I Hope You Dance

by Moran, Beth

  My goodness, those Oak Hillians like to clap.

  But the highlight, the absolute highlight, was when Mary-who-was-really-Maggie (if you want a major part in the carol service, try dating the minister’s son) clambered off the donkey-who-was-really-a-horse and plonked her bare foot straight into the pile of stinky mess deposited by the donkey/horse during a moment of stage fright two minutes earlier. Maggie not only stepped in it; she skidded, fell and landed in it. On her face.

  My heart leapt up my throat and tried to scrabble out of my mouth to get out there and rescue her. To my utter shock and amazement, my troubled, angry daughter did not swear, cry, kick the horse or pick up one of the offending balls of donkey doo-doo and hurl it at someone. She laughed. She picked herself up, aided by her handsome Joseph-who-was-really-Seth, and turned to the congregation. With the perfect balance of wry humour, she flicked at the smear on her cheek and said, “What can you do? I’m fourteen years old and pregnant. My pre-frontal cortex is in bits and my centre of gravity’s knocked sideways due to the whole other person growing inside me. Not to mention the conflicting armies of rampaging adolescent versus antenatal hormones. It’s incredible I managed not to fall off the donkey. Yet God trusted me, a teenager, to parent the most important person who’s ever lived. You might be surprised about that.

  “Don’t be. I’m not. My mum had me when she was a teenager, and I tell you what, she was awesome then and is even better now. So, if someone can hand me something to wipe this poo off my face, perhaps we can get on with it? I think when I climbed off the donkey my waters broke.”

  I had become a mother at nineteen years old. Determined to swipe the patronizing smiles off my health visitor’s bony face, I had been the most hardworking, well-read, consistent, downright fantastic teenage mum in the whole of Liverpool, if not the universe. I loved fiercely, disciplined fairly and worked my backside off to do right by Maggie. Then my darling daughter’s world imploded and at the same time I dropped the motherhood ball. The result was not great. I had been stressed for nearly two years about the possibility that I had helped screw up my daughter forever; that it would take half a lifetime of therapy for her to be able to let go of the poor deal life had thrown her and move on; that at some point during said therapy she would come to appreciate just how much I failed her when she needed me most.

  In that moment, with horse manure sliding down her face, wearing her nanny’s spare pillow case on her head and a crooked smile, I looked at my beautiful girl and I knew that she would be okay. She was so much more than okay.

  I had never been prouder. Sitting next to me, dragged along by threats, bribes and what must surely be a Christmas miracle, Hannah Beaumont said, “I didn’t know you were allowed to say poo in church.”

  I had joined the end of the refreshments queue, humming the tune of “Hark the Herald”, when a pair of hands clamped over my eyes from behind. I froze, a great burst of adrenaline whooshing out.

  Several names and faces flashed through my brain. I didn’t know a single person who would think this was amusing, or an appropriate way to say hello. Wait. Perhaps I did know one.

  “Guess who?”

  Yep, I recognized that sour, intense breath on my neck. I yanked myself away before he could sniff my hair again.

  “Carl.”

  “Hi, Ruth. Fancy seeing you here.”

  “I work here, Carl. The chances were quite high I would be at the carol service.”

  “Here, I got you this.” He picked up a cup of coffee from the window-sill beside us. “Black, no sugar. Just how you like it.”

  Those words slithered down my back. Not in a good way. How did he know how I took my coffee?

  “Thanks, that’s very kind of you, but I only drink decaf.”

  He smirked. “You’re lively enough, right?”

  Bleugh.

  He held out the mug, bumping my fist so I was obliged to take hold of it.

  “So, are you ready for your first Christmas in Southwell? Got many plans?”

  “I don’t mean to be rude, Carl. And thank you for the coffee, but I need to find my daughter. Excuse me.”

  Carl smiled, showing his perfect white teeth. His eyes were blue steel.

  “I saved you a five-minute wait in the queue, Ruth. I think you can spare a moment to chat.”

