Too Beautiful to Dance

by Diana Appleyard

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  ‘Six across, a type of sleeping sickness, ten letters, begins with an “n”.’

  ‘Narcolepsy,’ Sara said instantly. ‘How did we do yesterday? What was six down, in the end?’

  ‘Fornication,’ he said grinning.

  ‘Rubbish,’ she said, standing up and snatching the newspaper from him.

  ‘Fabrication.’ She looked at the crossword answers, smiling. ‘You are so immature at times, you know that?’

  ‘At least I’m not over half a century old,’ he said, throwing a peach stone expertly into the bin. ‘What shall we do this afternoon?’

  ‘Aren’t you working?’

  ‘Nah. I took the afternoon off. We’re not busy at all. I told Jake he may as well shut up shop until the weekend, there’s hardly anyone around.’

  ‘I know,’ Sara said. ‘It’s like a ghost town.’

  ‘I like it. Gives me time to study. And at least with it being so fucking – sorry, absolutely – freezing, I don’t look out of the window all the time and long to get out on the water.’

  Sara, who had peered at him reprovingly over the top of her tortoiseshell half-moon glasses, began to tidy up the coffee cups and lunch plates which lay on the table.

  He leant back on his chair, rocking it on to two legs.

  ‘Don’t do that,’ she said automatically. ‘You’ll break it.’

  He let the chair crash back to the floor before picking up the local newspaper, flicking through to the classified advertisements.

  ‘I’m going to have to get another job to pay my college fees,’ he said.

  ‘I told you,’ Sara said, without looking up. ‘I said I’d lend you the money.’

  ‘But I don’t want to borrow it,’ Ricky pointed out reasonably. ‘This is going to be all my own work. God, there’s nothing around at the moment.’ Putting the paper down angrily, he drummed his fingers on the kitchen table, staring dispiritedly out of the rain-soaked window. ‘So what shall we do?’

  ‘I ought to work,’ Sara said. ‘I’ve got reams of calls to make.’

  ‘Sod that. Let’s take Hector to Polruan sands. The wind’s up, the surf will be magnificent. Come on, there’s a cave I want to show you.’

  ‘OK,’ she said, reluctantly. ‘By the way, I had a letter from the solicitor’s.’

  ‘Oh, yes?’

  ‘They need your birth certificate.’

  ‘Whatever for?’

  ‘Something about the deeds, I didn’t read it properly.’

  ‘You deal with it, I hate paperwork. Although, you know, I still think you’re rushing into this. There is no reason to be so generous.’

  ‘This is your home as much as mine,’ she said.

  Hector ran towards the sea, barking, but stopped dead when he saw the height of the waves. They towered above him, the water a deep, vibrant green, before they rolled over into a crystal shower, the noise roaring in his ears. He turned tail and fled. Ricky tucked his arm through Sara’s as they picked their way through the streams of water in the rippling sand. ‘I could watch the sea for ever,’ Sara said, standing still, looking out over the water.

  ‘I told you it gets into your blood,’ he said. ‘Anyway, you can.’

  She turned to him, smiling. ‘Why?’

  ‘Because you won’t leave. Not now. This is your home.’ He pressed her arm against his side. She reached up to smooth away the hair which was blowing across his face, like a mother would a child.

  ‘Come on,’ she said, her words caught and hurled away by the wind. ‘You may not feel the cold, but I certainly do. I want to sit by the fire and read my book.’

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  ‘Why do I always choose the ones which go sideways?’

  ‘Let me have a go.’

  Sara stood obediently to one side and he took the handle, shoving violently. The trolley immediately skewed off to the left, knocking into the legs of a woman standing with her back to them, who had been gazing thoughtfully at a row of cereal packets. She turned around crossly, and Sara realized it was Gloria from the Women’s Institute. Gloria of the alpine flowers.

  ‘I am so sorry,’ she said. ‘He doesn’t get out much.’ Ricky snorted with laughter and wrenched the trolley backwards to try a different track.

  ‘Ham?’ Sara paused by the chilled meat counter, having decided it was safer if she steered. The trolley was piled high with food, and Sara thought, not for the first time, how much feeding Ricky was costing her. Compared to the girls he seemed to eat continually, even whole loaves at a time.

