by Sue Watson
‘That’s right... lovely looking girl. You want to get yourself some eyebrows like hers.’
‘Mmmm,’ I said, still smiling to myself and wondering just how hilarious it would be to watch Mandy’s encounter with my mother, who probably didn’t understand half of what she was saying – but repeated it loudly.
‘Here, I’ve got something for you,’ she said. ‘I got it on that day trip to Birmingham last week... it’s from Selfridges, I hope you like it.’ She handed me a gift bag stuffed with tissue and when I put my hand inside, I brought out the most beautiful silk rose in scarlet.
‘Mum it’s gorgeous, but you shouldn’t...’
‘Nonsense. I haven’t given you enough pretty things in your life. Sometimes I think I’ve only given you sadness and worry.’
I didn’t answer, I couldn’t because I might cry and I wanted this to be a happy visit. I just studied the lovely rose and realising it had a clip put it in my hair.
‘Every flamenco dancer needs a rose in her hair,’ she smiled, hugging me. ‘It looks beautiful on you – especially now you don’t wear those glasses any more and we can see your lovely eyes.’
I glowed, my Mum had always been proud of me, always loved me, but through the years life and heartache had got in the way. I stayed for longer than usual that day. We talked about the dancing and the dresses and I suggested next time we go out for lunch together. We’d never ever done anything like that – mother-and-daughter shopping trips and meals out had never been on the agenda for us.
‘I’d like that,’ she said. ‘I’d really like that.’
‘Me too,’ I said, hugging her before I left. ‘There’s a new restaurant in town, they do tapas – we could practice for our trip to Spain.’
‘Yes... and Laura?’
‘Yes, Mum.’
‘There’s a new drink they have now – supposed to be delicious. We could have one of those. I think it’s called a Porn Star Martini.’
‘One day, when I’m starring in my own TV dance show I think I’ll write a book,’ Tony was saying. We were finally heading for Blackpool and the Dance festival. I was driving so I could take my mind off what was to come. I was really nervous about the dancing – it was the first time I’d ever performed in public and I felt sick every time I thought about it. But for me there was the added dread of returning to the place my father died, and all the horrific memories associated with that.
‘Yep, I’m going to write my own self-help book: “Tony Hernandez Sez”, see what I did there with the Z?’
‘Yes, I’m sure it will be a bestseller,’ I said sarcastically. I didn’t mind him going on, I knew he was only doing it to take my mind off everything. And I knew he was nervous too, he’d organised a lot of publicity and if we did well he might be able to start thinking about opening his own dance business and teaching full-time. So Blackpool was a big deal for both of us.
‘I want to inspire people everywhere with my thoughts, like lip balm and tea bags are all one needs in life.’
‘Oh the world will be waiting for that one.’
He laughed. ‘You’ve inspired me you know, Lola.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes. Believe it or not, when we met on that cold dark night after you’d shown yourself up in the Zumba class I was about to give up.’
‘Give up dancing?’ I was shocked.
‘Well, teaching. I will always dance, darling – but I was about to give up the teaching and the dream to dance professionally one day. I know it will surprise you because I never tell my age because I look twenty-two...’
‘Forty-two.’
’Twenty-two... but I am in fact almost thirty-five.’
‘You are at least forty, Tony,’ I laughed.
‘Okay, but I felt like I’d left it too late and didn’t feel like it was leading anywhere. Then when I saw you dance I just knew you had it in you, and I don’t know why, but I liked you straightaway. I felt we were going through the same stuff – we both needed to road-test our emerging inner butterflies,’ he pushed in a travel sweet with a puff of icing sugar.
‘Ooh I like that, did you read it somewhere?’
‘Yeah... in one of our Rita’s magazines. I knew it would be useful for something. I’ll put it in my book,’ he said as we pulled up at the Blackpool guest house which was pink and owned by lovely Robin and Gary, Tony and I dumped our bags in our shared room and headed out to the promenade. The wind was whipping up the sea but that didn’t stop us heading out to see the sights.
