Looking For the Possible Dance

by A. L. Kennedy

  His knuckles touched against the paintwork and Margaret took in a breath.

  ‘No. Don’t speak to me just now. I’m speaking to you. Just listen.

  ‘I came back to see you. For no other reason. To see you. And I find you there, looking up at me with that . . . it was the insolence in your face, not the young man – I could have expected something like that. Your face. To see so clearly in your face what you must have been saying about, laughing about, that fracas in the car-park. Or maybe you were just laughing at me in general. Even pity would have hurt less, or disgust.’

  ‘Mr Lawrence, I never said –’

  ‘It doesn’t matter. I’m not interested. It’s not important. What counts is that I drove down here to see you and while I was away – perhaps exactly while I was talking to you and your little friend – my wife was sick.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘Shut up. She was drunk and lying passed out on her back in our bed. On our bed, actually. And she was sick. She vomited. To be very precise about it, she vomited and then drowned in her vomit. Inhaled it – aspirated – that’s a word I hadn’t heard until today.

  ‘And really, it’s no one’s fault. It would have happened sometime, anyway. I can’t say she was a very lovable woman, not any more, but, you know, I was quite fond of her in a stupid kind of way. She had very good skin until quite recently; pale, but clear.

  ‘I didn’t love her any more. I won’t lie. I didn’t love her but I wanted her to be alive this morning and she’s not. If I hadn’t been with you and she hadn’t been alone, I believe she would be alive now. Can you see that I . . . don’t you feel even a little responsible for this?’

  His hand was leaving a red blur now, where it touched the wall.

  ‘Mr Lawrence, I’m very, very sorry. I had no idea. If I . . . is there anything I can do.’

  ‘Do?’ He was almost shouting suddenly. ‘For whom? Me? Me?’

  ‘Anyone.’

  ‘Oh, just anyone. Well, I suppose that’s me. I think you’ve done enough for me.’

  ‘I wasn’t m –’

  ‘Don’t say that. I particularly don’t want to hear that. Not from you. No, why don’t you do something for Daisy. One last good turn.’

  ‘What do you want me to do?’

  ‘What I tell you.’

  ‘Which is?’

  ‘Tell them she’s dead. Tell them all that she’s dead – all your friends. Have a laugh on me.’

  ‘Mr –’

  Sammy stepped into the passage when Lawrence had turned away, almost running from the building; smiling emptily ahead of him and almost running out to his car.

  ‘Sammy, Mr Lawrence, he just . . .’

  ‘We know. We could hear him. We know.’

  He looked at Margaret as if there was suddenly something wrong about her face.

  ‘You’re being paranoid.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Paranoid.’

  Margaret moved her head from over Colin’s shoulder, looked down at him.

  ‘I thought you were asleep.’

  His eyes were open now, the streetlight through the window gave them a shine.

  ‘No, I was thinking.’

  ‘That I’m paranoid. The man’s wife has died and it’s my fault.’

  ‘Of course it’s not your fault.’

  ‘I know, I know. No, I don’t know, not for sure. I think I should have done something, but, probably it’s not my fault. Nobody thinks it is – except for Lawrence. But Lawrence is the only one that matters.’

  ‘Has he done anything? Said something?’

  ‘No. Not really.’

  ‘No threats.’

  ‘No nothing. That’s the trouble; he hasn’t said or done a thing. He’s been polite and so quiet, all the time, quiet.’

  ‘Well, like you say, his wife’s just died. It’s probably that he’s upset.’

  ‘No, no. That’s not it. He’s thinking. He’s thinking. He doesn’t know what to do yet so he’s not doing anything. He’s thinking and then he’ll decide. He’ll do something.’

  ‘Well, I’m not holding my breath until he does. For Christ’s sake. You worry when he’s worrying you – you worry when he’s not. Every time he makes you like this, he’s won.’

  ‘I know, I know.’

  They slept that night, uneasily, because they had fitted themselves too close together and what had seemed pleasant at first became hot and constricting. Margaret dreamed something unclear and feverish.

