Summer Flings and Dancing Dreams

by Sue Watson

  My heart lurched; this was the one she was wearing the night it happened and I slowly and carefully brought the dress out of the bag. Gently wafting the layers of netting, breathing life into the frills as a handful of sequins fell to the floor, I gasped as my life rewound like an old cassette tape. There it was again, Mum’s familiar fragrance of bergamot, dry and floral still living in the heart of the dress, now coming back to life in my arms. Again I breathed in my mother’s perfume and was taken back to that night, the taste of happiness, the smell of Blue Grass, then nothing.

  I sat for a long time holding the fabric to me, as if I was holding my mum, the one I’d known as a little girl. The Mum who’d laughed and danced and took joy in simple things, the Mum who’d needed no excuse to put the record player on and sing along. But then there were the times she’d cry for days, followed by a visit from the doctor, Dad’s worried face, his wringing hands. Then sometimes Mum would go away for a while – as a kid I didn’t know how long, but it seemed like forever.

  One of my earliest memories is dancing with Mum to Elvis singing ‘The Wonder of You’. It was a fox trot and Dad said I was a natural, shouting ‘bravo’ and clapping loudly when we finished.

  Perhaps there was treasure here after all? I continued to tear at the bags, finding dress after dress, and as each one unfurled, another yesterday came to life and I was back in the moment. The black and scarlet satin Mum wore when they danced the Salsa at the North West Championships; a fringed dress in citrus shades she’d trotted around in when they danced the Charleston for a competition somewhere in Kent. Then I found bags containing all their trophies and medals. Holding the Latin American Dance Championships trophy from Sheffield 1976, I’d felt like an Oscar winner. I remember the clapping, the whistling, Mum’s flushed, happy face and how I’d clutched the huge trophy as the photographer from a local newspaper took pictures and Mum and Dad beamed. Then I smiled, remembering the best bit of that night – we ate chips out of paper on the way home in the car. I licked my lips at the memory as I opened another bag and discovered my favourite of Mum’s dresses. It was a delicious fondant pink and always reminded me of the thick, sugary icing on a birthday cake. I’d loved this pink dress as a child and remembered quite clearly it was the one she’d worn for the waltz for a competition in Birmingham. I carefully stroked the fondant pink satin bodice, which was tiny - I had never realised how slim Mum had been.

  I sat among the dresses for a while, running the soft satin and prickly tulle through my fingers and marvelled at the memories suspended in those frills and spangles.

  I held the pink fondant up against me and moved slowly around the attic in an attempt at the foxtrot. Catching myself in a dusty old mirror, I was disappointed to see me waddle – it wasn’t Mum’s elegant glide, but then I’d never been as beautiful or graceful as my mum. Even as a child I was aware of the surprise on people’s faces when my mum or dad would say, ‘And this is our Laura.’ ‘Your daughter?’ they’d ask with unconcealed amazement that two beautiful people could create this chunky, plain child. It didn’t bother me, I’d come to expect the reaction, and apart from some painful times as a teenager I didn’t let my looks shape my life. Or did I? Here in the colours, the sparkle and surprises of the past... my past, I realised how grey my life had gone on to be. As I’d grown up, my parents’ firework display was over and I’d been left with the embers. I’d retreated into a life, where I could be in control and there were no surprises – but looking around me at all this, I realised, there hadn’t been any sparkles either.

  I eventually gathered myself together, and remembering it was Sunday and the ‘Strictly Come Dancing’ results show would be on later I was slightly lifted. I would have a glass of wine in front of the TV and come back to Mum’s later in the week to sort through all the gowns and the rest of the house. I would have to store them at my house. Despite the fact that they would fill up my tiny spare room, I didn’t want to sell them. I couldn’t bear the thought of flogging my parents’ past on Ebay for a few quid. To others they would just be sparkly dresses, but these were the fabric of my childhood, their layers and sequins told a story – my story. I put the gowns back into their bags. They’d been preserved for over thirty years, I didn’t want to leave them exposed to the dust and elements now.

