The Stillness the Dancing

by Wendy Perriam

  ‘More tea?’ she asked. He really did look hungry.

  ‘No, thanks.’

  She drained her own Ovaltine, racked her brains for something interesting to say. Surely he would be going soon, now that he had heard her news of Chris. He had picked up the postcards and was reading them again, seemed reluctant to be parted from them. If she were kind, she’d say ‘Take them with you, dear’, but Chris might not write again. She had sounded very busy on the phone—strings of names and places. It took time to buy a card, find a post office.

  She jumped. Martin had dropped his spoon on the floor, alarmed the silence. He kept shifting on his seat, casting nervous glances round the room.

  ‘Is that Chris?’ he asked, suddenly, pointing to a photo of a scowling baby in a smock.

  ‘No, Morna. Chris is in the other room. I’ve got several of her as a tiny tot. You must have seen them when you came before.’

  Martin returned his gaze to Malibu. ‘I don’t remember.’

  ‘D’you want to see them now, then?’

  He nodded, followed her into the sitting room, stood by the piano.

  ‘That’s the first. She was just a few days old then. Neil took it in the hospital. And this one’s six months later. See her first tooth? She was a bit swollen and bad-tempered then. Oh—and look at this! Isn’t she a darling?’

  Martin said nothing, was just tagging after her, staring at each infant, his face impassive. He stopped in front of Edward—the largest of the photographs, which showed him in his best blue uniform with his DFC and DSO.

  Martin touched a finger to the glass. ‘Did he really win those medals, or were they just—you know—decoration?’

  ‘Of course he won them, dear. He was very brave indeed, Chris’s grandfather. Well, she’s like him in that, isn’t she? Chris always had great spirit, even as a baby.’ Bea sat down on the sofa. She could smell Edward’s pipe again, the strong sweet fumes of Capstan Navy Cut, flaring into the reek of scorching fabric, the stench of charred flesh. ‘On his … his last operation, he sacrificed his life. His Lancaster was hit by an anti-aircraft shell and he tried to keep it airborne while all the crew baled out. The last man had just jumped free when the thing blew up. One of the young airmen told me the whole story. He’d been taken a prisoner of war, but when he got back home he came to see me. He said my husband showed outstanding courage and they’d never forget what he did that night. Apparently, he was even joking with them—right up to the end—you know, to try and keep their spirits up, stop them panicking.’

  Martin slumped down opposite Bea, postcards on the chair-arm. He kept jabbing at the palm trees with his finger, then glancing back at Edward. ‘I don’t know how you managed,’ he muttered, almost to himself. ‘You know—with him dying when you’d only just …’

  Bea tensed. Her own friends had been more tactful, used words like ‘loss’ and ‘shock’, never death.

  ‘I mean, how on earth did you cope? I feel bad enough with Chris away for three short weeks, and even when I know she’s coming home.’

  Bea thought back. She had coped. There had been no alternative. She took the photo down, sat with it on her lap, ran a finger along the fine arched brows, traced the generous mouth. He hadn’t changed.

  ‘I … I just carried on as if he were still there.’ Bea laid Edward face-down in her lap. Martin didn’t understand. She could see that from his expression. She tried again. ‘I just … refused to be a widow. It’s so depressing, isn’t it, moving to some poky house and letting yourself go, living on toast or ginger nuts, and joining those dreary groups like Cruse or … or whatsitsname. I can’t remember names, dear—not these days.’ Bea winced at a sudden stab of pain, eased her neck and shoulders. ‘No, I stayed where I was and behaved exactly as I had before Edward … passed away I ran the house the way he liked, cooked regular well-balanced meals, including his favourite dishes, wore the clothes he’d chosen, kept to his routine.’

  ‘Yeah, but if he wasn’t there to …?’

  ‘It didn’t matter. It was a way of coping. A sort of … game if you like.’

  Martin crossed his legs, uncrossed them, stretched them out in front of him. ‘It doesn’t sound much fun to me.’

  ‘It wasn’t. It wasn’t any fun at all. But it gave me something to hang on to, something to live for. I’d always ask myself ‘‘What would Edward have done if …?’’ And then I’d do it anyway.’

