The Stillness the Dancing

by Wendy Perriam

  Morna edged away a little. The man stirred, muttered something in his sleep. She held her breath. The snoring resumed—rumbling, regular. She inched out of bed, made contact with the floor. Her legs felt strange, unsteady; the pain in her head seemed three-dimensional, the wrong shape for her head yet forced inside it, a sharpedged pain made of solid steel. She swallowed, tasted something foul and slimy adhering to the lining of her mouth.

  She stood shaky in the centre of the room. The desk was strewn with papers, Hershey chocolate bar wrappers, an empty cigarette packet. Six or seven fag ends had been stubbed out in a saucer; a grey chrysalis of ash lay trembling on the cover of a glossy colour brochure on frozen strawberries. The lamp was muzzled with a man’s string vest, not quite Persil-white. Morna backed away. Two shoes with gaping mouths, kicked off beneath a chair, seemed to be crying out for help as she tiptoed to the bathroom. The bathroom stank. Flecks of dried-on vomit were sprayed across the mirror; transferred themselves to her face as she peered at her reflection. Why was she naked? She never slept with nothing on. She looked around for her clothes, found them jumbled in a corner when she always hung them up. She dragged them on, fighting with buttons which didn’t seem to fasten, tights which had shrunk and twisted in the night. A black plastic raincoat was lying at the bottom of the pile. She slipped it on, shivered suddenly.

  She crept back to the bedroom, shoes in one hand, bag in the other. The stranger hadn’t stirred. He was no longer snoring, but making a harsh snuffling sound as if his sinuses were blocked. He looked old and tired, in need of sleep. Gently she tucked the sheet around him, switched the light off so it wouldn’t hurt his eyes, then groped towards the door and out along the passage labelled ‘Ground floor, exit, street’.

  Chapter Thirteen

  ‘Would you mind stopping here? I’ll walk the rest.’

  Morna paid the cab driver, then turned the corner to Neil and Bunny’s avenue. She didn’t want to be seen arriving in a taxi instead of in her imaginary friend’s imaginary Buick.

  She screwed up her eyes against the sun, which had returned again after a week of rain and storm. Late January seemed more like early June now—apart from the icing of snow on the magnificent mountains rising in the distance. The trees were green, the gardens lush, sprinklers rotating on velvet lawns; exotic palm trees shading more familiar flowers such as pansies, antirrhinums. Butterflies were sporting in the sunshine, the lemons on the leafy trees turning from acid green to shrillest yellow. Palms and lemon trees apart, the atmosphere was not that different from Weybridge. Neil had swopped one lush exclusive suburb for another. There were the same stone lions and carriage lamps, wrought-iron gates, English-style house names—the same absence of weeds and litter, the same smug luxuriance. No one poor, coloured, disadvantaged, could ever debase or taint this mini-Eden. Each house had its burglar alarm, its stern notice advertising fully-armed security patrols operating round the clock. Morna felt an intruder herself, neither rich nor glossy enough to fit her impeccable surroundings.

  She slowed her pace to a dawdle. She had forgotten the curdling mix of fear, exclusion, envy, which even the street itself could rouse. This was enemy territory. Yet her daughter was living here and how could a daughter be an enemy, or Dean, who was far too young to be blamed for anything, or even Bunny who had issued the invitation to come today? She walked on again, passing a house with giant Corinthian columns flanking its triple garage, a Greek god posturing naked by a fountain. The house next door resembled a mausoleum with its marble façade and heavy double doors, its gloomy Cyprus trees and two bronze sphinxes.

  The street was deserted—no jogger on the pavement, no child in any garden, not even any animal except for one clipped and tonsured poodle which yapped hysterically as she passed. Everything was clipped—hedges, trees, lawns, shrubs—nothing permitted to grow tall, wild, unwieldy, or even natural.

  She stopped at Neil and Bunny’s house. She had hardly had a chance before of studying it dispassionately. There had always been someone with her, whisking her in or out of a car—Bunny distracting her with chit chat, Dean tugging at her hand. She gazed up now at the fussy tiles, fake pillars. It looked like a cross between a mock-Italian palazzo and a curtain showroom. Every window was in fancy dress—nets and drapes swathed, pleated, beribboned, frilled. The driveway was patterned with paving stones in pastel shades of pink and green. A stone replica of Bunny’s golden labrador (now deceased) stood in the porch, complete with stone collar, lolling stone tongue, even a stone bone at its feet. ‘Whispering Trees’, read the wooden plaque suspended from brass chains above the door.