  Ricky had kept his rented flat by the Spar shop – Sara pointed out he must surely want the privacy – but he often stayed over at the cottage, sleeping in the bedroom allocated to Emily. It was, Sara thought, like having an overgrown child in the house, full of jokes, clumsiness and a shocking inability to tidy up after himself. She found his company highly entertaining and he seemed to derive, what seemed to Sara, a real sense of comfort from being with her in his mother’s former home. An odd relationship, but one which suited them both. Helen said they were the talk of the village, but Sara could not find it in her heart to care. She knew the truth, and that was all that mattered.

  ‘Do you want honey roast or plain ham?’ Sara asked, a joking edge to her voice. ‘I know it’s a tricky decision. Shall I choose for you?’

  Ricky was standing with his hands in the pockets of his leather jacket, looking away from her, whistling. ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘I wasn’t listening. Supermarkets make me lose the will to live. Do you mind if I get some fresh air? Whatever. You choose, you know I’ll eat anything.’

  ‘No, go ahead,’ Sara said wearily. ‘Just leave me to do the weekly shop all on my own.’

  ‘Thanks,’ he replied cheerfully, and wandered off in the direction of the door. Sara watched him go affectionately. Even though she did most of his washing, there was still much of the gypsy about him – today he was wearing a favourite pair of frayed baggy jeans, a T-shirt which frankly should have been thrown away and his very battered old leather jacket.

  As Sara stood in the queue for the check-out, she saw him sitting with his feet up on the red metal chairs behind the tills, reading the notices on the pin board. Looking up, he realized she was watching him, and flicked a finger at the board behind his head. ‘Salsa dancing classes? Polruan village hall?’ he mimed at her, and put both thumbs up enquiringly. She shook her head. He glanced behind him again. ‘Yoga for the over fifties?’ he mouthed. ‘That’s one for you. I could wait outside.’ She laughed and made a face at him. He grinned.

  ‘Would you like any help with your packing?’

  ‘No, thank you. I can manage.’

  ‘Do you have a club card?’

  ‘No, thank you.’ She peered at the badge. ‘Cheryl.’ The girl on the till looked at her gratefully and smiled.

  ‘It’s turned ever so chilly, hasn’t it?’

  ‘It certainly has.’ Sara rubbed the plastic carrier bags between finger and thumb to open them, and began to pack away the shopping. After a while she turned to Ricky. ‘Come and help, you great lazy lump.’

  ‘Oh God,’ he moaned as he stood beside her, to Cheryl. ‘She’s so bossy, aren’t you, my lover?’ He said the last two words, jokingly, in a broad Cornish accent.

  At the check-out till next to them Sara saw Gloria’s head snap up, as if she had been electrocuted.

  ‘Don’t do that,’ she said, as they pushed the trolley together towards the car, Ricky making it zigzag irritatingly into the path of an oncoming car.

  ‘Do what?’ he asked, his face a mask of innocence.

  ‘You know perfectly well,’ Sara said.

  ‘She loved it,’ he said. ‘It’ll be all round the WI like wildfire.’

  ‘I know,’ Sara said. ‘It isn’t you who has to cope with all the staring and whispering.’

  ‘I would imagine it would enhance your image, Mrs Atkinson. Anyway, who cares? Fuck ’em. Village busy-bodies with nothing b
etter to talk about.’

  ‘What do you bring me, you dreadful boy?’

  He put down the shopping bag he was loading into the boot of Sara’s car, and turned to look at her. For a few moments they stared at each other, and then he wrapped his arms around her, his eyes dancing wickedly.

  ‘Fun,’ he said, tightening his arms and lifting her off her feet. ‘Without me, your life would be so predictable.’

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  She stood by the new patio doors which led out on to what would, eventually, become the sun terrace at the side of the house. If the sun ever shone again, Sara thought, looking up at the leaden sky through the glass ceiling in the kitchen roof. There was such a beauty to the landscape, however, she thought, as she drove down the lane to work, looking out over frosted fields framed by the bare skeletons of the trees. Above her, dark grey clouds drifted slowly across the sky. The atrium had been an inspired idea, if she said it herself, creating so much natural light. To her right there was now a wide, picture window, looking out over the front garden, the lawn neatly mown under a covering of frost, the rose bushes pruned and waiting for the spring.