  Days ticked by, through and beyond Christmas. On Christmas Day there was no snow and no sign of snow. Margaret and Colin cooked part of a turkey, boiled a pudding, ate until they felt light-headed and then lay on the sofa together feeling domestic. Margaret gave Colin a sweater.

  ‘Very original.’

  And Colin gave Margaret a ring.

  ‘This is a ring.’

  ‘Really? Oh, aye, so it is.’

  ‘I mean, this is a ring.’

  ‘Do you know, now I look at it, that’s right. See if it fits, I had to guess.’

  ‘I mean –’

  ‘I know what you mean. You can wear it on any finger for any reason. Through your ear, through your nose. Just take it as a present; that’s what it is. Don’t worry.’

  ‘I’m not worried, but this is important. If you’d told me, I could have come with you. We might have bought it together. We might have talked about it.’

  ‘Don’t you like it?’

  ‘Yes, it’s lovely. Really. But why didn’t we talk.’

  ‘Because I was scared.’

  ‘You were what?’

  ‘Because I was scared. I thought we might have ended up rowing, or something. I mean, it’s a ring. That’s all. I’d like you to wear it for me. That would be nice. I would like that. If we decided it meant something more than that then, yes, I would like that, too. I would like that very much, Margaret.’

  ‘I did say I’d think about it.’

  ‘But you’ve said nothing since.’

  ‘Is this an engagement ring?’

  ‘You tell me.’

  ‘No. You tell me if you’d like it to be. Make a decision, go on.’

  ‘I’ve already made it, for crying out loud.’ Colin leaned forward and rested his fists on his knees and she wanted to stroke his neck. He fell back and pulled one palm across his face. ‘Alright, alright. This time, right now. Yes, I would like that to be an engagement ring. That was the finger I pictured wearing it. OK?’

  ‘Aye, OK.’

  ‘Mags? Could you say that again, please?’

  ‘OK. This is an engagement ring. Which means we’re engaged. Which means we’re thinking of being married. How do you feel about that?’

  ‘How do I feel? I’m happy. I’m very happy. You’re my darling, you know that, Mags. My darling.’

  ‘That’s nice.’

  ‘It’s a good thing I don’t expect you to be romantic.’

  ‘This has never happened to me before, why should I know what to say? I love you very much, too much, more than I can live with, more than I can live without. I need you more than I can manage. And you’re awful nice and I want to marry you. That’s all.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘But we need to get to know each other a lot for this to work. This is serious stuff. We’ll have to get very close. And I’ll change. I won’t change for you. I’ll change because time passes and I’ll change for us, or even because of you, but never for you. I won’t be someone different for you. I’ll wear what I wear and do the things I do. If you marry me, you’ll be marrying me, not what you hope I’ll turn into. This has to be fair. I’m marrying you for you. Because I like you. I love you. I waited for you.’

  ‘I’ve never said I wanted you different.’

  ‘I know, I know that. I know you, I think. I’m just trying to be fair. And promise me you’ll say when there’s something wrong.’

  ‘If there’s something wrong. It doesn’t have to happen.’

  ‘Pro
mise.’

  ‘Promise me the same.’

  ‘I’ll try.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I promise. You.’

  ‘I promise.’

  ‘OK. Do you mind if I say something?’

  ‘Fucksake. Sorry, go on. Say it all.’

  ‘I don’t know how to do this. Give me a hug first. No, don’t.’ She turned her head to one side a touch and then tilted it up, ‘Daddy? Daddy, this is Colin. It would be very nice if you liked him, because I do. We would like him to be my husband. I don’t know, I don’t know if you’re there, sometimes I think you are, and, but I’m not sure. I love him; remember I told you that the first time. I think I told you that. Well, it’s still there. It’s still there. And. Thanks, thank you. Night, night.’

  Margaret found Colin was holding her hand very tight. She kissed his knuckles.

  ‘Could you give me a hug now. Then I’ll give you the ring back and you can put it on. And I do want to cry. Yes I do want to cry. Yes I do.’