Walking along the windy promenade was like walking back into my childhood. The little girl inside me was skipping along holding Dad’s hand, anticipating the chips and the dancing later.
The salty sea air took my breath away with its sheer vigour, and the cold was laced with memories. Mum would walk on one side, Dad on the other – and I’d be holding both their hands as they swung me in the air. I looked at Tony – and even though I’d lost weight, I doubted he’d be up for swinging me around the promenade.
‘I’ll beat you to that lamp post,’ I called after him, running along the front, the wind in my hair, my strong legs taking me further and faster than ever before.
He was soon grabbing me by the waist, pulling me back, the sibling I never had trying to beat me to the winning post. I didn’t stand a chance – he was over six feet with long legs, and apart from cheating by trying to push me out of the way – he won.
I ‘landed’ at his side, panting, holding onto him after my sprint.
‘As your partner and mentor, I should have said, there will be no running, no jumping and no sex before the performance,’ he announced, arms folded at the lamp post pretending it hadn’t been an effort to run.
‘You mean like footballers before a match,’ I was still trying to get my breath.
‘Yeah. And I don’t care how much you pester me, Lola, I am not finding you a toyboy on the pier to satisfy your lust.’
‘One wouldn’t be enough – what’s the collective term for toyboys.’
‘A warehouse,’ he giggled.
We laughed and then he took my hand and we ran together, me skipping alongside him like a little girl as we crossed the road from the seafront to the shops.
Despite it being the middle of winter, there was a flavour of Blackpool summers hanging in the air. It was early evening, the sea was a vast expanse of sequinned blackness.
In the distance was The Pleasure Beach, the rides were lit and moving, the screams carried on the wind – pure fear and exhilaration for just a couple of quid. I could see the lights on the little trains swirling through the air, the slow, trundling ride upwards, followed by the whoosh and the accompanying screams as the roller coaster plunged to its depths. I could taste the candy floss, feel the remembered thrill of my tummy rising and falling as we swept through the air.
When I was a kid it was just the Big Dipper, but now it was ‘The Big One’, over two hundred feet of metal that dwarfed all the other rides. Even The Pleasure Beach isn’t immune to change, I thought, everything moves on. I’d held on to my dad’s arm and screamed on the Big Dipper as we lurched from sky to ground in seconds. I remember Dad laughing loudly. ‘Wave to Mum,’ he’d shout and we’d both wave frantically at the tiny figure down below waiting for us.
‘I’m starving, we have to have fish and chips,’ I demanded, so we bought takeaway fish and chips from a cafe and walked along the road eating them straight out of the paper. The wooden fork was reassuringly rough on my tongue, the chips hot and vinegary, and the gold battered fish tasted just like the sea. We tried on hats and scarves and fell into each other laughing at the sight while holding each other up.
Later, we sat with a couple of beers outside a gay bar and took in the sights – and I don’t mean the seascape. It was chilly, but we were wrapped up in the warm, both enjoying the handsome young men coming and going in the pink paradise. I looked over at Tony as two drag queens walked by dressed from head to toe in glitz and feathers. He caught my eye and we sm
iled at the madness and colour of it all, both enjoying the spectacle. ‘You know, it’s funny – because you’re everything I’ve ever wanted in a partner. You’re handsome, funny... caring...’ I started.
‘I am, aren’t I? I’d make a lovely husband but I just don’t think it’s ever going to happen. We’ll both be in our sixties, still single, sitting outside bars in the dark drinking pink cocktails and lusting after young men.’
‘Oh, dahling, I do hope so,’ I said, in my best Bette Davis voice.
The following morning at dawn we awoke and I prepared myself for the day ahead. The dancing itself was a huge challenge, but going back there, to the place it happened was terrifying.
My dress was hanging on the back of the door, a reminder of what was to come, I looked at it and a thrill of fear danced through me. I packed some toiletries and make-up into a big bag with Dad’s letter. I also had with me some old photos of Mum and Dad dancing, posing, laughing. I took them out and looked at them again, remembering how things had been before that terrible night and the last time they ever danced together. I was doing this for them too.