  Frothing the tulle on the pink fondant gown and drinking it in one last time, I noticed something fluttering out from the folds. An envelope, like an escaping butterfly, preserved in pink satin landed on the floor. I bent down to pick it up, and when I pushed my fingers inside the ripped top, I could see there was folded paper inside. A letter. I held it for a few seconds, knowing it was probably private – but I couldn’t help myself, I had to read it.

  * * *

  My Darling,

  You said last night you might have to leave me and I’m sorry I was angry. I wanted to write to you because it seems we can’t talk to each other anymore without hurting. I don’t blame you for saying you want to go – I haven’t been the most attentive of husbands. But I’m begging you not to.

  I can see the effect he had on you, and how, he changed everything. But leaving me isn’t the answer, and my heart bleeds when I see that faraway look in your eyes. I don’t know what to do, I don’t know how to make it better. I’m hurting too, I can’t even bear to say his name.

  I know you think after what happened that I don’t love you. But I love you in spite of everything – nothing has or ever will change my love for you.

  I want you to stay, Margaret. It won’t be easy but let’s try to put the past behind us and concentrate on the future. If you won’t do this for me, think of Laura. Let’s make the most of what we have – our beautiful daughter, the golden link between the two of us. Let’s teach her to dance, to lose herself in movement, and to ‘feel’ the music that has given us both so much. We must share that gift with Laura – I want her to believe in herself, to shoot for the moon and dance under the stars. I don’t know where we’d be now without our ambitious tangos and complicated waltzes. Our dancing is the life blood that flows through both of us. During that difficult time when we couldn’t speak about what was happening, our touch on the dance floor meant more to me than anything else.

  Darling, stay with me and we will win at Blackpool, then sell up and move away from the painful memories, and start a new life somewhere else. We’ve always wanted to dance flamenco – let’s stop putting it off – we can open that little school in Southern Spain and feel sunshine on our faces instead of tears.

  I’m told it’s so warm in Granada they dance flamenco outside and the rhythm echoes through the streets. They live in the ‘now,’ like gypsies, free of all shackles, living only for the dance. And it’s there waiting for us my darling – we just have to reach out and take it.

  Let us not be pulled back by the past... let’s move forward, I know it’s the right thing to do.

  Please stay?

  Yours always

  Ken x

  * * *

  Wow, I thought. I never knew my dad had such passion, it was like beautiful, sad poetry. There was so much to take in, so much said in such a few words, my world, the one I thought I knew was suddenly wobbling. My tears were cold, sliding down my cheeks and dripping onto the letter, blurring the words. I tried to wipe it with my hands but that made it worse and made me cry harder. My dad was so passionate, so determined, what happened for him to change his mind about leaving everything behind to dance in Spain? And what happened in their marriage that Dad needed to send a letter like this? Who was Mum thinking about that made her unreachable to him? Was it another man? I couldn’t imagine what could possibly come between them, but Mum’s illness had never really been explained, so perhaps she’d had a breakdown. After an affair? I felt like I’d been kicked in the chest. My poor dad, betrayed by the woman he loved. All the dancing and the laughter and the love – the perfect couple – had it all been a lie? The letter sounded just like my dad, listing the things they’d do, planning a future they would
never reach. He never made it to Spain, and Mum never went there either – neither of them danced the flamenco. He spoke of winning the waltz category in Blackpool, so the letter was written around 1980. I racked my brain to try and remember anything of significance between them that would give me a clue about what had happened. Mum had been ill on and off for a few years then, so if it was an affair it had happened years before. It must have put a great hole in their relationship, an unspoken rip, right through the middle of their marriage that they couldn’t even talk about it. I went back over my childhood, clawing at the past, desperately trying to recall anything, like a detective searching for clues among the endless bloody sequins. I seemed to remember a time when Mum wasn’t ill, when she laughed a lot. But then a curtain came down... when was that? She changed somewhere in my childhood – I remember the first time she went away because Dad bought me a Tiny Tears doll, so I would be about four or five years old, what had happened? Dad told me she was poorly and had to spend time in hospital... why? He’d said in his letter he couldn’t reach her, I understood that feeling and recalled the ‘faraway look’ he mentioned. What sequin-covered secrets had my mother kept hidden? Perhaps things weren’t so wonderful between them after all, because the more I thought about it I realised the only time she was really happy, when she came alive, was when she was dancing. Ironically it was dancing at the place of their imagined Waterloo where all their dreams died – at the Blackpool International Dance Championships. How cruel life could be, I thought, picking up the letter and going over the words. I was a child when I knew my dad, but reading the letter I saw him through adult eyes. It was hard to equate the happy, spontaneous, loving father I remembered, with someone filled with such pain. Almost forty years later, I could hear his voice, feel his arms around me – and learning that he’d been so badly hurt made me want to hug him so much.

