Let's Dance

by Frances Fyfield

  Isabel watched her mother, who seemed transfixed by Robert’s face. Serena smiled and nodded, apparently following every word: the sight made Isabel choke with sadness. She knew by now that words reached Serena through a fog. She was merely mistress of a splendid, deceptive social façade which knew the value of keeping silent, fooling most of the people, most of the time.

  ‘What do you do all day?’ Robert boomed. Serena laughed, imagining he had said something funny.

  ‘Nothing,’ Isabel said.

  What a stupid, unobservant man he was, to produce this brilliant little son, the possession of whom Isabel craved with a passion of need. She had seen the boy as a baby, twice a year since, and each time the sight of his little bird bones melted her own. He knew it, rewarded it with his unblinking stare.

  ‘You know what you do?’ Isabel said to him as they wandered in the orchard, taking in the last of the light, giggling as they mashed dead apples underfoot. ‘You make me broody. Broody as an old hen.’

  ‘You look like a hen,’ he volunteered. The maggots in the apples fascinated him. He looked at everything gravely. ‘Are we staying here tonight?’

  ‘Yes, I hope so.’

  ‘I’ll come in bed with you, then.’

  ‘Only if your mother says.’

  Suddenly she liked the idea of her family. Blood was thicker than water. Robert and she would become friends. They would work out something for Mother. They would have civilized conversations about it, beginning now, this evening, when she would tell them Mother was mad, worsening fast, should not be living thus. She would ask Jack to stay. She would tell Robert what Mother had done to the food. It was simple: she would demand help and receive it. Not cover up any more.

  ‘Have you got a daddy, Bella?’

  ‘A daddy or a sugar daddy?’ she teased.

  He spread his thin arms. There was a blue vein on one wrist she always wanted to stroke. ‘A big man,’ he said, as if that explained everything.

  ‘No, I haven’t.’ She thought of Joe whom she loved with such passion and who had not replied to her letters, and thought, no, he is a little man. So are they all, little men.

  The orchard was a satisfying distance from the house. No sound reached it until Joan came out to join them. There was about her a smug, conspiratorial air that boded trouble. But Isabel decided she did not dislike her sister-in-law. There was not enough there: doors open, lights on, no one definite at home. A big ‘Halloo!’ yelled into the peaceful air made her squirm but caused no reaction whatever in Jack. He was collecting maggots into a matchbox.

  ‘I say, Issy, there’s a rather nice man, Andrew he said it was, called to see you. Brought some flowers for your mother. Said I’d come and find you. What have you got there, Jack, darling? Put them down.’

  ‘Andrew? Oh, yes.’

  Joan propelled them back towards the house. It was dusk and the sandstone walls had taken on a life of their own, glowing like a soft beacon. Isabel faltered in her step, arrested by a shock of affection and appreciation, punctured when Joan took her arm like a jolly school friend on the way back from hockey, a gesture of the camaraderie Isabel had never found in the days when her mother wrote to her and Joan was captain of netball somewhere else.

  ‘He seems awfully keen, Isabel dear. He might have brought the flowers for you, but Serena took them, so I suppose they’re hers, now.’

  It seemed somehow obscene to explain in front of the boy that his granny had lost her love of plants and wanted her blooms to be replicas, unable to distinguish between the two except for the fact that one sort needed water and were a nuisance. Equally useless to explain to Robert that Granny would have limited interest in his baby; she preferred the durability of dolls. Joan squeezed Isabel’s elbow.

  ‘Is this an old flame or a new one, Issy dear? Robbie says you had a lot of chaps around before you left home. I mean, this one looks a bit old for you, I would have said, but very respectable.’

  A lot of old flames, Isabel thought, even after I left with my inheritance. They all doused themselves, even the ones I brought home afterwards. First they were there, then they were gone. Have you got a big man, Issy? No, they all disappeared like smoke: I lived on my own. The sweet smell of rot in the orchard and the unwanted touch on her arm made memory part of a cycle. One in the dying phase, while fecund Joan was longing to impart the news of rebirth. The elbow was squeezed again, roguishly. The grin given with the squeeze was supposed to say, Come on, sister, you can tell me, while the school-prefect voice went on.

