by Kate Eberlen
‘How incredibly sexist!’ says Fran.
‘That’s one way of looking at it,’ Alf says. ‘Another is that if there are more women than men in the room, which there invariably are, you get to dance with all the men instead of being stuck with some old geezer with bad breath who thinks he’s better than he is and massacres your toes.’
‘Jesus! When you put it like that . . .’ she says. ‘Anyway, I suppose ballroom dancing’s not exactly noted for its political correctness, is it?’
‘Not really,’ Alf agrees. ‘Doesn’t mean it isn’t dominated by some very strong women, though. If you think I’m tough, you should meet Cheryl.’
‘Your gran.’
They’re probably not that much different in age, Alf thinks. He wonders whether they’d get on, or whether Cheryl wouldn’t take to another alpha female on her territory.
Once Alf has taught Fran the basic step, he puts on the music, but almost immediately Dorabella starts crying.
‘Sorry,’ he says, dropping his hold and going to the pram to pick her up. As soon as he does, Isabella starts crying too.
To his surprise, Fran comes across and picks Isabella up.
‘There, there,’ she says. ‘Did that loud music surprise you? It’s fine. Alf’s going to make it much quieter now.’
Miraculously, Isabella stops crying, and looks at this new face curiously.
‘Magic touch,’ Alf says.
‘It’s called being a mother,’ says Fran.
He didn’t have her down as maternal, but he’s not sure why now; she looks very comfortable with a baby in her arms, and softer, somehow. Not as fearsome.
‘How many kids do you have?’
‘Boy and a girl,’ she says. ‘Big gap between, though.’
Fran gently lowers Isabella, then she takes Dorabella from him and puts her back too.
‘Is there any way of sitting them up a bit so they can watch? They’d like to see the glitter ball and their big brother dancing, wouldn’t you, little ones?’
So Alf raises the back of the pram a little and puts the music back on, and at first the twins appear to be watching them, and then they fall asleep again.
‘I always think half the reason babies cry is nothing to do with being hungry or having a nappy full of crap – they’re just bored,’ Fran says. ‘Give them a distraction, and just like the rest of us they’re happy.’
Alf can’t work out where Fran comes from. There is definitely some northern in her accent, but she’s got a kind of caustic confidence that seems more southern to him. No woman of her age round here would say ‘crap’ to a virtual stranger.
He adds ten minutes to the lesson for the interruption, and then says it’s time for him to be getting the babies back to their mother.
‘Does she work in the mornings?’ Frances asks.
‘Er, no. Actually she’s in hospital,’ Alf tells her.
‘Oh. I’m sorry to hear that.’
There’s a slightly awkward pause. He thinks she’s probably thinking it’s cancer.
‘Post-natal depression,’ he says.
‘Oh dear,’ Fran says.
‘How about another lesson this afternoon?’ he asks.
‘Are you sure?’
‘Yes. There’s one condition, though.’
‘Which is?’
‘You’ll try a jive. Honestly, you’re going to need one Latin dance and you’d love the jive.’
He thinks it would suit her go-for-it personality.
‘I used to do a dance called LeRoc at university,’ she admits. ‘All the cool guys who’d done a year abroad and snogged a French girl fancied themselves at it.’
‘It’s probably very similar,’ Alf says. ‘Where were you at uni?’
‘Oxford,’ she says. ‘Not bad for a girl from Preston, eh?’
As she reaches the dance hall door, she turns and waves at him, and he gets a moment of powerful déjà vu, as if he’s seen her waving before.
When she returns in the afternoon, they practise the quickstep, and he’s impressed.
‘You’re a natural dancer,’ he tells her.
‘Oh, behave!’ she says, but he can see she’s pleased.
When she’s relaxed, her face lights up and she looks much younger. He thinks that she was probably very attractive in her youth. She’s not exactly pretty, and red hair isn’t generally his thing, but she’s quick and a little outrageous, what Cheryl would call a real live wire.
As he predicted, she gets the jive straight away, and he’s able to teach her some quite complicated moves because she’s now got the hang of following him.
