In at the Deep End

by Kate Davies

  We didn’t go to sleep till about three in the morning. Bo and Rebecca took the spare bedroom and Zhu and I laid out sleeping bags on the living room floor.

  ‘Auditions for the Friends of Dorothy are coming up again,’ Zhu said, after we’d turned the lights out.

  ‘Night Zhu,’ I said.

  ‘Please try out?’ she said. ‘If you do, I’ll buy you a pair of sequinned hot pants …’

  ‘Gold?’

  ‘Yes.’

  I didn’t reply.

  ‘Please?’

  ‘I’ll think about it,’ I said. I hadn’t tried out before because I had been scared of not getting in – but I didn’t feel scared any more. And now there was no Sam to resent me for the time I would spend going to rehearsals and shows. She had padded out my days and nights and thoughts, like polystyrene, and I was rattling around without her. I needed to fill my life up again.

  One Saturday when Alice was out at yoga, I arranged to meet Dave for a secret walk in the Walthamstow Wetlands. We wandered around the marshes, scarves pulled tight around us, occasionally pointing out grebes to each other.

  His beard looked limp, like a forgotten lettuce, and he seemed to have lost his ability to make dirty jokes. ‘I’m rubbish without her,’ he said, scuffing a rotten leaf. ‘I haven’t been eating much. I’m basically made of beer now.’

  So I took him to a café and bought him a pork pie.

  ‘How’s Alice?’ he asked between mouthfuls.

  Glowing was the correct answer. Oddly fond of group exercise. But I said, ‘She misses you.’ Which was also true.

  ‘I shouldn’t have proposed,’ he said. ‘We were fine as we were.’

  ‘She could have just said no,’ I pointed out.

  He nodded. ‘Shall I call her?’

  ‘I think so,’ I said.

  ‘Could you put in a good word for me?’

  ‘I’ll give it a go,’ I said. I’d have to pick a good moment. She had a tendency to snap when I brought Dave up in conversation. ‘You have crumbs in your beard, by the way,’ I told him.

  Dave brushed them away, embarrassed. ‘I’ll have to start washing again,’ he said. I didn’t disagree. He smelled a bit like a dog basket. ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘I haven’t even asked how you are.’

  I told him I’d broken up with Sam.

  Dave puffed out his cheeks, which I think was supposed to indicate shock, maybe, or sympathy, but I could tell he thought it was good news.

  I didn’t like that everyone was happy about our break-up. They just saw the headlines of the relationship – that Sam was controlling, jealous, a bit too fond of having sex with strangers – but I saw the grey areas. I understood why she was afraid of monogamy. I got it, that her life felt out of control after her mum died, and that SM seemed like a way of being in charge of something. I could see why she was so scared of losing me that she’d ended up pushing me away. And they didn’t get to see the good things about Sam – the way she’d always bring me tea in bed in the morning, the adventures she took me on, the way she made me feel like I could do anything. As long as I was doing it with her.

  I got home to find Alice lying on the sofa, watching Beaches and eating a wheel of goat’s cheese as if it were an apple.

  She looked up at me, eyes red and swollen with crying. ‘Hillary dies!’ she said.

  ‘I know,’ I said, sitting down next to her.

  ‘And CC’s really going to miss her!’ She shook her head.

  ‘Of course she is,’ I said, putting an arm around her.

  ‘I don’t know what I’d do if you died!’

  ‘I like the fact that you’ve cast yourself as the world-famous singer and me as the pathetic dead one.’

  ‘Hillary wasn’t pathetic!’ Alice said. ‘She was the wind beneath CC’s wings!’ Outside in the street, a car alarm started to wail. ‘Sorry,’ said Alice. She cleared her throat and reached for a tissue.

  ‘You don’t need to be sorry for crying,’ I said. ‘Get it out. You’ve barely even cried about Dave.’

  ‘I’m not crying about Dave,’ she said, crying harder.

  ‘He misses you,’ I said.

  She looked up. ‘How do you know?’

  ‘I’m sure he does,’ I said, smooth as anything. ‘There’s some cava in the fridge. Want some?’