  Morna stood and listened. It wasn’t whispering trees she could hear, but giggling girls, clinking glasses. The noise was coming from the patio at the back of the house. She stood motionless a moment. Had she been foolish to accept Bunny’s invitation? She couldn’t even argue that it was a chance of seeing Chris again. Chris was out with Neil all day, not just caddying, but having the first of a course of lessons from the pro. As Neil’s daughter, she had to share his passions, take up his pursuits. Anyway, this was Bunny’s show, her equivalent of church or synagogue. She had phoned to ask Morna and her buddy to come and share their weekly service of light and love. Morna had swiftly made excuses for the buddy, but accepted herself, surprised at her alacrity. The last few days had dragged, the nasty taste in her mouth not disappeared.

  She shut her eyes, fought a wave of nausea. Orange carpet was taunting on the driveway, lobsters sprouting hot-pink in the flowerbeds in place of red geraniums. She had tried to cancel out that shameful Sunday, fill the days which followed with healthy walks, constructive sightseeing. It had been lonely on her own, wandering aimlessly through galleries, museums, shrugging off all overtures in case they proved a repeat of David Attwood. Yet at least it had been safer, removed from new wife, ex-husband, almost-son.

  It was not too late. She could still escape, creep away to the nearest call box, phone Bunny and tell her she was ill, then order a cab to take her back to the Ocean View motel.

  ‘Hi, Morna!’

  She jumped, swung round. Dean was standing on the path grinning at her, naked save for the briefest pair of swimtrunks. ‘Why did you go away?’ he asked, springing into her arms. ‘I told you not to. You didn’t see my goldfish and now it’s deaded.’

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry.’ Morna hugged him. ‘What did you call the fish?’

  ‘Jane. That Chrissie’s second name.’

  Morna laughed, put him down. ‘I know. I chose it.’

  ‘You did?’

  ‘Well, Chrissie’s Grandma did.’

  ‘Is Chrissie’s Grandma coming to stay as well?’

  ‘I shouldn’t think so—no.’

  Dean stared up at her, silent for a moment. ‘I like you, Morna,’ he said.

  ‘Do you, darling?’

  ‘Yeah. You’re Chrissie’s Mom.’

  And if Chrissie was his sister, then … Strange to have a son—the opposite sex, sharing your body, feeding from it. Why opposite at all, then, when it began as symbiotic?

  ‘Hey, Morna, I want to show you something.’ Dean patted the step. ‘Don’t go away. You promise?’

  She nodded. He was back in minutes, dwarfed by a giant-sized paper bag.

  ‘No wonder your fish die if you keep them in paper bags.’

  He giggled. ‘It’s not a fish. It’s a chocolate bar—the biggest biggest chocolate bar in the world.’ He drew it out, two foot of chocolate three inches thick, boasting its dimensions on the gold and scarlet wrapper. ‘Isn’t it great? Daddy bought it for me. I’m never going to eat it. I’m going to save it for ever and ever and ever.’

  ‘It’ll go bad, then.’

  ‘No, it won’t. Here, you hold it.’ He took her free hand, led her round the back of the house towards the patio.

  ‘We’re going to have a barbecue. Do you have barbecues in England?’

  ‘Sometimes. Not as often as you do.’

  ‘Why not?’

  �
��We don’t have so much sun.’

  Bunny had seen her, rushed towards her, crushed her in a hug. ‘It’s so great you could come! I’ve told everyone about you. Girls, this is Morna. I hope you’re good at names, sweetie. That’s Angie in the pink, and Bella next to her, Lee-Ann with the gin bottle—typical!—and Beth over by the …’

  Morna murmured hallos. All the names were jumbling together, all the bodies tanned and over-dressed, several overweight. Bunny herself was wearing a full-length emerald kaftan with two matching green hair-slides, one trimmed with a bow, and her usual tangle and jingle of jewellery. Lee-Ann’s coppery hair clashed with her purple knickerbockers and scarlet halter top. Several of the girls were wearing tracksuits, but exotic ones in jewelled colours with knotted scarves. Morna felt more and more drab, in plain blue skirt and toning blouse, the merest dab of lipstick. She had dressed for a church service, yet this looked more like a picnic or a party.

