Tread Softly

by Wendy Perriam

  Lorna watched enviously. They were so in tune with each other’s movements they could have been one body. Did they achieve the same harmony in bed, she wondered, and in their marriage generally? She had always longed to be fused with another person, coupled in every sense. Life would be less frightening then, less lonely. From the age of four she had been forced to see how precarious things were. Most children’s first experience of death involved a goldfish or pet rabbit, not their parents. But why on earth was she musing on death in the middle of a dinner-dance? Besides, thirty-five years on, she should be over it.

  Except you never did get over it.

  ‘I wish you could dance like that, Clarence,’ Caroline said with an irritable shake of her bangles. (She was wearing so much jewellery she clanked.)

  ‘I can’t dance at all,’ Clarence sniggered.

  ‘It’s nothing to be proud of!’

  ‘Well, I can manage the Gay Gordons at a pinch, and my version of the twist, of course.’

  Caroline turned to Lorna with a sigh. ‘We’ll just have to be wall-flowers.’

  ‘Oh, Ralph would be delighted to dance with you, I’m sure.’ Lies, more lies. She wished Alexander would come to Caroline’s rescue, but he was deep in a golfing conversation with a portly chap on the adjacent table.

  ‘Well, that was the whole problem, Paul. You see, I started well enough with a bogey and two pars, but on the sixth I hit a tree, and after that it was downhill all the way. I four-putted on the eighth, and by the time I …’

  Lorna found golf even more tedious than bridge, a subject Jackie had already covered at exhaustive length, giving them a blow-by-blow account of every hand in every rubber she had played in a recent tournament. Bemused by two-club openings and grand slams, Lorna had taken refuge in fantasies about the rather ravaged-looking but distinctly dishy double-bassist.

  ‘And did you play in the Centurions?’ the portly man droned on, now occupying Olive’s chair.

  ‘Yes, that was slightly better. But I blew it on the eighteenth when I was looking at a net sixty-eight. What happened was …’

  Naked in a four-poster bed (and miraculously rash-less, pain-less and nausea-less), Lorna let the double-bassist pluck her quivering strings. His little goatee beard tickled down her thighs, did amazing things between them. And, conveniently, the vocalist had just broken into the perfect number for a seduction:

  ‘I’d love to make a tour of you,

  The East, West, North and the South of you …’

  ‘Yes,’ she murmured, opening her North and South to his tantalizing lips.

  ‘Lorna?’

  She jumped. ‘I’m sorry. What did you say?’

  ‘I was asking about your bad leg. Was it a skiing accident?’

  If only. ‘Well, it’s actually my foot. I, er …’ She deliberated whether a congenital deformity would sound better or worse than a bunion. Luckily Clarence came to the rescue by asking if he could finish her meringue.

  ‘Please do,’ she urged, wishing he had offered to eat all her other unfinished courses, saving her from seeming picky and ungrateful. The nausea had come on only this morning, and she had no idea whether it was related to the rash or was just a consequence of Oakfield catering.

  ‘Did we tell you’, Clarence said between enthusiastic mouthfuls, ‘that James’s school thinks he should try for Cambridge?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said. Repeatedly. She remembered their parental pride from the Kirkwoods’ dinner party, way back in September. Since then, it appeared, the teenage prodigy had gone from strength to strength.

  ‘He’s got his own web site now,’ Caroline said smugly. ‘He set it up himself.

  ‘It’s had thousands of hits already,’ Clarence added. ‘We may be the teeniest bit biased, Lorna, but we just know that boy’s destined for great things.’

  ‘Mm. Yes. I’m sure.’ Was it unkind to wish that the little brat had been strangled at birth? ‘Is he your only child?’

  ‘Oh no. Didn’t we tell you about Amanda?’ Caroline at once rectified the oversight with a run-through of Amanda’s CV. Although only twelve, she was already a ballet star, an ace skater, a mathematical genius like her brother, and so strikingly attractive that people stopped in the street to stare. Caroline had got as far as her daughter’s equestrian skills (copious cups and rosettes for show-jumping and dressage) when Hugh and Olive returned in triumph from the dance-floor, followed by a silent Ralph and Jackie.

  ‘Marvellous band!’ Hugh mopped his brow and was about to sit down, changing his mind as the music struck up again with ‘Quando, quando’. ‘Caroline, do you samba?’

