If Only

by Kate Eberlen

  It isn’t exactly good to be home, but it isn’t bad either.

  At first, he and Cal don’t quite know how to be with each other. His old friend is a little defensive, as if he expects Alf, having lived abroad, to think himself a cut above the rest of them. When he hears the reason Alf has come home, though, he’s quick to offer sympathy.

  Donna’s admission to a psychiatric ward has not become gossip. Alf’s beginning to realize that all the stuff about mental illness not being treated the same as physical illness is true. It’s not just that it’s under-resourced by the government; it’s that people try to avoid talking about it. Yet when you do open up, almost everyone has a story of someone they know who has suffered. Apparently Cal has a cousin who got depressed and he’s on medication. It took a while, but now he’s fine. It’s the same thing the doctors are saying about Donna. She will get better. It just takes a while to find the right meds.

  The weird thing is that some of the time, Donna seems just like herself, like when Alf walked into the ward, and her face lit up and she said, ‘What brings you home?’

  But when she starts worrying about things, there’s no reasoning with her. Even though Cheryl had warned him that nothing he said would make any difference, Alf still did what they all apparently did at first, which was try to reassure her, and prove that she was wrong. And it was as if his mum was just refusing to listen, which was frustrating, and he had to force himself to think how frightening it must be, to stop himself being annoyed with her.

  Cal listens, which is all a mate can do really.

  ‘Do you miss Italy?’ Cal asks.

  ‘A bit,’ Alf says.

  ‘So, you and Miss Jones . . . ?’ Cal finally asks.

  ‘Over.’

  ‘Sorry, mate.’

  ‘My decision,’ says Alf. ‘I met someone else.’

  ‘You jammy bastard!’ says Cal.

  ‘She left me.’

  ‘Oh. Sorry to hear that.’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Still, plenty more fish.’ Cal gestures at the sea.

  ‘Yeah!’ Alf tries to give the laddish smile Cal is looking for that will mean they won’t have to discuss relationships any more.

  It’s over. Letty hasn’t replied to his email. He can make up excuses – Chiara got the address wrong, or he wrote it down wrong, or Letty hasn’t looked at her phone or her computer – but he knows that the most likely explanation is that she doesn’t want to see him any more. And he doesn’t want to become a pathetic, pining pain. So that’s that. The best thing to do is keep occupied so that there are other things in his brain to fill the void of her absence.

  The twins are staying with Donna in hospital, because it’s important for them to bond with their mother and also important not to reinforce Donna’s belief that she’ll harm them. Cheryl is on hand almost constantly during the day.

  Gary is working again, and visiting in the evenings. Alf is running the dance school almost single-handedly. In the mornings, he goes to the hospital and takes the twins out for a walk in the double pram. He felt a bit self-conscious about it at first because it’s very pink, but he’s found the best way of dealing with that is concentrating on his half-sisters, not on what people might be thinking of him. He explains the stuff that they’re looking up at, like the leaves on the trees, the blue sky, streetlamps, seagulls flying over, so they’ll get used to his voice, even though they can’t understand, obviously. A couple of days ago, he received his first smile from Dorabella, who’s usually the most alert one at that time of day, and he never knew how brilliant a baby smiling at you could feel.

  In the afternoons, he usually takes a couple of Donna’s private lessons, then, after the end of the school day, it’s the kids. The big classes have dwindled because of the weather. No child who isn’t dedicated wants to be sweating in a dance hall when they could be on the beach, but there are a couple of juniors, Mia and Toby, that Donna has high hopes for, and he can see why.

  He’s become much stricter than he ever thought he could be, barking out corrections in a stern voice as Donna always used to do with him and Sadie. He understands now that it’s only when kids have got that special something that you really want to push them to make sure they achieve their potential.

  In the evenings, it’s the adult classes. Since the weather’s tropical, Alf has decided to go with a Caribbean vibe, buying a couple of fake palm tree decorations from the party shop, and offering tall glasses of non-alcoholic fruit punch during the breaks. He’s concentrating on teaching the rumba because it’s slower than the other Latin dances, and it’s the one that most women prefer. In the weeks since he’s been home, the numbers have increased.

