The Stillness the Dancing

by Wendy Perriam

  Martha’s chest was a pillow—soft, supporting. Morna longed to sink down into it. That was self-indulgence, though—a weakness, like self-pity. ‘Don’t touch me,’ she whispered silently. ‘Please I beg you, don’t be kind.’ It would only make her cry and crying was another form of selfishness. God hated tears; so had Neil.

  She scrubbed at her eyes, tried to pull away from Martha’s arms. ‘I’m s … sorry. I’m so sorry.’

  ‘You go right ahead and cry, honey. You gotta wash the pain out before there’s room for love.’

  ‘No … No, please. I ought to get back. I t … told my friend I …’

  They didn’t understand. They would undo all the good the nuns had done, all those years of self-control, offering up one’s grief for God; later years when she hid the pain and shame of divorce behind an impassive wooden mask. Even with David Anthony she had managed not to cry—confessed her loss and misery for the first time in her life, but not all of it, not the cruellest childhood part—then changed the subject, anyway, tried to shrug it off. Better that way. You only embarrassed people by pouring everything out, wallowing in ‘poor me’.

  ‘Morna, doll, try and just let go. You’re so goddam stiff, it’s like someone’s encased you in a straitjacket.’

  A straitjacket, yes. Punishment for that self-indulgent child who still whimpered for its Daddy, still craved cuddles and attention. She had attention now—more arms than she could count, a circle of bodies pressing warm and close. Dangerous. If she let go, lost control, where would it ever end? Once she started crying, she might never stop. There were years and years of tears to shed—all those cold nights in the dormitory, frightened of the Devil, mornings at breakfast starving herself to free a soul from purgatory; the teenage years when purgatory went up in smoke, along with hell, heaven, God Himself; the whole world as she knew it blown to pieces, leaving her trembling at the crater’s edge, staring into void.

  She could feel the darkness now. They had locked her in the Penance Room, Mother Michael switching off the light, turning the key as she stalked away.

  ‘If you doubt God, Anne, you need time on your own with no distraction, nothing to eat or drink, no one else to talk to. You’ll find Him then, soon enough.’

  ‘No,’ she had pleaded, hammering on the door. ‘Let me out! Please, please let me out.’

  No one heard. No one came. She could feel the tears sheeting down her face, shaking her whole body.

  ‘I do believe!’ she shouted. ‘I do, I do.’

  ‘Of course you do.’

  She stopped in shock. The voice was gentle—not Mother Michael’s sackcloth rasp. Someone had unlocked the door, switched the light back on. The dark gloom of the Penance Room was bathed in brilliant sunshine, Mother Michael’s scratchy serge transformed to scarlet silk. People were streaming in, kind and careful people with velvet arms scooping her off the cold stone floor, holding her tight so she couldn’t fall; soft fleshy people who had taken off their armour so you could sink right into them. She felt herself pressed against bosoms, folded into laps; heard that swansdown voice again.

  ‘You cry, Morna honey, you just cry.’

  She cried. They had called her Morna instead of Anne. School must be over, then, Mother Michael dead and buried now, but she went on crying still. She was crying for her father, and her mother who had lost him, too; crying for her daughter, and David Attwood’s daughter, for the other David and the miles between them, for the down and outs in Downtown, the old crones in the café, all the old and sick in California. She was unravelling like a piece of knitting, losing her edges and her shape so that she flowed now into everyone, could feel their grief as keenly as her own.

  It hurt to cry. Her body was cramped and shaken, legs twisted underneath her, nose blocked, eyes sore and swollen. She could hear strange animal noises rasping from her own throat, ugly noises which mixed pain and fear.

  At last she mopped her eyes, raised her head from the soft and squashy pillow of Martha’s chest, stared appalled at the crumpled silk. Her nose had run on to a five-hundred dollar outfit, her tears had spotted it. She tried to find her voice.

  ‘I … I really am so s … sorry.’

  ‘Don’t be sorry, sweetie. We’re glad you’ve opened up.’

  ‘Crying’s like a safety valve. If you don’t let that stuff out, it gets all blocked up inside you.’

