The Stillness the Dancing

by Wendy Perriam

  ‘No, thanks! Hush, boy.’ She tried to quieten the dog who was near hysterical, front paws on the bottom of the chute, stump of tail quivering and throbbing. ‘You’ll wake the whole of Weybridge.’

  ‘Girl,’ insisted David, as he crash-landed between them. ‘She wants her turn, if you don’t.’ He swooped up the plump brown body, climbed the steps with it, held it on his lap as the two of them whooshed down, the dog silent now as if in sheer astoundment.

  ‘David, you … you’re crazy.’

  ‘Want a swing? I’ll push you.’

  ‘Not too high!’ she yelled, as he crouched down on his heels to get more leverage, seemed to fling her towards the sky. She was still marvelling at his mood, his sudden burst of vigour and high spirits, as if his nanny-in-attendance had slackened his usual tight-held reins, let him run wild for once. He was walking the seesaw now, from end to end, springing from there to the climbing frame, still shoeless. He had even changed the weather. A sudden bray of thunder shocked the sky, a spat of raindrops whimpered against the slide. She stuck out her legs to slow herself, jumped down off the swing.

  ‘Quick! There’s going to be a storm. We’d better shelter.’

  David was hanging upside down, blue-socked feet entwined. ‘No, let’s stay out in it. I love storms.’

  ‘But you haven’t got a coat.’ It was raining harder now, the sky rumbling and belching as if it were in pain.

  ‘Doesn’t matter.’ David thumped down from the climbing-frame, held up his face to the rain, tongue out to catch the drops.

  ‘Oh God! I’ve just remembered …’ Morna struck one hand with the other in annoyance.

  ‘What?’

  ‘I’ve left the car unlocked. I’ll have to go back and check it. We can shelter there, if you like, or drive to the house and fetch some waterproofs.’

  ‘The storm will be over by then.’ David sounded crestfallen. He had retrieved his shoes and was lacing them up, sitting on one end of the seesaw.

  ‘I doubt it.’ Morna had to shout against the thunder.

  ‘Race you, then!’ he yelled, suddenly getting up and darting through the gate.

  ‘It’s miles,’ she shouted, panting after him, shoes squelching on the muddy path.

  ‘Keep you warm!’ He slowed for her a moment, then hurtled off again, the dog following so close it seemed sewn on to his heels.

  Morna put a spurt on. She could run as fast as any bloody mongrel. She was catching up now, drawing close, ignoring slippery pavements, lashing rain. She had never made such speed before. It was as if David’s own energy were an example and a challenge, spurring and inspiring her. She wasn’t even tired. There was some crazy elation in pushing herself past the limits of her usual spoilsport body; in feeling the rain soaking through her clothes, yet her skin triumphant warm; hearing the thunder rumbling all around her, being part of it, part of the night, the storm.

  She pounded on and on, her breathing loud and laboured, heart thumping its objection, dress flapping wet against her calves. Lightning lasered through the sky, kindling the dark in a sudden flashing strobe of blue and silver. She didn’t stop, didn’t slacken, reached the car only minutes after David, collapsed against him.

  ‘You’re incredible!’ he said, opening the door for her. ‘And in those shoes …’

  She had hardly noticed the shoes, had been only thudding heart, racing blood. She sank on to the seat, listened to the kickback of her breathing, relished the ‘incredible’.

  ‘Wow!’ she said when she had recovered her voice at last. ‘I’m starving.’

  ‘That’s because you didn’t eat your dinner. Mortal sin!’

  ‘D’you mind if we go back and raid the larder?’

  She saw his face change, the guarded look return, cursed herself for spoiling things. Hadn’t he already made it clear he didn’t want to be in the house with her alone? Perhaps he had a girlfriend, a jealous clinging one who kept him on a ball and chain. What about that cousin? David had already referred to him as a bit of an old woman. Supposing she were a young woman—a stunning blonde—furious at his casual midnight phone call, pacing up and down the bedsit? When she came to think of it, he’d made quite a song and dance about the cousin. A female would be more likely to be frantic, dragging rivers.

  ‘Tell you what,’ she said, switching on the engine. ‘Let’s drive somewhere—anywhere—till we find an all-night café. I could just do with egg and chips.’ She towelled her hair with the car duster, turned up the heater to dry their sopping clothes.

