When Skies Have Fallen

by Debbie McGowan

  ***

  Arty ushered the gaggle of pupils into the first two rows of seats along the side of the dance floor. It was Saturday afternoon at Hammersmith Palais, and as always the chance to be ‘real’ dancers for a couple of hours had the children overexcited.

  “OK, chaps, get your shoes on,” Arty instructed.

  “Oy, Mister. Can you do my laces?” A scruffy little boy with tie askew and blinking round green eyes peered up at Jim.

  “Magic word?” Jim prompted.

  “Pleeeeaaase?”

  “All right.” Jim beckoned with his hand. “Gimme the shoes.”

  The boy handed over a pair of tiny and heavily scuffed patent dance shoes.

  “You like spaghetti, huh?” Jim tormented, picking apart the tangled mess of laces. The little boy giggled.

  “Where’s Mrs. Tomkins?” one of the girls asked. “She promised she’d be here to watch me and Lucy do the rumba today.”

  “She had a very special delivery this morning, Alice,” Arty said.

  The little girl’s eyes widened. She spun to face her friends. For several seconds a hiss of whispers behind cupped hands passed around the group, ending at a tall, pigtailed girl, who announced knowledgeably, “Mrs. Tomkins is going to be a grandma.” She stared at Arty, daring him to deny it. He fought back a smile.

  “No, Sharon,” he said. “Mrs. Tomkins is a grandma. Eddie’s wife had a little girl this morning.”

  “What’s she called?”

  “What’s her name?”

  “Shush!” Arty raised his hands. “She hasn’t got a name yet.”

  The girls gasped en masse and the whispering began anew.

  Arty shook his head, exasperated. “Are those shoes on?” he asked sternly, and the entire row of children bent over to reach their feet. Arty glanced Jim’s way, and they shared a smile. It was good to be out in the open together again. The dance hall band began to play and Arty clapped his hands twice. “Off you go then, everyone.”

  The children filed out of their seats and onto the dance floor, where couples of all ages were already quickstepping. Arty watched his boys and girls pair up and join the circle—all except one little girl, who stood pigeon-toed and forlorn.

  “Oh, Mary,” Arty said to himself. “Why’s it always you?”

  The little girl turned away from the dancers and walked, with downturned face, back to Arty and Jim. Tears ran down the shiny streaks on her cheeks, and she tried to step past without being seen, but Jim caught hold of her and scooped her up into his arms.

  “Hey, sweetness. What you crying for?”

  She lifted her shoulders in a small dejected shrug.

  “Is it because…your shoes are pinching?”

  She shook her head, her eyes never leaving Jim’s face.

  “Your plaits are too tight?”

  She shook her head again.

  “Oh, wait. I got it. You’re sad for the other girls, because they’re not as beautiful as you.”

  The girl frowned at Jim. He raised an eyebrow and nodded.

  “Am I right?”

  She gave him another shrug and rested her head against his shoulder, still gazing at him intently.

  “All right. I got an easier question. Which dance do you like the best?”

  “Cha-cha,” she replied, her voice so quiet the words barely sounded at all.

  “The cha-cha,” Jim repeated, nodding sagely. “That’s a great dance.”

  The quickstep came to an end, and the dancers paused whilst the band changed their music over. A foxtrot followed.

  “What’s your name, sweetness?” Jim asked, even though he’d heard Arty say her name before.

  “Mary,” she replied.

  “Mary. A pretty name for a pretty lady. My name’s Jim.” He shifted her onto his hip so he could offer his hand. She put her dainty hand in his and they shook. “I’m very pleased to meet you, Mary,” Jim said. She gave him the tiniest of smiles.

  Arty had been watching Jim and Mary in awe. She was the shiest pupil in the junior dance class and if, like today, there was an odd number of children, she was always the one left out. Quite a few of the dance school pupils came from poorer families, and Jean and Arty helped out as much as they could, by keeping a stock of shoes, as well as dresses and suits, bought from older pupils as they grew out of them. But for all of that, the quieter children, like Mary, still stuck out like sore thumbs. She was always clean and well turned out, and she learned quickly, but she hardly ever spoke to the other children, and they made very little effort to include her if it wasn’t forced upon them.

