Too Beautiful to Dance

by Diana Appleyard

  Sara snorted. ‘Shush. You’ll get me thrown out, and this is my very first meeting.’

  Helen ignored her, leaning forward and turning her head towards Sara to muffle her words. ‘Come on, tell me all about it. Honestly, your heads were so close across the bar they were practically touching.’

  ‘You were spying on me!’

  ‘I just happened to walk past the window and couldn’t help glancing in,’ she said nonchalantly. ‘So, go on, what did you talk about?’

  ‘I was telling him about the plans for the cottage.’

  ‘Is that all?’

  ‘Well, what did you expect us to discuss?’

  ‘I don’t know. Something much more riveting than that. We’re starved for gossip around here.’

  ‘Do you know him?’

  ‘Only to wave “hello” to,’ Helen said. ‘He moved into the village about a year ago, I think, setting many a young heart a-flutter, not to mention a few old ones. I don’t know much about him – he seems very friendly, but I don’t think he likes to volunteer too much information about himself. I’ve no idea where he comes from, or why he’s here. He’ll probably move on soon, after another season. A lot of young people come here for a few seasons and then just drift away.’

  The woman in front turned round furiously. ‘Will you be quiet!’ she hissed. She had a very tight, curly perm, and the cross, beady expression of a bird whose mate had snatched the worm.

  ‘Sorry,’ Sara whispered back, and tried to compose her face into an expression of sincere interest. Gloria clicked a hand-held device to bring up yet another close-up of a very small flower. ‘And this is a really pretty pink one,’ she said. Helen put her hands around her throat as if to throttle herself, as Sara bit the inside of her lip.

  Standing in the queue for a cup of tea what felt like days later, Sara murmured, ‘Tea? Nothing more stimulating?’

  ‘Nope. Tea and digestives, that’s it. Hello, Martha, how are you? No? Your hip’s still bad? I know, the NHS waiting lists are a scandal. You poor thing.’

  ‘This is making me feel rather old,’ Sara said, as they took their tea in faded green cups and saucers with a biscuit each balanced on the rim, to sit at a rickety table. ‘I thought the WI had become much younger in outlook. More racy nude calendars than jam and Jerusalem.’

  ‘We’re the young ones here,’ Helen said. ‘Which is quite nice, really. I keep getting called a girl, which is very refreshing. The young mums in the village can’t get out because there aren’t enough babysitters to go round, and even if they could get one, they’re hardly likely to come to the WI, are they? They’d rather go to the pub.’

  ‘I hear you’ve moved into Tremain Cottage.’ A woman who must have been well into her eighties put a tiny, gnarled hand firmly on Sara’s arm. She was bent almost double, with her neck stretched out like a tortoise from a severely curved spine.

  ‘That’s right,’ Sara said. Even sitting down, her head was almost level with the woman’s. ‘In Lanteglos,’ she added, loudly and clearly.

  ‘I know.’ The woman twisted her head to look at her, the skin stretched tight like parchment over the bones of her face, her eyes black and bright as a little bird. ‘That house is haunted, you know,’ she said.

  ‘Is it?’ Sara said, surprised.

  ‘Come on now, Beryl,’ Helen said. ‘Don’t go frightening Sara, she’s only just moved in. You’ll scare her away. I’ve never heard anything about that.’

  ‘I’ve been there for nearly seven months now and I can’t say I’ve seen or heard anything unusual,’ Sara said smiling.

  ‘She killed herself, you know. Threw herself off the cliff.’

  Sara looked at her in horror. ‘Who did?’

  ‘Same age as my grand-daughter,’ Beryl continued, shaking her head. ‘Sixteen. Such a beautiful girl, too. It was a tragedy. It all but killed him, you know, what with his wife having gone as well. He never recovered. Hardly ever left the house after that.’

  She peered into Sara’s face. ‘There were rumours of a child, but we never saw it. She’d gone away for a while, you know, and then she came back. That’s when it happened.’

  ‘How awful,’ Sara said, genuinely shocked. ‘Was that – Mick’s – daughter?’

  ‘That’s right,’ she said, nodding. ‘Charlotte.’