  ‘We haven’t seen the canal yet.’ David’s voice was wary again, controlled.

  ‘We can see it on the way. I’ll stop. And if you’re worried about my driving, I’m totally sobered up now. Even Sebastian Coe couldn’t run like that while squiffy.’

  ‘What about the dog, though?’

  It was sitting on David’s lap, had followed him into the car, uninvited. His girlfriend was bound to be that type—overbearing, pushy, refusing to let go. Morna watched the pink tongue lick his face, the soft brown head nuzzle against his chest. ‘We’ll take her,’ she said, curtly—had to humour him. ‘Buy her a sausage, if you like.’

  They had to drive for an hour before they found the sausages. The dog diverted them, had been turfed into the back from David’s lap, but kept trying to clamber over, or bark a descant to the radio. Morna drove fast, enjoyed streaking through the darkness with David as her passenger, their damp clothes steaming in the fug, a German station broadcasting Tchaikovsky. She had headed away from London, away from the cousin’s bedsit, even avoided the motorways, wanted him private and alone.

  He seemed relaxed again, had regained his good spirits in exploring the canal. They had found another Weybridge—not Neil’s fey and fancy suburb with its ritzy houses sloping to the river, Mercedes moored in front, cabin cruisers behind; expense-account restaurants and exclusive landscaped golf clubs; but a world of marsh and wasteland, gravel pit and millpond, lonely meadows, silent rippling water. They had poked around a rubbish tip, sheltered in a deserted barn. At last even David decided he could eat something, agreed to hit the road. That was about two-thirty. It was a good hour later now, the air colder, cleaner, the stars looking nearer and newly shined. He hadn’t mentioned his early morning train—seemed to have forgotten all about it. Morna braked suddenly as she saw a neon sign, pulled into a layby with a straggle of parked lorries.

  ‘Where are we?’ David asked.

  ‘No idea. At least it’s open, though—and food.’

  They pushed at the door of the café—a run-down looking place in weather-beaten wood, with one window boarded up and even the sign missing half its letters; were immediately engulfed in glare and noise. A jukebox was thumping out hard rock, cutting off the last bars of the Tchaikovsky Serenade for Strings still cadencing in Morna’s head. The place was thick with cigarette smoke, loud with lorry drivers.

  ‘What d’you fancy?’ Morna asked. ‘Egg and chips?’

  ‘Yes, fine, but let me get it.’ David had removed his tie and was turning it into collar and lead.

  ‘No, it’s my treat. You stay and dog-sit.’

  ‘Please, Morna. You’ve already cooked me dinner and …’

  ‘Sorry, I insist. I’m the one in mortal sin.’

  He laughed, found a table furthest from the fruit-machines. She walked up to the counter, embarrassed by the scrum of men joking with the waitress.

  ‘Egg and chips twice,’ she said. ‘Oh, and sausage,’ she added, remembering the dog. ‘And one lamb chop.’ A bone would keep it quiet, stop it slobbering over David.

  ‘How about fried bread and tomaters, while yer at it?’ joked a driver.

  ‘The beans is good,’ chipped in another.

  ‘All right, beans as well.’

  ‘You want the mixed grill, do you?’ asked the waitress.

  ‘Er … what d’you get in that?’

  ‘Egg, sausage, bacon, chips, steak, chop, peas, tomatoes, mushrooms …’ The waitress paused
for breath.

  ‘Yes, please. Twice.’ Morna was ravenous. She had left more than half her dinner as well as skipping lunch, but it wasn’t only that. She had to cram in everything while she had the chance, while David was still with her, stuff the gap already threatening. She wanted to feed him up as well, pile his plate so high that he would miss his train just wading through it all. They would never catch the 4.22—not with the long drive back—and could miss the next few after that if they really span their food out. She must somehow keep him with her even after the meal, drive further and further from London, from duty, commonsense. It was already Saturday—holiday—when you were allowed a break from normal tedious routine. They were students anyway, still on vacation, with neither job nor timetable to tie them down. True, he had planned to return home on the Saturday, told her originally that he would be leaving for the Midlands first thing in the morning. But couldn’t his parents wait a few hours longer—or even till Sunday? They had had him to themselves for thirty-five whole years, she but half a day.

