The Stillness the Dancing

by Wendy Perriam

  She buttoned up her cardigan, pulled the sleeves right down. It was chilly in the drawing-room. She had to economise, keep the heating low, light the fire only for visitors. It was the worst part of winter when they had already shivered through three months of cold and dark, with another two to come. The cold made her arthritis worse, stiffened up her joints. Pain was like the doubts—always there, always nagging, sharper sometimes, and occasionally so bad she almost panicked. Pain and God were linked. You bore it for Him willingly because He had died for you. But supposing He …?

  She fetched another woolly from the hall, put it on. It would be warm in bed, of course. But she hated lying in the dark, trying to pass the time by saying the rosary—decade after decade, every Hail Mary sounding more hollow and hypocritical than the last. Mind you, it was gloomy even here, with half the lamps turned off. She could hear the wind whining outside the windows like a dog shut out. They had forecast gales tonight in the South, snow in the North. She hated wind—the way it blew the walnut tree against the kitchen window, made the front door rattle. She glanced around the room. The furniture was closing in on her, dark and heavy pieces inching closer. Ridiculous! She was just imagining things. Strange, though, how after ten o’clock the house appeared to change its usual sunny character, become gradually more sullen and bad-tempered the longer she stayed up. She wished she could phone a friend, hear another human voice. They would all be in bed by now, or getting ready for it; Madge at the retreat house sharing a room with a stranger. She should have gone with Madge, booked a double room as she’d suggested. Easier to lie awake when someone else was there, even someone snoring. But she couldn’t face ten days, half of them in silence; a retreat called Taking Stock. She had been Taking Stock for far too long, not finding any answers. And Hilden Cross seemed more and more depressing. Bad food and shabby rooms were of no importance so long as God were there. But if you were simply filling time, filling holes …

  She refolded Morna’s letter, returned it to its envelope. Morna was clever and hadn’t found the answers, so what hope was there for her? She had never been a brainy type and the world had grown increasingly confusing. First they had changed the money, then the weather. She still thought in terms of shillings and half-crowns. And when that chappie on the forecast said six degrees centigrade, it always sounded colder than it would in Fahrenheit, and by the time she’d worked it out, she had missed the ‘general outlook’ and couldn’t plan her clothes for the next day. And as for those new thermometers—well, you never had a fever on them, however ill you felt. Schools were different, too. Boys and girls in tee shirts and blue jeans, and chips for lunch or Mars bars instead of grey flannel and rice pudding. And the things the children studied had never even existed in her day and no one learnt their tables any longer. It was all machines and calculators, or worse still, those computer things which they kept warning you would change the world and were probably dangerous anyway. She didn’t want her world changed, preferred the old and safe one where God pressed all the switches and the only printout was the Ten Commandments.

  The clock struck the quarter-hour. Still eight hours till dawn—four hundred and eighty minutes. At least she could multiply without a calculator—couldn’t be senile yet. She stretched her legs in front of her. Not bad, either. Still slim, still decent shaped. She could hear Joy snoring in her basket on the stairs. She snored like Madge, unevenly, with little rasping grunts every second snore. Nice to have her there, snuggled on her lap—Joy, not Madge. Madge was too big and bony for anybody’s lap. She smiled to herself. ‘God bless Madge,’ she whispered. ‘Keep her safe.’ Maybe He was listening. Somewhere. She had to believe for Joy’s sake. A heaven for dogs with not just lawns and deckchairs, but a whole wild park beyond, nonstop trees and lampposts, new exciting smells, and her own legs and heart rejuvenated so a walk could last two hours or more, instead of a puffing twenty minutes.

  Well, she had better check her cake, turn the oven down. She eased up, smoothed her skirt, jumped when the doorbell rang. No one called this late. Best ignore it. You read so much about muggers—people pretending to read meters or sell brushes who coshed you on the head just as you were picking out your matching dustpan. No one sold anything at eleven o’ clock at night, though, and the electricity board never worked past five. Bea stood stock still where she was, closed her eyes. She could see that picture in her prayer book of Christ standing knocking at the door, holding a lamp, His brown eyes sad, yet very bright like a bird’s. Morna had told her that it had been painted by Holman Hunt, which hadn’t meant a lot, except she discovered later he wasn’t a Catholic which seemed a pity when the picture was so good. Underneath was written ‘Behold, I stand at the door and knock. If any man hear My voice and open the door, I will come unto him and sup with him.’