  Now the building work was finally finished it was such a pleasure to come home. To push open the door at the back of the house and walk over the newly-laid oak floor down the corridor, into the extended living room, never failed to please her. To Sara the room seemed vast although it was only twenty feet or so long. Used to being cramped in the two small front rooms, this felt an oasis of space. The arched windows, as she had hoped, let in so much light and the views over the bay were breathtaking. She had kept the colours muted – the walls were a thick cream colour, the carpet a natural beige weave and the skirting boards painted a pale dove grey. Framing the windows were long cream heavily-lined curtains which trailed on the floor, and the large sofa and chairs no longer dwarfed the room. At the far end, an open fire flickered in the wide grate, an arched wooden beam above it. It looked, as she had intended, as if it had always been there.

  Sara loved to sit by the fire at night, listening to the wind whistling down the chimney, the wisteria tapping on the windows. The cottage felt a warm, safe haven, high above the stormy sea.

  ‘Come in!’ She slid open the patio door a fraction, wincing as the freezing wind blew into the warm kitchen. ‘You don’t have to finish it all today.’

  ‘In a second.’ He looked up at her, grinning, and dug the spade hard into the earth, leaning on it as he wiped a hand across his mouth, leaving a trail of earth. He seemed determined to get the foundations for the pergola dug before Christmas, although Sara had pointed out the ground would be much softer in February and there was no rush. Now, with the temperature way below freezing, the ground was rock hard. But once he got the bit between his teeth, it was pointless to try to stop him. Besides, he said, it was a great antidote to the pressure of studying and looming exams.

  Emily walked into the kitchen, twisting hair still wet from the shower. ‘You look cold,’ she said solicitously, and rested her fingers, briefly, against Ricky’s cheek, as he leant against the wall, sliding off his wellingtons.

  ‘Muddy,’ Sara said. ‘Put them outside. I don’t think it’s going to rain.’

  ‘It’s your slave-driver mother,’ Ricky said. ‘She’s got me working in all weathers.’

  ‘I did not say you had to dig today.’ Sara smiled. ‘You chose to do it. I told you that you should wait.’

  ‘Nag, nag. OK, I’m the lunatic. Actually, I’m not cold at all, I’m boiling from all that work.’ He pulled down the sleeves of his muddy navy-blue woollen sweater before lifting it over his head, revealing a white T-shirt carefully ironed by Sara and several inches of tanned, flat stomach. He had a hole in the cuff of his jumper, Sara noted. She’d rescue that from the wash and darn it. More jumpers might be an idea for Christmas. Her own tan seemed to have long since disappeared. It would return, she thought, in the spring, when the warm weather came.

  ‘When’s Lottie coming home?’ Emily asked, picking up the post which lay on the kitchen table. ‘Here’s one for you,’ she said, handing Sara a cream-coloured envelope. ‘You must have missed it.’

  ‘Friday, I think,’ Sara said, turning it over in her hand. The writing on the envelope seemed familiar.

  Tapping it against her palm, she walked out of the kitchen, down the corridor and into the living room. The fire burnt low in the hearth, and she carefully placed two more logs on to the dying flames, which flared up immediately, throwing shadows against the far wall. It was lovely having Emily here – she was taking two weeks off over Christmas. Early days, she thought to herself, smiling. Early days.

  She sank into the armchair, slipping off her shoes and tucking her feet underneath her. Hector, who had followed her, circled, sighed, and then lay down on the grey rug in front of the fire, his head on his paws, watching her lovingly. She reached out with one foot to rub the fur on his back, and he closed his eyes.

  She scanned the page, turned it over, the lines between her eyebrows deepening. And then she smiled before dropping the letter into the fire, watching it curl, blacken and twist to its death in the flames.

  ‘Be careful!’ Lottie said, jumping away from her in mock horror, as Sara eased the champagne cork out of the bottle, having first twisted it a little. She’d never been very good at this, and she half-closed her eyes as the cork began to slide up the neck of the bottle, before it exploded towards the ceiling. ‘Quick, a glass,’ she shouted and Lottie hurriedly held a narrow champagne flute under the foam, which was pouring down over Sara’s fingers.