  I was half an hour late to work the next morning; I managed to get myself out of the house on time, somehow, but the jolting of the Tube and the crush of hot human bodies had made me feel dangerously sick, and I had to get out at Green Park to avoid vomiting into someone’s handbag. I was just going to keep my head down and get through the day.

  ‘Hungover?’ said Owen, as I slowly lowered myself onto my desk chair.

  I nodded. ‘Very.’

  ‘Me too,’ he said. ‘Went on a Tinder date. She was really boring, so I drank a lot of whisky.’

  ‘Sensible move.’

  ‘I thought we’d get on. She was a gamer. We had a good chat about Final Fantasy XV. But then she wanted to talk about cats, and I don’t like cats.’

  I nodded; I suddenly felt very sick again and didn’t trust myself to speak. I tried to focus on work. I had an inbox full of correspondence to reply to. I opened up the first email. A man in Ipswich, angry that a new arthritis drug wasn’t available on the NHS. The next one down was from a woman named Lizzie Beecham. Beecham was Eric’s surname.

  I knew what the email would say before I opened it.

  Dear Julia,

  Your letter to my father arrived this morning. I hope you don’t mind me emailing – I’m very sorry to be writing to tell you that my dad (Eric Beecham) died in hospital on Saturday night. He was 96, a very good age, which is some consolation.

  My dad often talked about the letters he got from you. Your correspondence brought him a lot of comfort this past year and really kept him going. He loved writing and telling you about his life (he’d talk about the war to anyone who would listen). I’m sorry you never got to meet him – he was so looking forward to your visit, and he was full of plans for places to take you.

  We’re holding a funeral for him in Brighton on Friday at 10 a.m., reception in the community centre afterwards (where he used to play bridge). It would mean a lot to us all if you could come but I am sure you are very busy.

  Yours sincerely,

  Lizzie Beecham

  I put my head in my hands and cried.

  Owen rushed over and crouched beside my desk. ‘What happened?’ he said.

  ‘Eric died,’ I said. I closed my eyes. ‘I said I’d visit him and I never did.’

  ‘You’ve had a lot going on.’

  ‘I’ve been selfish,’ I said. ‘Horrible and selfish.’

  Owen reached out and clutched my shoulder, arm rigid, as though he knew he should touch me but wasn’t sure how to. And then he went and muttered something to Uzo, who came over with a cup of peppermint tea.

  ‘I know how you feel,’ said Uzo, sitting in the chair next to mine. ‘My old lady, the one I visit on a Thursday night, died a few months ago. We had an argument the last time I saw her about who was a greater man: Gandhi or Nelson Mandela. I felt bad for weeks.’

  I nodded. Uzo pulled a wrinkled hankie out of her sleeve and handed it to me. I blew my nose and sipped my peppermint tea.

  ‘There you go, my dear,’ said Uzo. ‘Everything is going to be just fine. OK?’

  ‘OK,’ I said.

  Smriti was really good about the funeral. She gave me a day off to go and said not to worry about making the time up. I got up early that Friday morning and caught the train to Brighton, along with exhausted-looking parents with screaming children – ‘My biscuit is broken! Fix my biscuit!’ – and dopey couples off on long weekend breaks. I looked up from the condolence card I was writing and glared at two teenagers who were kissing noisily. I didn’t mind people being happy as long as they did it behind closed doors where they couldn’t hurt anybody.

  I had brought Eric’s letters with me in case Lizzie w
anted to see them. I took one out and read his familiar phrases: ‘Mustn’t grumble!’ and ‘That was donkey’s years ago,’ and ‘I ask you!’ I ran my fingers over the imprint his biro had left in the paper.

  I’m not a huge fan of funerals; I always feel awkward showing grief in front of people I don’t know, and when I see a stranger crying, I tend to come over all English and start making conversation about parking meters. I don’t suppose many people are massive fans of funerals, though, except maybe funeral directors, for financial reasons. The point is, I was feeling quite anxious as I got off the train and followed Google Maps uphill, past cafés and vintage shops and Victorian terraced houses, until I reached the crematorium. I stood outside for a while, admiring the manicured flowerbeds, breathing in the thick, salty air and thinking about chips. If you stood on your tiptoes, you could just about see the sea. Eric would have liked that.

