by Sue Watson
As Mum and I walked through we had to negotiate the traffic as Mr Harding attempted to dance with Mrs Saunders. He had one arm on her back and the other holding her hand and all was going well until Mrs Saunders’ arthritic hip began to give way and they both landed in a heap on the floor. What had started out as a gentle foxtrot was beginning to look like OAP porn.
‘Can somebody sort that out?’ yelled Mrs Brown, gesticulating to a staff member from behind Mr Roberts. His gnarled fingers were playing provocatively with his waistband and threatening much worse than a deconstructed fox trot.
‘Do you want to know what I think?’ Mum said, ignoring Mr Roberts and the prospect of indecent exposure over the tea and cakes.
‘I think you both need a dance lesson,’ she laughed, marching over to survey the crumpled human heap, now groaning and clinging to each other. I spotted the fire in Mum’s eyes, she was suddenly animated, brought alive by the prospect of dancing, she couldn’t stand still if she tried. Mrs Brown called for back-up and the ‘dancing’ couple were placed upright on the floor, still using each other for ballast. ‘Now hold her more tightly here Bill. Not like that, she’s a beautiful woman, she’s not a sack of potatoes are you Doris?’ she grabbed Mr Harding’s arm and manoeuvred it around, then she put both hands on Mrs Saunders’ hips and straightened her up. With just a tweak they now looked like they might even be able to actually foxtrot and Mum swayed along with them as they staggered. It was interesting to note that Mum was probably older than both Mr Harding and Mrs Saunders, but she still had that swing in her hips, that rhythm in her step, I smiled as Mum rejoined me, pleased with her tutoring.
‘You’ve still got it Mum,’ I said.
‘Yes I have. But Doris never had it, she dances like a bloody truck driver,’ she said, in a loud aside. I gently took her arm and guided her away before she caused any offence and before Mr Roberts dropped his trousers and did a gentleman’s excuse me.
The couple danced around us as I continued to usher mum out of the room. As she opened the door to her apartment she stood gazing around. Mum had insisted on living at Wisteria Lodge because it once featured in ‘Country Life,’ but it was expensive and my pay alone couldn’t cover the fees. So Mum and I had talked about it, and our old family home was about to go on the market. Fortunately Mum didn’t seem to miss it as much as I’d thought she would and had seemed to move on as soon as she had stepped into her room at Wisteria Lodge with its pink Laura Ashley sofa and antique coffee table.
How wonderful it would be to just turn your back on everything that made you unhappy or sad, to cast it off like an old rucksack and move on. As a single mum I’d had to make my own life. Okay, so it may not be everyone’s idea of a big successful life, but I’d managed to keep the wheels on. I had a demanding mother, a young daughter, a full-time job and no partner - so I didn’t have a lot of choice.
I suppose deep down I’d hoped something would change along the way. I’d seen it happen for other people – why not me? And for years I waited for that special someone to come into my life and make everything whole. But it never happened. I couldn’t just blame fate – I didn’t go out, I had no intention of online dating and had such a busy time juggling everything I’d have been too exhausted to notice if Mr Right was standing next to me.
And now, in what my daughter had referred to as my ‘little’ life I had suddenly become more conscious of my future, and the prospect of another twenty odd years behind the checkout. I also had the task of selling Mum’s house and was completely daunted by the prospect of clearing thirty odd years of clutter from it first. Mum had left the house as she’d lived there – with her life in overflowing cupboards stuffed with several hundred years’ worth of glossy magazines and unworn designer clothes.
I looked at Mum now perfectly made-up, well-groomed with manicured nails and blow-dried hair, all available at OAP rates at Wisteria Lodge. She was settled on her pink sofa, leafing through Hello and confusing soap stars with their characters.
‘I thought she was dead,’ she said, holding up a picture of someone from Coronation Street.
‘Well, she’s not dead. She’s the actress – she didn’t die in real life, she just left the programme.’
‘I know... she died of cancer,’ she said very sombrely.
‘Only in the programme, Mum.’
‘But how did they get those pictures?’