  ‘Vintage,’ Emily noted from where she was sitting at the table. ‘Where have you been hiding that, Mother?’

  ‘I bought a case yesterday,’ she said. ‘Why not? I’ve had a small pay rise.’

  ‘Cheers,’ Helen said, raising her glass. ‘Happy nearly Christmas, everyone.’

  ‘Cheers,’ Ricky said. ‘Although I have to say I hate this stuff.’

  ‘Don’t spoil the moment,’ Emily said, smiling, and their eyes met.

  There was the sound of a car in the lane, the roar of a powerful engine. Surprised, Ricky put down his glass and walked over to look out of the kitchen window, into the dusk.

  ‘Who the hell do you know with a Porsche?’ he said, peering out, as the sensor outside light flicked on. ‘Wow. Look at that. It’s gorgeous.’

  ‘Mum!’ Lottie looked at Sara, amazed. ‘It can’t be Dad, can it?’

  Sara shrugged. ‘He wrote to me and said he might come down, depending on work. But you know what Dad’s like. I didn’t want to raise your hopes until I knew definitely, but then he didn’t write again, or call. I presumed he had changed his mind.’

  ‘But why, Mum? Why would he come down here, now?’ Emily’s face was baffled. ‘I mean he knows your address because he asked for it ages ago, but surely not . . . what about . . . ?’

  Sara took a sip of champagne. ‘As I said, I have no idea. Please can we not make this into a drama. Not my first Christmas here. Calm down, all of you.’

  Easier said than done, she thought to herself, however, as her heart thumped to an unfamiliar beat.

  ‘What did he say, Mum, in the letter?’ Emily asked impatiently. ‘Why didn’t he tell me? I saw him last week. Do you know he’s planning to give up the business sooner? He said, and his exact words were, “sod the money”.’ She smiled.

  ‘Sounds like Dad,’ Lottie nodded. ‘But what about Karina?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Emily said, ‘I really don’t know. He was very vague on that subject. Like he didn’t want to talk about her at all.’

  There was the sound of loud knocking on the door.

  ‘Go and let the poor man in, someone,’ Sara said. ‘He’ll be freezing.’

  Ricky was standing with his back to her, his hands in his pockets, staring out into the night. Lottie ran away down the corridor, and they heard the sound of the door opening.

  ‘Are you OK?’ Sara asked him quietly.

 
He turned, his face a conflicting mask of emotions. ‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘It’s so odd to think I will finally meet him.’

  ‘Do you want to go? Not that I think you should. This is your home.’

  He smiled. ‘I know. You tell me often enough, even though I now have to sleep on the sofa.’

  ‘It’s Emily’s room,’ she said automatically.

  ‘I know.’ He smoothed his hand down Sara’s cheek. ‘It’s OK.’

  For a moment, they stood looking at each other. He shook his head.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Nothing. You know best, Sara. You always know best.’

  ‘Don’t patronize me.’

  ‘Mum! It is Dad!’ Lottie, her eyes shining, ran into the kitchen. ‘Hey, what’s up with you two?’

  ‘Nothing,’ Ricky said again.

  ‘Offer him a drink, will you?’ Sara said. ‘It’s such a long way to drive, he must be exhausted.’

  ‘Sara.’

  She stood quite still for a moment, one hand on the twisted metal handle of the Aga’s hot plate. Then she deliberately moved the pan full of potatoes and boiling water on to the simmering plate, before she turned.

  He was standing by the door, in a long dark overcoat, a black scarf around his neck.

  ‘Do take your coat off. Did the girls get you a drink?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes. Thanks.’ He raised the glass, showing her, before putting it down on to the kitchen table.

  ‘So how are you?’

  He smiled. ‘I’m fine. Much . . . much better.’

  ‘I see.’

  He nodded, biting his lip.

  ‘Good. That’s really good.’ She took a deep breath. ‘The girls are delighted to see you.’

  ‘I know. It’s fantastic to see them. Are you sure you don’t mind me . . .’

  ‘No.’

  ‘This is . . .’ He looked around him, at the warm, welcoming kitchen, the books on the shelf above the Aga, the colourful local paintings she had bought, primarily of the sea.

  ‘What?’