  That would be nice—to have Christ turn up for supper. Not that she’d got much food in. No point when she was on her own with Chris and Morna away. She had always given Father Clarke plain and homely food—Irish stew (he came from Donegal), apple pie and custard. But you couldn’t serve Irish stew to God and certainly not custard. He’d be used to more elaborate fare—salmon trout or crown roast of lamb, with profiteroles to follow and a decent pâté to start with, maybe duck or chicken-liver. She had a tin of pâté, but that really wasn’t the same. She also had eggs and bacon. If she added Joy’s lamb chop and piece of kidney, she could call it Mixed Grill. Mixed Grill was on the menu of even the very best of restaurants and they had served it in Edward’s Mess (with English mustard in a solid silver jar and cranberry sauce for the Group Captain who was known to be eccentric).

  The bell rang a second time. She was getting senile, planning a meal for Jesus with a mugger at the door. Christ had knocked, in any case, not rung. Mind you, it was a very gentle ring, what you’d call a meek one, not a mugger’s brazen peal. It hadn’t even woken the dog, though she had to admit Joy was going deaf. Between the two of them, they were losing all their faculties. Maybe it was Madge, come all the way back to fetch her. Well, she wouldn’t go. She had made a decision and she was going to stick to it. In fact, she would have to pluck up courage and speak to Madge as soon as she returned—admit her doubts, cut down her activities to strictly non-religious ones, refuse to play the hypocrite. She would lose a friend most likely—a dear and valuable friend who had a car and two adorable Skye terriers as well as a loving heart. She would also lose the whole shape and point and purpose to her life. But what was the alternative?

  She inched into the hall, saw a head silhouetted in the pane of glass set in the front door. Not Madge’s grizzled dishmop, but a man’s head, dark and sleek.

  ‘Joy!’ she called, trembling. The dog might be deaf, but she wasn’t dumb, could still scare a postman or a thug.

  ‘Who’s there?’ she shouted, above the crescendoing bark.

  No answer save for a second round from Joy. This was when you really longed to pray, to have a God to call on to save you from a flick knife or a cosh. ‘Lord, I am unworthy. I know I doubt You, but if You’re there, please send the brute away.’

  Everyone was deaf—God, the mugger, the nice young couple next door. The face was pressed against the glass now, nose squashed like a mongol’s.

  ‘Wh … Who is it?’ she called again, cowering in the shadow of the tallboy, voice trembling now itself.

  ‘Only me, Martin.’

  ‘Martin!’

  Martin never called without Chris, and even with her, had been there only twice, sitting silent both times with his back hunched and his long legs stretched in front of him, so that she had almost tripped on them bringing in the tea. Bea opened the door a crack. Perhaps it was a trick, or a different Martin, a Jack-the-Ripper Martin.

  No. It was Chris’s Martin, dressed in that strange black leather thing he always seemed to wear and holding his crash helmet by the strap as if it were a pail.

  ‘Wh … What’s wrong? Is Chris all right? There hasn’t been an accident? You haven’t come to tell me …?’


  ‘Course not. I was just passing on my way back from my mate’s. Saw your light on, so I thought I’d …’ Martin’s voice tailed off. His face was pinched with cold, his nose red and running slightly.

  ‘Come in, dear. You look half-perished. Like a cup of tea?’

  ‘Yeah, I’d love one. Thanks.’

  ‘Come into the kitchen and I’ll put the kettle on. Leave that thing in the hall. Down, Joy! Friend, Joy. That’s right, let her sniff you, and she’ll settle down. You like your tea strong, don’t you? With two sugars?’

  ‘Please.’

  She wondered why he had come. He couldn’t just be passing when her house was in a cul-de-sac. She wished he would fill the silence, say something, anything, not just sort of stand there, shuffling from foot to foot and blowing on his fingers.

