Belly Dancing for Beginners

by Liz Byrski

  ‘There’s heaps of food in the freezer,’ Angie said. ‘You just need to microwave something, and you must know how to use the washing machine.’

  ‘That’s not the point. She should be here. You’ll come over and organise things for me, won’t you, Princess? I’m going to have more than a few words to say about this when her ladyship finally decides to answer her phone.’

  There was a brief silence at the other end of the line. ‘Dad, I’m at work right now, and Tony and I are going down to his parents’ place in Mandurah tonight for the weekend. So you’ll just have to manage, and . . . and please stop going on at me. It’s hard enough with Tony’s family.’ She slammed the phone down and Brian was left, receiver in one hand, listening to the buzz on the empty line.

  FIFTEEN

  On the mantelpiece of the two-storey mock Tudor house in Dorking where Marissa had spent her childhood, was a picture of her father on a camel. Colonel Bedford had been with the 8th Army when Montgomery assumed command in 1942. His part in the defeat of Rommel at El Alamein had dominated Marissa’s childhood. Stories of hardship and valour in the desert, Monty living in his caravan in the grounds of a splendid Egyptian mansion, and the alternating privations and luxuries of battlefield and colonial life were Arthur Bedford’s obsessions.

  ‘For goodness sake, stop going on about the war,’ his wife would beg him in increasingly hysterical stage whispers that floated up the staircase and under their daughter’s bedroom door. ‘It’s over, Arthur. It’s been over for years and, yes, the whole world is grateful that Rommel was defeated, but there has to be an end to this constant rehashing. The only stories you ever tell Jean are war stories, what sort of upbringing is that for a little girl?’

  It was a confusing one, for the nuns at the small Anglican convent that young Jean attended were unimpressed by the military anecdotes recycled in her English compositions. More than a decade after peace was declared, they were preparing the girls for jobs as secretaries, teachers or nurses until the right man came along or, better still, encouraging them to consider taking the veil. Jean was not destined for the latter but she was a well-behaved, compliant child with a talent for dancing and needlework. She was an avid fan of The Famous Five, and revealed an unhealthy interest in the activities of the British Expeditionary Forces in Egypt in which historical fact was dangerously confused with imagination.

  The nuns taught a different sort of history, beginning with the Roman occupation of Britain followed by a huge leap to the thirteenth century and King John losing his crown in the reeds at Runnymede, and on to the House of Hanover. It was a sketchy Cook’s tour that depended entirely on the interests of whichever nun was teaching history at the time. The teenage Jean dreamed of luxurious palaces occupied by handsome, olive-skinned princes, courageous British officers and beautiful women in diaphanous evening gowns, waited on by white robed servants in red fezzes. It was hardly surprising, Marissa thought, sitting now on a camel on Cable Beach, that it was Blue mentioning they were heading for the Middle East that had contributed to that extraordinary decision outside the Horsham branch of Sainsbury’s.

  Almost a year later, in one of her many attempts to re-establish communication, she had sent her father a picture of herself on a camel along with news of the places he had described to her. But there was no response. Years later, on his death, she received a package from his younger sister, the only member of her family who had kept in touch with her. It contained her father’s wartime diaries, the camel photograph taken in 1943, and her own, taken almost a quarter of a century later.

  ‘This photograph of you was very important to Arthur,’ her aunt wrote. ‘But he was too proud ever to forgive you. Sad for him and most of all for your mother, they missed so much by being so unforgiving.’

  Marissa had wept when the package arrived. She had long ago given up any hope of reconciliation, but somehow love had survived. Leaving her marriage had been deliberate and final, but at the time she believed that her parents would eventually come around. For more than a decade, despite the unanswered letters, she dreamed of the feasting that would take place at the return of the prodigal daughter, and she would have made a trip home had she received any encouragement, but it never came. Now, being with Gayle, hearing her story and watching the painful process of her attempts to reconnect with her son, Marissa was thinking about her own mother.