28
GHOSTS AND GLITTERBALLS
Every detail was vivid, it had been raining and the air was fresh and damp when we arrived at The Winter Gardens in Blackpool on the evening of May 12th 1980. The atmosphere was electric, excited chatter competing with Doris Day’s voice singing ‘Perhaps, Perhaps’. We’d been to the competition before, but Mum and Dad had never won anything and finally were in with a chance with their rumba. People had called it ‘show-stopping’, I wasn’t quite sure what that meant, but it sounded good and I was carried along on the fever of winning. I remember sticking my thumbs up to them both as the dance started and saying a little prayer asking God to let them win as the competing couples flooded onto the dance floor in a wave of colour and glitter. A young couple flew onto the floor, they had such verve and energy – looking back, I imagine it was simply their youth, but I couldn’t take my eyes off them. Despite Mum and Dad being on the floor, I was compelled to watch this couple, and I have wondered so many times since if Dad had waved to me and I hadn’t waved back. The girl was wearing sparkly, fluorescent green like a refreshing splash of Corona limeade, their fire and passion fizzed onto the dance floor. They were called John and Francesca, but I knew Mum didn’t like them – perhaps she was jealous, the new hot talent, taking over when her own star was fading, her passion barely cooled? I’ve always felt guilty because I was so mesmerised by John and Francesca it was a while before I realised something was happening at the other side of the dance floor. By then it was too late – the music stopped and all I remember is hearing the word ‘ambulance’.
Within minutes everyone had stopped dancing. The organisers were calling for all dancers to clear the floor until the entire area was empty except for Mum and Dad. They were directly under the glitterball, Mum was slumped over Dad just like at the end of their dance, but there was panic in her eyes and Dad lay there, motionless. I was ten years old and my greatest fear was my father dying. And here it was, pure horror laid before me surrounded by sequins and spangles under the disco ball.
The shock was so strong, so physical, that I couldn’t move my feet to go to them and the next thing I saw was my dad being lowered onto a stretcher as Mum howled like an animal at his side.
It was a massive heart attack.
Arriving at the hallowed portals of The Winter Gardens started my stomach churning. The sight of that big, majestic arched building brought everything back and walking inside I was overcome with memories, ghosts from the past danced through me in ballroom gowns. I tasted the sugary lemonade I always drank while watching Mum and Dad. I particularly loved watching their paso doble. He was her matador, swirling her around the dance floor, she his submissive scarlet cloak. She relied on him, trusted him and with him she moved with such grace and elegance. Their dance partnership was, like their life partnership, based on love, mutual respect and trust. The intensity and happiness of their love revealed every time they danced.
Now it was my turn to dance here, the place where my father took his last steps. I’d often wondered if I should come here to exorcise the ghosts, but I hadn’t been ready until now.
I must have gone very quiet, as Tony took me gently by the elbow and guided me in. ‘Come on, Lola, you can do it,’ he said from the side of his mouth. For all his flamboyance and drama, Tony was astute – he could always sense my mood, my feelings and he treated me with such gentleness.
The entrance hall was busy and I looked up into the dome of the rotunda and lost myself as I had all those years ago. ‘I used to twirl around here until I was dizzy,’ I said to Tony.
‘Mmm that’s nice, dear, but we don’t want you going all dizzy now, do we? It’s okay to do that when you’re five, but at forty-five it looks just a little bit creepy.’
‘I’m forty-four,’ I said.
‘Whatever you say, Lola.’
People were walking quickly, some running, late dancers, I thought, recalling the stress of the last-minute arrivals, my mother’s panicked voice, ‘Do you have the paperwork? Are you sure you locked the car, Ken?’
Music was vibrating through the Victorian stone and I could sense the build-up as we walked into the Empress Ballroom. A cold waft of air greeted me as I went through the doors into the huge, shiny-floored space. I took in the barrel-vaulted ceiling, the ornate balconies and the sheer lavishness of the surroundings. ‘I used to pretend I was a princess and this was where I lived,’ I smiled.