  ‘Sit down, dear. It’s warm in here. You shouldn’t drink strong tea at night, you know. It stops you sleeping. I’ve got Ovaltine, if you prefer. Or Horlicks. No? I‘ll have Ovaltine. I’ve stopped drinking tea in the evenings—not that it seems to help.’

  She was rambling on. Shy or silent people always made her garrulous. She must be boring him. But what did you say to nineteen-year-old boys? Or was he twenty? He’d had a birthday, hadn’t he? Yes. She remembered Chris telling her she’d miss it.

  ‘Happy birthday, Martin, for last week. How did you enjoy it?’

  ‘It was all right, I s’pose.’

  ‘Did your mother make you a cake?’

  ‘No. Chris did.’

  ‘What, before she went away?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘That was kind.’

  ‘Mm.’

  Silence again, save for the spasms of the kettle as it panted to the boil. Martin suddenly lurched up, joined her at the hob.

  ‘That’s … er … really what I came about. I mean, I … wondered if you’d heard from them?’

  ‘Oh yes, dear. Morna phoned the minute they arrived and I had a card from Chris within the week. A pretty one with palm trees and an orange sky. She said they’re really orange over there, the sunsets.’

  ‘C … Can I see it?’

  ‘Of course. I’ve got another one as well, from Chris. Malibu, it says. Odd name, isn’t it? They went there for a visit, saw the house where Bunny lived as a child. Her mother bred dachshunds, so Chris said. They had eight at one time, all living in the house. Isn’t that nice? I’ll just fill the teapot and I’ll get you both the cards.’

  She wished Chris had written a letter, a long one like she used to as a child, not just those few scrawled lines. She checked the cards before showing them to Martin, to make sure there was nothing private or embarrassing. She didn’t really like him reading them at all. They were all she had of Chris at present, and the boy had dirty hands.

  She passed them over, wondered why he took so long to read four sentences. Mind you, Chris’s writing left a lot to be desired. Perhaps he was having trouble in deciphering them.

  ‘What did you get, dear?’ she asked at last. ‘A beach scene or …?’

  ‘I … er … didn’t.’

  ‘You mean you haven’t heard?’

  ‘Nope.’

  ‘What, not at all?’

  ‘Well, she phoned. That was on my birthday, but I was out and my mother took the message—she said she’d ring again, but I wasn’t to ring her.’

  ‘And what did she say when …?’

  ‘She didn’t.’ Martin had both hands on his cup, holding it so tight, she feared he’d crush it. ‘I was getting worried, tell the truth. That’s why I called round.’

  Bea felt a dart of triumph. She had imagined Martin with a ten-page letter, when the score was in fact two-nil—to her. She had always been Chris’s favourite until he came along. They had been on holidays together, endless outings to puppet shows and parks, pet shops and sweet shops, cinemas and zoos. Now Chris went to discos which only made you deaf, or went diving with that rough unruly crowd, which was unladylike as well as dangerous. Horrible to gloat, though. No wonder God had gone—walked out in sheer disgust. Love thy neighbour as thyself, and Martin was a neighbour—almost a relation. She tried to reassure him.

  ‘I expect you’ll hear tomorrow. Weekends are always bad. The post mounts up, you see, and by the time they’ve …’

  ‘When did yours come?’ Martin tried his tea, blew on it. ‘The second one, I mean.’

  ‘Let me think.’ Bea dithered, lied. ‘Only a day or so ago. Postmen are quite dreadful nowadays. I even heard of one who threw half the letters in a hedge so he could get round in quicker time.’

  Martin put his cup down—still too hot. ‘Did Mrs … you know—Morna—phone again?’

  ‘Well, yes, she did, in fact.’

  ‘Did you … er … speak to Chris, as well?’

  ‘Just a few words, that’s all. They’re very expensive, those transatlantic calls.’

  ‘Yeah, I know. What did she say?’

  ‘Let’s see—she was having a lovely time and she’d been to Hollywood and … and … some other place I can’t remember now—oh, and she’s learning golf and …’

  ‘Golf? She … er … didn’t mention me, did she—I mean, give you any message or …?’

