I Hope You Dance (23 page)

“Happy Christmas, Ruth.”

I became aware of another presence beside me.

“Ruth. Harriet's looking for you. She wants to know if you need a lift home.”

“David.” I let out his name in a rush of relief.

Carl stepped back, and I was able to switch my gaze to David, holding on to the sight of his face like an anchor in a hurricane. He looked at me for a beat, before turning to Carl.

“We haven't met.” He held out his hand. Carl shook the proffered
hand, and for a few moments there appeared to be an actual handshaking man-tussle of strength. I'm assuming David won. Jungle explorer and all that.

“
Doctor
Carl Barker.”

“Carl. I'm…”

“I know who you are.” His eyes flickered between David and me, and I could see conclusions forming behind the icy blue. “I didn't know Ruth was friends with the nation's favourite bug lover. Anyway. I need to get on. A ton of paperwork before theatre tomorrow. I'll call you, Ruth.”

He slithered away. I leaned back, a little weakly, against the window-sill and let out a shaky sigh.

“Thank you.”

David took the mug of undrunk coffee out of my hands and set it on the sill. “You're welcome. Do we need to be worried about him?”

I shook my head. “I don't know. He knows Maggie threw the egg. Threatened to send the police round on Christmas Eve if I didn't go out with him again.”

“Nice pulling technique. He must wow the ladies with his charm and finesse.”

“Well, hopefully you scared him off. No surgeon wants their fingers crushed in your handshake of intimidation.”

“Let me know if he bothers you again,” he said, looking me square in the face.

“Right, so you can beat him up for me?” I laughed, unable to meet his eye.

“I'm serious. There's something off about that guy.”

“I'm sure another tragic victim will grab the attention of his hero complex soon enough. I can't be the only pathetic female in need of rescuing in town.”

David had moved to lean his solid frame against the window-sill next to me. He took hold of my hand – and my heart, lungs and liver did a triple back-flip. Pow!

“Ruth Henderson.” I loved it when
he
said my name. “You are one of the least pathetic females I know. That is not the reason Dr Steroid is pursuing you.”

“Pursuing. That's a reassuring word. Thanks for that.”

Why?
my heart shouted.
Why do you think I'm worth pursuing, David?

My hand began to sweat, so I pulled it away. My thoughts careened about like a four-year-old boy at a wedding, so I pulled them away too.

“Where's Ana Luisa? Didn't you sit together?” I craned my neck past the queue of people still lining up for drinks.

“Yep. Which would have been fine, except that Dad decided to join us at the last minute. It was, to put it mildly, awkward.”

“Three's company.”

“Something like that. I was hoping you might walk home with us, diffuse the tension?”

“I think I probably owe you some tension diffusing. I'll find Mum and let her know. I think Maggie's going back to Seth's, so I'll have to make sure someone can take Hannah.”

“Hmmm. Your mother performing an act of kindness to a person in need? What are the chances of that?” He rubbed his chin.

“Don't mock my mother,” I said, nudging him gently with my elbow.

“Never.”

“I still need to let her know.”

“Do you want me to stick with you?” he asked, nudging me back.

Yes. Hold my hand again. Stick with me forever.

“No. I'll be fine. I won't go into any empty rooms alone, or take a detour into the spooky basement. You find Ana Luisa.”
The woman you actually love, who is currently free to have an actual relationship with you.
“I'll meet you out the front.”

It was a clear night. The stars twinkled above us, putting the artificial Christmas lights adorning the houses to shame. The air
was crisp, the frost beginning to form a silvery layer on every surface, and behind us the echoes of laughter and badly sung carols drifted through the night. David insisted I link arms with him after my feet skidded out from under me for the third time, and we huddled in each other's body warmth, taking our time, chatting and telling old stories and swapping banter. It was magical. Heartbreaking. My pesky, rebellious feelings so enjoyed his arm in mine; inhaled, too deeply, the faint scent of him – earth and trees and the hint of almonds.

In front of us, I could see Ana Luisa striding along beside Arnold. Behind us Maggie called out goodnight as she turned off the main road towards Seth's. I resolved again to love David as a friend, a brother, as he had always been.

Pah! Who was I kidding? Would somebody please tell that to my feminine urges?

 

The following day was the Monday before Christmas. I started work at seven, cleaning up the expansive post-carol service mess with the rest of the cleaning team. Martine found me in the upstairs kitchen. She had a blue bauble earring dangling from one ear and a green one from the other. Her stocky frame was covered in a jumper with a nativity design knitted into it: stable, shepherds, wise men, the whole story. Jesus was a pom-pom.

“Here you are, Ruth. Scrubbing sinks.”

“Hi, Martine. You were brilliant last night. You and the Martinettes.”

