by Karen Botha
Two steps to the left, two steps to the right. I can manage this. Hmm, then it’s a funny twisty foot thing in the middle before we start again with two to the left and two to the right. So far so good. I keep up as we cross the heel of the opposite foot in front of the toe of the other and repeat each side. Noticing my arms waving around like its body combat, I clip them into my belt and make a mental note - these arms should not move from their current position. It’s all going swimmingly and despite myself, I’m laughing. Not laughing at myself, but with pure exhilaration.
I make it through without issue as we stamp our feet and turn a quarter to the left and I am confident. We repeat our routine facing this way except this time, we include a foot tap rather than the twisty foot thing. This involves an amount of co-ordination and also for me to move my arms which I'd rooted in my waistband. It’s not seamless, but I make it through, so now I'm pumped. We jig to face the back of the room then perform our routine again. When we’ve finished this tune, I’m only a little out of breath and am grinning from ear to ear. This is fun, I take all the ridicule back.
‘Bring on the next one,’ I think.
Julie asks, ‘you enjoyed that didn’t you?’
‘Yeah, it was fun. It’s awkward to pick up the routine, but once I got going… I’m loving it!’ I throw both arms out.
The track switches so there isn't the opportunity to chat. Here we go again. This one seems faster. No sooner do we get into the knee bending and head bobbing, we’re all switching our weight backwards then forwards. We do the foot twisting thing with a stamp, then a knee bend and oh, my goodness I have no idea. We’re turning, or rather, they’re turning. Oh, my, now we’ve got skipping interspersed with stomping. I have to literally take both feet off the ground together, kick them out and land in time for a co-ordinated double stamp. A woman catches the corner of my eye, she's wearing a vivid pink, fringed shirt. As she dances, her tassel's flap to the beat. The effect is stunning.
‘I bet she’s been doing this a while,’ I ponder.
Losing concentration during this activity is not recommended. I crash to the floor, trapping what could possibly have been my up-leg under what is now most certainly my down-leg. I have a throbbing pain in my ankle. The song is still playing at full pace and full volume, however I seem to have brought all other proceedings to a rapid halt.
The group gathers and as I peer up into their inquisitive faces trying to battle tears of pain and indignation. They grin.
‘Don’t worry, we’ve all been there,’ the woman in the pink shirt that caused this whole episode shouts above the honky tonk of the music. That’s it, I burst out crying, ashamed. Julie hands me a handkerchief. Who carries a hanky? But I grab it, wiping my blotchy face.
‘Come here, nothing is broken, except your pride.’ She offers me her arm.
A sea of faces laugh. They’ve not laughed all night; and now they laugh at my most literal downfall. I struggle up, stunned.
‘Heather’s right, we have all been there,’ admits Julie, ‘it’s confusing at the start, but don’t worry about it, you’ll pick it up. Don’t be put off!’
I hobble over to the plastic school seats stacked around the edge of the dance-floor and shift a stray hair out of my face. A fair haired chap in a relatively trendy blue, checked shirt, lifts one off for me and I plant my butt down, raising my ankle to avoid swelling. I nod at him, grateful for his help.
‘How long have you been line dancing?’ I’m curious to find out Julie’s answer.
‘Oh, years. I came with my Mum and her friends when I was a teenager and got hooked.’ She looks at the chap still hovering and brings him into the conversation, ‘how about you Andy, how did you get into this?’
‘My ex wanted to come, we’ve split, but here I am, still a faithful regular.’ His voice is deeper and more clear than I'd expected.
‘Did either of you make a great spectacle of yourselves on your first trip?’
‘Haha, no, not on my first,’ says Andy, ‘but several times since.’
‘It happens.’ Julie stands and straightens her jeans. ‘Listen I’m off to dance, you rest a while. We all go to the Local after so please wait and come with us.’ She heads back toward the now resumed class. I wave, but she's already turned her back. Andy is still hovering.
‘I’ll sit with you if you want, I could do with a break,’ he pulls down a matching seat.
