Let's Dance

by Frances Fyfield

  Dedication

  To Angela Nightingale,

  for being alive

  Contents

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  About the Author

  Also by Frances Fyfield

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  CHAPTER ONE

  There was no other way to describe it. A perfectly beautiful house which also managed to be ugly. There was a glory in its pretence to be a truly grand house whilst being, in reality, a mansionette masquerading as a mansion. There was no spitting of gravel as a car turned into the drive, since the gravel was half submerged into the weedy earth, leaving a smooth tread and puddles. The tennis court was similar, erupting with moss, the pond to the side choked with weed and a haven for frogs, while the lawn resembled a green lunar landscape, spongy to the feet, riddled with mole-holes. Round the back, where the red brick of decaying outhouses met the pitted surface of the stable yard, a berry tree was shedding an early autumn crop so plentiful it was ignored even by the birds. The grounds were sweet smelling, as edible as the house. Like good rich food, a blessing and a curse.

  The front was a two-storey elevation, mostly glass window set in sandstone below a shallow pitched roof of dull but definite grey. The front door had altered with the generations, undecided about fate, looked temporary, far too small and cheap between a pair of fat columns. These had once been surmounted by stone lions, added and then taken away at the same time as the stone globes on the gateposts. Humility followed pretension.

  The out-of-scale Corinthian columns alone appeared to announce not only a huge reception hall, but also twenty bedrooms of liberty hall, instead of the mere five. As it was, a small vestibule was flanked by two fine front rooms with enormous windows, one living room, one dining room, each with fifteen huge panes of old glass in elegant, thin frames, currently dirty but none the less magnificent. It was the kind of hospitable, slightly blowzy house which invited the colourful domination of virginia creeper and weeds, never the sinister overtones of ivy. But the creeper had been killed: there were trails of it growing up against the mellow gold stone, like a trail of debris on a handkerchief, holes in the upper slabs where foliage had been held if not controlled. Each brick of this perfect example of English eccentricity, folie de grandeur and sheer, if muddled, taste, came from the valley landscape where the house stood as if growing out of it, unable to live elsewhere, insulted by the suggestion. Invisible from the road, the house withstood all weathers, and was perfectly isolated.

  There were one and a half bathrooms for all those rooms, one lavatory in the servants’ quarters. Three servants at one time, plus gardener and stable lad, plus any assistance needed from the village, now hamlet, lying one mile away and the town, five miles beyond and visible from the hill. Some gentlewoman had once considered it a struggle to manage with a staff of five. Those were the days.

  Serena Burley lived in it alone. A man called George, who was not paid for his labours, drove each day from the town to look after her and her dog. No one knew where he came from or why he had done this for the three years of Serena’s erratically developing dementia. Janice, who was paid, although not handsomely, also attended. Robert and Isabel, Serena’s far-distant children, visited for frantically busy weekends in which they mended things and went away, saddened, appalled and relieved. George was such a Godsend, they never questioned either his identity or his motives.

  They worried about their mother while half tolerating, half detesting one another. Most of the time, the detestation won. Robert was a bully and Isabel was weak. He regarded her with all the contempt held by the strong for the meek who had also managed, by no effort of their own, to inherit the earth. Robert would inherit little from his mother: the house was held on some obscure leasehold arrangement. Isabel’s inheritance came from someone else. Neither of them could quite believe Serena’s diagnosis, since the rude health of both of them made them deny the existence of anything incurable. And because Serena Burley had been such a password for magnificence, it was impossible to imagine that she would not, somehow, re-emerge from this senile chrysalis and laugh at them.

  ‘It can’t go on,’ Robert kept repeating. ‘It simply can’t. She’ll have to go into a home. You’ll have to make her. Or go and look after her for a while until we decide what to do.’

  ‘Go and look after her? Why can’t you go and look after her? What’s the difference between your responsibility as a son and mine as a daughter, and besides, you’re the one she adores …’ Isabel would feel the lump of tears whenever the conversation got to this point, which it did on every telephone call. However would she acquire a family of her own if she went home to her mother? Almost on cue, as if someone was squeezing them for effect, there would be the sound of screaming children in the background of Robert’s home.

