Dancing Backwards

by Salley Vickers

  ‘It’s really very kind of you,’ Heather said, when Patrick showed her the train. ‘Sorry about the mess. You know what it’s like packing. I hope he wasn’t too much bother.’

  ‘I wasn’t too much bother,’ Patrick said. ‘Have you and Daddy been having a headache, Mummy?’

  Passengers disembarking at New York were kindly requested to leave their luggage outside their rooms by four a.m. The luggage was sorted through a complicated colour coding system and Vi, queuing up at the desk for her label, found herself behind the critic.

  ‘What colour are you?’ he asked.

  ‘Purple, I think.’

  ‘I’m pink. Does it have any significance, one wonders?’

  When they had been issued with their respective labels he said, holding open the door for her, ‘If you’re at a loose end in New York do call me up and I’ll take you to a show. There are several I’m lined up to see. They all sound quite dire.’

  Vi took his card. ‘You’re not coming to the “Swinging 60s” dance tonight?’

  ‘Now you tempt me. I just might.’

  It did not take long to pack. Vi left out jeans and t-shirt for the ‘Swinging 60s’ dance, Annie’s shoes and a blouse, a skirt and underwear for the following morning. She packed all the books and the notebooks, except for one. Then she went down to the library to return the Works of William Shakespeare.

  ‘Funny,’ the librarian said. ‘You’re the only person who’s taken this out since we started the Atlantic run.’

  ‘You don’t have a copy of John Donne, by any chance?’

  ‘He’s a thriller writer, isn’t he?’

  ‘In a sense.’

  ‘I’m afraid we can’t allow any further loans till we leave New York.’

  ‘It’s OK,’ said Vi. ‘I just wanted to look something up. It doesn’t matter.’

  Lying on the hard mattress on the iron bedstead, Vi heard an engine starting up and then the sound of the Hillman driving off down the uneven track. She got up and went into the other room. The fire had died down but the ashes were still warm. There was a note from Bruno on the table saying that he was returning to London. When she was ready, she could come and collect her things.

  Towards lunchtime, she walked down the track to the phone box and called Edward Hetherington but he was out.

  ‘May I take a message?’ asked his secretary. She sounded almost friendly.

  Vi said there was no special message but to tell Mr Hetherington that she had called. She walked on into Knighton, cashed a cheque at the local Barclays and bought a few supplies from the Co-op.

  The following day she rang Edward Hetherington again. He was still out of the office but there was a message.

  ‘His wife’s had one of her poorly turns, I’m afraid,’ his secretary explained. ‘So Mr Hetherington’s off for a few days. He asked if you would kindly ring him when you get back to London. Meantime, he says you’re not to worry, everything with Mr Chadwick is in hand.’

  Not knowing what to do or where to be, Vi set out to walk up the lane which ran on beyond the track. She walked uphill until she came to a high ridge, where she climbed through a fence into a field, scraping her scalp and wounding her leg on the barbed wire.

  Sheep were standing, or lying in heaps, in Samuel Palmer’s incredible light. Beyond them, the land mounted, gathering in light, to hills and valleys within hills. Fields of ripening cereal stretched far behind her. For a moment, she was back in the shrouded room of the Fitzwilliam, from where, each evening, she went home to the little house in Church Rate Walk. But she wasn’t there. She was here, and alone.

  She walked on for what seemed like miles and lay down at the edge of a field of barley, overcome by a searing exhaustion.

  A lark shot like a bolt into the terrible blue above and opening its throat sang relentlessly into the bounding light. The lines from Donne’s poem were running through her brain:

  When love with one another so Interinanimates two souls, That abler soul which thence doth flow, Defects of loneliness controls.

  But she had betrayed Edwin and there was no soul in all the world able to counter her terrible loneliness.

  When she opened her eyes Edwin was there. He was standing a little way off, where the line of hedgerow ran, but she saw him, quite distinctly against the hilly skyline, with the noonday sun making a halo of his long hair. She stumbled to her feet and hurried towards him, but the figure dissolved into the half trunk of a burned-out tree, which must have been struck by lightning or suffered some other natural disaster. Looking through the cage of her fingers, her fingernails and the poppies among the yellowing barley were bright beads of blood.