  ‘We understand. We’ve all been through it, too, all cried oceans here.’

  Morna blew her nose. They were only being polite. Whatever they said, she must be boring them, embarrassing them, snivelling like a dead-end kid, holding up their meeting.

  ‘I’m all r … right now,’ she faltered. ‘I’m quite all right.’

  ‘Sure you are,’ said Martha. ‘You’re absolutely fine. No, don’t move. You’ve finally relaxed and it feels a whole lot better.’

  ‘B … But isn’t it time for …?’

  ‘It’s time for you, Morna, honey. We’ve got all the time you need—all the love you need.’

  Morna sank back down. It wasn’t just politeness. Easy to wince when they used the word love, threw it around so indiscriminately, but now she was experiencing it for herself. Love had always been conditional before—God’s love, lost if you transgressed; Neil’s love, a four-letter word, animal and urgent, demanding entry, demanding a response. Strokings and caressings had been only strictly sexual, part of a cold-eyed contract. ‘I’ll hold you if you let me …’

  These girls voiced no ‘ifs’, asked nothing in return, got nothing back save aching arms, mussed clothes. They had accepted her completely, messy and dishevelled as she was, a total stranger they might never see again, and who had criticised their theories as mawkish and naïve. She was crying for them as well now—for their naïveté, their simple generous warmth, for Lee-Ann’s three failed marriages, Angie’s Catholic childhood, Martha’s flab. She didn’t have a monopoly in grief. They had suffered, too, wept as much as she had. Beneath their bounce and sparkle were the scars of failure and rejection. They simply refused to pick at the scars for ever. Wounds healed, tears dried. She could feel her own slowing up, easing into quiet exhaustion.

  ‘Better?’ Martha asked.

  She nodded. Vastly better. The nuns had called her rebellious and self-willed. She was also warm, loving, courageous, open, beautiful. These girls had told her so. A winner. A survivor. One in four hundred million.

  She sat back on her heels, smoothed her damp and crumpled clothes. One last hand was still stroking her hair—a smaller lighter hand than Martha’s. She scrubbed at her eyes, looked round. It was Bunny—her rival—the girl whom Neil loved, who had broken up her marriage, left her daughter fatherless; Bunny tanned, glowing, radiantly young, where she was fading, ageing, tear-stained, superseded.

  Morna reached out her arms and hugged her.

  The girls didn’t leave till nearly dark. Neil and Chris returned from golf soon after, found Morna and Bunny still stretched out on the patio, surrounded by empty glasses, Morna resplendent in the silver string bikini, Bunny in a second one made of tiny shiny beads and strictly not for getting wet.

  ‘Mum, you look obscene!’ Chris was wearing Bunny’s clothes herself, white jeans and a sweatshirt with HARVARD printed on it, both too big for her. ‘You’re far too fat to wear that.’

  Morna stretched out her legs, admired them. ‘No, I’m not, I’m beautiful.’

  Bunny giggled. ‘Your Mom’s as high as a kite.’

  ‘Mum, you’re not drunk, are you?’ Chris snatched up her mother’s glass—sniffed it. ‘What’s this?’

  ‘My second Harvey Wallbanger—what’s left of it. They’re fabulous! Want me to make you one?’

  ‘No, thanks.’

  Neil was already fixing drinks. Morna took her refill, kissed his hand. There were no exes any more. They were all one big happy family. She was merely the older wiser wife, Bunny her kid sister. She had a whole bevy of new siblings—not just the group who had left offering love, support, addresses,
invitations—but girls who waited table, mechanics who fixed your car. Men, women, children—she embraced the world.

  She stumbled to her feet, squeezed between Neil and Bunny. It was only convention which decreed they should be enemies—just as convention said that January should be cold. Snow was muffling London, but here the warm nuzzling evening caressed her naked skin. Even the dark was made of velvet. She was basking in the stars.

  ‘Do you realise, those are the first stars I’ve seen since we arrived? The sky seems full of lights from aircraft, but never a single star.’