  ‘Money can’t buy me love,’ the Beatles were insisting from the jukebox. Morna scrabbled in her pocket, touched the silver coin again. Some currencies were love. She heard her order shouted to the cook, returned to David, sat beside him on the rickety chair, trying not to notice the frieze of naked breasts and bums around the walls. She bent down to ease her shoes which were still soggy-damp and hurting; saw a pair of denimed legs pass their table, stop. A tall man with tattoos all down his arms touched David on the shoulder.

  ‘Excuse me,’ he said. ‘Your missus dropped her scarf.’

  David flushed as the wisp of yellow silk was dangled in front of him. Morna stayed crouched down, fiddling with her shoe—glanced at her third finger still circled with Neil’s wedding ring. She wore it for convention’s sake, her daughter’s sake, but now it had bonded her to David in these strangers’ eyes. They were a couple, a family—dog and all—she with the purse strings, feeding up her bloke. The Beatles were still pleading.

  ‘I’ll get you anything, my friend,

  If it makes you feel all right …’

  She eased up straight again, retied her scarf. ‘Hungry?’ she asked.

  David nodded. ‘What did you order?’

  ‘Oh, a bit of everything.’

  ‘Is this breakfast or a second dinner?’

  ‘Both. Neither.’ Morna didn’t want things labelled, longed to banish all categories, break all moulds; felt crazily elated. She tapped her foot, drummed her fingers to the rhythm of the song.

  ‘I’ll give you all I’ve got to give

  If you say you …’

  ‘Two mixed grills,’ shouted the waitress from the far end of the room, raising her voice above Paul McCartney’s. ‘Come and get ’em!’

  Morna jumped up. ‘I’ll go.’ She felt as if she were on a spring, throbbing with coiled-up energy which had to be held down. If she wasn’t careful, she would burst right through the roof, zoom on to hit the moon. This was her usual sleep-time, yet every cell in her body was shoutingly awake. She bounded up to the counter, took the two overflowing plates. She could eat both the meals—and then another one—could sprint a hundred miles, swim an ocean. She forced herself to slow down so that she wouldn’t spill the piled-up chips and peas, glanced across at David. He looked tiny, suddenly, dwarfed in his corner as if the room had expanded and he was miles and miles away from her; a pinprick figure sitting on its own, staring out of the small and smeary window, face closed, brows drawn down. She stopped in her tracks, confused.

  ‘David!’ she called with a sudden twinge of fear. He hadn’t heard her. It wasn’t just the music. He seemed to be slipping from her, as if he had already crossed to the island. She had to bring him back, make him lifesize once again.

  ‘No, no, no, no …’ the Beatles interrupted.

  She ignored them, strode up to the table, put the plates down. She must have been imagining things. He was there, real, solid, tall—one sleeve trailing in a pool of ketchup, the dog still anchored to his chair-leg.

  ‘We’ll never eat all that,’ he said, exclaiming at the size of the grills.

  ‘Yes, we will,’ she said. ‘We’ve got to.’ To make us big and strong, she added silently, and bit into her steak.

  Chapter Eight

  Pierre Cheri,

  I can’t write in French. It’s more difficult now I’m back in

  England, but it’s not just that. What I’m going to say is very

  important and it might come out differently in French. Actually,

  now I’ve written that, I realise it’s hopeless. Because what I

  say in English will come out differently for you. My mother

  once said that foreign languages are like electric fences. If you

  do get through, it’s not without some pain or even shock. I’m

  rambling on and I haven’t said I misss you. I do. Terribly. I

  can’t tell anyone, but …

  Chris stopped at the ‘but’. It was the ‘but’ which was so difficult. She had planned the rest, made it sound impromptu and spontaneous, through seven different drafts—ripped them into pieces. Her mother had never mentioned electric fences. She had made that up herself, was rather proud of it. It sounded sophisticated, dashing. Pierre was sophisticated himself—still a student (post-graduate) but at least twenty-five; a man, not a boy, who wore tight white jeans and drove a Porsche and had a real moustache. None of her friends, not even Emma who slept with everyone, had ever had a man with a moustache. The first time he kissed her, it had prickled. She pulled away, stuttered ‘J … Je ne peux pas. J’ ai un ami.’