  Sara locked the car and walked round the house to her front door. There she paused, looking up at the dark sky. The poor, poor man. No wonder he had lived almost as a hermit, if something so awful had happened to him. To have had a child die in such a tragic manner – and so young. The thought was unimaginable. Why had she killed herself? And then he was left with no one, his wife having died. The baby was probably just a rumour – he would have looked after it, surely, if he’d managed to raise a daughter on his own? Sara was not scared by the talk of ghosts – she had known, as she entered the cottage on that very first cold, windy day back in January, that there were no ghosts here. There was sadness, yes, and loneliness, but no spirits.

  She pushed open the front door. Lottie’s TV was on in her bedroom, so she was still awake. Hector appeared, dragging his blanket. This had become something of a habit.

  Moving into the kitchen, she poured herself a glass of wine. Sliding off her shoes, she rested her feet on Hector’s comforting warm back, and stared out of the window. One of the tall firs was silhouetted on the left hand side of the frame, the dark contours like a child’s drawing of a Christmas tree. Beyond its outline, the sun was sinking in shades of pale gold and ochre, the soft light broken by a line of dark cloud, like faint smoky grey brush strokes against the sky.

  Chapter Eighteen

  He lay with his back to her, the duvet hunched up over his broad shoulders. As she opened her eyes, he turned over, and she smiled at the way his face had lost all its tension after a good night’s sleep. They lay very still for a moment, staring at each other. Slowly, he raised his hand, to brush her tangled hair from her face, and she felt the warmth of his fingertips against her cheek.

  ‘You were hot again last night,’ he said.

  ‘Was I?’

  ‘Yes,’ he smiled. ‘It was like lying next to a very sticky stick of rock.’

  She laughed. ‘I’m sorry. It’ll pass.’

  ‘Just one of those things, I guess. You ought to get it checked out, though.’

  ‘I know. I did. The doctor says he’ll put me on some kind of herbal supplement I know I will forget to take.’

  He laughed, and rolled over on to his back, staring at the ceiling. The hairs on his chest were beginning to turn silvery, she noticed. She lifted herself up on one elbow. If she lay back and closed her eyes, she knew she would go back to sleep, and she must get up. From down the corridor came the sound of a shower being turned on – one of the girls was awake.

  ‘She’s up early,’ Sara said dreamily, as she reached up to wipe away a tiny piece of sleep from the corner of her eyes. She swung her feet off the bed, feeling them sink into the soft rug which lay over the polished floorboards. She pulled down her nightie, which had ridden up in the night, as she’d tossed and turned, too hot, even though the window was wide open. Outside the open window the city was waking, with blaring car horns, shouts, dogs barking and the steady rumble of traffic. Conscious that he was looking at her, she pulled down the hem further, noticing, looking back, how the sheets had concertinaed into a series of fine pleats beneath her body. She ought to take the supplements, it was just she knew they would make very little difference. Age happened, just another phase, to be endured. Reaching up to take down the cream-coloured dressing gown which hung on the back of the bedroom door, she turned to ask Matt what he wanted to wear that day. But the bed was empty. She noticed the curtains were flapping against the wide open window, and her hand flew to her mouth. Surely not. Oh God, surely not. He wasn’t well, there was something wrong, but please God he would not do that. Not jump. Not jump from the cliff . . .

  She woke, sweating, to the sound of knocking on the front
door. For a moment, she felt quite lost – where on earth was she? She had to get Matt’s clothes ready – oh, my God, what had he done, he’d . . . ? She took a deep breath as she looked around her, taking in the familiar details of her bedroom, as the world slowly righted itself. She was here. This was home. Matt was in London. Quite safe, as far as she knew, and that sound was the builder knocking on the door. Her eyes flew to her clock. Lord, how had she slept in until nine? She could hear Hector whining downstairs as she had, for once, slept with her bedroom door closed. She was getting rather fed up with being woken by a staring dog.

  ‘Coming,’ she called, loudly and pointlessly, because there was no way he would be able to hear. Lottie’s bedroom was nearer, but it would take a bomb to wake her up, nor would she regard letting a builder in as part of her daughterly duties. Sleeping in until midday, yes. Leaving toast crumbs and an empty Marmite pot on the kitchen table every morning, yes. Sleeping with her TV still on and discarding a trail of clothes from the bathroom along the upstairs corridor, also, yes. Sara muttered to herself. Now she had secured a job, it really was time that Lottie found gainful employment as well. She was doing nothing at the moment, apart from sleeping, sunbathing and the odd bit of painting. When pressed on the issue, she said she was conserving her energy for the hurly-burly of life as a student, which made Sara humph even more.