  ‘You’re a natural, Alf,’ Cheryl tells him happily, when she pops in to check on how it’s going.

  He was shocked to see how much his gran had aged when she first picked him up from the station, but some of her frown lines have smoothed out since his return, and she’s wearing make-up again, which shows she must be feeling more like herself.

  On the plane home, he’d wondered whether there were going to be recriminations or some kind of drama, but everyone’s too anxious and busy for that. It’s like, you’re home, you’re family, get on with it – and he’s glad it’s that simple.

  Alf’s out with the twins on Saturday morning when he spots someone vaguely familiar jogging towards him, but it’s only when he’s a few yards away that he recognizes Mr Marriot, who he’s used to seeing in a suit, not a vest and shorts. Alf swerves the pram to one side to allow him to pass, but when Mr Marriot sees that it’s him, he stops running but stays jogging on the spot, breathing heavily, looking from the babies to Alf.

  ‘My sisters,’ Alf says quickly, as he sees his teacher’s thought process.

  ‘Ahh!’ says Mr Marriot. ‘So you’re back?’

  ‘I’m back.’

  ‘And Gina?’

  It’s the first time anyone in Blackpool has referred to her by her first name since he returned. To Cal and Donna and Cheryl, she will always be Miss Jones. It’s odd that his teacher’s the only one to call her by her first name.

  ‘I don’t know,’ Alf says.

  ‘Oh . . .’ Now, Mr Marriot’s the one who’s looking awkward.

  ‘We went to Rome,’ Alf tells him. ‘Didn’t work out.’

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that.’

  ‘No, you’re not,’ Alf says, but nicely, smiling.

  ‘You’re right, I’m not.’ Mr Marriot smiles back.

  It’s all they need to say, and it feels good to re-establish respect without having to explain.

  ‘So what are you up to?’ Mr Marriot finally stands still.

  ‘Don’t let me stop you, sir . . .’

  ‘You’re not. Too hot.’ Mr Marriot wipes his brow with his forearm.

  ‘Helping out at home. My mum’s in hospital.’

  ‘Oh, now I am sorry to hear that, Alf.’

  Alf can hear the genuine concern in his voice.

  ‘If there’s anything I can do, really anything, please let me know,’ his teacher goes on.

  ‘Thank you. I don’t think there is.’

  ‘Well, the offer stands. Even if it’s just to talk. If you were thinking of having another go at your A level English, I’d be only too willing to help.’

  ‘That’s very kind, sir. I’m not – not right now, anyway. Got a lot on.’

  ‘Yes, I expect you have.’

  There’s a moment of hesitation, where it’s time for them to move on but neither of them quite knows how to. Then Alf holds out his hand and Mr Marriot shakes it, smiling as if he’s the one who’s grateful they’ve made up. And then he’s off again, and Alf listens to his footsteps echoing all the way down the street.

  ‘Teacher,’ Alf says to Isabella and Dorabella. ‘Good bloke.’

  The woman calls late on Thursday afternoon while Alf is coaching Mia and Toby through their ballroom tango. He recognizes the routine Donna has choreographed for them; it’s exactly the
same as the one he used to do with Sadie at their age. But he’s looked up the rules and seen that they could add a chase, which is one of his favourite moves, and always impresses the judges, so they’re trying to incorporate that.

  ‘Hello, Donna’s Dance Hall, Alf speaking,’ he says, picking up the landline receiver, reminding himself that he ought to put his mobile number on the website.

  ‘So, here’s the thing,’ says the woman at the other end of the line. ‘There’s this cruise I’m going on next week, and I’ve left it rather late, and I need to learn to dance, at least the basics, pronto, by which I mean this week. Do you have any lessons available?’

  ‘We’re pretty short staffed right now,’ Alf tells her. ‘But if you don’t mind me, I have a few slots available.’

  ‘Why should I mind you?’ she asks.

  ‘Well, I’m not a qualified teacher, but I was Junior Ballroom and Latin champion, so I know what I’m doing.’

  ‘Perfect!’ she says.

  They arrange an hour the following afternoon.

  ‘Do you live in Blackpool?’ Alf enquires.