  The line had shuffled forward, leaving us in a vacuum. Carl planted himself about six inches into my personal space, but I was backed up against the window and couldn’t move away without physically pushing past him.

  “I have to check my friend. She’s elderly and infirm, and hasn’t been here before.”

  “She’ll be fine. Someone’ll sort her out. You see, this is your problem, Ruth.” I wished he would stop saying my name. “Always putting everyone else first, looking after their needs and wants. What about you, Ruth? Who’s looking after you? Who’s taking care of your needs? Your wants?”

  Help.

  “I wish you would let me take care of you.” He murmured this. I felt as though a rattlesnake was coiling itself around my ribs. I was too stricken to reply.

  “You didn’t answer my question. About Christmas. When are you free?”

  “I did say that I wouldn’t be spending any more time with you. That still applies. Indefinitely.”

  “No one has to know.” He winked. “It’s more fun that way.”

  “No.” I took a deep breath, wished my voice wasn’t quaking. “I don’t want to see you again, Carl. I’m sorry.”

  “Excuse me?” His smile became twisted, as though viewed through a broken camera lens. He bent his head really close to mine, and I felt a prickle of genuine fear. “Not even to tell me how sorry you are that your daughter vandalized my car? I hear she’s been in a lot of trouble lately. How do you think she would like the police to come knocking on her door on Christmas Eve? You can squeeze me in sometime before then, Ruth. Help to take my mind off how upset I am about it.”

  I said nothing. For a hideous, horrible moment I thought he was going to move his face that tiny bit closer and kiss me. Instead he burst out laughing.

  “Happy Christmas, Ruth.”

  I became aware of another presence beside me.

  “Ruth. Harriet’s looking for you. She wants to know if you need a lift home.”

  “David.” I let out his name in a rush of relief.

  Carl stepped back, and I was able to switch my gaze to David, holding on to the sight of his face like an anchor in a hurricane. He looked at me for a beat, before turning to Carl.

  “We haven’t met.” He held out his hand. Carl shook the proffered hand, and for a few moments there appeared to be an actual handshaking man-tussle of strength. I’m assuming David won. Jungle explorer and all that.

  “Doctor Carl Barker.”

  “Carl. I’m…”

  “I know who you are.” His eyes flickered between David and me, and I could see conclusions forming behind the icy blue. “I didn’t know Ruth was friends with the nation’s favourite bug lover. Anyway. I need to get on. A ton of paperwork before theatre tomorrow. I’ll call you, Ruth.”

  He slithered away. I leaned back, a little weakly, against the window-sill and let out a shaky sigh.

  “Thank you.”

  David took the mug of undrunk coffee out of my hands and set it on the sill. “You’re welcome. Do we need to be worried about him?”

  I shook my head. “I don’t know. He knows Maggie threw the egg. Threatened to send the police round on Christmas Eve if I didn’t go out with him again.”

  “Nice pulling technique. He must wow the ladies with his charm and finesse.”

  “Well, hopefully you scared him off. No surgeon wants their fingers crushed in your handshake of intimidation.”

  “Let me know if he bothers you again,” he said, looking me square in the face.

  “Right, so you can beat him up for me?” I laughed, unable to meet his eye.

  “I’m serious. There’s something off about that guy.”

&
nbsp; “I’m sure another tragic victim will grab the attention of his hero complex soon enough. I can’t be the only pathetic female in need of rescuing in town.”

  David had moved to lean his solid frame against the window-sill next to me. He took hold of my hand – and my heart, lungs and liver did a triple back-flip. Pow!

  “Ruth Henderson.” I loved it when he said my name. “You are one of the least pathetic females I know. That is not the reason Dr Steroid is pursuing you.”

  “Pursuing. That’s a reassuring word. Thanks for that.”

  Why? my heart shouted. Why do you think I’m worth pursuing, David?

  My hand began to sweat, so I pulled it away. My thoughts careened about like a four-year-old boy at a wedding, so I pulled them away too.

  “Where’s Ana Luisa? Didn’t you sit together?” I craned my neck past the queue of people still lining up for drinks.