‘Actually,’ she says breathlessly, when he congratulates her, ‘it’s far easier when you put yourself totally in the man’s hands. Maybe this is where I’ve being going wrong all my life.’
Their hour is almost up.
‘Do you have plans for the rest of the evening?’ she asks.
‘Er . . .’
His expression must have given away his slight alarm, because Fran says, ‘Oh, please! I only meant could you give me another hour? I’m leaving tonight.’
‘Your cruise starts Monday?’
‘Exactly,’ she says.
‘Well, if you’re sure you’re not too tired.’
‘I’m not that old!’
‘That’s not what I mean. Three hours is a lot for anyone.’
‘Are you saying you’re too tired?’ she demands.
Alf is quite tired, as a matter of fact. It’s more dancing than he’s done in a while, but he’s not about to admit that to her.
‘So what did you have in mind?’ he asks.
‘The dance I’ve always wanted to do is the Viennese waltz,’ she says. ‘I know they say it’s the most difficult, but do you think I could try it?’
‘The steps are quite simple, in fact,’ he tells her. ‘But I don’t think it’s something they’ll generally do on a cruise, because not many people can do it well. It takes a lot of energy.’
‘Oh, bugger the cruise!’ she says. ‘I mean, I’m never going to get another opportunity, am I?’
The last time he did a Viennese waltz, Alf remembers, was in Piazza Navona, and as they’d twirled faster and faster, it felt like everything he ever wanted was there in that moment. He’s reluctant to spoil that perfect memory.
But he’s got Fran here now, who couldn’t be more different from Letty, in age and looks and everything, and he likes her, and he knows that she’ll be able to do it, and it will make her so happy, and, for some reason, behind the bluff exterior, he thinks there’s a lot of sadness in her life.
When he’s taught her the steps and they’ve practised, he puts on Cheryl’s Viennese waltz selection, which begins with ‘Where Do You Go To My Lovely?’
‘Oh my God!’ Fran cries, as the first few bars of Parisian-like accordion music tinkle through the speakers. ‘I remember this so well. The guy who sang it on Top of the Pops was all moustache, but it stayed at number one for an age.’
‘Ready?’ says Alf, taking her in a firm hold.
She nods, endearingly nervous.
‘And, off . . . we . . . go!’
He can’t close his eyes and pretend he is with Letty: you can never close your eyes ballroom dancing, and it would be a disaster with the Viennese because you need to keep spotting so as not to fall over. Fran is much shorter and less natural, so the experience is totally different, but holding her determined little frame in his arms, hearing her shrieking half with joy, half with fear, as if they’re on a waltzer at a fair, is a lot of fun. He doesn’t think it’s possible to feel unhappy when you’re doing a Viennese. Maybe that’s what Donna has been missing, with the pregnancy and then trying to feed two babies. Dancing was his mum’s life. Alf decides that as soon as she’s able, he’ll take her for a spin round the dance floor, or even the courtyard at the hospital, and see if that doesn’t help take her mind off all her worries.
As the music trails off into dee da das, Fran practically collapse
s against his chest.
‘That . . . was . . . absolutely . . . brilliant!’ she says, completely out of breath. Her face is pink, tendrils of her curly red hair stuck to the sweat on her forehead.
He smiles down at her.
‘Not many people can get right to the end of that track,’ Alf tells her, which is true. With Fran, he thinks, it’s a little about ability, but mostly about determination. It’s like, give her a challenge and she’ll rise to it, because she won’t be beaten.
‘You could be a good dancer, if you wanted,’ he tells her. ‘You could do your medals.’
‘I’m too old for medals, darling.’
‘Well, you’ll enjoy your social dancing anyway,’ he says.
‘If I can get past the halitosis and the stamping feet?’
Alf laughs.
‘So, here is your money.’ Fran hands him three twenty-pound notes.
‘Let’s say fifty for the two hours, shall we?’ he offers.
‘Sweet of you, but I only have twenties.’
Alf looks in his wallet but he doesn’t have any smaller notes.