  ‘That’s why,’ he would hiss triumphantly, a stage-whisper of a hiss, intended to be heard by his sensible wife who loathed her sister-in-law as much as she envied her. ‘We have no power to shove her into a home, because she’s still just about sane, and I couldn’t possibly go and look after her because I have family responsibilities …’

  ‘That was your choice!’ Isabel would yell at this point, also intending to be heard, but the guilt crept up into her throat at the same time and made her voice tremble on the edge of petulant hysteria.

  ‘… I have kids and no money and a tough job, none of which applies to you …’

  The words ‘you lazy slut’ were never quite announced: they hovered there, over the wires, to be repeated at supper by Mrs Robert Burley, but they still entered the iron of Isabel’s soul. A son is a son till he takes him a wife: my daughter’s my daughter for all of her life.

  ‘She’s fine as she is. She’s got help …’

  This was Isabel, avoiding confrontation as she usually did, denying her mother’s example, that of her aunt as well. She was unequal to it at the best of times, which was never like this, hampered by guilt and the luck of life which evaded her brother, hampered even more at the moment by the denouement of yet another love affair. All Robert could do was moan about the responsibility of having kids: all she could dream about was the utter privilege of what he claimed as an affliction. Whether it was love or babies that formed the subject matter of dreams, she could no longer distinguish and was not about to try. Her own mother had told her not to come home and, apart from brief visitations, she had done her best to comply.

  ‘How can you say everything’s fine? The house is falling down.’

  ‘All you care about is the things inside the house!’ Isabel screamed this time, despite herself, the high notes of her shrill voice warbling like a raucous jungle bird.

  ‘Better than caring about nothing but yourself. Like you.’

  Staring into space after such family chats, Isabel imagined her beloved mother, her eyes which grew paler and paler with age and the arms outstretched in the great big greeting which would be Serena’s welcome. No one else had ever inspired such huge and unrequited love. Or such pride.

  There was a series of photographs in tarnished silver frames on top of Serena’s desk. Some of them talked, some did not. The one of Mab, Serena’s sister, for instance, showed the solid, uncommunicative face of a woman to whom life had been scrupulously unfair, right from the day when her mother had decided to call her Mabel, because of that Mabel Lucy Atwe
ll look: deliciously fat cheeks, snub nose, eyelashes to kill for. Later Mab was still best seen in profile, because even as an adult that plumpness resembled the moon, with features set uncertainly in a squashed circle, a currant bun of a face with a frizz of hair.

  Next to Aunt Mab were Isabel and Robert, clinging to her fat thighs. Serena had taken that photo herself: no one showed to advantage. She featured alongside, inside a better frame, wearing a black ballgown, with husband on arm, receiving adoration. That was preferable. Serena had been venerated wherever she went, the subject of a thousand schoolgirl crushes and a hundred leering men, while her sister Mab blossomed into the kind of child people called bonny, or so she had explained to Isabel, leaving her niece to wonder what it might have been like to be sibling to a younger sister so beautiful she made men and women alike catch their breath. She was not aptly named. Her name suggested tranquillity, whereas all her life Serena had howled at the moon. There were more than vestiges of a former, sensual beauty about her eyes, her hair, her carriage.

  The photograph of fat, capable Mab began to talk. Well, Mab said, cheerfully, I had to develop in other ways. And I was, I am, happier than my sister, in the long run. My sister is not going to like being old, you know, but for me it makes no difference. No one will notice. Serena turned the photo down so she could not see Mab, smiling.

  ‘Bedlam!’ Serena shrieked. ‘What rhymes with bedlam, George?’

  ‘I dunno. Can’t you think of something easier than that?’

  ‘Tart.’

  ‘Part?’

  ‘Fart!’

  ‘Oh, very funny. Better write it down quickly. Where’s your pen?’

