick out, reduced the tower to rubble. Chris had cried the first time, howled and banged her head. Morna had rocked her in her arms. ‘It’s all right, darling. We can build it up again.’

  David couldn’t say that. He wasn’t saying anything, just standing by the mirrors looking anguished—shoulders hunched, eyes lost beneath a frown, as if he were reliving that bitter scene five years ago. She could feel his sympathy, expressed if not in words, then in his stance, his whole demeanour, yet she somehow shied away from it. One teenage outburst was enough. She must keep her own control.

  ‘Right, time for coffee,’ she said, snapping her handbag shut. ‘My keys must be downstairs.’

  David followed her down. ‘Perhaps we should skip the coffee. We’re cutting it a bit fine, aren’t we?’

  ‘No.’ Morna didn’t know, refused to look at her watch. ‘Unless you want to stay, of course?’ It was easier to say it when she wasn’t in her bedroom. ‘I’ve got four spare beds, counting Chris’s.’ After Neil had left, she had tried them all in turn, to see which was the least lonely. In the end she had re
turned to the fur rug, loneliest of all. ‘And a sofa,’ she added. Stupid. She was alienating him. Of course he wouldn’t stay—alone in a house with a divorcée and a bungler.

  ‘I’d … er … better get back, Morna. I told my cousin I wouldn’t be too late. He’s a bit of an old woman and if I simply don’t turn up, he might …’

  ‘Don’t worry. Your chauffeur awaits. She’s even found her keys. Right, a quick gulp of coffee.’ Morna had poured it into the old mugs by mistake—sheer force of habit—felt embarrassed by the mocking empty Spode.

  ‘Got your work?’

  He nodded.

  ‘Jacket?’

  ‘Mm.’

  ‘Right, let’s go then.’ She picked up the lucky silver coin, slipped it in her pocket. ‘I’ll just lock up. Weybridge is prime burglar country.’

  She let him into the car, wished it were smaller and less flash. Neil’s choice again. David was right—she wasn’t fit to drive. It wasn’t just the alcohol but grief, loss, regret, all curdled and mixed up with it. She had better not talk, but fix her whole attention on the road. They didn’t want any more disasters. She eased into the street, cruised in silence for a while. ‘Well, I hope you enjoy your time on the island, David.’

  ‘Thanks. And thank you for the dinner, too. I really enjoyed it.’

  The last polite and painless clichés—before goodbye. One more right turn, two more lefts and they would be at the station. Unless she went the longer way. Pointless, though, to make him miss his train if he didn’t want her company and when she couldn’t stop him leaving in the end. Too late. She had taken the left-hand fork instead of the right, was skirting the river now. She slowed a little, waved a hand.

  ‘That’s the Wey. It was made into a canal in the 1650s—one of the earliest canalised rivers in the country.’ Nice to be telling him something for a change, instead of the other way round. He seemed interested, was peering out.