  The patio was huge and busy with so much equipment it looked like a second kitchen. The barbecue unit had a stainless steel sink built into it, and a rotisserie, extractor fan and plate-warmer, as well as the central charcoal grill. There were two white wrought-iron tables piled with food and wine, and six matching chairs, besides the flowered and padded recliners on which most of the girls were sprawled. There was even a mini-bar in fake wood, with three high bar stools; the counter hung with Chianti bottles and raffia dolls, college pennants and silk rosettes, and every brand of gin, bourbon, vodka, ranged along the top. To the right was a lily pond with an electrically operated waterfall which turned on and off at the touch of a switch. A red wooden bridge traversed it, with two scarlet-jacketed gnomes fishing from its summit and four plastic ducks swimming underneath. The lilies themselves looked plastic. On the other side stretched the glittering turquoise swimming pool, small but luxurious, with more chairs, tables, lilos, clustering round it—a diving board, a water chute, a small straw raft floating in the centre.

  ‘Right, Morna honey, pick your steak.’ Bunny pointed to the pile of raw pound-sized T-bones basking in their marinade of oil and wine. That was the extent of Bunny’s cooking. Every guest was to choose and grill her own.

  ‘We like to eat first,’ she explained. ‘It helps to relax us before we start the meeting. Angie here was brought up a Catholic too, the same as you were, and she always used to pass out cold in church because they wouldn’t let her have her breakfast before.’

  ‘So did I,’ said Morna. ‘Our Reverend Mother asked me once would I please stop fainting as it was most embarrassing for the priest.’

  Everybody laughed.

  ‘Well, we don’t believe in all that crap. We don’t even meet on Sunday, because it’s got bad vibes for most of us. You either spent half the day on your knees or it was Sunday school or prayer meeting or … We chose Saturday instead. That’s fun night, party night. After all, Christ said we should live life abundantly and abundance includes food and funsers and …’

  ‘Gin,’ Lee-Ann chipped in, pouring herself half a tumblerful. ‘What’ll you drink, Morna?’

  ‘Just wine, please.’ Morna felt confused. They had discussed religion on her very first morning in Neil’s and Bunny’s house, and Bunny had said distinctly that she believed in neither God nor Gospel, yet here she was misquoting Christ.

  Martha waddled over, fifteen stone of flowing scarlet robe, flung a hot arm round Morna’s shoulders. ‘You see, dear heart, we formed this little group ourselves and it takes a bit from everything—Zen, Christ, Dale Carnegie, Carl Rogers, Maslow, Germaine Greer … We actually met at Weight Watchers—well, three of us fatsos did. That’s almost like a religion itself and, boy, is it strict! Every pound a mortal sin. But then Angie read this book about women’s bodies and how they’re meant to be fat …’

  ‘Not fat,’ corrected Angie. ‘Voluptuous.’

  ‘Yeah, sorry—that’s crucial. See how I’m conditioned, Morna? Fat is yuk. But it’s not—it’s womanly. But we’re all so mad at our mothers for denying us the breast, or love, or slapping us down when we were small and powerless, that we try to stunt our bodies so we won’t grow into women or mothers ourselves, but stay like adolescent boys with no hips or boobs or …’

  ‘It’s all unconscious,’ Angie explained. ‘You may not even know you’re feeling it, but the rage is there all right. We’re mad at our own bodies, so we starve them and deny them or truss them up in corsets or panty girdles or … Men feel just the same about their mothers, so they join in the conspiracy. In fact, the guys are worst of all. It’s males who run this whole diet thing, males who wield the power in the fashion industry, males who …’

  ‘That’s what pornography’s all about,’ Beth added. ‘Little men tying down their big fat powerful mothers, or whipping them or putting them in chains …’

  ‘We decided to keep our group all female, at least at present.’ Ruth was speaking now, a dark intense woman who looked older than the rest. ‘There’s no hostility intended, but until men are more enlightened …’

  Martha speared her steak, transferred it to the barbecue. ‘This is the age of the female, but she’ll only come into her own if she can accept herself the way she is, flab and all. We’re not against fashion—far from it.’ She patted her own exclusive designer robe. ‘In fact, we always dress up for our meetings. That’s part of the whole deal—celebrating ourselves and our own beauty, making every day a party, refusing to slop around in any old thing because we’re trying to hide away from life, or are ashamed to show our bodies off. God gave me this shape so I rejoice in it, see it as part of His fullness.’