  She and Edward had planned to send their child to boarding school, since they were frequently abroad. She hadn’t changed the plan, though she had never once left England after her bereavement. It had proved a strain, both financial and emotional, to send her only child away. But if it was what Edward had decided … Perhaps she should have changed the plan. Morna hadn’t really been happy at that school, especially in the later years. She rubbed at a tiny mark on Edward’s cheek. It wouldn’t budge. She tried a drop of spittle, scraped it with a fingernail—still there.

  Martin was fiddling with the postcards, making a roof with them, an L-shape, laying them back to back, then face to face. ‘Yeah, but how could you keep going if you never got anything back? I mean, if your bloke never bothered, or wrote letters or phoned you up or …?’

  ‘I didn’t need letters. Well, I had his old ones, anyway. But I just believed he was there. Don’t misunderstand me, Martin—I wasn’t dotty, seeing ghosts and things. It was more a matter of his presence, refusing to let go of it, refusing to give in or wallow in self-pity. It’s all to do with will-power—or maybe even … obstinacy. You can play the widow even when you’re married, you know. It’s a question of attitude.’

  She polished Edward up, put him back on his shelf, remained standing there, staring at his picture, hearing her own voice—‘a way of coping, something to live for, a question of attitude’. She gripped the shelf, closed her eyes a moment, felt a sudden rush of blood to the head as if somebody had hit her. Not somebody, but something. Wasn’t that her answer, her way of coping with her new bereavement, her loss of God? She had been weeping and wailing, wallowing in self-pity, indulging in doubts and fears—all the things she had despised and fought against when she’d first been widowed. Here was her solution—one she had just spelt out to Martin. All she had to do was carry on as if God were there, refuse even to think about the doubts, or waste her energies on ifs or buts. It wouldn’t be a bed of roses—she knew that from her first attempt. But she also knew it worked. It kept you going, gave you purpose, saved you from despair. You slept, worked, trusted, and you kept your sights on the Beloved. Never mind if he were faint or blurred or deaf or even cruel. Will power was enough. Spirit, obstinacy. She was a Conyers, wasn’t she? Edward would have been ashamed of her these last few months, behaving like a raw recruit, wavering and bleating, almost deserting ranks.

  ‘What, dear? Yes, I used to play. Not so much these days, though. My fingers are too stiff.’

  Rude to ignore a guest, yet she could hardly concentrate. She could see herself kneeling at the altar rails, receiving the Host from Father Clarke. ‘The Body of Christ,’ he murmured, placing it on her tongue. No more need to doubt it, spend the rest of Mass agonising, wondering if her doubts showed up like tumours on an X-ray, visible to all the congregation. And of course she could continue with her church activities, in Madge’s parish as well as in her own. It was the work itself which mattered, not her puny fears and scruples. Those were to be banished now, replaced by acceptance and obedience—all the virtues Edward’s men were trained in—courage, loyalty, unquestioning submission to one’s Leader.

  ‘No, Chris never cared for music much. She had lessons for a year or two, but then she gave it up.’

  The poor boy couldn’t get away from Chris. That at least they had in common—both of them missing her, longing for a letter. Lovely eyes he had—sad and brown and very bright like that picture of Christ in her prayer book. Funny how she had never noticed—thought him rather plain before. Joy was lying almost on his foot now, which proved he was a decent s
ort.

  His stomach gave a sudden growling rumble. He flushed, clapped a hand on it, as if frightened it might show him up again.

  ‘Er … pardon.’

  ‘You sound as if you’re hungry, dear. How about that piece of cake?’

  ‘No, really, Mrs Cony … I ought to be getting back. I haven’t had my supper yet.’

  ‘You haven’t had your supper? But it’s getting on for midnight.’

  He shrugged. ‘I never bother much with meals when Mum’s out.’

  ‘She doesn’t work on Sunday, does she?’

  ‘Yeah, sometimes. Not today though. She’s gone to Woodford.’

  ‘I could always cook you something.’ His eyes really were exceptional, kind and gentle as well as bright. ‘How about a nice mixed grill?’

  ‘Won’t it—you know—keep you up too long?’

  At least he was polite—and thoughtful. She could hear his stomach saying yes, the flush deepening as it growled again.