  Margaret got used to wearing the ring within weeks, didn’t feel it on. Soon a tiny callous formed above it, where it rubbed. Sometimes she would just sit and look at it, not especially thinking of anything. Except perhaps of what Colin thought when he sat and looked at it, too.

  She remembered finding her father’s wedding-ring in a little box with some collar studs and cufflinks – all things he never wore. She had thought of wearing his ring herself, of having it altered whenever it happened she might need a wedding-ring. Or of turning it into something else. In the end, she took it down to the docks and threw it in the big grey river. She would never have worn it and now no one else could.

  Maybe some fisherman would find it in a fish – like the Saint Columba story. She wasn’t sure if the river still had fish.

  The hardness of her secret ring makes tiny clicks against the window of the train to remind her it’s there, she’s still wearing it. She thinks how much nicer the journey would be if James was still beside her and feels more than hears the feather-light click, click, click of metal on glass. She remembers the tiny disturbance around her finger from her long drive with Colin.

  Three months ago now, they pushed their way out of the city until the road narrowed between dusty, private woods, the trim green of country-club turf, barbed-wire fences around tilting jetties. Their van ground on, its windows open against the heat of a spring sun. Margaret checked Colin’s map, unwrapped sweeties for him and pressed them between his soft, warm lips.

  But mainly she looked out around her as the hills rose up into mountains and made her ears pop.

  ‘That cottage down there.’

  ‘Where.’

  ‘No, only take a little look, careful.’

  ‘I am being careful, look; both hands on the wheel. What cottage?’

  ‘There’s a wee white cottage miles and miles down. I wonder if it’s nice there. It looks so fucking nice, I wonder if it could be that good. Or would you get used to it.’

  ‘Lonely, snow in the winter, I don’t know. Would you like to live out here?’

  ‘I’d never thought about it. Christ, look at that.’

  They slipped down between high, ragged shadows, here and there erased by blanks of snow, then turned into the sun between curves and rushes of fawn, brown, pink, grey, leaf green, shadow green, spring green, black. The road rolled itself along one lochside then twisted and stretched along another while Margaret changed the tape in their machine and rested her hand on Colin’s knee, gave a wee squeeze.

  They had four days ahead in a caravan at the far end of a little town; four days away from their work, from Lawrence, four days without distractions. Margaret even had Lawrence’s blessing before she went. ‘Certainly, you have some days in lieu and this would be an opportune moment to take them. Things seem to be rather quiet here. I think we could manage without you. Indeed. Oh, yes indeed.’

  At the end of their first day, Margaret could hardly picture where they had been before. She lay in bed, feet still tender from all their walking, still feeling the softness of sheets as something close to pain. When she tried to see the Factory in her head, even Graham’s face, his bunnet, she couldn’t do it. And then she was surprised by a long, smooth sleep, unbroken. They both woke too hungry to wait and cook their breakfast, piling up cornflakes and spreading their marmalade thick on raw bread.

  They picked out hills where the conifers hadn’t spread yet, walked on earth and grass that no one was making a matter of signs and wire and ownership. The mornings could be chill, the sky almost white, even a thin rain falling, but then the day would bloom right into the evening, bright and piercing. Their faces and arms coloured quickly and when Margaret washed in the evenings, it seemed she was cleaning off more than dirt. She tingled, felt lighter; as if she was touching Colin through a somehow thinner skin. Colin decided to grow a moustache.

  Margaret found they spoke less. She would catch herself taking his hand while they walked. They would stand with their arms laced around each other’s backs and she wouldn’t know who had started the move that brought them together, hip to hip. It happened that they would touch and touch again, as if they were continuing one movement, or perhaps letting it flow around them like a cloud, a liquid or a light.

  Back in the van at the start of another white morning Colin steered them away from the road leading home.

  ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘Getting us lost.’

  ‘You’re heading back for that Humph, aren’t you. The one in the glen.’

  ‘We’ve never been up it.’

  ‘I know, I’m not in a rush. It was you who wanted us out by the crack of dawn. It won’t take us long to get up the Humph, it’s only wee.’

  ‘Is that you insulting my Humph?’

