Looking For the Possible Dance

by A. L. Kennedy

  Margaret turned to Lesley before she could say anything, ‘Don’t tell me. A spot of abseiling would sort them all out, no problem.’

  ‘Some healthy exercise would certainly do them no harm. If they didn’t run a mile at the very thought.’

  Margaret smiled when she realised that Lesley hadn’t meant to make a joke.

  ‘I could only recommend something I’d be willing to do myself. I leave all that painful, sporting stuff to Colin.’

  ‘Suit yourself. How is he, by the way? We never see him. You should come round. Oh, there’s Sammy. Bye. See you tomorrow. Bye.’

  ‘Goodbye, Lesley.’ Margaret watched her disappear into Sam’s old Vauxhall, relieved they hadn’t thought to offer her a lift.

  Margaret didn’t expect to be back at the Factory later that night. She had settled herself for an early night, bathed, slipped into bed and was on the edge of sleeping when the phone rang.

  ‘What are you wearing?’

  ‘What? Colin?’

  ‘What are you wearing?’

  ‘I’m in bed. I was asleep. Nearly.’

  ‘So what are you wearing?’

  ‘Nothing. Obviously. I don’t wear anything in bed.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘I know you know. Is this leading anywhere?’

  ‘Come out with me. Get dressed and come out.’

  ‘Colin.’

  ‘Please. I need to talk to you.’

  ‘Then come round and talk.’

  ‘No. We need to be out, it’s a lovely night.’

  ‘Are you alright?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘You haven’t taken anything?’

  ‘Oh, for Christ’s sake, just come out. Look I’ll be round in about fifteen minutes, if you’re there, you’re there. If you’re not, I’ll go away again.’

  ‘If I’m where?’

  ‘Outside. I’ll see you. Bye.’

  Margaret rolled on to her back, thinking that Colin always did this. He would suddenly have a wild idea, entirely unreasonable, but if she tried to say a thing about it, he would get hurt and she would feel entirely unreasonable and then guilty and then he would get his own way. Always. Not that she didn’t appreciate the odd wild idea; they were nice, the kind of things women appreciated in romantic novels. He just had such rotten timing. Inconsiderate. She had half a mind not to go out. Why should she wait outside for him at nearly twelve o’clock when she had a very busy day ahead, followed by a long night? She would do it anyway, of course. Despite herself.

  Was this her growing up and getting sensible, or getting old and set in her ways?

  Was this him off his head again?

  There was a wind scuttling along the kerb as she moved down the steps to the pavement. In a few hours the frost would be forming, when the clouds had passed and the air was still.

  Colin pulled up in the company van, just as Margaret started to shiver.

  ‘There you are.’

  ‘This is where you said you wanted me to be.’

  ‘Aye, but you sounded pretty grumpy, you know?’

  ‘I always am when I’ve just woken up.’

  ‘Aye right. Buckle up, now, seat-belts on and safety first.’

  He took the corner at the end of the road in fourth.

  ‘Why is it whenever you talk about safety I feel at risk?’

  ‘Paranoia, hen, just paranoia. What’s the point of driving carefully at night? In the daytime, I could understand. You’ve seen me, Mr Clean.’

  ‘Well, at night, it’s Mr Hyde.’

  ‘Are you going to nip my head all night, or will I start steering with my knees?’

  ‘No, you will not.’

  ‘Only on the straight bits, I do it all the time.’

  ‘I wish I thought you didn’t. This isn’t your van.’

  ‘Precisely, lighten up.’

  They slithered out along the dual carriageway, overtaking a touch too early, or maybe a touch too late, something risky about the feel of the wheels beneath them.

  ‘Nights like this, I wish I was American. They have roads you can really drive on. I used to try this round London – not a bloody hope. At least you can hit the countryside up here. We’re going to the countryside tonight, but not just yet. First things first, as old Archie used to say. Guess where we’re going.’

  ‘I have no idea.’

  ‘Aye, you do. Come on. We’re following the bus route.’

  ‘The bus? Oh no. You’re not. It’s bad enough in daylight.’