  ‘Not at all. I’m feeling a little peckish myself, to tell the truth. I’ll light the fire and we’ll eat in here.’ Why not be extravagant for once, switch on the electric heater, too, build up a real fug? She never ate this late, but just an egg or something couldn’t hurt. She’d make another pot of tea, have a cup herself. She would sleep tonight, she knew it, tea or no. She felt better than she had for months. They ought to celebrate. There were peaches bottled in brandy in the larder. She had been saving them for years—for something special. Now was special. All you needed was a plan, a way of carrying on, making sense of things.

  The fire was laid already. She always lit it when Chris and Morna came, or Father Clarke. She struck a match, watched the bright flame lick along the newspaper, burning out her doubts, her futile barren questionings. God was there—as Edward was. She had both their photographs—the picture of the Sacred Heart which Madge had bought for her just a month ago from a convent in East Grinstead, smiling down on Edward and his medals.

  ‘Can you lay tables, Martin?’

  ‘I’ll have a bash.’

  ‘Knives and forks in here. Wait a minute, I’ll get a cloth. Careful with it, dear. It’s very old, that one. I embroidered it myself the first year I was married. Lupins were Edward’s favourite flowers.’

  ‘I never know the names of flowers.’

  ‘You must know lupins.’

  ‘Nope.’

  ‘Well, you do now.’ Bea touched a clump of silky purple ones. ‘There are ninety-eight exactly on that cloth, and every one has a good two hundred stitches. It took me eight solid months to finish, working every evening and all weekends.’

  ‘My Mum won’t sew a button on.’

  Bea said nothing. Chris certainly shouldn’t marry into such a family. She was already far too casual—blamed it on Martin, said he liked things homely. Mind you, if someone took some trouble with the lad, he could be trained the other way. He was doing quite a good job on the table, smoothing out the cloth, setting the knives and forks down very carefully. He weighed one in his hand.

  ‘Are these real silver, Mrs Col …?’ He seemed to be having trouble with her name. Found it a mouthful or had forgotten it, most likely.

  ‘Oh yes, dear. They belonged to Edward’s grandfather. See the initial on the handles? C for Conyers.’ She spelt the name out slowly and deliberately as if teaching a small child.

  He followed her out to the kitchen, the fork still in his hand. ‘I‘d like stuff like this—something with a history. I’ve been reading this book about a wreck they’ve just discovered off the Lizard. The divers found pewter plates and a battered silver tankard and a dagger with a real ruby in the hilt and great gold chains which men wore round their necks and …’

  ‘Men? I thought it was only nowadays that men wore jewellery. Do you know, even my butcher wears a gold earring in one ear and he’s six foot tall and bearded.’

  ‘No, blokes have always worn it—though, actually, those chains were used as sort of ready cash, to escape the tax due on minted gold. They’d break off a link or two to settle some account—only noblemen, of course, not the proles. I’ve seen portraits of lords and people wearing them. They could be really heavy sometimes and up to eight feet long.’

  ‘You know a lot about it.’ Bea was trimming the chop, removing bacon rinds.

  ‘Yeah. I read all the books I can. I hope to dive a wreck like that myself one day, so the more I know, the better. I’ve done a bit already—nothing very grand—only brought up rusty nails and broken bits of pottery and things. But actually, it isn’t just the treasure, it’s … I don’t know—’ He shrugged. ‘I can’t put it into words. But imagine turning up a tankard which some bloke actually drank from centuries ago, and feeling you’re sort of … linked with him, that he isn’t entirely dead and gone, because … well—’ He broke off, embarrassed, traced a pattern with the fork prongs on his palm.

  Bea snipped off three pork sausages, put them under the grill. The boy had real potential. All right, she wouldn’t want him for a grandson-in-law, but then if Chris were cooling off him, hadn’t even sent a card, then that wouldn’t be a problem. Just as well with all that dangerous diving. She felt sorry for him, really. Chris could be cruel—not intentionally, just casual over things, making people feel they didn’t matter when once they’d been kingpin.

  ‘One egg, dear, or two?’

  ‘Two, please. What are those things?’

  ‘They keep the eggs a nice neat shape, stop them running.’ She melted oil and butter in a second pan. ‘And I always use a clean pan for the eggs. There’s nothing worse than bits of black on egg whites.’ He might as well learn while he had the chance. He’d be someone’s husband one day, not Chris’s—not someone quite that special—but a nice girl, certainly. He deserved a really nice girl.