  ‘I guess you weren’t really looking.’ Bunny got up to put her robe back on. ‘The stars are huge here and fantastically bright. Just look at that one! It’s like a frisbee.’

  ‘That’s Venus,’ Neil said softly.

  There was a sudden silence as they all looked up. They could hear the faint plashing of the pool, its silver water reflecting Venus back.

  ‘Just imagine,’ Bunny whispered, still gazing at the sky. ‘The very same energy that holds those planets up, keeps them going around and around, is inside of us, too. We’re part of the whole goddam thing. Doesn’t that just freak you out?’

  Morna nodded. The same energy which had made her win the sperm race—made them all winners—Chris, Neil, Bunny, Dean. She could hear Dean pounding down the stairs, bursting on to the patio in blue pyjama bottoms, top still bare. He flung himself at Chris.

  ‘You’re back, you’re back! You’re going to be a beggarwoman.’

  ‘What you talking about?’

  ‘Well, you know I’m going to marry you …?’

  ‘You don’t let me forget it. I’ve almost bought the dress.’

  ‘Well …’ Dean broke off suddenly, rushed across to Morna. ‘Can we do it again—Tinker Tailor?’

  ‘You’ve eaten all the cherries.’

  ‘No, I haven’t.’ He went to fetch a second bowlful, carried it unsteadily down the steps. Morna got up to help him, took the bowl and placed it on the table, hugged him suddenly, lifted him off the ground and swung him round.

  ‘Again!’ he shouted. ‘Do it again!’

  Twice more and the two of them collapsed dizzy on the lawn. She held him on her lap, felt him warm, clinging. Her child. She sorted through the bowl for double stalks of paired cherries, hung them across his lobes as cherry earrings. He tugged them off and ate them, spitting the stones out in her hand.

  ‘Tinker Tailor,’ he prompted.

  ‘Tinker, tailor, soldier, sailor, rich man … You’re going to marry a rich girl, Dean.’

  ‘Sure,’ he said. ‘She’ll be so rich we’ll go to Disneyland every single day. Last time I went, Daddy let me go on Space Mountain. It’s great. Have you been on Space Mountain?’

  ‘No, I’ve never been to Disneyland at all.’

  ‘You’ve never been to Disneyland?’ He stared at her, incredulous, a cherry frozen halfway to his mouth.

  He wriggled off her lap, rushed across to his mother. ‘Mom, can we go to Disneyland with Morna?’

  ‘Yeah, sure. When do you want to go?’

  ‘Now!’ said Dean, jumping up and down.

  ‘It’ll be closed, stupid.’ Chris yawned, grabbed a cherry.

  ‘Tomorrow, then, tomorrow.’

  Chapter Fourteen

  ‘Our hero, Mickey Mouse,

  Our hero, Mickey Mouse.’

  Over and over, the loudspeakers thundered out the chorus, which was taken up by the clapping cheering crowd; Mickey Mouse placards processing down the street, Mickey Mouse banners screaming ‘Yea, Mickey!’ in white and scarlet, Mickey Mouse hats on half the spectators, Mickey Mouse balloons with their hero’s ears and smile. And now King Mickey himself, star of the procession, capering on his float, black-ringed pop eyes, white-gloved hands, huge bow tie, spindly legs.

  Fifty thousand people worshipping a mouse, a cartoon mouse with fat belly, little brain. Girls turning cartwheels in his honour, men blowing trumpets, bashing drums. A whole army stepping out, uniformed and braided, marching to his tune. Floats before him and behind, bearing all his retinue—his consort Minnie, his acolytes, his outriders—Pluto, Goofy, Donald Duck, Peter Pan, Pinocchio, glass-slippered Cinderella; cheer-leaders, dancing girls, acrobats and clowns, all singing, skipping, cavorting down Main Street, Disneyland. Cameras flashing, balloons popping, streamers tangling in the trees; crowds pushing from behind to get a better view, children hoisted on to shoulders or crawling between legs. Oompa, oompa from the tubas, clash and jingle from tambourines, amplified by brash loudspeakers; Mickey Mouse’s praises echoing through Disneyland’s exotic playgrounds—Frontierland, Fantasyland, Bear Country, Adventureland.