  ‘Not at all, it’s a very nice Humph. I’ve often admired it.’

  ‘We’ve only been past it twice. Get your hand out of there.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because.’

  ‘Because why?’

  ‘Because if you don’t, I’ll bite you and I won’t stop the car before I do, I’ll just steer with my feet. Pervert.’

  ‘I thought you liked it. Especially that.’

  ‘No don’t do . . . Oh dear, oh dear. Will you look at that. You did that.’

  ‘No, that’s definitely you; I recognise it.’

  The Humph stood by itself on the table-smooth floor of the glen, something remarkable. Margaret could feel, as she felt in every glen, the bigness of the glacier that must have grown and gouged and ground away what was there. There was a threat, almost too huge to notice, still cold in the air above the sculptured hillsides and the flat, flat plain. The Humph must have been bigger before the glacier came and Margaret and Colin threaded their way towards it as if they were crossing an elemental footprint. An impression of ice.

  A white cottage spread its garden just beneath the Humph and an old woman was digging there. Colin nodded his head towards her cardiganed back.

  ‘Do you think if we killed her, we could have her house?’

  ‘Behave.’

  Climbing, stone to stone and up through a narrow gateway they found that the shape of the Humph had been added to; unaccidental stones planted beside the ones that the glacier left. Here had used to be a fortress, the heart of a kingdom founded by the same people who had seeded the plain with standing stones and circles, tombs and cairns. The same people carefully topped their dry-stone walls with little upright teeth and shared their graveyard with knights under sculptured slabs. It seemed an odd place.

  Colin stood by a curve of stone wall eaten into a bank and took Margaret’s hand.

  ‘Whoever they were, they liked their stone.’

  ‘No. They liked butterflies.’

  ‘Oh, aye. Of course.’

  ‘Didn’t you notice? All the stones down there, where the sun was shining, they were covered in butterflies.’

  ‘Right. Butterfly worshippers. Very Scottish. Weird all the same. You
coming up to the top?’

  ‘I want to put my foot in the footprint first. There, there’s one carved out. You see?’

  ‘Aye. My foot was too big.’

  ‘That doesn’t surprise me.’

  Another eight steps, maybe ten, and they conquered the Humph. Suddenly.

  ‘Jesus fuck.’

  ‘My God, Jesus God. Just fuck.’

  The floor of the plain birled back to the edge of the glen, hills strangely diminished. The earth fell away all about them and they seemed to have stumbled up to the heart of the world. They laughed. They turned and turned and laughed.

  ‘We can’t be up this high. I mean this is a Humph, not a fucking mountain.’

  ‘I don’t care. Colin McCoag, this is some Humph.’

  ‘Some Humph, some Humph.’

  Margaret was still sitting on the Humph’s brow, looking out and holding Colin, when a jogger pounded and scuttered his way by them. He circled and plunged down the way he had come without a pause. Colin squeezed her waist then tickled just a little.

  ‘Silly bugger.’

  ‘Well, it’s not the way I’d do it, I know. He’ll never know he’s been here.’

  ‘So what would you do up here?’

  ‘We won’t be doing anything up here, Elder McCoag.’

  ‘Spoilsport.’

  ‘It’s not exactly private.’

  ‘You could kiss me though, couldn’t you?’

  ‘Yes, I could.’

  His tongue flickered around hers and brushed her lips, as if it was laughing. She smiled in return and smoothed her hand round and over to hold the fine skin at the back of his neck, to push her fingers into his hair. Colin’s hand fluttered over her nipple, brushing through her blouse, their hands held each other, laced and unlaced fingers, gripped around backs. Colin’s palms and forehead tasted salt, his hair smelled of sun, musty gorse and sun.

  Margaret found herself pulling Colin by the hair, drawing his face away so that she could see it, then taking his head in her hands.

  ‘Oh, God. I do love you. Colin, you’re beautiful. You are beautiful. I want to take you home with me. I want to eat you up. All of you. Darling. I do love you.’

  ‘Eat me up then. Eat me up.’

  Colin’s van was already an hour nearer home when Margaret shook her head and laughed.