  A crowd of grey-haired women in dark coats bustled past me towards the chapel of rest. I followed them. At the door, a teenager in a grown man’s suit handed me an order of service. One of Eric’s great-grandchildren, maybe. I sat at the back of the chapel – I didn’t want to take up a family seat by accident. I looked down at the photograph of Eric as a young man, looking so proud in his RAF uniform, probably only a bit older than the suit-wearing teenager. Goodbye Eric, I thought. I’m so sorry I didn’t get to dance with you.

  We sang ‘All Things Bright and Beautiful’ and ‘Jerusalem’ (Dad wouldn’t have approved) and then the vicar said a few words about Eric’s war record and what a loving father and husband he was, how much he enjoyed getting down to the beach at the weekend for a bowl of soup and half a pint of shandy. I tried to ignore the squeaking sound as the coffin trundled through the municipal purple curtains.

  As we filed out, heads bowed, ‘We’ll Meet Again’ played over the loud speaker. I thought about Eric and Eve, and I hoped they were together again, even though I didn’t believe in heaven. I couldn’t hold it together any more. An old lady with a stick patted my back and said lovely old-fashioned things like, ‘There, there,’ and ‘Get it all out,’ that reminded me of my granddad.

  ‘How did you know Eric?’ she asked.

  ‘He was sort of my pen pal,’ I told her.

  She shook my arm. ‘Ooh!’ she said. ‘The girl from the government! Is that you?’

  ‘Yes!’

  ‘You know how to jitterbug, I hear,’ she said. ‘We’ll have to see what you’ve got, at the wake.’

  ‘I don’t know if it’s appropriate to jitterbug at a funeral,’ I said.

  ‘Oh, Eric would have loved it.’ She smiled up at me. ‘He was so fond of you. Just the other day he was telling me all the things you were going to do together in Brighton when you came to see him.’

  The lady’s name was Irene. She’d been Eric’s neighbour at the care home – the one he used to dance with. We walked (very slowly) to the community centre together for the wake. There were balloons taped to the walls, left over from a child’s birthday party, and urns of tea and plates of sandwiches. Irene introduced me to Eric’s daughter Lizzie, who must have been in her seventies. She was shiny eyed but composed, much more composed than I was. ‘I’ve got something for you,’ Lizzie said, and she jogged away and came back with a Sainsbury’s bag, full of records – Billy Cotton and His Band and Al Bowlly and George Gershwin.

  ‘What’s this?’ I asked.

  ‘Dad wanted you to have them,’ she said.

  I covered my face with my hands.

  Lizzie put an arm around me. ‘Do you need a cup of tea?’

  ‘This is all wrong,’ I said snottily. ‘I should be comforting you!’

  ‘I’m bored of crying,’ she said. ‘I’ve been doing it all week. Don’t think there’s any water left inside me.’

  We didn’t jitterbug in the end (no record player), but I met Eric’s other friends from the home, who were a lively lot. At one point, two 90-year-old women raced around the community centre in their mobility scooters.

  ‘Do you think some of your friends would be interested in swing dance lessons?’ I asked Irene. ‘If I came up to teach sometimes?’

  ‘Ooh, yes!’ said Irene. ‘They say that dancing’s very good for osteoporosis.’ And she called the manager of the care home over, to introduce me.

  After I’d eaten my fill of tuna sandwiches and said my goodbyes, I walked back down the hill to the station, clutching my bag of records to my chest. I caught the 16.18 to London; the train was pretty quiet, so I had a table to myself. I ordered a cup of tea from the refreshment trolley and took Eric’s records out of the Sainsbury’s bag. A letter fell out, too. It was addressed to me, in Eric’s handwriting.

  Dear Julia,

  These records have brought me so much pleasure over the years. I hope they bring pleasure to you, too. I think my favourite might be ‘You Are My Sunshine’. Eve and I danced to that at our wedding; it was one of the hot tunes of the day during the war. I want you to know that you have been my sunshine over these past few months.

  PS – Life is short! Go out and grab it with both hands!

  PPS – I hope you find a dancing partner who deserves you!