  ‘Well done, Issy, I say. Must be a bit lonely for you out here on your own. Glad you’ve got yourself sorted out so quickly. Got to get a man on board. Never at a loss in that direction are you?’

  Issy, Bella. Each vision of her shortened name made her smaller, unless it was done with permission and affection. Patience in the face of unintended insult was something she was learning fast, so she kept her voice mild, mindful of the boy who was holding her hand.

  ‘That’ll be Andrew Cornell. He’s a valuer. I’m sure he’s come to see Robert.’

  Joan giggled girlishly. ‘I don’t believe you,’ she said.

  They had traversed the lawn at the front quickly in response to the onset of darkness over dusk, no one noticing how weedy it was. Jack had his matchbox safely in his pocket. He sniffed the air like a dog.

  ‘Nice,’ he announced. ‘Ever so nice here. Mum, why is Cathie screaming?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Cathie. Screaming like that.’

  Joan broke into a run.

  When George came back with the dog the kitchen was a nightmare of suppressed screams, the adults frozen in terror. There were dirty dishes in the sink and the overhead light illuminated a series of harsh faces. For a moment he could have been back in his hostel, waiting for a fight to happen. Only Serena’s expression was blessed with contentment as she crooned to the baby in her arms, rocking it with rhythmic violence, squeezing it hard. Peripheral to this embrace was Robert, who was trying to unhinge her arms from round the baby’s chest while Cathie bawled for redemption. They were the screams of distress from a child beyond pique and discomfort and well into the realms of hysteria, face flushed, choking on tears.

  ‘Let go!’ Robert yelled at his mother. She grinned, squeezed harder, raising bruises, hummed louder and moved her burden in the direction of the corridor. He had visions of the child’s ribs popping out through her ample flesh, her cries dying away into a series of gurgles, then silence. Two doll-like arms beat at Serena’s face; the thick, frail neck wobbled dangerously; the china-blue eyes formed slits and the two fat legs hung out of the bundle like helpless sausages with feet. The little boy laughed to see such fun: Jack was beside himself, yelping. Robert was desperate. Tears had formed in his eyes. He balled his right hand into a fist.

  ‘Dance for your daddy …’ Serena crooned.

  ‘Put her down! I’ll kill you!’ Joan’s voice was hoarse with threat.

  Serena took no notice. The baby’s screams descended to a steady howl of pain.

  Andrew appeared from nowhere, the last visible person, pushed Robert to one side.

  ‘You look lovely today, Mrs Burley. Where did you get that hat? Isn’t it noisy? Shall I carry this for you? It is very, very heavy, isn’t it?’ He spoke loudly and firmly, kissed her on the left wrist, held out his arms beneath the child.

  Jack’s laughter fell into silence as his mother slapped him. The fridge hummed. They all watched. Mrs Burley smiled more widely than ever. Her arms opened with such abruptness that Andrew’s thin back bowed under the weight of Robert Burley’s daughter. George was behind him. Andrew passed on the bundle of flesh, bones and shawls with practised tenderness. George hoisted Cathie over his shoulder, holding her under the nappy, letting her fingers claw at his eyes, bending back so she lay on a curve, free as a bird. Murmuring, My aren’t you a beauty? Aren’t you just a little beauty? The crying descended into a series of hiccups. The women recovered from paralysis. Robert moved.r />
  ‘I should let her stop here a minute if I were you,’ George said amiably. ‘She’s just filled her nappy. That’s what all that fuss was about. What a treasure. Is she yours? What’s her name?’

  They packed the Ford Sierra and had left within the hour. George had gone before them. Robert said he was not staying in a house where his child was not safe; he would not believe that his mother had simply forgotten how to hold a baby. Enough was enough. Serena was Isabel’s responsibility. He would be consultant.

  Serena had no idea what she had done. How silly people were. She cried when Robert left, but he could not bear to touch her. She turned on Isabel a face of puzzled desolation.