  ‘Moi aussi. J’ai une amie anglaise, qui est très belle et très chic.’

  Nobody called her chic, let alone beautiful. No one that experienced and sort of decadent had ever looked at her before. She smiled. ‘Non, c’est serieux entre nous.’

  ‘Entre nous aussi.’ He held her close again, opened his mouth. He kissed differently from Martin—wetter and much longer. Madame Dubois was often out. That’s what she was there for, to look after les petits when their mother was at work, teach them English. Pierre taught her French—words they hadn’t bothered with at school. Zizi, enculer. The youngest child had seen them kissing in the garden. Fortunately, Marie-Claire’s vocabulary was limited, so she couldn’t blab even if she wanted to. Maman, chat, encore—not baiser.

  It was always encore for Pierre, always more he wanted. He had tried to undress her, feel her breasts.

  ‘Ils sont tout petits,’ she murmured, shy.

  ‘Juste comme je les aime.’ He had found the nipples now.

  Martin liked them small as well. She had tried to shut him out. This was just a holiday, didn’t count. Anyway, she ought to have experience. She hadn’t felt really guilty until she was on the coach for home. What you said in French wasn’t real. You were just practising the language. If she had whispered ‘je t’aime’ to Pierre, it was only because she was trying out the verb like they had done in the third form, ‘J’aime, tu aimes, il aime.’ Aimer meant like, as well as love. Nothing wrong in that.

  As the Townsend Thoreson ferry heaved across the Channel, her guilt blew up like a storm. Martin loved her in plain no-nonsense English. She would have to lie to him to explain the mark. The mark had ruined everything, not just her and Martin, but her and Pierre. Up till her last night, she hadn’t been to bed with Pierre—not bed. They had done things standing up, or hidden in the bushes, but never gone the whole way. Martin had always stopped her, sitting in her head and muttering ‘cut it out’, like he did when she messed around with his diving gear or recording equipment. But that last night she had left Martin behind, eight hundred miles behind. Pierre had bought her Cognac, taken her to a party, and then upstairs, three floors up to a tiny attic room. The noise of the pop group faded, the thud of her heart took over.

  ‘Non,’ she said, as he pushed her to the floor, started to undo the buttons on her blouse. When she said ‘no’ again, in Engli
sh, he cried, really cried. She had never seen a man cry. Martin would have died rather than blub in front of her. Yet it didn’t seem gormless—not at all—rather dramatic and sort of doomy as if she had the lead rôle in a wide-screen movie and could drive men to extremes. He told her he would miss her and that he couldn’t live without her, which sounded far less hackneyed than in English, and then they’d had more Cognac and …

  It was only later she regretted it—when she saw the mark—was furious and frightened. He had branded her, like a ewe in his flock. Of course he had a flock. A man like that would hardly stick to one boring-looking bit-part with bad French and no breasts and who was leaving anyway. That was the horror of it. If she’d had just one week more, the mark would have faded, before she faced Martin and her mother. Perhaps she could stay, send a telegram, invent some language course or sick child or coach drivers’ strike. Impossible. Her ticket was booked and paid for, and it was back to school on Monday. Anyway, she didn’t want to stay. If Pierre could do a thing like that, he was just a selfish boorish bragging lout like all the rest. He knew she had a boyfriend. That’s why he’d done it, probably—to break it up with Martin, ruin everything.

  No, that wasn’t fair. It had been very, very special in the end. The floor was hard and she kept worrying that someone might come upstairs and find them, but soon she forgot even where they were. It wasn’t just the Cognac, though she could taste that on his kisses. It was the fact that he was old and rich and French, and sort of sobbed when he came, and didn’t jump up afterwards but lay there looking smug and swoony as if he had died and gone to heaven, and then kissed between her fingers very very gently as if they were made of glass or lace or something. Except it was all a con, in fact, because he had already made the mark by then. Twenty-three hours on the bumpy stuffy coach with a hold-up in Aix and a stop in Grenoble hadn’t faded it. She ordered a glass of Beaujolais in the Channel-ferry bar, hoped it would inspire her to concoct a convincing lie: she had hurt her neck and had to wear a bandage; or met a school friend on the boat who had asked her to stay a few days down in Kent; or decided to do a project on the hop fields or the Cinque Ports …