  ‘Why do you ask?’

  ‘I’m wondering if you know where we are?’

  ‘I have the postcode from the website, so I expect I’ll manage to find you,’ she says, and rings off, leaving Alf staring at the receiver, wondering why he feels like she’s the one doing him a favour.

  He realizes that he didn’t say how much a private lesson with him will cost. Should he charge Donna’s rate, as he does with the clients who already know him? Or even more, since she’s desperate? He’s going to have to negotiate when she arrives, which isn’t ideal.

  ‘What are you two doing?’ he shouts at Mia and Toby, who have stopped mid-tango at the other end of the dance hall.

  ‘You were on the phone . . .’ Toby falters.

  Did they hear him explaining that he wasn’t a qualified teacher?

  ‘And that’s a reason for you to take a rest because . . . ?’

  ‘Sorry!’

  ‘Thank you,’ says Alf, trying to sound as stern as Cheryl. ‘Now, bent knees! Come on, you can do better than that!’

  Alf would put his new student in her late fifties. She’s small and slim and carries herself well. On the fourth finger of her left hand, there’s a pale ridge where a wedding band has been worn. He wonders if she’s recently widowed, or divorced, which is often why women of her age choose to go on dance cruises. There are usually a few male dancers employed to take them round the floor and make them feel better about themselves. It’s a job he has considered for himself once things are sorted out, because you get to travel while you work.

  ‘Before we start,’ he says, ‘it’s thirty pounds an hour.’

  ‘Any reduction if I buy in bulk?’ she says.

  ‘I’m not Costco,’ he says, without thinking. She is his first-ever independent adult student, but he’s not going to be a pushover.

  She gives him a cute little smile, as if she secretly admires his stance.

  ‘OK then,’ she says, handing over three ten-pound notes. ‘Let’s see if you’re worth it.’

  ‘So which dances do you want to learn?’ Alf asks.

  ‘What do people normally start with?’

  ‘How about a waltz? You’ll need a waltz. Then for Latin, we normally teach cha cha cha—’

  ‘Oh no, I’m far too old for Latin!’ she interrupts.

  ‘Let’s concentrate on the waltz then,’ he says. ‘I’m Alf, by the way.’

  ‘Yes, I know that!’

  ‘And you’re . . . ?’

  She hesitates for just a second. Perhaps she’s one of those women who wants to be called Mrs – by a younger man. But he doesn’t think so. Her personality seems younger, not older, than the age she looks.

  ‘I’m Fran,’ she says.

  ‘OK then, Fran,’ he says. ‘What I need you to do is stand behind me and follow exactly what I do. This is your basic waltz step.’

  ‘Isn’t it different for a woman?’

  ‘Yes, and that’s why I’m teaching you the woman’s step. I know the man’s steps. I don’t need to learn, do I?’

  That silences her.

  He watches her in the mirrored wall. Her feet are pretty good, her face frowning with concentration.

  ‘Look up!’ he says, then raises his hand for her to stop. ‘Watch me, and really concentrate on sliding that foot past your ankle. You can plonk it down like you’re doing and get round the floor, or you can place it beautifully from the start.’

  ‘Plonk’ was probably going too far, Alf thinks, but he’s keen to establish who’s boss on the dance floor.

  ‘So,’ he says, standing in front of her with his arms outstretched, ‘You know what the most important thing is in ballroom dancing?’

  ‘The hold,’ says Fran.

  ‘Right,’ says Alf. ‘So put your left hand here . . . it’s not on the man’s shoulder, it’s at the top of his bicep muscle.’

  She moves her hand to the right place. Getting into hold can be a nervous moment. He always likes to get the woman to touch him before he touches her. A lot of women are very tentative, but Fran seems confident enough.

  ‘OK, now give me your right hand.’ He grasps it firmly and swings his right arm into position in the middle of her back.

  ‘Ta daa!’ she says.

  ‘Comfortable?’

  ‘Yes,’ she says.

  ‘Well, you shouldn’t be,’ Alf tells her. ‘It requires a lot of strength from the woman as well as the man to keep in a good ballroom hold, and by the end of the lesson your muscles should be aching.’