  Sitting at her desk, Serena was suddenly protective. She leant forward over a pile of paper, shielding it from view. ‘You’d better not look at what I’m writing, George. Secrets.’

  ‘I know, I know, but I can scarce read, remember?’

  ‘Don’t believe you. You’re a clever fucker. A right smart bugger!’

  He chuckled, good-natured in the face of an outburst. ‘Language, Mrs Burley, my lovely sweetheart, you gotta watch that language.’

  She relaxed, put her head in her hands. ‘Language is the root of all good and evil, George. Which is a shame, because I can’t remember the verbs.’ She looked round, wildly. ‘What do I mean, George. Verbs? Words?’

  ‘I think you mean words,’ he said gently. ‘And never you mind. You got plenty of words left.’

  ‘What’s happening to me, George?’

  ‘You need feeding, that’s all.’

  He plodded out of the room, making an effort to behave as if he had no right in there and she had not called him in in the first place. As far as anyone else was concerned, he never went further than the kitchen. He had a place by the fire, along with the dog. He was not paid to do what he did. He was not supposed to do anything for Serena: he did what he did for the dog. Or that was the way it had started out.

  The house had a strange and lopsided magnificence, certainly in comparison with any he had ever known, although he had never been familiar with a wide variety of houses. At home he could not have kept a hamster: the rules, imposed by the authorities, the lack of air and the neighbours, did not allow. Here the place smelled blissfully of animal and warmth. There were falling-down outhouses outside, a coalhouse where a boy could keep a rabbit, a backyard and a whole acre of land. He saw it as a kind of flawed heaven and inside it he had this strange sensation of vitality. Mrs Burley was a good woman and she needed him when no one else did. She was mad only in other people’s estimation. There was no one else he would rather obey.

  ‘Things she does!’ he informed the dog, as well as anyone else who would listen. ‘Course she isn’t mad. She’s sane as you and I. You know what? I got there this afternoon and how do you think she was doing? On her hands and knees, she was, planting plastic flowers outside. I said to her, I said, you shouldn’t be doing that, you’ll get your knees muddy. Fuck off, she says to me, why not? There’s fuck-all else growing here. If I put these lovely things here, then the others will know they should grow. Makes sense, don’t it?’

  And that was the fact of it. So much of what Serena did made sense. To Serena and also to George. They shared a common and secret logic which did not require even the effort of mutual tolerance. George, Serena and, to some extent, Janice, conspired to maintain a façade and to keep Mrs Burley where she belonged, and, although Janice did not know it, to preserve George in relative safety.

  He was back in the kitchen. There was a fuel-burning stove of indeterminate age at one end, with a sweet nursing chair in front of it, the sink at the other end and a badly done, uphill sloping quarry-tiled floor uniting the two. There was also a refrigerator, an electric cooker and a series of old kitchen units littered against the walls, a couple of deep, walk-in cupboards built into the fabric of huge sandstone walls and a series of doors which had once puzzled him until he knew better. One led to a pantry, a miserable little room, full of fuse boxes, a washing machine, what still passed for a freezer and shelves full of stores, all dusty and deficient, the place a masterpiece of bad design. Something called Fablon, a kind of stick-on polythene, coated the pantry shelves, curled at the edges, making fingers stick and grime collect. Looking out from the pantry window there was a spinney, beginning with a small bank on which he had seen the ferret play last summer, both of them enchanted with the sunlight.

  The wood had been cut back and now took revenge by crawling forwards in a thicket of sycamore. Nearest the window were the purple autumn crocuses which he could call his own, the bulbs he had planted signalling a new ownership of this wild territory. George watched the ginger cat crawl among them, pause where he had planted out the Christmas tree the winter before, willing permanence on both its withered branches and his tenure in this blessed house. The cat strove to survive, just as he did. Serena said it would grow up to be handsome, which was more than anyone would ever say about him. George had done his growing in another world, and in this one acquired a new skin and an identity which, for the first time ever, pleased him.