  Daphne Bedford had never done a thing without her husband’s approval. She had spent the war with her own parents in a small cottage at the foot of the Sussex Downs, helping the Women’s Voluntary Service and waiting for Arthur’s return. She was the perfect housewife: quietly spoken, submissive, running a spotless home and never taking a step out of line. Was she really like that, Marissa wondered now? A part of her had always despised her mother for colluding in Arthur’s dominance. She had assumed that Daphne simply accepted his refusal to have anything to do with their errant daughter, but maybe Daphne had fought for her, argued, begged, even – maybe considered or attempted some secret correspondence. It no longer seemed as simple as she had imagined, and now Marissa wished she had made some attempt to contact her mother separately – a phone call, a letter through a friend, perhaps. If breaking through the barriers of upbringing and social expectation had seemed too hard to Gayle, a woman of her own generation, how insurmountable it would have been for her mother to break out of her suburban timidity.

  The camel train made its way slowly along the beach as the turquoise water darkened to navy and the sun rested, a crimson orb on the horizon, turning the clouds through gold and orange to deep rose and purple. She had wanted this ride since she had known they were coming to Broome.

  ‘No way,’ Sonya had said. ‘Not for me. Terrible, smelly, unpredictable creatures, camels – you won’t get me near one.’ And Gayle had been too absorbed in the aftermath of her meeting with Josh even to hear the invitation.

  ‘Well, I like camels,’ Marissa had said. ‘I rode one in the sixties and now I’m going to try again. You know there is a school of thought that insists the camel’s walk is highly relevant to belly dancing.’

  Gayle and Sonya exchanged a glance but Marissa was not to be put off.

  ‘You see, a camel walks by moving its hind leg first, followed by the front leg on the same side, unlike most other animals, which move a front leg first followed by the hind leg on the opposite side. So, for those of us with two legs the camel principle works like this . . .’ And she demonstrated the move. ‘You see, it pushes the pelvis forward as the other foot catches up.’ She picked up her sunglasses. ‘So, really, we have quite a lot to learn from the humble camel.’

  There was a pause in which Sonya blinked and took a deep breath. ‘Thank you for that, Marissa,’ she said. ‘Now, why don’t you just buzz off and commune with the camels while we inspect the insides of our eyelids.’

  ‘You’re a philistine and a wuss, Sonya.’

  ‘Indeed I am,’ Sonya replied. ‘And it’s not only camels. The idea of riding that horrific bike of yours would elicit the same response from me. Anyway, I’m tired. The rehearsals with the band seem very energetic. This is the time for vegging out, followed by a nice glass of wine and dinner. We’ll meet you on the terrace in a couple of hours.’

  And Gayle had nodded, waving a hand listlessly as Marissa went out the door.

  Marissa’s camel was last in the line and most of the other riders were travelling in pairs, fragments of conversation and laughter drifting back to her. She would have liked to have someone to ride with. Someone, not just anyone. Someone with whom she was at ease. Sonya or Gayle would have been fine, but really she wished that Frank were there.

  ‘Take care,’ he’d said as they walked to the departure gate in Perth. ‘I’ll be thinking of you.’

  ‘Me too,’ she said, realising in that moment how much he had occupied her thoughts recently. ‘I’ll call.’

  ‘Please,’ he’d said. ‘And when you get back, we’ll do some things . . . together, I mean.’
/>   Part of her hoped she’d imagined the intensity of the hug they exchanged; she didn’t want anything ruffling the calm waters of her emotional life.

  Gazing out across the darkening sea she felt her anxiety rise at the thought of the next stop on the tour, Port Hedland – the place of her worst memories. It hadn’t even been on her original plan for the tour, but somehow the project officer at the department had persuaded her: ‘You really should include Hedland, Marissa,’ she’d said. ‘It’s got a large population and there would be a lot of women there who would benefit. It makes sense to go to Port Hedland.’

  So perhaps it was meant to be. Perhaps it was time to stop pretending that it was all far enough away in time and place to matter anymore. She would concentrate on surviving Hedland and then she would give herself the time and space to think about Frank.

  Gayle was struggling. She was convinced that without the rehearsals to absorb her, she would not have been able to function at all. Now, standing behind the temporary stage waiting for their cue, she was longing for the music to begin, to lift her out of herself briefly. Four days had passed since her meeting with Josh and she had heard nothing more from him. Soon they would have completed not only the final conference performance but the other demonstrations and classes and they would be on their way to Port Hedland.