  ‘You guessed. The Fun Factory. A little visit and then we move on. Geez a wee feel of your body, while I’m at it. That bit. Go on, if I have to look for it, I’ll need to take my eyes off the road. Oh, there it was, all the time.’

  ‘Where did you expect?’

  ‘Things change.’

  But the Factory was just the same. Apparently even grubbier in the dark, with a greasy sheen of cold over its walls.

  ‘Prepare to steam windows.’

  The van nosed into the corner away from the light and on to the old brick, parked where the girls had been trying to sing. There was no one there now.

  ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘I wanted to talk.’

  ‘Really.’

  ‘Come here first, though.’

  Afterwards Margaret would wonder why they had done that, making love in a van on a patch of waste ground, something from the seat-belt nipping her back. Why do it like that, the way they’d never had to? As if they were hiding out from their parents? As if Colin was paying her; a commercial one-night stand? As if they’d both had another wild idea?

  ‘Thanks.’ Colin wriggled back into his seat.

  ‘No trouble.’

  ‘No, I mean, I know it’s bit weird, alright. I know. I get nervous and I don’t know what else to do.’

  ‘I see. I don’t know if that’s entirely complimentary, you know? You said you wanted to talk. Did I have to be subdued first, shagged into submission?’

  ‘You didn’t like it?’

  ‘Liked it fine. I don’t know why it happened, that’s all. Not that I always need a why. What is it. Why are you nervous? What’s the matter? Hm?’

  ‘Hang on, I’ll get us out of here. The country bit. If I stick to my timetable, I’ll be fine. No bother. You alright?’

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about, but otherwise, I’m fine.’

  The dark cooried in round the windows as they left the streetlights and turned down into lanes. Fractions of trees and stone wall drew up alongside them and flicked out and Margaret followed the tunnel of light ahead, feeling somehow cosy.

  ‘Do you want some music on?’

  ‘Is that a hint?’

  ‘Not at all, I thought it might relax you. Tell me, come on.’

  ‘Alright. It’s nothing much. That is, I don’t know how much it is. I feel that something happened a while ago. We seemed to pass a point, I don’t know, I just felt that something should have happened, a change.’

  ‘You want me to change?’

  ‘No. Not especially.

  ‘It’s the way we are, you see. There are times when I feel, there are things we’re not doing. It’s been more than two years since I came back, since we’ve been together, and there are things we don’t do. Maybe we never will, but we don’t talk about them. I don’t know if they’re possible. I mean, could I ask you something?’

  ‘Of course. Ask.’

  The van rode on, its light bumping ahead, its engine the only noise they were aware of.

  ‘Go on. Ask me. I don’t bite. You’re the one that bites.’

  ‘Sorry.’

  ‘Not at all, please go on.’

  ‘Aye, well, OK. I just wondered if you would think about living with me, with a view to doing something else. I mean, I’d like to marry you. I’d like to make this serious. Because I’m serious.’

  ‘So am I.’

  ‘Good, good. Just think about it. No deadline, nothing demanding. I know I can b
e demanding.’

  ‘I was about to say. You were pretty keen on getting the keys to my flat.’

  ‘You’ve got the keys to mine.’

  ‘Yes, I do. Look, this is very flattering. Apart from anything else. Definitely. But I will have to think. Don’t be offended. I’m not saying no. It’s more that I don’t know how to do it.’

  ‘Well, we can work that out. Sorry. Sorry, not rushing you, just a suggestion. You know me, I’m all for forward motion. Standing still worries me.’

  ‘Yeah. Will we have a nice drive home now? I’ll put in a tape. Do you fancy holding hands around your gearstick.’

  ‘Any time. Any time.’

  The morning was clear and very frosty and Margaret was less tired than she’d expected. Colin had trouble starting the van.

  Margaret found Graham on the doorstep when she came to unlock.

  ‘I don’t even wake up this early to sign on.’

  ‘You could have had a wee lie in, it’s not as if nearly everything isn’t done. You look a bit rough.’

  ‘You’re not kidding. See, it occurred to me that there is a class of bastard who would see all that booze going in there a day early and decide to rip us off. You know? So I’ve been keeping an eye on the place.’