  “Yep. Which would have been fine, except that Dad decided to join us at the last minute. It was, to put it mildly, awkward.”

  “Three’s company.”

  “Something like that. I was hoping you might walk home with us, diffuse the tension?”

  “I think I probably owe you some tension diffusing. I’ll find Mum and let her know. I think Maggie’s going back to Seth’s, so I’ll have to make sure someone can take Hannah.”

  “Hmmm. Your mother performing an act of kindness to a person in need? What are the chances of that?” He rubbed his chin.

  “Don’t mock my mother,” I said, nudging him gently with my elbow.

  “Never.”

  “I still need to let her know.”

  “Do you want me to stick with you?” he asked, nudging me back.

  Yes. Hold my hand again. Stick with me forever.

  “No. I’ll be fine. I won’t go into any empty rooms alone, or take a detour into the spooky basement. You find Ana Luisa.” The woman you actually love, who is currently free to have an actual relationship with you. “I’ll meet you out the front.”

  It was a clear night. The stars twinkled above us, putting the artificial Christmas lights adorning the houses to shame. The air was crisp, the frost beginning to form a silvery layer on every surface, and behind us the echoes of laughter and badly sung carols drifted through the night. David insisted I link arms with him after my feet skidded out from under me for the third time, and we huddled in each other’s body warmth, taking our time, chatting and telling old stories and swapping banter. It was magical. Heartbreaking. My pesky, rebellious feelings so enjoyed his arm in mine; inhaled, too deeply, the faint scent of him – earth and trees and the hint of almonds.

  In front of us, I could see Ana Luisa striding along beside Arnold. Behind us Maggie called out goodnight as she turned off the main road towards Seth’s. I resolved again to love David as a friend, a brother, as he had always been.

  Pah! Who was I kidding? Would somebody please tell that to my feminine urges?

  The following day was the Monday before Christmas. I started work at seven, cleaning up the expansive post-carol service mess with the rest of the cleaning team. Martine found me in the upstairs kitchen. She had a blue bauble earring dangling from one ear and a green one from the other. Her stocky frame was covered in a jumper with a nativity design knitted into it: stable, shepherds, wise men, the whole story. Jesus was a pom-pom.

  “Here you are, Ruth. Scrubbing sinks.”

  “Hi, Martine. You were brilliant last night. You and the Martinettes.”

  “Thank you. That’s because I know my strengths and skills, and I use them accordingly to bless those around me. Now, tell me, how many mathematical calculations are required to clean a kitchen?”

  “I had to dilute one part bleach in four parts water.”

  “Don’t be smart. Why haven’t you handed in that job application yet? The closing date is today. If you choose to blow this opportunity off you’d better have a reason that is piffle-, waffle- and nonsense-free.”

  I sighed. “Are you just here to badger me, or do you really want to know?”

  “What do you think?”

  I finished scrubbing the tea stains off the draining board while collecting my thoughts. Martine huffed and hummed impatiently behind me until I told her that if she wanted the truth she needed to give me a moment to figure out what that was. When I was done, I took a seat on a stool and tried to explain.

  “I didn’t want to move to Southwell. It was a desperate last resort. To me, it was full of unpleasant memories I wanted to keep buried. It felt like I had failed. Because I had. I especially didn’t want to live with my parents again. Coming home was a temporary, emergency measure. Not a long-term thing. Applying for the job is like accepting I’m building a life here; that we’re staying. I don’t want to let you down by packing it in in sixth months’ time when I’ve saved enough to move away or back to Liverpool.”

  “Hogwash! If you really wanted to leave you’d take the job and get saving. We’ve been over this.”

  “I’m not sure about the church bit. I’m not exactly a good Christian, Martine,” I said, staring at my feet.

  “That’s what grace is for.” Martine pointed one finger at me. Her voice was uncharacteristically soft. “Have you stopped running yet?”

  I squirmed. That question made me want to run.

  “That’s what this is about. Running away. For fifteen years. Maybe longer. Aren’t you tired of running, Ruth? Aren’t you exhausted to your very bones?”