  ‘Yes, I’d love to.’ Ear-rings shimmying and bracelets jangling, she let him lead her on to the floor. Lorna stroked her gold-and-diamond bracelet, which (gallingly) was outsparkled by Jackie’s diamond clusters – one ring in particular a veritable Koh-i-noor. Still, it was a good omen for the business. If the Prescotts could afford such conspicuous opulence, they could certainly run to a few square metres of artificial grass.

  She gripped her left hand with the right to stop herself from scratching. The rash was itching so badly it was all she could do not to wrench open her blouse and rake at her breast with a fork. If only some magic potion existed to assuage it – and the music. They had lowered the lights for the dancing, and her natural inclination was to close her eyes and drift off. The lucky Oakfield residents could sleep through practically any din. (Several of them had snored a lusty descant to the Boxing Day accordion recital.)

  ‘Hardly lucky, child. They’ve nothing to look forward to but further decline and death. You’ll get better. They won’t.’

  ‘Yes, I know, Aunt. But I do envy them, in bed asleep.’

  ‘Asleep? Most over-eighties are plagued by chronic insomnia. Besides, those poor old souls have lost their friends, homes, hearing, sight and spouses. All of which you are fortunate enough to have.’

  ‘Yes, Aunt, you’re right.’ Nevertheless, she would give anything to be able to stretch out on the carpet, stomach down. Not only would it ease the ferocious throbbing in her foot, it would also take the pressure off her backside. Being immobile for a fortnight, she had developed a sort of bedsore, and the raw skin on her buttocks made sitting absolute torture. In short, she was a dead loss – unable to sit, stand, dance, drink or eat.

  ‘All right?’ Ralph mouthed, noticing her flinch as she shifted position.

  She nodded stoically. They were on duty this evening, not here to enjoy themselves. Indeed, the vocalist’s erotic undulations and rapturous expression were in marked contrast to Ralph’s rigid posture and tight-set jaw. Although, to be fair, Ralph was putting on a great display of interest in Alexander’s shark-fishing expedition – a performance all the more heroic considering he was suffering serious nicotine withdrawal (smoking was forbidden during the meal). Thus chastened, she turned to Jackie with a smile. ‘And are you a golfer?’

  ‘Oh, God, yes! It’s the love of my life.’

  Lorna found it an impenetrable mystery that tramping around in all weathers in pursuit of a silly little ball could arouse such ardour. The only game she had ever excelled in was snakes and ladders, which she had played on her own as a child with two counters – red for her and blue for her imaginary playmate, Susie. Susie was braver and taller than she was and not frightened of the dark or fireworks.

  ‘Do you play, Lorna?’

  ‘No, I’m afraid not.’ She caught the disdainful eye of one of the portraits on the wall – a past captain, Hugh had said – nursing in his arms an enormous silver trophy. He looked utterly incredulous that anyone should admit to not playing the king of games. Jackie, of course, would gain his unqualified approval, elaborating as she was on a recent marathon: thirty-six holes a day for seven days. In truth it was hard work following any conversation in the general hubbub, especially with competition from the vocalist’s spirited rendering of ‘All the Things You Are.’

  How romantic the lyrics were – a world away from Ralph’s mono
syllabic grunts.

  ‘You are the promised kiss of springtime

  That makes the lonely winter seem long …’

  Mr Hughes and her father, both in dinner-jackets, had joined the double-bassist in the four-poster and were singing for her personally. The sole memory she had of her father was, in fact, of him wearing a dinner-jacket, when he had come to kiss her goodnight before leaving for some do. The details were still sharp: the sheen of his silver hair against the sombre black of his suit, the mirror-polished shoes and strangely frivolous bow-tie, the soft graze of his cheek …

  Enough. Or she would cry.

  She returned to Mr Hughes, whose usual obsessive interest in her feet had shifted blissfully upward. He was using his thumb to palpate her nipples as he had once palpated her toes, his eyes smouldering with desire, his voice husky with soon-to-beconsummated passion.

  ‘You are the breathless hush of evening

  That trembles on the brink of a lovely song …’

  ‘Coffee, madam?’