She held the magazine up close to her face to read more about this apparently resurrected actress and marvel at how ‘amazing it is what they can do with computers these days.’ I wasn’t sure if she was referring to the photo-shopped face or the human resurrection.
I smiled to myself, ‘I’m glad you’re happy, Mum, I haven’t seen you this happy for a long, long time.’ I said loudly.
‘Yes I am,’ she smiled, looking around. ‘I like this room, it reminds me of the ship’s cabin your father and I stayed in when we went dancing...’ She had a far away look in her eye and told me about a time before I was born when she and my father had taken work as dance teachers on a cruise ship. ‘Your Dad charmed all the ladies with his Viennese Waltz,’ she said. This was the first time she’d ever really spoken to me about the past, and I was surprised, but pleased –and I asked her what else they’d danced and how long the trip lasted. I thought the spell had finally been broken, that she was finally able to talk about the past, but then she changed the subject, so as always the past stayed hidden.
Through the veil of thick make-up, the layers of life and lipstick, I had seen a glimmer of the Mum that used to be many years ago, before that terrible night when we lost everything. The move away from the family home had taken her away from the heartache and the memories of past sadness. And I glimpsed the woman who had once danced in the kitchen, twirled around the living room and who was always laughing.
I wondered if perhaps I should be more like my mother. Should I try to make a change, be more ambitious and grab life like my parents had when they were younger? Perhaps I should have worn shocking pink instead of safe pale blue for Sophie’s wedding? Should I have stood my ground and ordered vol-au-vents instead of some tuna truffle-dribbled nonsense no one would understand – let alone eat? Should I have applied for that Junior Manager’s job with special responsibilities in Perishables? Should I leave Bilton’s? Get a career? I’d always wanted to travel, but at forty four I wasn’t exactly a ‘trolley dolly’. Perhaps I should start a campaign to employ geriatric cabin crew? I could always try Virgin Airways, Richard Branson seemed kind and up for a laugh – always ready for a challenge. But was I really ready to try something new.
Here I was for the millionth time feeling out of sorts, at odds with my life and work and wondering what the hell to do about it. I had gone over and over all the possibilities in my head since the day of Sophie’s wedding – and I still didn’t quite understand what I had done so wrong with my life that my own daughter wanted to escape from it.
Later that evening, I sipped my wine and watched the ‘Strictly’ Double Bill on TV and an actress I vaguely recognised from a soap being led onto the dance floor clad in sequins and sparkly heels. I wondered if my mum was watching – if so she’d be very confused, as I was sure this was another character who’d recently been killed off in a soap – not real life.
I knew it was painful for Mum to talk about dancing and the life she’d had with my Dad, but not talking about what happened hadn’t helped her all these years. I was guilty too, because after we lost my dad I didn’t want to talk about the life we’d had before either. But perhaps I’d kept it that way not only for my own security, but Mum’s too.
I tried not to think about that night. I’d been ten years old and Mum and Dad were smiling, at me, and each other and I had been so happy, contented, secure. Afterwards, I don’t recall ever feeling that safe, that complete again. I certainly never found it in a man.
I ate another Revel and scolded myself for dwelling on the past, on stuff I couldn’t change. And the judging was about to
start, there was no way I was dampening all that glitter with darkness, so I turned up the TV and lost myself in the show.
I couldn’t get enough, watching the celebrities begin those first, faltering steps the swishing fabric and clicking heels on the dance floor were my therapy. As much as I didn’t want to dwell on the bad memories – there were great ones too and in those seconds of silent stillness before the music began I could feel it all again. I could almost taste the excitement and anticipation of that moment before my parents danced in a big competition. As a child I’d never realised how nervous Mum and Dad must have been because for me it was just another wonderful dancing adventure. All the preparation, the final sequins sewn on the dresses, the car filled with petrol and packed, the sandwiches in tin foil for the journey – expectation and probably a little fear sparkling in the air. Just like on the TV there was always a glitterball. I was transfixed by the one on the screen now, each facet a different dance, a single moment catching the light, illuminating all my memories as it spun.