  I looked over the letter again. It was yellowing with age and had obviously been read so much the folds were almost worn. How could she? How could my Mum betray my father? I read and re-read his words, looking for a clue, trying desperately to remember the past and discover what had happened. I sat amongst the bin bags and the tears and the taffeta – my world had tilted slightly.

  On a third reading, I could see that in spite of whatever had happened, my dad’s pain was tinged with hope. I knew about Dad’s idea to live in Spain, to learn the flamenco, but I didn’t realise it was such a serious proposition – he seemed to want that so much. He’d also wanted me to dance, had seen me as his second chance; ‘shoot for the moon,’ he’d said wanting to pass on the baton.

  Then I landed with a bump, I wasn’t that baton-carrying dancing girl. Despite my father dreaming of a life of glitter on the dance floor for me I had never got round to dancing – the closest I’d ever got was watching my parents. I had never been taught the waltz, never glided elegantly across a floor in a beautiful dress or whipped up a storm in a frenzied tango. I was a Bilton’s checkout girl who stopped dreaming at the age of ten when her world came crashing down in The Empress Ballroom, Blackpool.

  3

  DETOX CHOCOLATE AND BILTON’S BABES

  ‘I knew she had eleven items in that basket,’ Carole said, ‘I said – just admit to it and we will leave it at that. I won’t take any further action.’

  I nodded as she regaled me with the story of how she’d publicly humiliated some poor woman trying to sneak into the ‘ten items or fewer’ queue with – shock horror – eleven items. Carole had been rejected when she’d applied for the police – but it didn’t stop her dishing out her own brand of police-supermarket brutality at Bilton’s. A few months before I would have loved this story, completely overreacting to the deed and declaring the shopper ‘a sneaky bitch’. This would be followed by my own sorry tales of outrageous customer behaviour in various aisles and unbidden rudeness at the checkout. But it all seemed so petty now, the daily tussles with customers had lost their drama and spark for me.

  ‘You’re not yourself, love,’ Carole said. ‘You okay, you seem a bit quiet?’ We were having lunch in the staff canteen and she was pouring something hot and brown from her flask into a mug.

  ‘Oh I’m fine, just missing Sophie and I’m worried about family stuff,’ I said and told her about Dad’s letter.

  ‘I don’t know what happened between them, and I can’t ask Mum. But it made me think – there was Dad making all these plans and it was futile, he never got to Spain, he never danced flamenco. I don’t want to suddenly be in my seventies and think, where did that go? I know my parents never did what they dreamed of, but at least they had dreams. I don’t have anything to aim for, no goals except to get through the day without verbally or physically abusing an annoying customer.. Do you know I’ve spent my life going to work, coming home, making meals and watching TV.’

  ‘Welcome to my world,’ Carole sighed, sipping at the foul-smelling brew now steaming from her mug.

  ‘Everyone needs something...’ I sighed.

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘I don’t know... I feel like I want to go to Spain... do all the stuff my parents never did. Maybe I’ll do it for them... and for me... one day.’

  ‘There you go... ‘one day.’ Do it. Do “Spain and stuff” now. Just ask your Sophie and I bet she’ll tell you to get on the next plane.’

  I wasn’t asking Sophie anything, because I had to get used to the idea myself first and I wasn’t trying it out for size during the precious ten minutes of FaceTime we managed each week.