  Morna mopped the perspiration from her neck. She was wearing a Pluto hat with huge hot ears. Dean had insisted. He had ears himself, Mickey Mouse ones, a Mickey Mouse balloon. He tugged at her hand.

  ‘Isn’t it great?’

  She nodded. It had been—the first three hours. She had been surprisingly impressed with Disneyland, expected a vulgar funfair strewn with litter and reeking of chips, found instead a place so clean and swabbed you could have performed an operation in it. Its paths were shaded with green luxuriant trees and bright with beds of flowers—scarlet cyclamen, blue and yellow pansies, magnolia trees in pink and perfect bloom. Everyone was friendly—guides with names on their lapels—Andy, Cindy, Sue, all with non-wilt smiles; Disney characters wandering around amongst the visitors—Donald Duck stretching out a wing to shake, Snow White blowing kisses.

  They had arrived early, seen it at its best, the day still cool and breezy, not a speck of litter in all seventy-seven acres. The crowds soon surged and thronged, the sun began to glare instead of smile. The place was impressive but exhausting. Whichever way you turned, something screamed out its attractions, dazzled your eyes, assaulted your ears, insisted you admire it. They had been on a score of rides already, been snapped at by crocodiles, wrecked by pirates, rocketed into other galaxies, paddled down tropical rivers or ventured into rain forests, screamed with terror in the Haunted Mansion, clung to their hats and stomachs in a runaway mining train. In the space of one short morning, they had moved from night to day and back again, from submarine to moon rocket, from the silent films and gas lamps of Main Street, 1890, to the twenty-first century’s mind-chilling Mission to Mars.

  Now Morna felt sated, like a spoilt and fractious child whimpering for its bed. No chance of that yet. Dean seemed indefatigable and Neil and Bunny were obviously determined that she shouldn’t miss a thing. It was only early afternoon and the crowds were swelling even thicker, the sun melting ices, faces; trumpets blasting, drums pounding, as the relentless song pumped out. ‘Our hero, Mickey Mouse, Our hero …’ A new group of cheerleaders kicked and pirouetted along the street, their white frilled panties flashing beneath scarlet mini-skirts.

  ‘I ought to get a job here,’ Chris grinned. ‘Imagine that on my CV. Pre-university experience—drum majorette to Mickey Mouse!’ Chris was walking arm in arm with Neil, relishing her official role as daughter, stockpiling all the goodies he had bought for her and Dean—Snow White pencil sharpeners, fluorescent Goofy golf balls, garish tea towels—trash she would have tossed aside if anyone else had dared insult her with it. Morna had never seen her eat so much before, downing everything Neil bought her—ice-cream cornets, popcorn, frozen banana lollipops on sticks, hot dogs, bags of chips. She tried hard to be glad that they were getting on so well after all the years apart. There was a danger in their closeness, though. In eight short days Chris would be parted from the parent she had only just refound. How would she cope?

  It was strange to be with Neil at all, particularly in public—one united family to passers-by—except now it included two children and two wives. He had renounced golf in their honour, bypassed both bar and tennis club, and had been acting full-time father since seven a.m. As far as Wife I was concerned, his mask was still as firmly in place as her own Pluto hat and ears. He spoke to her in clichés, never probed beyond the sur
face, avoided any reference to the past. Had he always worn a mask, she wondered, even when she was the one and only wife, and had she ever really glimpsed the man beneath it? She glanced at him now, immaculate white shirt setting off his dark and well groomed hair, smile vitamin-enriched. Supposing there wasn’t a man beneath it, just stick-on clothes and features covering a hole? Big Sam had been real enough, but even he existed only an hour or less a day.

  She clutched at the post beside her, feeling suddenly disorientated. Fourteen years married to a cut-out, five further years mourning and missing a mask?

  ‘Hey, look!’ Neil cried, pushing Dean to the front. ‘Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs. Aren’t they cute?’