  Jim didn’t know any of this, for he’d had no involvement with the dance school before today. Since he’d come out of prison, he and Arty had lived an undercover life. In public, they were the business partners of Jean and Charlie Tomkins, so if they did happen to be seen together they had good reason, which was just as well. Their involvement in the Campaign for Homosexual Equality had kept them in the sights of both local law enforcement and the press, and the invasion of privacy would have been absolute, were it not for some rather cunning commuting on Arty’s part. His official residence had always been Dalton Place, and he would return there after work each night, later catching trains and buses across London, to a designated tube station, where Joshua’s chauffeur would collect him and take him back to the house.

  After twelve years of living like a Cold War spy, Arty knew the London Underground better than most of its staff, and many of the staff also knew him. He was ‘one of those queers in the papers’, and, of course, they could all tell he was a homosexual. After all, what kind of man reads romance, is fascinated by butterflies and earns his living teaching children how to dance? The previous evening, for the first time in his life, he had the power to answer back: Ah yes, but my common-law husband reads medical papers, enjoys boxing and fixes cars for a living. Now hop it, before I get him to fix you!

  He didn’t say it out loud. Indeed, he thought it ludicrous that his pursuits should make him any less of a man. But that was a fight for another time. Tomorrow they were moving back to Dalton Place: no more fear of prosecution for daring to love each other, so long as no one stayed the night, incumbent feline company excepted.

  “…is a thinker and a dreamer.”

  Jim’s singsong teasing snapped Arty out of his trance.

  “This fine young woman has agreed to dance with me. What d’you think of that?”

  “That’s very kind of you, Mary. He has a lot to learn.”

  Jim waved away Arty’s words, and Mary beamed as Jim led her by the hand across the dance floor to a spot directly in front of the band. The music began and the two stepped off, chassis right, chassis left, moving on to short simple steps, because Mary was only eight years old and barely reached Jim’s chest, but she was quickly finding her rhythm, and Jim was an exceptional lead, which was why all of the women wanted to dance with him. He could make the clumsiest, two-left-footed girl in the world float around the floor like a fairy princess.

  More impressive still, on this occasion, was that Mary had been attending lessons for four years and had never shown any dancing ability, until now. Jim slid her down to the floor, threaded her between his legs, spun on the spot, swept her high into the air, and on they went, Mary’s huge smile lighting up the room, whilst her classmates missed steps and tripped over each other, staring in shock and envy.

  As the dance came to an end, Jim bent down to kiss Mary’s cheek, and she threw her arms around him in a big hug. He reciprocated, staying crouched beside her for a moment, a conversation taking place between them that Arty couldn’t hear from his location, but now he could see what Jim had already seen, hence he had taken her to dance in front of the band.

  “Arty Clarke, you are a fool,” he admonished himself, for it all made perfect sense now. In the four years he had known Mary, not once did it occur to him that she might be hard of hearing.

  One of the other pupils—a boy named Eric—approached Mary and Jim, and
tentatively held out his hand to Mary. She glanced at Jim, who nodded and rose to his feet. Jilted by his jive partner, he started making his way back to Arty, only to be waylaid by another girl, and another, and on it went, right through to the time when parents came to collect their offspring.

  When Mary’s mum arrived, Jim volunteered to talk to her about her daughter. At first the poor woman was mortified: her perfect child was no more, but Jim continued, the deep, soothing tone of his voice calming and reassuring Mary’s mother, as he told her about Joshua and all he had achieved in spite of having no hearing at all, and whilst Jim talked, Mary watched, lip-reading and hanging on to his every word.

  “Does that mean she can’t come dancing any more, Mr. Clarke?” Mary’s mother asked, her mouth made small and brows drawn high in worry.

  “Of course she can come dancing, Mrs. Jones,” Arty assured her. “She’s a wonderful dancer.” He looked Mary in the eye and repeated, “You’re a wonderful dancer, Mary.” He gave her a thumbs up, and she responded with a big grin.