He shrugs.
Fran holds out her hand. He shakes it. And suddenly, he feels a little sad that she’s going.
‘It’s been real,’ she says.
And then she walks across the floor, and when she gets to the door, she turns and waves with both hands in the air.
And suddenly Alf remembers where he’s seen her waving before.
‘That’s her!’ Letty had pointed at the cinema screen where a small figure was standing in front of the orchestra pit, waving not just one hand, but both.
Instinctively, he’d waved back, then stopped as Letty shook her head at him.
‘That is so cool. Your mother is one cool lady,’ he’d said.
‘Wait!’ he calls out now.
Fran stops.
Letty called her mother by her first name, but what was it?
Thoughts are racing through his mind.
Not Fran. He’s sure it wasn’t Fran.
She’s looking at him, expecting an explanation for why he’s called out.
‘Buy you a drink? I mean, with the extra ten quid?’
‘So, really I’d be buying you one,’ she says.
He grins at her.
‘OK, why not?’ she says.
‘I’ll just switch everything off here,’ he says.
She sits down on one of the chairs near the door.
Preston, Alf thinks, as he makes sure the taps are not dripping and the kettle is unplugged in the kitchen. He’s sure Letty said her mother came from Preston. He can’t have made that up, can he? Is the heat doing funny things to his mind?
And she went to Oxford, he remembers.
They were walking up the Via Veneto. Their first walk together. When Letty mentioned Preston, he’d thought he was in with a chance. When she said Oxford, not so much.
Frances! It was Frances!
Alf switches off the music desk.
So, the real question is, what is she doing here?
The sunshine is still bright as they stroll along the promenade. The beach is packed. He can see a lot of bright pink flesh that’s going to hurt later on. All the deckchairs are out. It’s going to be a lot of work getting them all back in and stacking them. He doesn’t envy the kid who’s got his old summer job.
Alf can’t think of where to take Fran. She’s too posh for a pub. He doesn’t want to go to Cal’s hotel bar.
‘Blackpool Tower!’ she says, as they approach it. ‘The home of ballroom!’
‘Have you ever been?’ he asks.
‘Not inside.’
Alf looks at his watch.
‘This, you have to experience,’ he says, taking her hand to run across the seafront road. He pays for two tickets, and they run up the stairs.
‘Oh my God!’ says Frances as they step into the ballroom. She gazes up at the ornate tiers, the huge stage where the Mighty Wurlitzer is up and the organist is playing ‘Isle Of Capri’.
‘It’s bigger and better than I ever imagined,’ she says. ‘It’s like a fairy-tale palace!’
‘Wait till you try the floor. It’s very springy.’
‘We’re going to dance? Here?’ Her excitement is almost like a little girl’s.
‘Not this one – it’s a tango – but there’s bound to be a waltz up soon.’
‘How do you know?’ she asks.
‘Tea dance always finishes with a waltz, so we’ll get at least one in.’
He leads her over to an empty table near the dance floor, pulls out a chair, bows as she sits down.
‘I love it!’ she says.
‘Tea?’
‘I’ll just have some water.’
He goes to the bar and brings back two glasses with ice and a jug of water.
‘Do you come here often?’ she says.
‘Every New Year,’ he says. ‘There’s a gala.’
‘I think I’d come here every day if I lived in Blackpool.’
The next tune is a slow foxtrot. Another one that’s impossible unless you know it. They both sit watching the couples dance. They’re mostly old ladies dancing together, but they clearly know what they’re doing. On the other side of the room, one of his mum’s regulars waves at him. He hopes she’s not going to come across and ask him to dance. Fran sees and instinctively turns to talk to him, as if to take possession.
‘So, a good-looking boy like you,’ she says. ‘Are you going to be a dance teacher in Blackpool all your life?’
Is this the reason she is here? Alf wonders. To check him out?
‘I don’t think so,’ he says carefully. ‘I’m just helping out while my mum’s in hospital . . . after that, I’m not sure. I’m thinking of maybe going to dance school myself. I’d like to be in musicals.’