I throw him a practised smile, widening my mouth to ensure it reaches my eyes. We sit companionably, the crooning of Country and Western, obliterating the opportunity to chat. After a few songs, Andy rises, and points towards the floor.
‘One of my favourites,’ he gestures towards the speaker in the right-hand corner, ‘don’t rush off, I’d love you to join us after for a quick one.’
PAULA
Line dancing, is not the ideal activity to get to know new people, so the pub afterwards will give me an opportunity to gain some valuable insights. The thing is though, and I'm not sure why, but I want to go, regardless of Julie. This odd community who only crack a smile when the music plays, or the unfortunate fall, seem solid. Maybe, they’re an honest bunch, not bothered enough about society’s hang ups to conform.
It’s a sixteenth century pub. Its roof houses beams noting chalk details of the variety of fine wine and real ales. Combined with slate floors, it’s cool in the heat of what is still a warm day despite the hour.
‘Hi,’ the line of dancers, ready for refreshment, chime in succession at a jolly old man with white hair. He’s making his way from behind the bar with an impressive collection of prepared drinks. He follows the stream of brightly coloured dancers who are heading like ants towards the same corner. Chairs scrape and tables drag along the flag floor, almost clonking the poor bartender in their eagerness. I have the strong sense of a predetermined place in here too.
‘Get your money out, Paula,’ Andy instructs as I notice everybody rooting around and putting notes in the middle of the table.
‘Oh, OK,’ I rummage in my holdall for my purse. No-one has placed an order, but I notice every person has a full glass. It’s only at this point that I become conspicuous, my lack of beverage drawing a target on my forehead.
‘Ah, a new addition. What’s your tipple darling?’ Our chipper barman is keen to serve. After he runs through the choice of wines by the glass, I place my order fully aware this will be my drink of choice every week from here on in. As he limps off to decant my wine into a dumpy but practical wine glass resembling an egg cup, he scoops up the cash. I let my gaze follow him, he shoves the money in a traditional old pint glass kept next to the till.
‘How does payment work?’ I ask Julie who is sitting to my right.
‘We all put our money in every week. If there's any left Jeff,’ she sends her arm towards the bar tender, ‘well, he keeps it for our Christmas do.’
‘How lovely that's possible in this day and age,’ I approve, reminded again how jaded I have become about human nature.
She studies me, confusion riddling her face.
‘What do you mean?’ she asks.
I consider how to frame this. ‘Well, in the cities you expect everyone to be out to rob you. Only a few miles away, you can trust people to keep your money safe for the best part of a year.’ I curl the corners of my mouth down. She appears to understand that my life has meant I'm not well acquainted with automatically trusting a stranger.
‘Yeah, I guess so. So why did you come line dancing all of a sudden, I assume you’ve never done it before?’
‘Well noted!’ I accept grinning and nodding, ‘I fancied something new that would keep me fit and help me make new friends.’ She seems content with that.
A character that was performing at the front bellows over the babble of the group. ‘Paula, how’s your leg now?’
Again the troop erupts into waves of laughter. I raise my right hand to steady the flow of good natured mockery.
‘It’s OK now thank you for your concern,’ I chor
tle to show I’m a good sport.
‘Do you come alone?’ I ask Julie.
‘Well, yes I do now. I’ve been coming so long it’s a family - you probably gathered that.’
‘Yeah it seems so. Does your partner come too? Sorry that came out wrong, I mean because you attend alone, is your partner not into line dancing, or are you single?’
She raises her left eyebrow, ‘No I’m not with anyone at the moment. I saw someone a few years ago now, and he came periodically...’ she tails off.
‘Oh, I’m sorry,’ I move my head up and down, uncrossing my arms.
‘It’s OK. I expect he came to escape home more than to be with me,’ her eyes change as she calculates how much to divulge. ‘It’s a complicated situation, and hindsight is a wonderful thing - turns out he wasn’t as into me as I was to him.’
I need to respond, ‘Oh dear…’ It’s all I am able to spit out. She gives me a shrug, tilts her head towards her inclined shoulder again.