  ‘She’s the one that told you to get a bigger life...’

  ‘I know. I just wish it didn’t bloody hurt so much.’

  It was such a big thing, and had become even bigger in my mind since she’d gone, and now Dad’s letter seemed to be warning me to make the most of life before it was too late. There was Sophie off on an adventure, telling me about amazing sunsets and scuba diving in Bali and I just sat there nodding into my phone from the sofa. No scuba diving or sunsets here. She’d been to hell and back on her ‘not-wedding’ day and I didn’t want to bring her down with, glad you’re happy – now what about me?

  I didn’t have to ‘front her up’, I’d thought a lot about what she’d said and now I knew exactly what she meant. I had a little life. I had no plans to do anything daring or different, and if I didn’t do something now, nothing would change. In ten or twenty years’ time I would look at a day in my life – and it would be exactly the same as it had been since I was about twenty years old. The only difference being that my baby girl had now grown up and I was alone.

  I was back there on that cold stone step of the church, and Carole patted my hand, she knew what I was feeling and was letting me know I was there for her. She was a good friend and after Sophie’s wedding then her travels and now the letter I felt she’d listened to me enough.

  ‘So how are you? Still doing the detox?’ I asked, trying to change the subject to something a little less heavy.

  ‘Yeah, but this detox tea is vile,’ she said through a mouthful of chocolate.

  ‘Detox?’ I looked at her chocolate questioningly.

  ‘Oh not this...’ she held the bar up and looked at it like someone else had put it there. ‘It’s okay, the tea cancels the chocolate out,’ she said, in all seriousness.

  ‘Oh. I could do with a gallon of that then,’ I smiled, unwrapping a hefty tuna mayonnaise roll that contained my calorie allowance for the next fortnight. ‘I can’t seem to stop eating at the moment. I really should make some changes, eat better, look after myself you know? I’d like to be a better “me”.’

  I’d always let my weight and my confidence hold me back, I was sure there were things I would have done if only I’d had more faith in myself. Perhaps I could start now... with my weight? My mum may have hurt Dad and disappointed him but I could make it up to him by shooting for the moon in my own way... ‘Are you going to Slimming Club next Monday? I thought I might join,’ I said, attempting to take the first, faltering steps towards a new me.
>
  ‘I’m not doing slimming clubs anymore,’ Carole said. This was like Rihanna saying she wasn’t going to sing anymore and I looked at her, surprised.

  ‘Natalie from “World Cuisines” is doing Zumba, she goes with her mate Mandy, you know, the beauty therapist from “Curl up and Dye”?’

  I nodded.

  ‘Natalie’s lost loads of weight, so I’m going to try it... do you fancy going?’

  ‘Yeah. I spotted Natalie restocking the “Asian Express” aisle yesterday, I thought she looked different... thinner. Not easy to notice under these horrific overalls,’ I added, plucking at the nasty green nylon we had to wear as what the boss Julie sarcastically referred to as ‘Bilton’s Babes’.

  ‘Yep. She says the teacher is fab, used to be a yoga teacher. Apparently she’s all about “female empowerment”. She’s bonkers and uses the word “vagina” in every sentence, but it’s a small price to pay for a tight arse and a tough pelvic floor.’

  I’d love to lose some weight, and I’m a great believer in fate. So when in his letter my dad said he’d wanted me to learn to dance, I felt it was more than just coincidence that Carole was now inviting me to Zumba classes. Life often gives you just what you need, even if you don’t realise it at the time.

  Carole was raving about Zumba; ‘The poster says; “Ditch the workout, join the party.” And I need me some of that.’

  I was quite daunted, and if it hadn’t been for Dad’s letter I’d have gone back to Super Slinky Slimmers where you get weighed then sit down for an hour while someone talks to you about food until you’re so hungry you head for the nearest chippy when you leave. But this was the beginning of a new Laura – this was a Laura that said ‘yes!’ No more wallflower hiding away in the corner, I would take to that Zumba floor like my Dad took to the ballroom, with gusto... or more likely in my case gutso?