  ‘Why doesn’t he love me?’ she asked.

  ‘He does, Mum. He does, of course he does. We all do.’

  Later, when all the dishes were done and the place restored to tidiness, Isabel saw the ferret, waiting outside the door.

  3.30 in the morning

  ‘IT IS NICE AND WARM TONIGHT,’ Serena wrote in block capitals. Writing in capitals took up so much time she began to scribble. ‘Someone stole my doll. Someone stole my man. I can’t remember which was worse.’Sitting on the big carver chair watching the moon from the window reminded her how these clearer spells were becoming briefer, since she had obviously been en route to another place entirely in order to do something different and useful. She sat upright and considered the problem.

  She had been looking for snow to fall, snow being an easier option than a knife, but it was too early for that. Or she might have been looking for a book to read. Or, more likely, she had realized that Isabel had heard her tiptoeing downstairs, and that was enough to suspend all movement. It was awful to be followed, terrible to be captive in her own house, and purgatory to have some other woman dancing attendance. Any female with sense, Serena announced with her breath reaching the table, hates the dominance of her mother, but not nearly as much as the other way round.

  There was fucking dust on this buggering table, which was nicer than paper, and the light of the moon was preferable to bursting lightbulbs, which blew up in her face out of sheer spite. She watched her own finger waver, hesitant to commit. Something was important. Nothing she could remember. Serena got up and made her regular parade of touching things, as if she loved them. She had never had much time for things, only people. Edward, her husband, had loved things like trophies. She had loved him first as long as he loved her first; she had loved other men second. There was about as much time left for women as there was for God. Neither had ever saved her from anything.

  She looked at her fingers. Still five of them. What a relief. Nothing really changed, then. She did not change. Bits of her died was all, like gangrenous toes on bodies in frost. All those lovely manners, which had covered her like a coat. It was not the same as being mad, Serena told the table: she could still dance, still march to a different tune. As for being good, she was not good, never had been.

  She added an extra ‘s’ to the word in the dust, so that the sound of it would end in a hiss. Lonelinessssss was a fact of life sometimes cured by illusion, mitigated by the love of a man. For some women, she wrote, being alone on the planet is cured by the love they have for their children. She had loved hers, but never to death and never as a replacement. Mab had loved them as if they were her own.

  Serena stopped, shaking her head until her eyes rattled like marbles. Why should it be so difficult for children to accept they were not the centre of the world? Why on earth impose such expectation? Serena put her mind to the task of communication. A game of noughts and crosses which must not be wiped away in the morning. In case somebody won.

  She was playing a game with Isabel. First she kept winning when Isabel was small, but then when Is grew into a girl, she wiped the board, stole her father’s heart and got row after row of kisses until her mother had nothing left. Not that Edward ever did anything: he hadn’t the faintest idea, but that was not the point. The point was the row of Xs. The memory of being insanely jealous. And now this same child was demanding love. ‘Give us a break,’ Serena scrawled. She could not remember what she had done the day before. Something bad. Her eyes widened.

  Look at that! The cat was on the table, smearing the writing. All because she had opened the window on account of hating anything to be locked. The bastard cat had brought her a mouse without a head. That was what lack of inhibition was all about.

  Balls.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Andrew was dreaming.

  ‘Hush,’ someone told him. ‘Hush. Whisper who dares. Christopher Robin has fallen downstairs.’

  He and Isabel were sitting at either end of that big Knole sofa (worth a few hundred, bad condition), avoiding the springs and talking to each other. They were both a little drunk, which eased the talk and made it slip and slide between things that mattered a lot and things that had no importance whatever.

  Listen to me. Listen. It is no person’s duty to look after a parent. I should know.

  My mother loves me.

  Yes. Like a fungus loves its culture.

  No. I want to be like her.

  At that point Serena crashed through the door, wearing nothing but curlers and demanding a car.

  Tell me, Miss Burley, were you in love with what she was? Why did you leave me? Why did you write me that filthy letter?