Andy enquires, ‘Are you single, Paula?’
‘Yeah footloose and fancy free.’ I twinkle at him, pleased that we’re divulging a lot about ourselves early in our burgeoning friendship.
‘And you, Andy, are you single, we can’t leave you out can we?’ Our eyes lock and my world shifts, minutely, but it shifts.
‘I am now, it was messy for a while, but it’s all sorted.’ My heart skips and I fight for composure.
‘Well, we can all do messy pretty well,’ I manage, we chink our glasses together.
Before we know it, it’s kicking out time.
‘Will we see you next week?’ asks Andy.
I need to think about it for all of two seconds. ‘Yes, I hope you will.’ I wave my goodbyes as I head to my car, a lightness in my heart that I hadn’t realised was missing.
LUCY
‘I hope I’m dressed suitably, that’s all I can say.’ I hrmph at Giles and instead of saying more, concentrate on the passing landscape.
‘Whoa, don’t you like surprises?’
‘They have their time and place, yes, but I also like to be informed. To be included in the decisions we’re making and be able to react accordingly. I'm uncomfortable if I can’t prepare, and therefore I don’t show my best side.’ I want to start a small rant with ‘considering your track record', but hope I’ve said enough for him to get the picture.
‘OK, we’re going for a BBQ, I told you that, but with my oldest friend.’
Oh jeez. We’re off to Hugh’s. This never mix business and pleasure thing is taking a right old hike.
Men often don’t tell their wives they come for massage. Don’t ask me why, it’s not like I’m a dodgy masseuse in a parlour, I prefer to be called a therapist. If I’m honest my elbows certainly should not be engendering any semblance of sexual pleasure. Particularly when they are followed by the full weight of my body powering through their tips. But, many men still don’t tell their wives. I have no idea whether Hugh is one of these men which makes this particular situation tricky. I’m assuming this is supposed to be my big unveiling. I have however answered one question already today, I’m guessing Hugh didn’t recommend my massage to Giles.
Our silence has drifted so that I’m now considering how I will react in any number of possible situations. We pass carpets of poppies glowing life with every flutter the breeze bestows on their delicate petals.
Giles crashes through my absentminded musings. ‘I’ve not seen enough of Hugh recently. Actually, since Steph died, he’s not really been around that much. We used to spend all our time together, he pretty much lived with us growing up over here. It’s about time we picked up again.’
A number of thoughts race round my head as I remember the conversation with Hugh the last time he was on my massage table. I guess there is more of a link than Giles would care to consider as to why Hugh has been scarce. Secondly, and running through my thoughts at exactly the same time, I am pleased that Giles is able to pick up where he was before his terrible tragedy. Naturally, I link this to my being around now and am warmed. It’s a strange contradiction, warmth at what I portray to be Giles moving on with me, at the same time as trepidation. Rather than mentioning any of this, I reply blandly, ‘that’s good,’ and we continue to sit in a contented silence until our arrival.
‘They’ll hear us coming on this gravel,’ I half joke as we pull up on their driveway. Indeed they must as Hugh is out of the white front door before we’re even parked. He can’t see me through the tinted windows. This is it. I take a breath and slide down from the passenger seat, landing less elegantly than I would have liked on the uneven surface. I inhale rose scent.
‘Lucy!’ Hugh exclaims as he catches sight of me. I keep half an eye on Giles' reaction. His face, previously excited to introduce me to his old friend is now crumpled in shock.
‘You know each other?’ Giles looks between Hugh and myself and back again.
‘Yeah, Lucy’s my massage therapist,’ Hugh at least answers my question straight away as to whether he’s one of the massage in secret types. I wasn’t keen on being drawn into the whole cloak and dagger routine, so sigh in relief. I’m trying to manage enough mistrust and coded messages as it is. Sadness loiters at life never being as easy as going for a BBQ with my new boyfriend. I push these meanderings to the side and get on with enjoying the moment.
‘Hi Hugh,’ I give him a hug, smiling generously with relief at his honesty.