  It was dark by the time she found her way back to the cottage, her skin torn by barbs of wire and brambles and with an itching rash down the length of one arm. Unequal to undressing, she fell asleep on the bed, hardly able to pull the musty-smelling eiderdown over her tired body.

  She woke next morning, stiff and cold, feeling that she had been in a bad accident. The rash had developed into a series of ugly wheals and her eyes were swollen and red from the damp feather eiderdown. She tried to boil an egg but the pan boiled dry and the egg, black and cracked, smelled vile. She set out down the track but turned back not knowing what she had set out for. That evening she burned her hand on the kettle trying to fill a hot-water bottle.

  Fool, fool, fool, the voice tolled.

  Several days later, she was not at all clear how many had passed, she heard a car coming up the track and then the sound of a door slamming. A feeling, half joy half terror, seized her. She got up from the bed and walked to the doorway, swaying from dizziness and lack of food. For many days after, she retained the delusion that it was Bruno who had caught her as she fell and carried her to the car.

  As the fog lifted, the passengers due to disembark strolled about on deck taking in last impressions, or photographs, quarrelling over the packing or how best to get into Manhattan, via taxi or coach. Vi ate lunch uninterrupted, reading her notebook. In the afternoon, she went to her balcony and sat outside, watching the sea.

  Renato called in to see if she needed any help. A form on which it was possible to nominate crew who had shown ‘exceptional service’ had been placed, prominently, at the front of the information folder giving details of the procedures for departure.

  Vi tried to reassure. ‘You have been wonderfully attentive, Renato. I shall certainly make sure to say so.’

  ‘Thank you, madam. But your ring?’

  ‘I have a hunch it will turn up, Renato, and if it doesn’t well…’ She shrugged.

  Renato smiled obligingly. Surely it was impossible for a sane woman to be taking the loss of a diamond with such calm.

  The question of her emails had been pushed guiltily to the back of Vi’s mind. She had been failing, on a daily basis, to check them since the day Ken had helped her. By good fortune, on her way to ‘Links’, she found Ken and Jen at their jigsaw puzzle, which, nearly complete, now extended to almost as much sea as sky.

  ‘What is it?’ Vi asked.

  ‘It’s the Titanic going down, but at a distance, see?’ Jen pointed to a small perturbation in the upper left-hand section of sea.

  ‘It’s like Brueghel’s Icarus.’

  ‘We’ve not seen that one.’

  Ken said, casually, ‘You coming to the hop tonight, Vi?’

  ‘You’d better,’ Jen said. ‘Or I’ll have to go and I want to finish The Young Queen’s Secret. Kimberley’s going to sign it for all the girls in the book club. I promised I’d tell her what I thought of the ending. She thinks it’s her best yet.’

  ‘OK,’ said Vi. ‘But in return, may I ask for Ken’s help getting online?’

  ‘Of course he’ll help,’ Jen said. ‘Go on now, Ken. Go and help Vi.’

  Before they had quite reached ‘Links’ Ken said, ‘Would you mind looking at something for me?’ He rummaged in his pocket and produced a small envelope from which he extracted a pair of earrings, each a lar
ge silver treble clef dangling from a long wire. ‘What do you think?’

  Vi hesitated.

  ‘I got them in one of the boutiques on Deck Five.’

  ‘They’re most unusual.’

  ‘Would you say they were memorable?’

  ‘Definitely memorable.’

  ‘Thanks, Vi,’ Ken said. ‘Only I’m not much of a hand at knowing what women like.’

  ‘I think you do pretty well, Ken.’

  Fewer emails had collected in Vi’s inbox. One was from Annie, asking to be remembered to New York: There’s a guy I dated there once who’s in real estate. Jim Sands. He’s divorced. I’ll text you his number.

  The next was from Harry with the news that he’d been offered a job at the firm of solicitors in the City where the senior partner had worked as a junior with Dad. Vi had to suppress a certain irritation when she read that Harry had FedExed her mobile to her hotel, having taken the precaution of copying the Sim card first.

  The third email was from Dan.