Tony squeezed my arm. ‘You okay – your highness?’
I wasn’t sure, but nodded and put my arm through his as he led me to the dancers’ changing area.
Hearing the music and watching the dancers glide onto the floor made me feel sick. With each step, each rustle of silk, each turn of the head, I was thrust back in time, reliving every moment of my last visit here.
In all the madness and hysteria I was aware of Dad’s body being taken out on a stretcher – I knew he was dead because his face was covered and I’d seen that on TV. He was taken to a local hospital and Mum and I were ferried to the morgue there by taxi – organised by the competition sponsors. It was all such a mess, such a confusing time – I felt like I’d been put in a washing machine and it was just going round and round, I heard sound, saw colours, but none of it made any sense. A post-mortem was carried out (Dad died so suddenly it was apparently a legal requirement) and as Mum couldn’t bear to leave him, the dance organisers put us up in a guest house for a couple of days. Throughout this time Mum lay on her bed holding one of his shirts, reeking of his aftershave and sobbing. Whenever I smell Paco Rabanne I think of that time and it takes me straight back In the weeks after his death. I’d walk into the house and smell the warm, aromatic scent, convinced he’d returned, only to have my hopes dashed every time.
I remember a woman coming to our room to ask if there was anyone she could call for us. Mum couldn’t speak to anyone so it was left to me to answer and I said, ‘No... there’s no-one else... just us, the three musketeers.’ Except now, there were just two musketeers.
I felt a tear spring to my eye. ‘I wish my Dad was here,’ I said.
‘Mmm I meant to talk to you about that.’
‘What, my dad being here?’ I said.
‘No love... I’m not Psychic Sally in drag... though I would love that woman’s gift. No, the good news is your mum’s coming. I invited her, she’s bringing her friend. Mandy’s driving them... ’
‘Mum? Driving with Mandy for the dancing... oh no.’
‘I know... but I figured it was worth it for her to see you dance. If Mandy ends up driving into a wall, they’ve had a good life.’
‘I didn’t mean that – I just mean, oh thank you, but I wish you hadn’t told me – I’ll be even more nervous knowing Mum’s out there.’
I was delighted and scared that Mum would be in the audience. In some ways she was my harshest critic in life but she was the woman I want
ed most to impress. To make her proud was everything to me. I just hoped that being back here wouldn’t be too distressing for her. It had been the worst night of our lives and I hoped Mum was now strong enough to face the ghosts of our past.
I was just coming off the phone to Sophie who’d called to wish me good luck all the way from Chile when Tony announced our stylist’s imminent arrival.
‘Oh just get your arse moving girl, Mandy’s left your mum and her friend in the cafe and she’s on her way backstage ready to transform us. She’s brought three-hundred cans of hairspray, a ton of body glitter and eighty gallons of fake tan. And that’s just for me,’ Tony was saying.
I laughed. Too much. I was very fragile, close to tears, trembling and more scared and nervous than I’d ever been in my life. And now Mandy ‘Guantanamo’ Johnson was here with her beauty ‘weapons’ to waterboard me and my hair before backcombing it into oblivion, turning me orange and slathering me in glitter. I had faced one of the biggest traumas of my life head on and was about to dance in front of hundreds of people for the first time. I felt physically sick with nerves and a pummelling from Mandy would probably just about finish me off.
The festival was due to start mid-afternoon and Tony and I were on the running order at the very end to do the flamenco. Tony was pleased, ‘They’ve given us the finale, Lola, they have high hopes!’
I wished I could share his joy, but I just wanted to vomit. I’d never been so nervous and my only consolation was that if we were last on everyone might have gone home by then.
We stayed backstage and tried to practise in the little spaces we could find, but eventually gave up when Mandy arrived to ‘transform’ us. She was brandishing what looked like surgical equipment and threatening Tony with a ‘manscape’ – my eyes watered at the mere thought.
‘You should have seen me last night,’ was her opening gambit, ‘I was off my tits on Porn Star Martinis.’