  ‘Well, no, she didn’t, Martin, but they only had three minutes, dear, and that was between the two of them. Morna took up most of it. Anyway, Chris wouldn’t have known I’d be seeing you, so why should …?’

  ‘No, I s’pose not.’ Martin sagged back in his chair, chewed his thumbnail. Another minute took its time to pass. ‘She’s all right, is she, though? I mean, well and everything?’

  ‘Oh yes, dear. Absolutely fine. She sounded really bright and cheerful.’

  Martin picked up his cup again, stopped with it poised halfway to his mouth, sniffed the air. ‘Something’s burning.’

  ‘The cake!’ Bea jumped up to save it. ‘I had the oven high to start with, just to brown the top, and forgot to turn it down.’ She whipped out a blackened mess. ‘There—I’ve ruined it!’

  ‘You can cut the burnt bits off. My mother always does. I’ll eat them, if you like. I like burnt cake.’

  ‘I shouldn’t do that, dear. It’s bird cake.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I make it for the birds—once a week in winter. I got the recipe last year from that television programme—what’s it called? You know, that chap with the moustache. He’s got a bird’s name himself. Trilling, isn’t it? Yes, Robert Trilling. I often wondered whether they chose him for his name. Mind you, Robin Trilling would have been even better. ‘Birds In Your Back Garden’—that’s it. Six o’clock on Thursdays. I expect your mother watches it.’

  ‘She’s hardly ever in at six.’

  ‘Well, she ought to make the effort. It’s very good. They’ve had several different recipes. There was one for water birds—a sort of mixed grain loaf with sunflower seeds. I made two of those, in fact, took them to Black Pond. It’s especially important to help out in the winter when they’re cold and short of food.’

  Martin still looked cold himself and famished, gulping the bits of blackened cake she had cut off round the edges.

  ‘I’ve got some other cake—human cake—date and walnut. Would you like a slice?’ She owed him that at least. It was a sin to crow, count points.

  ‘No, thanks.’

  ‘Well, how about a biscuit or a sandwich or …?’

  ‘No, really.’

  She wished he would accept. He was probably just being polite. He still seemed ill at ease, the sort of thin and restless type who found it an effort to keep still. Even when he was sitting down, he looked ready to take off, perched only on the edge of his chair rather than settled into it, one foot tapping nervously, the other doubled under him. She felt very old and heavy in comparison, as if she were screwed down on her seat and would need a crane to winch her up again. No—they couldn’t be relations. Chris was far too young to marry, anyway. Morna had married young and look where that had got her. Yet how could she interfere? Chris
was stubborn. Morna always said she got that from her Grandma. Bea smiled. Or Grandpapa. The Conyers were all obstinate.

  Silence again, save for Martin’s tapping, Joy’s snuffly wheezing snores. The dog had returned to sleep, but now curled up at her feet instead of in her basket on the stairs. Martin couldn’t be that bad, not if Joy were sleeping. She never slept in front of tricky people, but stayed on her guard and growled. She wondered if he had a God. Funny how you couldn’t ask, as if it were something private and embarrassing like bodies. Chris had said his parents were vaguely C of E, but never went to church. Mind you, they had given him a saint’s name. She had always liked St Martin—the Tours one, not de Porres (who was a mulatto and illegitimate, which only went to show how broad-minded the Church was, in that it could overlook his birth and canonise him.) St Martin of Tours was a different type entirely—a man of power and breeding who had gone on to be a bishop. Before his conversion, he had met a naked beggar on a winter’s night and cut his cloak in two, handed over half of it. The beggar had been Christ, of course—or so the books all said. Now she was less certain. Would people be allowed to walk around stark naked, even in those early days? She couldn’t remember what century it was, didn’t know St Martin’s dates at all. Dates were worse than centigrade.

  She glanced back at his namesake. If Martin cut his jeans in half to help a naked tramp, neither he nor tramp would be warm or even decent. The jeans were so skimpy, they were pulling at the seams, revealed a gap of flesh between his sweater and his belt. It wasn’t fair on Chris to dress like that. Young girls were susceptible and he was showing off everything he had. She fixed her eyes on his cup instead—empty now, save for a few last grains of semi-melted sugar which he was laboriously spooning out.