  “Thank you,” Mary’s mother said. “Thank you, both.” She gave Jim’s hand a tight squeeze with both of hers.

  “Same time next week?” Jim said to Mary, who nodded enthusiastically and waved as she followed her mother towards the exit.

  Mary and Mrs. Jones were the last to leave, and Arty sighed in relief. He loved teaching the little ones—he especially enjoyed bringing them to the Palais—but it was exhausting to keep an eye on them all, even with Jim’s very welcome assistance. Now it was just the two of them, he flopped into the closest chair to watch the dancing. The afternoon free-for-all had ended and the competitive dancers had taken to the floor, currently practising the rumba in preparation for the coming week’s contests. Arty shook his head in weary wonder.

  “Do you know, love? At some point, Jean and I have taught all of those dancers.”

  Jim shrugged. “Doesn’t surprise me in the least. You got yourselves quite a reputation.”

  Arty continued to watch the couples lilt and sway, his gaze slowly losing focus as his mind drifted. Eighteen years had passed since he had convinced Jean to follow her dream and open a dance school, and so many hopeful young dancers had come through their doors. Some had stayed for just the one session and decided ballroom and Latin wasn’t for them. Others had hung around until the allure of rock ’n’ roll proved too strong to resist. Then there were the fine young people out there on the dance floor who had stayed the distance, perfected their style, taken exams; turned professional. Arty was proud of all of them, and himself. And to think, he’d once been convinced he’d never dance again.

  How easy it was now to let go of the bad memories, almost as if they had been swept away and subsumed by the swirling rainbow eddies of the dance’s eternal ebb and flow. For Arty it had always been like this: reality paled, lost its ugliness in the face of all that grace and beauty. Even in war, just the simple act of giving oneself over to the music could soothe away every trouble.

  “Where’s your head at, dreamer?” Jim murmured close to Arty’s ear, making him shiver and smile.

  “Right here,” he confirmed.

  “Good to know.” Jim brushed his lips lightly over Arty’s cheek as he moved around in front of him. “You know, I pride myself on being a man of my word.”

  “Yes, you do,” Arty agreed.

  “And sometimes I make rash promises. Don’t get me wrong. I mean every single one of ’em, but maybe…” Jim nodded to himself and smiled. “You’re not the only dreamer around here, darlin’. So, I think, when it comes down to it, what I’m trying to say is, would you care to dance?”

  For a moment, Arty stared at Jim’s outstretched hand, completely dumbfounded—no power of speech, no muscle control—but only for a moment. With a deep breath for courage, he accepted Jim’s hand and allowed him to lead the way, arriving in the centre of the dance floor at the exact same time as the bandleader gave a count-in of three. Arty started to laugh.

  “You planned this, didn’t you?”

  Jim just grinned and put his arm around Arty’s side, his large, warm palm against Arty’s back.

  “Lucky I know both steps, really,” Arty grumbled, but it was all an act. With one hand on Jim’s broad shoulder and the other gripping Jim’s hand, they moved off and lifted, and sidestepped, and turned, and all around them the dancing stopped as people moved back to watch. No disgust, disapproval, or judgement, just sheer delight and admiration. And then they were clapping, every single one of them; clapping, and whistling, and cheering on the champions.

  “This is incredible,” Arty said, breathless from exhilaration rather than exhaustion. He was floating, flying free, and he was falling…ever more deeply in love. He wanted it to never end, and was tempted to wish, but fate had been very generous of late, so instead he just relished every moment of waltzing with Jim.

  Alas, all too soon the waltz came to an end, and Jim pulled Arty into his arms. “Worth waiting for?” he asked.

  “I’d say so,” Arty said, glancing over Jim’s shoulder. He raised his hand to catch the attention of the bandleader, mouthing jitterbug at him and receiving a nod of confirmation. The drummer clicked his sticks together four times in quick succession, and Arty stepped back so he could take in Jim’s expression.

  “Are you sure you’re up to this?” Jim asked.

  “With you leading me, love, I’m up for anything.”

  The End