“Thank you. That's because I know my strengths and skills, and I use them accordingly to bless those around me. Now, tell me, how many mathematical calculations are required to clean a kitchen?”

“I had to dilute one part bleach in four parts water.”

“Don't be smart. Why haven't you handed in that job application yet? The closing date is today. If you choose to blow this opportunity off you'd better have a reason that is piffle-, waffle- and nonsense-free.”

I sighed. “Are you just here to badger me, or do you really want to know?”

“What do you think?”

I finished scrubbing the tea stains off the draining board while collecting my thoughts. Martine huffed and hummed impatiently behind me until I told her that if she wanted the truth she needed to give me a moment to figure out what that was. When I was done, I took a seat on a stool and tried to explain.

“I didn't want to move to Southwell. It was a desperate last resort. To me, it was full of unpleasant memories I wanted to keep buried. It felt like I had failed. Because I had. I especially didn't want to live with my parents again. Coming home was a temporary, emergency measure. Not a long-term thing. Applying for the job is like accepting I'm building a life here; that we're staying. I don't want to let you down by packing it in in sixth months' time when I've saved enough to move away or back to Liverpool.”

“Hogwash! If you really wanted to leave you'd take the job and get saving. We've been over this.”

“I'm not sure about the church bit. I'm not exactly a good Christian, Martine,” I said, staring at my feet.

“That's what grace is for.” Martine pointed one finger at me. Her voice was uncharacteristically soft. “Have you stopped running yet?”

I squirmed. That question made me want to run.

“That's what this is about. Running away. For fifteen years. Maybe longer. Aren't you tired of running, Ruth? Aren't you exhausted to your very bones?”

I was. I was exhausted to my very bones.

“Isn't it impossible to think, to dream, to be free, when you are running so hard?”

It was. I wasn't free. I didn't dream.

“Is it time to stop?”

I was too tired to think. But I didn't need to any more. Right
there, in a half-cleaned kitchen, in a pair of rubber gloves and a disposable apron, I decided to stop running.

My eyes and nose stopped running sometime later.

I applied for a new job.

Then I phoned up Vanessa Jacobs and handed in my resignation. She said, “Suit yourself.”

Five o'clock, Christmas Eve. I sat peeling potatoes in the kitchen, job number one hundred and forty-two on the list of three thousand and ten jobs Mum had left me to complete while she zipped around town, like Santa on speed, dropping off Christmas hampers to struggling families. Maggie was slobbing in front of a Christmas film. Dad was out. Nobody asked where.

The doorbell rang. I yelled at Maggie a couple of times to answer it before giving up, wiping my hands on a tea-towel and hurrying to open the door. On the porch sat a small box. Now, it was Christmas Eve, a night when all manner of magical happenings was possible, but I strongly suspected that the box, even had it managed to work its own way to our front doorstep, had neither the cognitive function nor the required digits to ring the bell.

Scanning the dark driveway, the shadowy garden reflecting dim flickers of the television through the bay window, the inky street cast in a faint, multi-coloured glow from the Christmas lights strung up on every other house and various trees along the roadside, I saw no fleeting figure scurrying away in a red and white suit. The sky, though clear, carried no rushing reindeer pulling a supernatural sleigh.

The world outside the warmth of the house was cold and ominously silent. Empty, save for this uninvited visitor on the doorstep.

I picked it up and carried it into the living room. Maggie paused the film.

“Is that for me?”

“I don't know yet. I found it in the porch.”

“Ooh. Open it, then! No, wait! What does the label say?”

The box was about the size of a small book. It had been professionally wrapped – as in, wrapped up by someone in a shop. A silver ribbon tied in a curly bow secured a matching label in place. I held it out to Maggie.

“You open it.”

“No chance. It might be a bomb or something.”

“Yes, that's very likely. It was probably one of the Southwell terrorists campaigning against non-organic vegetables, track-suits in the town centre and incoming scallie-hooligans with offensive haircuts.”

As I spoke, a shudder rippled through me. Christmas Eve: my deadline to accept a date from Dr Carl. I dropped the parcel as though it really was a bomb.

“What?” Maggie jumped, catching my jitters.

“Nothing. It's fine. I'm sure it's fine.” Reaching down, I flicked over the label to find it covered in small writing. I had to kneel down on the carpet to read it properly. It said:

The box contained a slinky gold bracelet. Some stones looking suspiciously like diamonds twinkled along one side. Maybe I did deserve something special, but without meaning to sound ungrateful, that bracelet was not it.

I knew who had given me this hideous piece of jewellery. It smelt of creepiness and anger, and the need to dominate.

I put it back on the doorstep. Perhaps a hungry vagrant would trade it in for a slap-up Christmas dinner.

Perhaps a magpie would swoop down and take it away.

Perhaps he was watching, and would get the hint.