  ‘What, all night?’

  ‘Only on and off. Don’t look so worried, Maggie, it was no bother. To tell the truth, the woman came back and put me out again, so it made a break from sleeping up my own close. Come down here and be useful. You know, I’ve just realised, she never puts me out when it’s fucking warm.’

  ‘Did you see anything?’

  ‘Me? Naw. Quiet all night. Too cold for anything to happen.’

  ‘I suppose so.’

  Just before the lunchtime rush, Mr Lawrence marched from his office to the café counter. The room focused its concentration intently on newspapers, dominoes, coffee-stains, boots, anything that wasn’t Mr Lawrence.

  Mr Lawrence tapped a fork on the formica counter. The silence became more silent and, as Margaret and Lesley emerged from the office, he began.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen, as you all know, tonight there will be a fund-raising ceilidh on these premises. Something I’m sure we will all enjoy in good spirit. We’ll have fun and I’m sure we will all have nothing to reproach ourselves with in the morning.

  ‘I would draw your attention to the special support this project has received from a member of our own staff, Margaret Hamilton. You all probably know that I am not generous with my praise, but I think we would all agree that this is another job well done. Thank you for your help, Margaret.’

  Even with both eyes on the ground, Margaret knew he was looking at her.

  IT’S TIME FOR James to go now. Warrington is almost here, the train slowing too slightly to be noticed, then a little more and then a little more. A narrow rain is waiting to meet it.

  May has gone to fetch the guard and Irene has almost finished clearing the table-top. The paper and markers disappear, James too late to catch them. His games of noughts and crosses, conversations, observations, brief asides, are folded into the carrier bag reserved for rubbish and scraps. He eases his head round to Margaret, hands clasped close to his chest.

  ‘Well, James Watt. Nearly time for you to go. I’m sorry you’re not coming all the way. Take care of yourself.’

  James extends a hand forward to be shaken.

  ‘Thanks, James. Thanks.’

  All along the carriage, bags and cases are reached out or lifted down, coats are smoothed and put on, but James is still looking at Margaret, unable to be precise about any message because he has no precise way to pass one on. He looks and holds Margaret’s hand, looks away. He has eyes which are very pleasantly blue. She hadn’t noticed that before.

  They all watch the station give a tiny jolt beside them and come to a halt. The carriage slowly clears enough for May and the guard to move along it and make themselves ready for James. Irene slips out and settles her bags on the table.

  ‘You can bet he’ll need changing.’

  May smiles at Margaret as she loosens James’s hand away, neatly arranges the wheelchair to receive him. Margaret, her hands free now, tears off a corner from her paper, begins to write.

  ‘Well, it’s been a long journey. Nice to have met you, dear. Hope we’ve not disturbed you too much.’

  ‘No, not at all. I wondered, this is my address. If James wanted to write, if he wanted me to write to him . . .’

  Irene is already on the platform, surrounded by bags. She is looking along the platform at something Margaret cannot see.

  ‘That’s very nice of you dear, but you really mustn’t.’

  ‘I would like to.’

  ‘Really, no.’

  The buckles are all in place around James and his chair, a blanket being eased up around him. Margaret pushes the corner of paper into his hand as it disappears.

  ‘There, now James has my address. I really would like to keep in touch. We seem to have made friends.’

  ‘Well, we’ll see, dear. You have to understand, Irene isn’t the only one who’s disappointed. James gets disappointed, too. He gets let down.’

  James lets out a fragment of sound and fumbles under his blanket. His eyes stay on Margaret.

  ‘Just you keep nicely tucked in, son, it’s cold out there and you know what you’re like with the cold.’

  ‘Goodbye, James. I’ll not shake your hand again. I can’t shake your hand. Goodbye, then.’

  For no reason she understands, Margaret leans and kisses James, just reaching his forehead above one eye. This seems the right thing to do.

  ‘Right, well, we’ll not hold up the train any longer.’ And James is lifted down and away. Margaret waves. A hand struggles out of the blanket to wave back, letting a piece of paper fall and blow along the platform out of sight.

  Margaret finds she has a tightness in her throat as the carriage edges into movement. She cannot settle to read.