‘I hadn’t joined all the dots when Giles said he was dating a massage therapist, didn’t click you were my Lucy,’ he runs a hand through his stray hair, ‘I guess I don’t expect you to have a real life, I don’t want to share.’
My mind is drawn back to our conversation during his last massage. After a pause, I’m not sure, but I think I see the same thought waft through his consciousness. He continues with an edge.
‘You do have that doctor patient confidentiality thing don’t you?’ This is well disguised as a bit of horseplay, but we both know what he’s getting at.
‘Of course, your secrets are safe.’ I give him a lacklustre hug as we walk inside his home, unsure again of where the new boundaries lie between professionalism and friendship.
Even though I've been privy to so much more than Hugh would, I expect, prefer at this precise moment about his family, he dutifully introduces them. ‘This is Jennifer.’ She reaches over to shake my hand. Her grip is surprisingly firm. Her flowery dress had me taking her for the half hearted shake kind of girl.
‘Hi.’ I keep my comments to a minimum. This way I'm less likely to reveal even a crumb of information that should be out of bounds.
‘And here is Ethan.’ A serious young teenager also stretches out a hand to greet me. I fight the urge to grab him and shake him in a rough and way less serious bear hug.
‘And little Alice.’
‘Dad, not so little anymore.’ Alice shoves her father playfully. It's odd seeing him play this role, he's tender and caring, not the self-centred individual he allows me to see. Alice is indeed taller than Ethan, but I’m assuming from Hugh's little comment that she's younger. My mind tends to drift when my client's talk about their kids, so her actual age is vague. Once again I keep schtum and watch a ginger and white cat slink upstairs away from the action.
After meeting and greeting Hugh’s family, which is strange considering I already know so much about them, we all head outside to the patio. Bricks are stacked in an impressive, food-centric ‘U’. One side forms a breakfast bar with tall chairs and the middle section is home to the most amazing BBQ. Condiments are stacked on the remaining side, under which I notice a fridge. It really is the sort of entertaining area you see in magazines.
‘This isn’t a BBQ Hugh,’ Giles doesn’t give his old friend any praise for what is clearly a lovely space. ‘How many times do I have to tell you to get rid of this and invest in a proper charcoal, manual BBQ.’
His old friend ignores him, turning his sizzling steaks. They’re marinated in something that combined with the
smoke, gas fed or otherwise, smells delicious. The rotisserie is turning a juicy leg of lamb above the steaks and quite frankly I don’t care what machinery is doing the cooking.
My wine preference has been totally disregarded, as apparently, I have no idea what I’m talking about. I’m sipping a full bodied red which Hugh has specifically chosen as it will complement the flavours he has on the grill. He tops me up.
‘Hey, watch it, I’ve not had my muesli this morning,’ I chirp up, feeling more confident than I probably should.
‘It’s OK, neither have I.’ He lifts his arm, palm open.
A slightly tipsy giggle escapes, ‘Oh, you’re going to be the death of me.’ I raise the crystal glass in a spirited cheers.
The day pretty much continues in that same vein. No-one is horrendously drunk, but we’ve all had a few, except Giles who doesn’t appear to be bothered about drinking, nor does it affect his mood. We’re all rather jolly.
We play games in the garden with the kids, running face down around a pole ten times and then race to a point ahead and back in relay teams. Once this has resulted in much breathless tumbling and appropriate squawking from team members, we move on to throwing a random horseshoe over the same stick we previously ran round.
That goes little better than the relay race.
By the time the sun is setting, and it’s getting cool, we’re all comfortably ensconced around an open fire on the horse shoe patio. We’re snuggled under red nylon Ikea blankets. Relaxed, we watch as ember by floating ember they melt from fake fleece to black plastic. We’re all relaxed and I’m nestled into Giles inhaling the spicy notes of his aftershave mingled with smoke from the fire.
‘This reminds me of my Dad back in Zim, we used to have days like this a lot; out in the bush.’
‘Ah, mate, at least you’ve got some great memories with him.’ Hugh says.
Giles nods as I ask, ‘What happened?’ I wonder if this is the right moment.