 

Ho ho ho. This was not a merry Christmas.

It was the pink jumper.

The previous Christmas had slipped past almost unnoticed in our haze of grief. Maggie and I felt a little like naughty schoolgirls as we stayed at home rather than make the annual trek to the icy Dragon's lair. We spent the whole day in our pyjamas, ate chocolate for breakfast, bacon cobs for lunch and nachos for dinner. We read, watched girlie films, pretended we were having a day created out of indulgence not scarcity, Skyped Mum, phoned my sisters and left a message on my ex-not-quite-mother-in-law's phone. We cried, of course, and lit a candle to remember Fraser. It was quiet, lazy, and oh so gentle to our frail and fragile emotions.

Fast forward a year and Christmas had gulped down six double espressos. A noisy, overstuffed whoosh of family and food and frenzy, clamour and clatter and the clash of all those issues which simmered under the surface for three hundred and sixty-four days of the year but suddenly found the time and the tension to make themselves heard.

Esther and her family had lunch with us, planning to whizz off to Max's parents in Derbyshire in time for tea. It was a ridiculous, over-the-top, headache-inducing lunch; including nine different vegetables and six desserts no one had any room for. The whole kitchen felt like an oven, and having washed up four zillion plates and bowls and serving dishes, Dad and Maggie declared that they needed to get changed. Maggie returned in her pyjamas. Dad wore the pink jumper.

My dad was a ballroom champion. He spent many years in pastels, usually combined with sparkles, satin and occasionally feathers. He could handle pink. So I knew something was up when Mum turned as white as the fake snow sprayed across the living room windows. She sat bolt upright in her chair, eyes round and wild.

“What is that, Gilbert?” Her voice, crisp and clipped.

“What?” Dad looked behind him, feigning confusion.

“Don't. Play. The fool. With. Me.”

Everybody froze. Even Timothy stopped bashing his new spaceship into the enemy base.

Dad looked his wife right in the eyes. “It's a present. I thought I'd wear my new Christmas jumper on Christmas Day. Do you have a problem with that?”

Mum let out a bark of hysterical laughter. “Do I have a problem? That you chose to wear a jumper given to you by another woman? In our house, in front of our family, on Christmas Day?” She stood up. “YES, I HAVE A PROBLEM! Why aren't you wearing the jumper I gave you? You could at least have had the decency to save that one for another day!”

“I like this one.” Dad narrowed his eyes. He was hopping mad. “You can't control me, Harriet. I am a grown man. I will wear whatever jumper I like.”

“Even if it hurts and humiliates me, your wife? Even if it dishonours our marriage?”

“What are you talking about? It's a jumper, for pity's sake!”

“It is not just a jumper, Gilbert, and you know it!”

“So? What – I'm not allowed to have any friends now? Or only friends that you've picked out for me? Ruby is a lovely woman.”

“DON'T SAY HER NAME IN THIS HOUSE! She is an intruder. A wedge between us, and a home-wrecker! An ugly old floosy in a pink anorak to match your inappropriate jumper!”

Dad took a deep breath, then let it out slowly. He shook his head. “That was mean, Harriet, and totally uncalled for. In the fifty years I've known you, you have never been mean. Did it cross your mind that I might want to wear a jumper given to me by someone who actually appreciates me and, amazingly, thinks I'm doing all right as I am?”

He left the room, pulling his coat off the rack before striding out of the house, slamming the front door behind him. Mum collapsed onto the chair behind her, both hands clutching her head. She
gasped. “He's gone to her. We haven't had the cake yet. What will I say when Lydia phones?” She looked up at us. “
What if he doesn't come back?
”

 

At some point during the wee small hours, he did come back. The following morning Dad was at the breakfast table, the atmosphere as thick as his cinnamon marmalade. He and Mum set off soon after to visit Lydia for three days, leaving Maggie and me fraught and anxious and hoping desperately that three days together, without pink jumpers or the giver of pink jumpers, might offer the breathing room they needed to remember how much they loved each other.

Maggie walked round to spend the day with Seth, leaving me to clear up the remaining seasonal detritus and enjoy the luxury of the house to myself. My phone rang, just as I prepared to step into the bath – an unrecognized number. I went into the bedroom to answer it.

“Hello?”

“Didn't you like your present?”

My insides turned to water. I couldn't think of a single thing to say.

Carl laughed. “It's all right – I'm joking. I should have checked if Maggie was in. I do respect that you want us to be a secret for now. Anyway, it's cool, no hard feelings. I'll keep it safe.”

“There is no us.”

“It's okay, Ruth. I'm a patient man. I can wait.”

“Don't. I don't want you to wait. I don't want to have a relationship with you, Carl. Not now, not ever. Please stop calling, and buying me presents.”

Silence.