  Hurriedly, she pulled on her dressing gown and pushed her feet into slippers. But the dream still lurked in her subconscious, disturbingly, as if she were living between two worlds. She could feel the warmth of Matt’s body against her skin, breathe in his smell, notice the way his mouth turned up at one corner when he smiled . . . She hesitated on the stairs, one hand on the rail, breathing deeply to slow her racing pulse. It’s just a silly dream, she told herself firmly. Just a dream. He would never do anything so foolish, and anyway, he is not my responsibility. All is well.

  Hector was waiting for her at the bottom of the stairs impatiently, tail thrashing, glancing backwards and forwards from her to the front door. He barked, twice – his deep, manly bark designed to repel all intruders.

  ‘Hang on,’ she called loudly. ‘I’m coming. I am sorry.’ She tied the belt around her dressing gown more tightly in a knot and then slid back the bolt on the door, before opening it. Hector shot past her and positioned himself squarely in the doorway. He barked again fiercely. The man, wearing paint-stained blue overalls, seemed quite unperturbed and reached out to pat him on the head. Hector stared up at him, bemused. The stranger was supposed to be terrified. This was his very best bark. He’d been saving this particular deep-throated vociferous version for moments of real crisis.

  ‘You’re a handsome fella, aren’t you? That’s all right, ma’am, don’t worry, I’m used to dogs. I am a bit early, I hope I didn’t disturb you.’

  Hector swiftly realized this was going to be friend, not foe, and did a remarkable about-turn. From scary guard dog he was instantly transformed into tail-wagging grinning-faced friendly Mr Labrador, weaving backwards and forwards against the man’s legs, pushing his head ingratiatingly into his outstretched hand.

  Sara smiled at the man, who held out his hand. ‘Jim,’ he said. ‘Pleased to meet you.’

  Sara shook it, taking care not to stretch out her arm too far in case it loosened her dressing-gown belt. Poor man, he hardly knew where to look. She quickly put up a hand to stop the robe falling open to reveal her cleavage. He was tall, well over six feet, and had a pleasant, open face. His thick hair was greying, and although he must have been well over sixty, he looked strong and fit.

  ‘I overslept,’ Sara explained, rather obviously. She stepped back. ‘Come in, come in. I’ll put the kettle on for some tea. I am normally up by now, honestly.’

  ‘Don’t mind me,’ he said, taking care not to look at the top of her dressing gown. ‘Tea would be grand.’ He reached down to begin unlacing his heavy brown workman’s boots.

  ‘You don’t have to take those off,’ Sara said.

  ‘I will, if you don’t mind,’ he said. He had a deep voice with a broad Cornish accent, very attractive, and Sara suddenly thought how nice it would be to have people in the house, a man around. There were so many other jobs which needed doing too.

  As he walked in she moved forward to close the door, glancing out into the garden. It was a lovely morning. The leaves on the oak tree near to the front door were trembling in the light breeze, each, according to its size, appearing to move to a different rhythm. The newest leaves were the delicate pale pink of a baby’s skin. Sara was finding it fascinating to see the garden gradually revealing its summer secrets – the top of the low stone wall at the front was now dotted with tiny pink and white geraniums.

  When she had first seen the cottage in winter the garden had looked so bare – the trees, apart from the tall firs, swayed in the wind like grey skeletons and the flower beds were empty, brambles and bindweed the only visible plants. But ever since February little green shoots had been appearing. First came snowdrops, by March daffodils and crocus were blossoming, and now that summer was here the roses she had planted by the wall had produced the most stunning yellow, orange and pink flowers. Next year, she promised herself, the cottage garden would be in full bloom and she aimed to research and plant old-fashioned varieties such as phlox and hebe.

  In the kitchen, she poured Jim a cup of tea, which he then sipped slowly. She began to sidle out of the door. ‘I’ll just . . .’

  ‘Ay, you get on. I’ll have a bit of a look round down here and remind myself what’s what before the boys arrive.’

  Boys? Sara thought, climbing the stairs. Maybe he had a team of young lads.