  ‘Oh, er … Yes please.’ Coffee would wake her up, stop her drifting off into adolescent reveries. And – relief! – it signalled the end of the meal. She had feared there might be a cheese course, involving yet another charade of enthusing over the food while trying to dispose of it anywhere but in her mouth. Liqueurs were also being offered. She prayed Ralph would refuse. Normally he drank and she drove, but she wasn’t allowed to drive for three or four months, and, although he had been remarkably restrained, he must be close to the limit.

  ‘I’d love a brandy,’ he said.

  She tried to semaphore caution with her eyebrows, but he was still talking to Alexander about barracudas and carbon-fibre rods, and failed (deliberately?) to notice. If he lost his licence the business would grind to a halt. He had to use the car. Just this coming week he was due to measure up and give estimates to two prospective clients in Gloucestershire.

  ‘Do try this water, Ralph,’ she said pointedly. ‘It’s from a natural spring and really rather good.’ Who was she kidding? Water for Ralph belonged in taps, or puddles, not in his stomach. The alternative was to go home by cab, but that would entail vast expense and probably hours of waiting.

  The band was now playing ‘Pennies from Heaven’ – an unfortunate choice in that it reminded her she needed to spend a penny, entailing a long trek on crutches to the end of the corridor, then down a flight of stairs. Could she last till 2 a.m.? Unlikely.

  ‘Mm, petits fours – yummy!’ Clarence stuffed a couple in his mouth, then passed her the dish.

  The exquisite marzipan creations decorated with miniature glazed fruits only induced in her another spasm of nausea. ‘No thanks, Clarence. I’m … full.’

  ‘Full? You’ve hardly eaten a thing. You ought to see Caroline. She can really pack it away – especially when no one’s looking!’

  ‘That’s very funny, I must say, coming from Mr Greedy Guts himself!’

  To forestall further marital discord, Alexander whisked Caroline off for a waltz, followed by Hugh partnering a giggly Jackie, tottering unsteadily. Avoiding Olive’s eye (she was now the wallflower), Ralph offered Clarence a cigar. Unable to speak with a mouth full of marzipan, Clarence waved it away; evidently he was intent on demolishing the entire plateful of petits fours before the others came back. Ralph, however, lit up and, armed with a Havana and a glass of brandy, began to look more his normal self.

  Trying not to think of breathalysers, Lorna watched the dancing with a valiant smile. For some reason the music seemed obsessed with water: there’d already been ‘Moon River’, ‘Raindrops Keep Falling on My Head’ and ‘How Deep Is the Ocean?’– testing her bladder (not as deep as the ocean) to the limit. At last she could bear it no longer. ‘Ralph, be a love and pass me my crutches. I’ll have to go to the Ladies.’

  ‘I’ll come with you,’ Olive said. ‘I need to powder my nose.’

  Making her halting way across the room, Lorna attracted curious glances. Wearing the hospital shoe on her bad foot and a high heel on the good, she walked with an uneven, drunken gait. Olive hovered at her side, moving any impediments and helping her to negotiate the stairs.

  ‘Can you manage now, my dear?’ she asked, opening a cubicle door.

  ‘Yes, thanks,’ said Lorna, inwardly cursing the fact that, bursting bladder or no, it was impossible to rush. You had to rest your crutches against the wall and balance on one leg while struggling to yank your long skirt up and your knickers down, then finally manoeuvre yourself on to the seat.

  When she emerged she was struck by a dizzy spell and had to clutch the basin, dropping one of the crutches with a clatter.

  ‘Lorna, are you OK?’ Olive clucked, retrieving the crutch and helping to support her. ‘If you don’t mind my saying so, you really don’t look well.’

  ‘I’ve got this stupid rash, that’s all. It’s driving me mad.’

  ‘Rash? Where?’ Olive was all concern. ‘With four children and seven grandchildren I’m an authority on rashes! Will you let me take a look?’

  Lorna flushed. Ralph would be horrified at her baring her breast (literally) to business clients, however well intentioned they might be. Reluctantly she unbuttoned her blouse.

  ‘Good heavens!’ Olive exclaimed. ‘That’s shingles, Lorna!’

  ‘Shingles?’

  ‘Yes. I had it myself years ago, and the pain was quite appalling. I was working then and the doctor gave me three weeks off. He said it was incredibly debilitating. And I must admit I did feel terrible.’