  She had been foolish to hope for some sort of ecstatic reunion in which the past could be forgiven in the sheer joy of meeting again. She had sacrificed so much and for what? For Brian and his ignorance and prejudice, for a deal struck long ago, for Angie. Now she had come face to face with what she had lost: her integrity. Josh’s hurt, his anger and intransigence were understandable but devastating.

  ‘I hoped for too much, I suppose,’ she had said wearily as they sat together at the café. ‘I hoped that it would be like it used to be, that we – you and I – could go back to where we were.’

  Josh had looked at her for a long time before speaking. ‘How could you think that?’ he asked. ‘Too much has happened: too much time, too much everything. He . . .’ Josh seemed to be trying to say his father’s name but couldn’t manage it. ‘He kicked me out, disowned me because of who I am. I know you didn’t feel the same way, but you didn’t stop it either, you didn’t protect me. You let me go, and now you want to forget it happened, have it all back again . . . ?’

  ‘It wasn’t so straightforward, Josh,’ she said, struggling to fight back more tears. ‘I know you can’t forgive me but let me explain more. It goes back a long way and your father, he’s . . . he’s –’

  ‘I know what he is,’ Josh cut in. ‘He’s an arrogant, ignorant bully. He was then and probably still is. But that’s what you opted for, it was your choice. Just don’t expect me to like it any better now than I did then.’

  ‘I was trying to keep things together,’ she protested. ‘The family . . . your father, Angie, the commitments I’d made. I was trapped, don’t you see that?’

  Josh rubbed his eyes and sighed. ‘But why? For some game of happy families with everyone pretending that it was all right? It hadn’t been all right for ages – for years before I came out.’ He leaned across the table towards her. ‘For as long as I can remember, Mum, you have walked on eggshells, backed away from confronting him, appeased him, compromised on everything. He’s a bully, he bullied all of us, and he still bullies you and Ange. Maybe you want that. Maybe security, the house and everything that goes with it is worth that to you, I don’t know.

  ‘All my life you’ve been pretending everything was all right, pretending you agreed with him, pretending you’d fix it all later. How can we put things back together, you and I? I don’t even know who you are under all the appeasement, and you certainly don’t know me. Oh, I love you, somehow that hasn’t changed, but I can’t talk to you because there is nothing to hold on to. Everything I thought I knew about my mother turned out to be wrong – most of all that you would always be there for me. But in the end you weren’t. It’s not that I can’t forgive you, but I can’t trust you. It’s too dangerous to even try.’

  ‘Let’s meet again, please,’ she’d begged as he finally got up to leave. ‘I’ll come to your place, meet Dan. I want to explain.’

  ‘There’s nothing to explain,’ he’d said, holding both her hands. ‘I understand how it’s been for you, but you have to understand where I’m coming from. Being gay, it’s . . . it’s not always easy coping with the way other people feel. Dan and I, we look after each other, we have friends, a business, a life. Our relationship is precious and I don’t want it all stirred up again.’

  He had hugged her in the end, not stiffening as he did when he arrived, not holding her away from him.

  ‘I’ll call you,’ he said as he walked away. ‘Take care, Mum, and . . . well, thanks for coming.’

  Gayle felt his words were carved into her flesh. Her body was sore, her head throbbed. One minute she wished she hadn’t come and that she could run away, then she wished she could turn back time, wished she could make him listen to what she needed to tell him, wished she were still at home in her brittle, empty life, wished she had never started dancing or rocked her own boat.

  ‘Okay?’ Marissa asked, adjusting her own sequinned headdress. ‘You both ready?’

  Sonya nodded. ‘I’m okay.’

  ‘Me too,’ Gayle said.

  ‘So when they finish this number we’re on. Remember to wait for Imran on the doumbek – it’s a drumroll, just like always. Then we’re out there and let’s give it all we’ve got.’ She looked anxiously at Gayle. ‘You sure you’re okay, Gayle?’