  ‘I … don’t quite follow,’ Morna put her glass down. ‘I thought you didn’t believe in God? Bunny said the group was …’

  ‘We’re all gods,’ Beth cut in. ‘God’s just another name for the Good in each of us. That’s what we focus on, not sin or guilt or …’

  ‘We decided to quit Weight Watchers for just that reason.’ Martha continued, smearing butter on her steak. ‘It was fixing on the bad, the fat, but we turned that round and saw ourselves as beautiful—temples of God or the Good or whatever you like to call it. Words don’t matter, actually. No—let me finish, Morna. We started meeting in our own homes instead of Diet Centres, and eating and drinking rather than weighing ourselves, and then …’

  It was Bunny who interrupted, frowning, shaking her head. ‘You’re giving Morna the wrong idea. This isn’t just an antidiet thing. It’s serious. It’s …’

  ‘Sure it is. I’m getting to that.’ Martha turned to Morna again, gesturing with her fork. ‘The more we talked, the more we realised how woman has been made the scapegoat in all religions. Christians say man only fell because of wicked Eve; Jewish women are regarded as unclean every time they menstruate or give birth. God! If it was the fellers who had the kids, they’d think they were fucking marvellous. They’d award themselves medals, not soak themselves in tubs like dirty laundry. And look at Moslems! All those women bundled into purdah because they’re considered so lewd, they can’t even be trusted to …’ Martha paused to swallow a mouthful. Bella continued for her.

  ‘You see, our group’s a sort of celebration of the good in women generally. Woman has never gone to war or taken over other people’s countries …’

  ‘Or raped people.’ Martha again, still chewing.

  ‘Or enslaved the other half of humanity.’

  Morna sucked the ice cube in her glass of Californian Chablis, tried to concentrate on pacific woman—saw the Amazons rushing into battle with shields protecting naked breasts; Catherine of Russia condemning each of her lovers to a grisly death once she had exhausted him in her bed; Boadicea, Joan of Arc, the more unsavoury of the Ancient Egyptian queens. Women had rarely had the power to go to war, annex colonies, enslave. Given that power, might they not prove themselves as violent and exploitive as the men? It was a tricky question, one she had often debated with herself.

  Bunny was also still uneasy, though on different grounds. ‘You’re telling it al
l wrong. This isn’t just a peace movement or a feminist thing. We’ve worked through all that stuff at high school. This is different. It’s a new religion, Morna—a religion of riches and abundance.’

  Morna glanced round at the sizzling steaks, the pink champagne, the pool reflecting its tide of consumer durables. ‘But what about the poor, those without a …?’

  ‘There aren’t any poor people,’ Lee-Ann retorted, topping up her glass. ‘It’s all a question of attitude. Abundance is a state of mind. If you think poor, you stay poor. We can all attract riches to ourselves just by willing them. I took a course once on just that subject and you should have heard the stories! One man was starving, I mean literally starving, and he prayed for more money in his life, and within a week—just seven little days—he received a cheque for fifty thousand dollars, and he didn’t even know the guy who’d sent it.’

  ‘B … But can you pray for things like that? I mean, surely …’

  ‘You can pray for anything—bigger boobs, a smaller overdraft, your number coming up in the local lottery, even …’

  Angie interrupted. ‘Prayer is simply getting in touch with the good in yourself and in the world, and making it increase. I can say ‘‘Angie, you’re the greatest’’, and that’s a prayer in itself. It’s helping me believe in myself and love myself and then I can go out and love others. Hey! Watch your steak, honey, it’s burning.’

  Morna retrieved it, helped herself to salad, went and sat down next to Dean who was squatting on the steps playing with a bowl of cherries. He seemed suddenly so innocent—small, simple, clad only in his skin, not gilded or bejewelled or clogged with theories, sticky with self-love.