  The other door, aside from the one that led into the corridor, an avenue that bore signs of Serena’s eclectic taste, led down to the cellar. In saner moments Mrs Burley had told him about people keeping food down there before the advent of the refrigerator, why didn’t he go and look? He had looked, closely, once or twice and never again. Janice said there was a cheese press made out of half a ton of stone, because it had once been a dairy. Stone shelves, a back cellar full of junk, a little window covered with dank weed, a place where things were put and left for ever. Until Serena had a party, magicked glasses, knives, forks, out of there. Oh, really? There had been no parties here in three years: George would have hated a crowd. It was the look of the steps down which so appalled him. They were stone, but so worn that each of them lisped into the centre, lethally slippery, the outward edge forming a wavy line, glistening with damp. It was the thought of how many people, how many hundreds of thousands of footsteps, had created that effect by constant traffic that had unnerved him. George did not like darkness, or servitude.

  The dog got up out of her basket, cautiously enthusiastic. She seemed, like her mistress, to lose the capacity for barking in the afternoon, made a noise only for those she liked.

  ‘Fine bloody watchdog you are,’ he grumbled. ‘C’mon, ol’ girl. You and me against the world. C’mon.’

  She moved her fat rump, thudded her tail, looked up beseechingly. Cold, outside.

  ‘Walkies,’ he said. ‘You’ll feel better for it after.’

  They went out the back. Past the pump that no longer worked, over the fence into the park, her paws clipping on the remnant of concrete by the stable yard. There was a fine powdering of frost on the grass: the cattle had been taken indoors, so the land was theirs. In the distance was the treadmill of the town. He raised a fist to it.

  In all of the vexed, fifty-odd years of his life, George had never been this happy. He needed this status qu
o, and without giving it much thought was determined it should remain exactly as it was.

  Janice did an evening shift after George had gone, four hours a day. She was a comfortable woman and a natural diplomat, a necessary talent for one who pursued a patient career in looking after the elderly, albeit one that was founded on her nervousness about doing anything else, except clean things, which was what she had once done here. Patience was certainly a virtue. What did these poor old dears have to do with jargon about being mentally challenged? She looked at Serena Burley over the rim of her spectacles and then averted her eyes. Serena would have responded better to a man: Serena lit up in the presence of the male sex, but for a woman Janice did better than most when it came to persuading her to eat. People who had not entirely lost their table manners, but were still aware enough to know they were doing something not quite right, were embarrassed to be watched, although Mrs Burley used mealtimes as a great attention-seeking exercise. It was as if she wished to prove her frugality by never admitting to hunger. She lived on chocolate, and the only thing she could cook, albeit with maximum labour, was fish and chips. As one who had cooked for two fussy children and one bottomless pit of a husband for what seemed like endless years, Janice did not think this diet a sign of madness in itself, in fact it seemed a sign of sanity. All the same, these antics over a meal could be irritating to anyone else, who had failed to eradicate impatience as Janice had, leaving a vacuum filled with nothing but endless affection, loyalty governed by prudence and a fear for what she held dear.

  ‘Too hot,’ Serena complained. ‘Ooh, far too hot. I can’t eat this. Why is it so hot?’

  It was not hot: Janice had ensured it was merely warm, so that Mrs Burley would do what she usually did, which was tear off chunks of fish and feed them under the table to the ever-waiting dog. It was de rigueur that half the meal would be given away: proof to herself, in some benighted way, that Mrs Burley was a civilized, delicate and far from greedy woman. Janice kept quiet, apart from saying, mmm, this is nice, by way of encouragement. A bit like running water making people want to pee. She did not like the thought of Mrs Burley’s fingers, covered in dog saliva, putting chips into her own mouth, but there was nothing she could do about that and it was better than the old girl eating nothing at all. Janice supposed that owner and dog must be immune to each other’s germs after all this time. It was the dog looked poorly. That was the daftest thing the daughter had done, buy that dog which had grown into a fat and indiscriminately friendly bitch, as pleased with male strangers as Serena was herself. Janice cleared the plates.