  ‘Thanks,’ he said, as he put his knife and fork down, pushed his plate away. ‘I enjoyed that.’

  ‘Well, it was only very simple, dear.’

  ‘No, it was great. I like the way you—you know—make things look so nice. I mean, taking all that trouble with the table and the serviettes and that silver mustard thing—just for me.’

  Bea swallowed her last bite of crustless toast. ‘If you do it unto the least of My brethren, you do it unto …’ She had that text safe back now, together with all the other precious texts. Everything and everyone rooted in God again. Order again, peace again; not a sparrow falling without her heavenly Father’s will, not a water bird starving without Him there to thaw the pond.

  Martin was still speaking, seemed less tongue-tied now. ‘I hated school dinners because everything was so grotty. They fed us like pigs, sloshed the food around. If you weren’t careful, you’d get gravy down your arm or custard on your cod. And we had plastic knives and forks.’

  ‘Plastic!’

  ‘Yeah. The boys were always nicking the metal ones or trying to bend them—you know, like Uri Geller. Not that it was difficult. They were so cheap and tinny, they’d bend on a fish finger.’ Martin picked up his knife again, admired the crest. ‘Chris says you fuss, but I like that. It makes things sort of special.’

  ‘Fuss?’ Bea flounced up to fetch the peaches. Of course it made things special. Edward had said the same himself, in different words. ‘You’ve got a great gift, Beatrice.’ He had always called her Beatrice—took the trouble, just as Father Clarke did. ‘A gift for making things and people happy.’

  Then he had gone and blown himself to bits, so that she couldn’t use the gift—well, not as fully as she might have done. They had planned a nice big family, at least four or five children to keep her busy, test her skills. She would have dearly loved a son, another Edward—maybe even Edward Martin. She had always liked the name. When St Martin cut that cloak in half, he hadn’t known it was God he was keeping warm, hadn’t asked for His identity, demanded proofs or documents—just clothed a naked wretch. There weren’t many naked wretches in stockbroker Surrey—the rates were too high for that—but it was the principle which c
ounted. Madge herself was a bit of a St Martin—generous to a fault (and bossy with it)—didn’t waste time asking God to prove Himself, just got on with His work.

  She spooned peaches into cut-glass sundae dishes, giving Martin the lion’s share.

  ‘What’s that sort of winey taste?’ he asked, as he swallowed his first mouthful.

  ‘Cognac. A very good one. They’ve been steeping in it for over two years.’

  ‘Two years?’

  Bea nodded. She must steep herself in God, soak him up like brandy, serve His family if her own were too small or didn’t need her now. The retreat house was a sort of family. They even talked about themselves as brothers and sisters, sons and daughters of Christ. She could be useful there, not just Taking Stock, praying with her eyes closed and her hands clasped, but helping out as Madge did. There was enough to do, for heaven’s sake—a rambling house and garden with only a handful of nuns to keep it going, and Mother Michael not the best of organisers. St Martin had been a soldier’s son, an officer himself; she an officer’s wife. She knew about efficiency and service. She mustn’t interfere, of course, but there were things she could do almost unobtrusively. Little things. St Thérèse of Lisieux had become a saint on Little Things and St Martin himself had worked all the hours God sent, founded his own retreat house—a score of them across the whole of France.

  ‘Have an almond finger, Martin. They go nicely with the peaches. I made them myself.’

  He took a couple. ‘Thanks.’

  She sat staring at the rose-sprigged plate of biscuits, saw herself baking almond fingers for the nuns, shining up that brass umbrella stand which they had allowed to get so tarnished, pruning roses, embroidering altar cloths. She had kept house and garden for Edward even after he had gone. She could do the same for God—at least one day a week. Madge never missed a week in her trips to Hilden Cross, sometimes went more often. All she had to do was beg a lift with her, say she had changed her mind about the place. Madge wouldn’t bother asking why. She was a Martha, not a Mary, too busy to keep questioning or examining people’s motives when the office needed manning or two hundred letters had to be sent out. In fact, if she were going to live as if God were there, then the retreat house was the perfect place to start—surrounded by believers, people whose faith and ardour would rub off on to her; nuns praying for her, with her, every moment of the day; a constant stream of clear-headed clever priests who weren’t friends like Father Clarke or entangled in her pastry—perhaps one she could confide in if things got bad again.