  Dear Mum, Tanya’s pregnant so we’re getting married. Still staying at your flat as T likes it better here than at mine. When are you back? Lots of Love, D xx

  ‘You all right, Vi?’

  ‘I think so, Ken. I’ve just heard I’m going to be a grand-mother.’

  ‘Never mind, no one would guess it.’

  The ‘Swinging 60s’ dance was well attended. For those leaving the ship, the tiresome business of repacking, squeezing in the extras acquired over the course of the voyage in a mood of mindless extravagance, had been accomplished and there was a general atmosphere of celebration. When Vi arrived at the Prince Charles Salon, the voice of Lonnie Donegan singing ‘Hang Down Your Head, Tom Dooley’ was being imperfectly imitated by the energetically swinging crowd.

  Ken, in jeans and a black t-shirt bearing the legend ‘Bob Dylan for President’, was on the look-out for her.

  ‘You look dishy, Vi. What’ll you have?’

  ‘You know, Ken, I might stick to water.’

  ‘It’s not that bad, surely. You’d win the Glamorous Grandma contest hands down.’

  Martha appeared in a pair of new sneakers and wearing the treble clef earrings which swung when she made an impatient little gesture with her head. ‘Baz says he’s coming to watch.’

  ‘For anthropological reasons, purely. I’m afraid the sixties passed me by.’

  Martha said shortly, ‘Yes, honey, we all know you’re the youngster out with the geriatric ward.’

  ‘Baz, there’s something I wanted to ask you,’ Vi interposed. ‘Would you mind?’

  ‘It would be a pleasure, Vi.’

  ‘Maybe Ken would dance with you, Martha?’

  ‘It would be a pleasure, Vi.’

  Really, thought Vi, I am turning into an elderly Emma. I must watch out. She steered Baz through the heaving mass of dancers, by now collectively swinging to the Beach Boys’ ‘California Girls’, and out of the over-heated room into the Mary Queen of Scots Bar.

  ‘It’s quieter here and cooler. May I buy you a drink in return for your time?’

  ‘A tomato juice on the rocks would be great. But there’s no call for any returns. I’m grateful to be out of that hellhole. I only came to keep Martha company. She’s very patient with me. I can be something of a pain in the arse.’

  ‘Ken will look after her. He’s exceptionally gentlemanly. I wanted to pick your brains a little more about your traditional healers. What were you saying about suggestion?’

  Baz, relieved to be on familiar ground, slung an elegant ankle over his knee and grasped a grey silk sock with an equally elegant hand. ‘It’s like I said, the human organism is infinitely suggestible. This is how hypnosis works, and in fact I would say most upbringing. You could even say that much of what is commonly called civilisation is born of the power of suggestion. Look at advertising.’

  ‘You mean we simply believe what we are told?’

  ‘Not always so “simply” but yes, that’s about the size of it. If for some reason, the defences are down, or not yet formed, suggestion has quite magical effects. A parent tells a child that he or she is clever or beautiful, or stupid or ugly, well-behaved or badly-behaved, and nine times out of ten that is what the child will obediently become. Teachers are the same. Children who excel, as is well known, do so because their teachers believe they have talent or promise. Shamans or healers activate cure in the human system in the same way.’

  ‘And harm?’

  ‘Same principle. Kids who are trouble-makers or failures of some sort are most often told this by significant others from the start. You can make someone ill by suggestion if there is sufficient belief. It’s the power of projection. The power is really the subject’s own, but if it is projected on to someone of significance it can be turned for or against the subject’s person. That’s how possession works. It’s what the shrinks call transference, but really it’s as old as God. Or the gods, as I prefer to say.’

  ‘I suppose in a way it’s obvious.’

  ‘You don’t need me to tell you, Vi, that what seems obvious may not be so easily grasped.’

  ‘Or avoided?’

  ‘Or avoided.’

  ‘So the bat-wing purse?’

  ‘Remind me what your friend said about it.’

  ‘He was not a friend.’

  Baz looked at her hard. ‘In that case I’m sorry.’

  ‘He said it had the power to keep the soul of anyone who loved its owner.’