  The plan was to start with the really messy stage – the demolition of the internal walls between the two front rooms, taking away the corridor which ran down to the kitchen from the front door. Sara had had two site visits from the planning officer, and she and Helen had gone over the plans repeatedly, spreading the drawings out on the kitchen table and mulling them over with a glass of wine. In her mind, Sara had established exactly what shade she wanted to paint the walls, and thoroughly enjoyed wandering around mentally placing items of furniture and pictures. Having lived with the depressing, old-fashioned and shabby décor for so long, she was desperate to transform the cottage into a warm and welcoming haven.

  She and Lottie had agreed on a cream-coloured range for the kitchen, as it would create much needed warmth in the winter as well as heating the water. Helen said she might want to put in an electric cooker as well, especially if she planned to cook for a number of people. Which, in turn, made Sara think of Christmas. Jim had told Helen that hopefully the building work should be finished by then, five months hence. It would be tight, he had told her on the phone, but they would try their very best.

  As she climbed the stairs, Sara found she was actually looking forward to the festive season this year. Certainly, it could not be worse than last. What a long way I have come, she thought. She hoped Emily would come to stay this Christmas. Lottie would be home from university, and she could even invite her mother down, if she could bear the thought of her two boisterous dogs. The image of Matt flashed through her mind. No, she thought. Not yet. Maybe next year. If he could leave Karina, that is. If, in fact, he was still with her by then. She sighed. She ought to invite Catherine and Milo too – the girls would enjoy his company. Her mind ran on ahead. She could invite Helen for lunch if she didn’t have her family staying or wasn’t going up to see her son Daniel in the Midlands. Her daughter was in Australia, and wasn’t planning to be back until Easter, having found a job and a boyfriend out there. Sara had a sudden, pleasing mental image of everyone sitting down to a meal at her new dining table, under the glass atrium in the extended kitchen. She began to look forward and sketch out menus.

  If, that is, Emily would come. It was now a month since they had met up in London, and they had only spoken twice since the conversation about Matt which had so worried Sara. In two weeks Emily was due to fly out to Ma
uritius with him and Karina – she didn’t think this was a particularly good idea, but there was nothing she could do about it. If she interfered, Matt would be furious.

  ‘God,’ Lottie said at lunchtime, looking at the four elderly men sitting on the stone wall outside, eating their sandwiches with a steady dedication. ‘It’s like being invaded by dinosaurs.’

  ‘Shush,’ said Sara giggling. These were Jim and his ‘boys’ – they were even older than he was. She and Lottie were looking out of one of the front windows, having inspected the quite extraordinary amount of necessary damage wreaked by just one morning’s work. Of course she knew it would like a bombsite, but Sara hadn’t quite been prepared for the clouds of dust and the sheer amount of rubble created. A fine grey silt seemed to have settled over everything, even upstairs. I’m going to have to block any thought of tidying up until all this is over, she told herself firmly. Otherwise, I will go rather potty. Going out was the answer. Just close the door and leave it all behind until they had finished – then she could face the marathon task of cleaning up.

  She’d asked Nick if she might work from home for a few days this week, to supervise the builders, but she now decided this was a mistake. The chaos of the office with its overflowing bins and stained coffee cups suddenly seemed a haven of order and tranquillity.

  Another problem she had encountered was that the cottage was so small there was nowhere for things to be stored, so the cream sofa and chair were currently sitting on a spare roll of carpet in the front garden, covered by a sheet. It was hardly ideal, and Sara was terrified of a summer shower. She realized she would probably have to find a storage company, because she couldn’t leave her furniture outside indefinitely.

  Jim told her that all his ‘lads’ were officially retired, but liked to take on the odd job now and then. Sara guessed they were probably bored sick of retirement, especially if life consisted of pottering about the garden and being bossed by their wives. As she gazed at them, one of the men reached down to put a screwed-up ball of cling film back in the Tupperware box at his feet. It was like watching a film in slow motion. Mesmerized, Sara watched him carefully peel back all four corners of the lid, place the cling film inside, stare thoughtfully at the contents for at least five seconds, and then click each corner back with absolute precision. Then he sat up, put his hand back on his knee and stared ahead of him into space. Moments later, his eyelids began to droop as he rocked gently backwards and forwards in the warm summer sun. Sara smiled to herself. How on earth had they managed to knock the walls down so quickly? They must be very good at conserving their energy.