  ‘But how do you know it’s shingles? Mightn’t it just be an allergy or –?’

  ‘No, it’s definitely shingles. You can tell by those scaly blisters, and you only ever get it on one side. I had it on the right side. With you it’s on the left. You should be in bed, my dear, not out at a dinner-dance! Look, I’ll have a word with Ralph and get him to take you home.’

  ‘No, please … I’ve been such a nuisance already.’ She paused, fearing she had said too much, yet tempted to go on. ‘You see, I … I found it a strain leaving the nursing-home. There are so many stairs at home, for one thing. And so much to do, and … and … I keep getting weepy and pathetic.’

  ‘I was just the same, Lorna, and that was without an operation. Hugh was frightfully worried. I’d burst into tears over nothing.’

  ‘And I feel sick, and …’

  ‘So did I. I’m afraid you have to take this seriously, my dear. It often lasts for ages. I had it for over three months.’

  Lorna stared at her aghast. Three months?

  ‘There you are,’ the Monster cackled. ‘Told you so!’

  ‘And if you’re not careful you can get a secondary infection in the blisters.’

  ‘Yeah – you’re bound to, knowing your luck.’ The Monster gave a gloating laugh.

  Olive patted her hand kindly. ‘I really would advise you to go home.’

  She remembered Ralph’s anger after her panic attack at Olive and Hugh’s. Admittedly this was rather different, but she couldn’t let him down again. ‘I’d feel awkward disrupting the proceedings, Olive. Look, it’s not that long till midnight. I’ll stay till then, OK?’

  Olive was about to protest, but Lorna got in first. ‘I’m fine, Olive, honestly. And I wouldn’t want to miss the fireworks.’

  The worst lie of all. She detested fireworks.

  A squall of rockets zipped the sky apart, cascading down in shards of coloured light. Inside, the walls convulsed with more pulsing, jouncing lights, glittering and blinding. A fanfare from the band lasered through her side, disorienting her with pain and sound combined. Faces loomed and receded. Who were they? Did she know them?

  Glasses clinked to glasses, their tiny consoling chinks drowned by the war zone beyond the window – bombs exploding blue and gold.

  Someone crushed her in a bear-hug. She tried to smile. More pain. A waft of scent and cigarette smoke as another person kissed her. She swallowed, tasting nausea.

  Balloons were showering
from the ceiling: dangerous silent bombs. Nothing else was silent: discordant voices rising all around her; mouths opening, shutting, blurring; faces split with scarlet grins.

  ‘Should auld acquaintance be forgot

  And never brought to mind …’

  No! she tried to shout, as she was swept towards the dance-floor. Her legs were paper streamers, her voice a burst balloon.

  ‘Don’t worry, Lorna, we’ve got you! We’re holding you nice and tight.’

  Strong hurting arms on one side, soft hurting hands the other. She couldn’t fall; she wouldn’t. She was being shunted round and round in an unsteady, drunken circle. Walls and floor and ceiling circled drunkenly the other way, while the frenzied sky outside rampaged red and silver, so loud, so bright, it was shattering the glass.

  Then a voice she knew suddenly rose in warning: ‘Careful! She’s falling! Oh my God, she’s …’

  Chapter Thirteen

  ‘Lorna, how are you?’ Clare hugged her eagerly.

  ‘Ow! That hurts! I’m sorry, I’m a bit like a vestal virgin at the moment – can’t be touched. But it’s great to see you. I’ve missed you.’

  ‘Me too.’ Clare perched on the end of the bed. ‘Christmas was the usual farce, but yours sounds ten times worse. You do look pretty grotty, I must say.’

  ‘Thanks a lot!’

  ‘How’s the foot?’ Clare peered curiously at the blood-encrusted toes protruding from a now somewhat grubby bandage.

  ‘Not marvellous. I have the stitches out tomorrow, which means I see my darling surgeon.’

  ‘How are you getting there, with Ralph away? Want me to drive you?’

  ‘It’s sweet of you, but no thanks. I’ve arranged an ambulance on BUPA, believe it or not.’

  ‘I should jolly well think so, considering what you fork out. By the way, you know they’ve got the wrong name on your door?’

  She laughed. ‘Yes. Mrs Paterson.’

  ‘Shouldn’t you ask them to change it?’