  Your friend,

  Eric

  That afternoon, when I got home, I called Zhu and told her that I’d love to start teaching beginners’ swing classes. I went to the Stepping Out website and registered for the Friends of Dorothy auditions. And then I forced myself to sit down and fill out the Fast Stream application form.

  ‘What are you doing?’ Alice asked, when she got in from work.

  ‘Just a bit of life grabbing,’ I told her.

  43. A COUPLE OF PIROUETTES

  The rest of October passed in a blur of pumpkin bread and Halloween parties. My favourite was the Halloween swing dance social at the Rivoli Ballroom, a ridiculously beautiful Art-Deco dance hall, all red velvet and wood panelling and chandeliers. I got extremely drunk on cheap red wine, and danced until my feet hurt and I could barely breathe. The Big Band played ‘Ain’t Misbehavin’’, and the trum-peter’s eyes closed with bliss as he blared out the top notes. I knew how he felt. I wished Eric could have been there with me.

  And then it was November, and the correspondence team gathered around Owen’s desk for his leaving presentation. We bought him a bottle of Welsh whisky and an Xbox gift card, and he made a wobbly-voiced speech about how every member of the team had a different superpower, like the Avengers.

  Owen invited his sister along to his leaving drinks. For some reason, I’d thought she would be femme and blonde, but she wasn’t – she was butch and stocky, with a swaggery way of walking and lovely green eyes. She was wearing what can only be described as a gilet, but I still thought she was quite attractive. She worked, it turned out, as a TV writer.

  ‘That is so exciting and glamorous,’ I said. I was quite drunk at this point. I may have been draping myself over her arm a bit.

  ‘It’s not as glamorous as you think,’ she said, in a deep voice that made me think of log cabins and crackling fires. ‘We spend a lot of time in hotel rooms in Birmingham. And the show I’m writing is called Cheer Up! It’s aimed at seven-year-olds, and it’s about cheerleaders. I hate cheerleaders. I pitched them a show about a girls’ rugby team, but they weren’t interested.’

  ‘Conforming to gender norms. Disgusting,’ I said happily.

  ‘But what I really like to do in my spare time,’ she said, smiling at me, ‘is host supper clubs. I love cooking for other people.’

  She showed me her supper club Instagram account. At the most recent event, she’d made mayonnaise from scratch.

  I asked for her number right there and then.

  Two weeks later, I arrived at the pub in Clerkenwell for the Friends of Dorothy auditions. None of my friends from class were trying out, though Zhu was one of the judges. She was sitting at a table at the front of the room, next to a man in a three-piece suit, making notes and sipping bottled water. I caught her eye and she waved at me. I waved back.
I thought about the promise of sequinned hot pants. I could do this.

  Being there gave me horrible flashbacks to every open audition I’d been to over the years: the Formica judges’ table, the overconfident dancers doing unnecessary splits during the warm-up, the sound of heavy breathing every time the music stopped. We were tested on our solo jazz technique and our partnered lindy hop, and then, at the end, there was a freestyle section. I knew it was cheating – a bit like cooking a green curry during a French cooking competition – but I pulled off a couple of pirouettes. The other dancers cheered resentfully.

  As I was leaving, Zhu called me back.

  ‘You’re in,’ she said, and she hugged me.

  I hadn’t felt so good since the night I discovered fisting.

  I walked home from the Tube on a high, smiling at strangers. I could handle a boring day job, now that I was going to be a dancer by night. Everything looked full of beauty to me all of a sudden. The sky was cloudless and blue. The grey pavement was flecked with little yellow leaves. Sure, there was an abandoned mattress lying on the pavement, and a little puddle of vomit in the gutter, but that’s London for you, isn’t it? Without the grittiness, we wouldn’t appreciate the good things, like the dome of St Paul’s and the delicious flat whites, and the fact that two women can walk down the street holding hands without someone shouting ‘Lezzers!’ at them.

  I was just walking past the new organic grocery store when Carys texted me, asking if I wanted to meet up. I did a little dance in the street – everything was going my way! – and I texted her straight back: My friends told me about a new lesbian night in Whitechapel on Saturday. Do you fancy going?

  My phone pinged pretty much instantly with a reply.