  ‘You’re really selling this,’ she says sarcastically, but he likes that she’s serious about learning properly.

  When she’s mastered a natural and reverse turn and a change step, he goes to the music desk and puts on the waltz track that begins with ‘Moon River’. Then he comes back and takes her in hold again. She manages to get all the way down the hall without making a mistake, but when he says, ‘Great!’, smiling down at her, she loses concentration for a second and stops.

  ‘OK,’ he says. ‘We’re going to try that again. Don’t look down – your feet won’t tell you where to go, you have to tell your feet. It’s all here.’ He points to her head.

  He glances at the clock. Probably just enough time to teach a chassé and then lead her into a spin turn.

  The chassé is straightforward, and she has good timing. The woman’s steps for the spin turn are difficult unless you know what it’s supposed to feel like.

  He takes her into hold, but she resists going with the spin, trying to turn him instead.

  ‘Listen,’ says Alf, dropping his arms, ‘I’m sure you’re much better than me at most things, but I am better than you at dancing, so believe me, the only way we’re going to get around this floor is if you follow me.’

  Her face has this way of going from cross to mischievous in a second. It’s quite attractive.

  ‘Blimey,’ she says. ‘You’re masterful!’

  And then they’re both laughing and, grabbing the opportunity while she is relaxed, he takes her in hold and spins her, then continues, calling out the moves, ‘Natural, reverse, change, and natural and chassé and into spin turn.’

  The music has now segued into the ‘Tennessee Waltz’.

  They manage a complete circuit of the floor and, finishing on the final notes of the tune, Alf bows to her and she bobs a slightly mocking curtsy at him.

  ‘How was that?’ Alf asks.

  ‘Bloody amazing!’ she says. ‘Can we do it again?’

  Her glee is childlike.

  ‘Best to leave on a high,’ he says.

  The children’s class are beginning to filter into the room, all the girls in pink leotards and net skirts, and one reluctant little boy in a Manchester United strip who comes along with his sister. Alf thinks he has the potential, but not the confidence, to stick at it and suffer all the taunting.

  ‘Are you free tomorrow m
orning?’ Fran wants to know. ‘Maybe two hours?’

  Alf thinks about it. ‘I don’t normally teach in the mornings . . .’

  ‘But you’ll make an exception for me?’ She’s used to getting her own way. ‘It’s just I don’t have much time . . .’

  ‘All right then,’ he concedes. ‘One hour. And you’re going to need some ballroom shoes,’ he tells her. ‘We don’t mind trainers here, as long as they’re non-marking. But on a cruise . . .’

  ‘Oh. Well, if you say so,’ she says.

  He writes down the name of the shop and tells her that she’ll get a 10 per cent discount if she mentions Donna, Cheryl or Alf.

  ‘Cheryl?’ she says.

  ‘My gran,’ he says.

  ‘We’re doing this a bit different today,’ Alf tells the twins the following morning. ‘We’ve got a lady coming to learn the quickstep, so you’re going to be good while I teach. We’ll have some nice music on. I think you’re going to enjoy it.’

  Today, Isabella is the more alert one.

  ‘Might as well get used to it, girls,’ he says, lifting the pram up the steps, putting his key in the lock, and pushing the door open to inhale the familiar combination of floor polish, hairspray and a slight hint of sweat, all overlaid with rose potpourri, that always smells like coming home.

  Alf gets the music lined up before the lesson this time.

  When Fran arrives, she gives the pink pram a pointed look and demands, ‘So what’s the story here?’

  ‘They’re my half-sisters. I look after them in the mornings. That’s why I don’t normally teach. We’ll give it a go, but if they don’t take to it, then I’ll teach you this afternoon instead. Deal?’

  ‘Deal.’

  ‘I’m hoping they’ll be used to the music because they heard it for nine months,’ Alf says. ‘So, the quickstep. Important you learn this one because at any social dance, the host or hostess will put on a bus-stop quickstep. So this is what happens: all the women wait at the “bus stop”, which is just the corner of the room, for a man to come along and take them round the floor, then he drops them back again at the end of the queue for another bus.’