  ‘I’ll be better when we start,’ Gayle said.

  The band played a few chords, there was a pause and then the drumbeat. Tonight they were starting with a slow, sensuous chiftitelli. Marissa stepped out, gliding across the stage and taking up her position as the applause began.

  ‘It’s like magic, isn’t it?’ Gayle whispered as they stepped from the shadows. ‘You step into the spell and it carries you away.’ It felt like that first night in Kalgoorlie, as though the music and the dance possessed her, driving out anxiety and confusion. Gayle had been surprised to discover her inner performer, and she responded instinctively to the energy of the audience. When she danced, the changes within her were crystallised into a powerful sense of who and what she could be, and each time she retained more of that new self after the music stopped.

  Sonya too was more in tune with her body every day, and now, on this balmy moonlit night, on the open air stage with the band in the background, she knew she could be at her best. She had always enjoyed the company of men and these musicians were easygoing, appreciative of the women and relaxed in their company. Three of them had joined them for dinner the previous night – Imran, the drummer, who was Indian by birth but had lived most of his life in Egypt; Josef, from Turkey, who played the lute-like oud; and Ali, also from Turkey, whose triangular kanoun had the haunting qualities of an autoharp. Their company was refreshing and Sonya had realised with some satisfaction that the days when she would have looked for a sexual adventure in this situation were long gone. It was good just being there, and she felt more alive than she had for a long time.

  ‘You are very good dancer, Sonya,’ Josef had told her. ‘Very nice moving. You can go get a job in an Istanbul club anytime.’

  ‘Thanks, but no thanks,’ she said, smiling as she passed him the wine bottle. ‘That would be too much like hard work.’

  ‘Nonsense,’ he said with a laugh. ‘You have a wonderful time. Customers throw money at you, they tuck it in your belt, under the strap of your shoulder. I tell you, you be very popular and you make lots of money.’

  ‘And what about my superannuation and my pension, and my long service leave?’ she had teased.

  ‘Pouf!’ cut in Ali. ‘You find some rich man to keep you in luxury – very easy, I think.’

  Marissa rolled her eyes. ‘Don’t put ideas in her head, Josef, for heaven’s sake. I only just got her trained up.’

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nbsp; ‘Ah, Marissa,’ Imran said, ‘you are the best of all the dancers we play for. I don’t see nobody better in Marrakech.’

  As they danced now on this beautiful night, the faces of well over a hundred women formed a sea of pale ovals in the half-light. Sonya’s eyes roamed across the audience, flicking sideways only once when she had that recurring eerie sense of Tessa’s presence. She felt good, so much herself, so much better than herself, and she glanced across at the others. Marissa, as always, was magnificent, sensuous, every move perfect despite the pain of her inner thighs rubbed sore by the camel ride – and despite some unspoken worry that seemed to be focused on something in Port Hedland. And Gayle, battling with a life crisis, abandoning herself to the transcendent power of the music and the dance.

  This can’t be bad, Sonya thought as they began the caleshmar. Whatever my family thinks of me, something this good, that gives this much pleasure to so many people, simply can’t be bad. And once again she scanned the faces in the audience, wondering if some among them would recognise and accept the challenge offered by the dance.

  SIXTEEN

  Oliver, most of the way through a bottle of good red and feeling pleasantly relaxed, was packing Joan’s books into a couple of cardboard boxes.

  ‘I’m not cancelling it all out,’ he said aloud, catching a glimpse of her looking forbiddingly at him from a silver frame. ‘Just changing direction. Getting my own priorities sorted out instead of yours – should’ve done it years ago.’

  The photograph, taken on the night she was awarded her PhD, showed Joan in an academic gown staring straight ahead at the camera, clutching her degree and looking fierce and awkward. Oliver emptied the remains of the bottle into his glass, studied the picture for a while and then took it down from the shelf.

  ‘I think I’ve misrepresented you, Ma,’ he said aloud in tones that were a little slurred. ‘I’ve turned you into a harridan. You know, what I’ve done to you is what you always said the media did to feminism – trivialised it, stripped it of its humour, its inclusiveness. I allowed myself to forget who you really were.’