  ‘You know, I would say that if someone loves you, or is in some way powerfully attached to you, then naturally you have the power to entrap their soul.’

  Baz walked her to the stairs. ‘You’re not going back to the dance?’

  ‘I think I’ve had enough for tonight. The stairs to Deck Twelve will be enough exercise.’

  ‘In case we miss each other tomorrow, I hope if you’re ever Harvard way you’ll call us up. Martha has taken to you. She doesn’t always like the women I like.’ He put a hand on her shoulder and smiled his heartening smile. ‘You know, I’m pretty weary myself. Do you think I can safely leave Martha with Ken?’ The brown eyes were wryly humorous.

  ‘I would say she’s in safe hands.’

  ‘I think so, too. It’s good for her to be admired a little. Husbands are lousy at that. I’ll go let her know I’m off to bed and she can let her hair down.’

  Renato had already shifted Vi’s case out into the corridor ready for collection. She went out on to the balcony, her last chance to be alone with the Atlantic. The moon was not quite full and was floating, an eccentric luminous yellow disc, in the indigo sky. She went back inside for her notebook and a pencil.

  She had just finished writing when the phone rang.

  ‘Mrs Hetherington? Sorry to trouble you, ma’am, it’s Tim Troubridge the crew purser here.’

  ‘Oh yes, about my room. I’ll let you know as soon as I can whether I’ll be wanting it for the next leg of the voyage.’

  ‘It’s not about your room, ma’am. It’s about your ring.’

  ‘Has it been found?’

  ‘If the one I have in my hand is yours, I’d say so. I would be surprised if there were two missing diamonds like this on the ship.’

  ‘That’s marvellous.’

  ‘Would you mind coming down to my office, ma’am? There’s a couple of things I need to ask.’

  When Vi left the purser’s office, she returned to her room where she contrived to squeeze her jeans and t-shirt into the suitcase outside. Now there was nothing but the clothes she stood in, her nightdress and her spongebag to remember tomorrow. And Ted’s ring.

  She looked fondly at the ring glinting in its familiar place on her left hand. Ted would be pleased. He would say that he had been watching over her, like a Providence.

  She opened the notebook and re-read what she’d written. It was a start.

  There was a voice at the door and she called out, ‘Hello, Desmond. I’m just coming.’

  His naturally dar
k skin had gone quite pale and she felt a sharp dart of compassion for him. Poor boy. It wasn’t such a great crime, the sin of omission.

  ‘Come in. Would you like to sit out on the balcony?’

  ‘If you like. I’m not fussed.’

  ‘Have you a cigarette to spare?’

  ‘Sure.’

  The Atlantic, having shown who was master, had subsided into a gentle threshing roll. Moonlight glanced off the water. As if in response to the lulled weather the ship was unusually quiet. Those who were not preparing for disembarkation by having a few last drinks for Auld Lang Syne, or dancing to The Supremes, had sensibly gone to ground.

  Des lit their cigarettes. His eyes, she saw in the lighter’s flare, were tiny points of black fear.

  ‘I wanted to thank you for finding my ring. I explained to Mr Troubridge that I’d particularly asked you to look for it and that you had tried to find me earlier but that I wasn’t in.’

  Des, quite at a loss, resorted to a dumb nod.

  ‘The message, you know, that you left on my phone.’

  He hadn’t the faintest idea what was going on but he had to say something. ‘Is the message still there?’

  ‘I erased it. But as you only said that you had some news for me of course I didn’t immediately understand. I explained to Mr Troubridge that we have been dancing partners, and that I had spoken to you about the ring’s importance to me, so it was highly understandable that before saying a word to anyone else you wanted to give me the news in person that you had found my ring.’

  ‘And what did he say?’ Des was now totally out of his depth.

  ‘He said he would be having a word with the girl who seems to have been illegitimately snooping among your private possessions. I gather you’d put my ring away to keep it safe. She told Mr Troubridge that she was looking for something she’d left in your room. I expect that was a story.’

  He might have known it. Sandy. ‘It’s a bloody lie.’ How did the fucking little bitch get into his room?

  ‘She does sound like trouble but perhaps in the circumstances you will be lenient. I expect she was angry with you for dropping her.’