  THE FISHERMAN’S CEILIDH is a memory now, kept safe in Margaret’s mind. When she thinks of it, it birls the way a ceilidh always should, almost as shining and moving as the night when her father danced.

  In the dark, the Factory door was propped half open, a slab of interior light laid flat across the path. Someone was playing a record of Jimmy Shand and the music was edging out into the frost above the sound of voices. Seven o’clock.

  ‘Courage, mes braves and here we go. Nae booze for the barmen, nae tick on any terms. But the stovies and the oatcakes are all free.’

  Margaret stepped into a room she couldn’t recognise. Within the last two hours there had been changes. A huge man in a kilt ground past her, quietly adamant.

  ‘There’s nothing wrong with Jimmy Shand, he’s a grand wee man.’

  ‘Dougie, pal, he’s mince. I mean, have you ever seen him playing? He’s a miserable old sod. That’s not an accordion wrapped round him, it’s a bloody iron lung.’

  ‘I suppose you don’t like Alisdair Gillies, either.’

  Graham, suddenly dapper in a blue serge suit, moved from group to group dispensing his final advice. He looked younger without his bunnet. Even slightly magical.

  ‘Coffin Maggie and her man are barred for reasons you can guess and so is Bobby The Dug if he brings his punchbowl. We’re having none of that.’

  Margaret stared at the Factory; it was transformed. The walls and ceiling were looped with tartan cloth: ribbons, blankets, scarves, whole bolts of something broad and mainly brown. A battered Saltire was fixed above the PA. And on any available surface there were signs: new signs, handwritten in broad black on wide sheets of lining paper. Each was a quotation, neatly marked with its author’s name: Thoreau, Brecht, Paine, Thomas Muir, Cervantes.

  ‘Any problems, look for me. Any serious bother, then look for Big Douglas, your man in the kilt. Aye, what is it hen?’

  Margaret stood very still. Reading.

  ‘“My equals burst but once upon the world and their first stroke displays the
ir mastery.”’

  Graham smiled, ‘Pierre Corneille, from The Cid, whit else would you put on your wall? Och, would you look at that poor bugger.’

  Sammy was sunk in a chair near the Blue Room, his guitar pulled close to his chest. ‘He’s been tuning and retuning since he came, either that or staring into space. I don’t think a paying audience is entirely his cup of tea.’

  ‘Graham, this is all very nice, but why do you have Corneille on your wall, why anyone?’

  ‘To make the night complete. Food, bevvy, music, singing, dancing, all of that, but there’s got to be something there for your brain, for your soul. When folk sing the songs, they don’t always think what they’re saying. That’s the Scottish Problem; we’re aye fucking singing, but what do we ever hear?’

  ‘You’re off your head, you know that?’

  ‘There’s no other way to be. Look over there – René Descartes. His “Second Meditation”, fucking read it. He’s telling me I can be everything, the whole fucking world – telling me that I can do that. I have that inside. And I’m fed up with folk who are certain that I’m nothing but shite underfoot. Tonight, I’m backing Descartes. We all are.’

  ‘Graham?’

  ‘Aye?’

  ‘I like the signs. You’re still off your head, but I like them and I’ll tell you something nice that makes me like them even more. Lawrence will fucking hate every single one. His bulgy wee eyes will finally leave his bulgy wee fucking head.’

  ‘Strong language suits you, you know that?’

  Margaret laughed and then shivered a little.

  ‘Aye, maybe.’

  ‘Well, you can do us all a favour, while you’re on a roll. Go and persuade Big Dougie to leave the record selection to somebody sane. If he carries on with this shite, the boys’ll make up a menoge to fucking gub him.’ He held her shoulder gently, ‘No, no, stay here. I’m only kidding. And I’ve got a wee announcement to make.’ He stepped on to a swaying, plastic chair. ‘Ladies and gents you’ve been entirely wonderful. Less of that fucking music while I’m talking! Thanks. This’ll be a good night and we’ll have made it that way. But you’ll not mind me asking a wee cheer for Maggie here. For all her help. For – she’s – a – jolly – good – fellow –’