When the dancing stopped, Mum abandoned everything – including me. The music was turned off, there were no more competitions and something that had filled every crevice of our lives was instantly gone. Sometimes I’d find a sequin on the floor and I would keep it in a tiny box in my bedside table – each one a happy memory – hiding them from Mum. I didn’t want her to find a reminder of what we’d had and be hurt all over again.
I’ll never forget that first ever episode of Strictly Come Dancing when news reader Natasha Kaplinsky was whirled onto the floor by dancer Brendan Cole. It was like an electric shock, the movements, the music, and the old world elegance dragging me back into a childhood spent watching impossible, magical steps my eyes could barely keep up with. Without Dad our whole world of dancing disappeared and here on my sofa thirty years later I was rediscovering it all. It was like yesterday had grabbed me by the throat and hauled me back to a world of taffeta, tulle and tight bodices. A world where no one hurt me, or let me down or left me – and whatever happened I was safe in the knowledge that when it was all over I’d be kissed and carried to the car in a warm blanket.
That first night watching Strictly Come Dancing I’d sat on the sofa alone, surrounded by the ghosts of people dancing, with tears running down my face. It was, for me pure nostalgia, a crystallised moment in time when life was innocent and safe – before our hearts were broken and the stars went out.
2
SALSA, SPARKLE AND SEQUIN-COVERED SECRETS
Pulling up outside my old family home on the Sunday morning, my heart did a little lurch. I’d last visited almost three months ago, but Mum had still been here then, so this was a difficult visit and opening the little front gate on the terraced row I felt guilt and the past weigh heavily on me. I was still looking for my dad as I walked through the empty house, and I swear I heard laughter, voices, the clicking of dad’s shoes on the wooden floor. I stood in the hallway breathing in the heady aroma of lavender and bergamot – the ghost of Mum’s perfume ‘Blue Grass’. I was comforted by that smell as I walked into the dining room, the big fake mahogany dining table stood waiting, as always, never really used. Dad said it was rather baronial for the three of us and he and Mum should have had more kids to fill it. Mum would disagree, and the look on her face told me the very thought of another child horrified her. Even as a child I wanted to make Dad happy and asked Santa for a little sister, but I’d received a Tiny Tears doll instead.
Dad could never sit still and on the rare occasions we did sit at the table he would be up and down, his legs constantly moving, toes tapping. I could hear Mum chastising him, ‘Sit down and eat your tea, Ken,’ she’d snap from behind a piece of celery and an ounce of cottage cheese. He’d suddenly leap up – ‘Margaret, quick,’ he’d say, opening his arms to dance. ‘Oh Ken, you silly bugger, I’m having my salad,’ but her feigned grumpiness dissipated into thin air as soon as he put the music on. Delightedly she’d leap up from the table and join him in a waltz or a tango, dancing around the room, she’d smile indulgently over his shoulder to me and I’d giggle happily. He was our hero – he was like an excited little boy, but at the same time the best husband and father.
I smiled to myself as I wandered through the rooms of my past. Without us here it was as empty and alien to me as visiting a stately home.
This was the first time I’d been back to the house alone, and it felt like I was seeing it for the first time, through someone else’s eyes. Looking at the photos, the shabby furniture, the peeling wallpaper – it seemed time had stopped somewhere around 1980. In some ways, for us it had.
I wandered into the kitchen and turned off a dripping tap, the place smelt damp, unlived in, and soon it would be up for sale and all the memories sold with it. But just being here, breathing in the past was enough to evoke a million yesterdays. I remembered Mum standing on the kitchen table, stomping flamenco style as Dad clapped along. I’d joined in the clapping and when I tried to climb up to take part, Dad had lifted me onto the table where Mum and I stomped so hard we’d left marks in the wood. As I ran my hand along the table, I could feel the indentations from our dancing, an imprint of how we once were, a happy yesterday preserved forever.