  When Andrew woke, he was on his own bed, fully dressed, with everything crumpled and uncomfortable. He could feel the weight of a baby in his arms.

  Dr Reilly puffed towards the back door. For country calls he wore boots, which gave a certain edge to the challenge of controlling the pedals of the Volvo. At midday the air was fresh with rain, the temperature mild with only a hint of winter warning. Bonfire night: he could smell the smoke in advance, knew he would need his energy and his sobriety for later alarms.

  He took off his boots at the door, revealing fisherman’s socks of odd colours. Those made Isabel trust him, although she knew he was a wily old bird: Aunt Mab had said so, and what Mab said was always right, although none of her observations meant that the Doc was anything less than an excellent practitioner. He seemed to be the same age now as he had always been, which was old enough to treat as a reliable uncle.

  ‘Anything in particular wrong, m’dear? You said on the phone you wanted me to take a look at your mother. I’d been popping out every week to see her, y’know. George would have called me if there was anything wrong. Anyway, after you took charge I’ve waited to be asked.’

  Looking at the girl he wondered which of the two female occupants needed treatment. She was a funny grey colour: those great deep eyes of hers seemed to take up as much of her head as a bush baby’s, but her smile still went straight from ear to ear. A mouth like Brigitte Bardot; no wonder his son had suffered such a bad dose of calf love once. In his eyes Isabel had improved with age: most women did. His son had two daughters of his own now: the photographs were in the doctor’s pocket, ready to be shown.

  ‘It’s just a check-up. I don’t know. Just to give me some idea of how she really is.’

  ‘Surely,’ he said kindly. ‘Does she still smoke?’

  ‘Yes. Not very often. She seems to forget how to hold it.’

  ‘Well, there’s a mercy. No need to come with me. I know the way if she’s still in bed. And then we’ll have a chat.’

  Half an hour later, on her way to the bathroom, Isabel heard the sound of laughter from Mother’s room and felt a spurt of envy for Doc Reilly. She had never had it in herself to make her mother laugh, she wanted to snap at him when he sat himself down so solidly at the kitchen table in front of a cup of coffee, but then he smiled and patted her shoulder.

  ‘You’ve chosen a lonely path to furrow, miss. Don’t worry about your mum chortling. Your mother never did mind being examined. She says it makes her tickle. The stethoscope, I mean. She likes it.’

  Isabel felt ashamed. ‘Can I tell you something?’

  ‘Course. Anything.’

  She hesitated.
‘Sometimes I want to hit her. My fingers itch to hit her.’

  ‘I don’t blame you. I’m amazed more people don’t succumb. I don’t even know why it’s considered worse to hit an old child than a child.’ He laughed. It was not the laugh she had heard from the bedroom: that had been Serena’s.

  Isabel placed her palms flat down on the table. He noticed the prominent bones at the wrists. Then she clasped her hands between her knees, as if wanting to hide the evidence of temptation.

  ‘I could do with some help, I suppose,’ she added, lamely.

  He frowned. ‘Well, to be honest, there’s not much of that to be had unless you hire it and I doubt they’d come out this far. You’ve got two options. You can carry on, or you can abandon ship and leave her to it.’

  He gulped the coffee as if his mouth had forgotten the difference between cold and hot.

  ‘Once there’s another fire, or the place gets infested, but not before, the Social Services will step in. They’ll pretend they have a budget for so-called care in the community, people coming in every day for an hour, you know, but it wouldn’t work. They can’t afford people staying overnight. It would stagger on for a bit, and then, provided you kept your distance, they’d take her away. There’s a nice home in—’

  ‘No,’ said Isabel. ‘I couldn’t consign her to that. She’d lose whatever it is she has left.’

  ‘She won’t go any other way than in a straitjacket,’ he said roughly. ‘And she’ll be what they call difficult to place. I don’t want to point out to you that there would be a lot more help available if you simply didn’t exist. Didn’t she tell you about the home helps she sent away? No, she wouldn’t, would she? Janice was the only one she could stand, perhaps because she paid Janice herself. You could perhaps get her back.’