“Do you understand? This has nothing to do with Maggie. There is never going to be anything between us. I want to be clear.” All I heard was the blood thundering in my ears. It seemed easier standing up to him on the phone, but I still had to grit my teeth to prevent them from clacking together in time to my fear.

“Perfectly.” He hung up.

I stared at my phone, unable to move. The bath water went tepid.

 

New Year's Eve. My parents had returned from Lydia's in a state of uneasy truce, involving pointed, polite comments and frosty glances. So, when Mum asked me to accompany them to “Southwell's Got Talent” I saw the anguish behind her eyes and said yes. We walked down to the Minster school building with Arnold, Ana Luisa and David. Maggie spent the whole time peppering David with questions about the fantastical celebrity lifestyle she was convinced he led, despite the fact that all his time off had clearly been spent in Southwell, hanging out with his dad and old school friends. This allowed Ana Luisa to scuttle up beside me, her eyes gleaming, cheeks glowing in the snap of the winter air.

“I have made my decision, Ruth.” She glanced backwards at the rest of the party before clutching my arm with her stripy mitten. “I cannot endure to set one foot into another year without telling him how I feel.”

“Wow. You're going to say something?”

“I am going to sing something. I have entered the competition. It is time! One way or another, tonight I will know if my feelings are requited.”

“That's incredibly brave. Are you sure you want to do it like this – in front of all those people?”

“It is the perfect opportunity. I cannot change my mind or back out at the last second. And I refuse to any longer be ashamed of my love!”

I pressed my hand on top of hers, where it still gripped my arm. “Well, I wish you all the luck in the world, Ana. I really hope it goes well.”

 

The school hall was buzzing. Fifteen round banqueting tables dressed in green and gold surrounded a square dance floor. A huge pine tree twinkled in the corner, fairy lights crisscrossing the walls
and ceiling. Four judges' chairs and a table sat waiting to one side of the stage, and over a hundred festive men, women and children topped up their drinks and bagsied the best seats in preparation to discover if Southwell did in fact possess any talent.

My parents, brittle smiles in place, chose a table near the back, gesturing for me to take the empty seat between them. The lights dimmed, the introductory music started and our hosts for the evening, two young teachers I hadn't seen before, bounded onto the stage. We welcomed the judges, who ranged in age from eleven to eighty, and the show got underway.

Did Southwell have talent? Some did. Some not so much, but what they lacked in skill they made up for in enthusiasm. After an hour of dance groups, singers and musicians, a hilarious stand-up comedian and a magic trick that nearly ended up in A&E, Ana Luisa took her place centre stage.

All eyes were fixed on this gorgeous woman wearing a figure-hugging purple dress, as she scanned the audience. “My name is Ana Luisa, and I am going to perform a love song.” She stuck her chin in the air and spread her arms wide. It was time.

“And what made you choose this particular song, Ana Luisa?” the youngest judge asked.

“It was inspired by a very special person. A person who gave me a new start when I was not doing so good. I am choosing this song because it tells how I am really feeling, deep inside me.”

Half the heads in the room swivelled over to the table where David sat. The other half, who may not have known Ana Luisa or the man who saved her but still thought this was the most exciting thing to happen so far, tried to figure out who they were looking at. I was too far back to see David's face, but I did see him take a long drink from his beer bottle as the music began to play.

Ana Luisa did not have a great singing voice. But – wow. She sang Bob Dylan's “Feel My Love”, and not a single person listening doubted the fact that she would crawl down the avenue and go to the ends of the earth for you, whoever “you” was. We did, indeed,
feel her love. Nobody cared that she was crying by the end of the first line. By the end of the song we all cried with her.

The applause was rapturous. Most of the room were on their feet. I looked for David. His seat was empty. I hoped this was not what it looked like. Ana Luisa bowed, and punched the air, before running off the stage. I went to find her, but seeing Lois hurrying on in front of me, took a detour to the ladies' instead, hoping to gather my wits and calm down a little.

I splashed cold water on my face a few times, and blotted it with a towel. The door swung open and Mum walked in. In the harsh strip lighting she looked older, her eyes rimmed with purple shadow, her skin dry and dull.

“Are you all right, Mum?”

She rummaged through her clutch-bag for a lipstick. “This is the first year your father and I haven't danced.”

I moved two steps closer to give her a hug. “I'm so sorry. I wish I could help.”

“I feel blue, Ruth. Blue like a tiny boat bobbing around in the middle of a vast, empty ocean. All I can see is blue.” She let out a long, shuddering sigh. “And Dad has sailed away and left me here.”

“You have to remember, Dad is not the enemy,” I said, with all the conviction I could muster. “The ocean between you is.” My tone softened and I reached out for my mum. “Your anger is only pushing him further and further away, and you know where he'll end up going.”