  I was. I was exhausted to my very bones.

  “Isn’t it impossible to think, to dream, to be free, when you are running so hard?”

  It was. I wasn’t free. I didn’t dream.

  “Is it time to stop?”

  I was too tired to think. But I didn’t need to any more. Right there, in a half-cleaned kitchen, in a pair of rubber gloves and a disposable apron, I decided to stop running.

  My eyes and nose stopped running sometime later.

  I applied for a new job.

  Then I phoned up Vanessa Jacobs and handed in my resignation. She said, “Suit yourself.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  Five o’clock, Christmas Eve. I sat peeling potatoes in the kitchen, job number one hundred and forty-two on the list of three thousand and ten jobs Mum had left me to complete while she zipped around town, like Santa on speed, dropping off Christmas hampers to struggling families. Maggie was slobbing in front of a Christmas film. Dad was out. Nobody asked where.

  The doorbell rang. I yelled at Maggie a couple of times to answer it before giving up, wiping my hands on a tea-towel and hurrying to open the door. On the porch sat a small box. Now, it was Christmas Eve, a night when all manner of magical happenings was possible, but I strongly suspected that the box, even had it managed to work its own way to our front doorstep, had neither the cognitive function nor the required digits to ring the bell.

  Scanning the dark driveway, the shadowy garden reflecting dim flickers of the television through the bay window, the inky street cast in a faint, multi-coloured glow from the Christmas lights strung up on every other house and various trees along the roadside, I saw no fleeting figure scurrying away in a red and white suit. The sky, though clear, carried no rushing reindeer pulling a supernatural sleigh.

  The world outside the warmth of the house was cold and ominously silent. Empty, save for this uninvited visitor on the doorstep.

  I picked it up and carried it into the living room. Maggie paused the film.

  “Is that for me?”

  “I don’t know yet. I found it in the porch.”

  “Ooh. Open it, then! No, wait! What does the label say?”

  The box was about the size of a small book. It had been professionally wrapped – as in, wrapped up by someone in a shop. A silver ribbon tied in a curly bow secured a matching label in place. I held it out to Maggie.

  “You open it.”

  “No chance. It might be a bomb or something.”

  “Yes, that’s very likely. It was probab
ly one of the Southwell terrorists campaigning against non-organic vegetables, track-suits in the town centre and incoming scallie-hooligans with offensive haircuts.”

  As I spoke, a shudder rippled through me. Christmas Eve: my deadline to accept a date from Dr Carl. I dropped the parcel as though it really was a bomb.

  “What?” Maggie jumped, catching my jitters.

  “Nothing. It’s fine. I’m sure it’s fine.” Reaching down, I flicked over the label to find it covered in small writing. I had to kneel down on the carpet to read it properly. It said:

  Ruth – to let you know I am thinking about you, and make sure you think about me. You deserve something special xxx

  The box contained a slinky gold bracelet. Some stones looking suspiciously like diamonds twinkled along one side. Maybe I did deserve something special, but without meaning to sound ungrateful, that bracelet was not it.

  I knew who had given me this hideous piece of jewellery. It smelt of creepiness and anger, and the need to dominate.

  I put it back on the doorstep. Perhaps a hungry vagrant would trade it in for a slap-up Christmas dinner.

  Perhaps a magpie would swoop down and take it away.

  Perhaps he was watching, and would get the hint.

  Ho ho ho. This was not a merry Christmas.

  It was the pink jumper.

  The previous Christmas had slipped past almost unnoticed in our haze of grief. Maggie and I felt a little like naughty schoolgirls as we stayed at home rather than make the annual trek to the icy Dragon’s lair. We spent the whole day in our pyjamas, ate chocolate for breakfast, bacon cobs for lunch and nachos for dinner. We read, watched girlie films, pretended we were having a day created out of indulgence not scarcity, Skyped Mum, phoned my sisters and left a message on my ex-not-quite-mother-in-law’s phone. We cried, of course, and lit a candle to remember Fraser. It was quiet, lazy, and oh so gentle to our frail and fragile emotions.