‘My son produces musicals,’ she tells him.
He remembers Letty has a brother, a much older brother. What did she say? He was the reckless-passion baby; she was the biological-clock baby. And he thought at the time, what kind of a mother would say that to her child? But now he’s met Fran, it doesn’t seem quite so mean. It’s just the kind of thing she would say.
‘In Preston?’ he says, deciding he’ll play her along for a while.
‘Preston? Good God, no! The West End. You should meet him . . .’
Her voice trails off, as if she’s giving away too much.
‘So, what about you?’ Alf asks. ‘What do you do?’
Frances sighs.
‘At the moment, all I seem to do is move house,’ she says.
‘Hence the cruise . . . ?’ He’s teasing her now.
‘Obviously,’ she says, remembering her story.
‘The fact is, my husband and I have just split up,’ she tells him.
Letty’s parents have split up? Could this be why she hasn’t replied to his email? Here he is thinking that all she’s got to worry about is him and Gina, when . . .
‘So we’re downsizing,’ Frances says.
‘We?’
‘Myself and my daughter, actually.’
He can’t do this any more.
‘How is Letty?’ Alf asks.
He thinks it’s probably rare for Fran to be lost for words.
‘Now this,’ Alf says, as the organist on the Mighty Wurlitzer segues into ‘Can’t Help Falling In Love’, ‘is a waltz.’
He stands up, offers his hand, takes her into hold.
‘You’re not supposed to look at me,’ he reminds her, pushing her head to the left. ‘Lean back! Flower in a vase!’
She’s so flummoxed that her legs have turned to jelly, and he’s practically dragging her round the floor like a mop. But gradually her posture returns as she concentrates on following him. He admires her grit.
At the end, he bows, and shows her back to the table as a cha cha cha comes on.
‘How long have you known?’ is her first question.
‘Just now,’ he says. ‘In the dance hall, when you waved goodb
ye. I saw you do the same wave from the Royal Opera House, when I was watching Manon with Letty. But even before that, nothing about you added up . . .’
‘What do you mean?’
‘You’re just not the sort of person who goes on cruises.’
‘Lucky I didn’t pursue a career in acting,’ she says.
‘And you say things like that,’ he says. ‘So the question is, why? And how did you find me? I’m thinking of all the dance halls in all the world, you didn’t just walk into mine.’
‘I figured there can’t be that many Alfs who were brought up dancing, so I started ringing all the dance schools in Blackpool. You were the third. The woman at the second one suggested it. You’re obviously famous here.’
‘Small world, ballroom dancing,’ Alf says.
‘I suppose I wanted to see what all the fuss was about,’ Frances says.
Fuss? Is fuss good or bad? His heart is racing and there’s a question he wants to ask so much, but he’s afraid of the answer.
‘Does Letty know you’re here?’ he finally dares.
‘God, no! She’d murder me.’
‘But she has mentioned me?’ He feels pathetically needy saying it.
‘She mentioned dancing in the Piazza Navona . . . I suppose I wanted to see if you were genuine . . .’ She looks at him and smiles. ‘Tick!’ she says.
He can hardly dare speak – it sounds like there’s hope.
‘How is Letty?’ he asks again.
Frances sighs and she looks different, fearful, and he’s suddenly frightened of what she is about to tell him.
‘When I heard about your mother, I decided not to tell you. I think you’ve got enough on your plate . . .’
‘Tell me,’ he says.
‘I think Letty is ill. She’s been ill before, you see. Seriously ill, in hospital. I don’t know if she told you?’
He nods.
‘God, I’m the last person to think that a man can be the solution to her problems!’ Frances says, pushing her hair back from her face. ‘And I don’t know what went on between you, but I think you were important to her and if there’s any way you could bring yourself to see her, I think it might make a difference . . .’
For a second, Alf feels like he’s jumped in the air and taken flight.
‘But of course, knowing Letty, there’s always the chance that it’s the last thing she wants,’ Frances says. ‘And I don’t know if it was right to come here.’