Walking upstairs into my parents’ bedroom was probably the hardest part. The photos were still on the wall, gathering dust, a grainy black and white print of mum and dad in dancing clothes holding a trophy – I remembered the night, I could almost hear the applause, a golden memory from childhood. I gazed for a long time at a photo of me and Dad on the carousel in Blackpool. We were there for the Dance Championships and in between we’d gone out to the pier, up the tower and my favourite – the Pleasure Beach. It was a magical place for a child, filled with rides and roundabouts, fruit machines, faces full of candy floss – but the best of all was the candy-coloured horses on the carousel. I’d wait by the side with Dad, shaking with excitement, and when the ride stopped I would run to get on the purple or the pink horse, Dad running after me, laughing and calling my name. He’d sit behind me, holding me round my waist and when the ride started it seemed to go so fast my stomach would lift into my mouth and I would scream, scared I’d fall, but knowing I was safe in Dad’s arms.
I moved along the photos on the wall smiling to myself at the 1970s shots of flared jeans and long hair. Mum’s hair was always lovely and thick and blonde, but looking at her now, through my middle-aged eyes, I saw a beautiful young woman with so much to live for – who’d have thought her life would turn out the way it did?
I turned on the ceiling light, a large fake chandelier, all glitter and grandiosity, so typical of my parents. ‘Kippers and curtains!’ I murmured to myself, gazing up at the twinkling drops of glass twisting in the light. Then I spotted the opening to the attic and my heart sank. I hadn’t even started yet and I’d forgotten about the bloody attic, a whole extra room to clear out – and no one had been up there for years, God only knew what was up there. And knowing Mum’s hoarding tendencies you could bet it would be packed to the rafters – literally. Come to think of it, she had hinted that I might find the family treasure up there, hidden away.
‘If only,’ I’d said, knowing there would be nothing of value, because we had never owned anything of value. But I was intrigued as to what I might find there.
I searched for a stepladder under the detritus of my mum’s life optimistically called ‘the spare room’. There is nothing ‘spare’ or ‘roomy’ about it, I thought as I heaved up dusty boxes and tore my way through a dense forest of bags and clothes. I finally discovered the ladder and torch and headed back to the master bedroom from where I entered the dreaded attic. Reluctantly pushing open the hatch that lead into the roof, I saw the amount of stuff and all I could think was ‘room of pain’ – and not in a sexual way. Just what was my mother hoarding up here? Random flashes of my torch revealed huge black bin liners were stacked against the walls, but as shocked as I was by the quantity, I have to confess to slight relief at the vague sense of order. Ev
en in torchlight I could see the bags hadn’t just been thrown or piled six feet high with stuff spilling out, which seemed to be my mother’s signature storage solution. Whatever was in these bags had been put away with care and I was vaguely optimistic that it would be fairly easy to see (once I’d found the light switch) what was inside each one before clearing the space.
God only knew what those bags contained, but it was going to take more than a day to sort that lot out. I clambered up into the attic it was dark and cramped and I could taste the thick dust at the back of my throat. I found the light and looked at the first of the bin liners. It was huge, so I grabbed it with both hands and pulled at it with all of my weight to bring it out into the tiny square of attic that was unoccupied. As soon as I tugged at it however I realised it was light as a feather, which was surprising and I almost lost my footing, but managed to steady myself and sit down with the bag. It crunched slightly as I manoeuvred it into a position where I could open it – Oh God, don’t say mother was hoarding family bags of crisps? Mum was particular about her food and though she didn’t eat much she overbought her favourites perhaps she’d once had a thing for crisps? I began to tug at the knotted plastic tied several times – whoever packed this bag wasn’t planning to open it again... or let anyone else open it either. Was this Mum’s ‘family treasure?’ I doubted that very much, but whatever was inside would at least be protected from all the dust now nestling in the folds of the black plastic. The more I tugged, the more hopeless it became. I decided to throw caution to the wind and rip open the damn thing. I tore at it, gasping as the plastic split open easily and the contents slowly burst into life. Like a beautiful sea urchin, the powder blue tulle frothed out as I gently teased it out of its black plastic grave and within seconds transformed back into my mother’s ballroom dress.
