MEN DANCING

by Cherry Radford

  You always said I’d embarrass you if you brought a girl home. I have to say that, given the circumstances, I did very well. Once I’d cuddled her for you and calmed her down I took her to the kitchen and gave her sugary tea, two Kit-Kats and a bowl of mango. She recounted pranks in Brighton, in which you were always the initiator, and the rides you liked best on the pier. She asked about what you were like as a little boy, and I gave her edited highlights, nothing demeaning I promise. And I learnt about her Italian father and his new girlfriend, how she liked English and hated Maths, the tedium of her summer holiday prep, and her sixth form college preferences. Everything except what I wanted to know. But really, I knew.

  Before Dad drove her home, your t-shirt folded into her bag along with a photo she’d chosen, I told her she was welcome to come again and talk about you, if she’d like to, and she beamed and hugged me. But I think we both knew she wouldn’t.

  ‘Oh... wait a minute,’ I said to her and Dad. I came back a few minutes later with a copy of The Fall. ‘I think you should have this too.’

  ***

  It was around that time that, fragile and cut off by our grief and guilt from our lovers, Dad and I found ourselves drawing together. We were looking after each other, and there was a sense that we now spoke a language that nobody else would ever understand. But it was more than that. Consoling hugs lingered. We piled up together on the sofa and talked for hours. Kissed on leaving the room, as if one of us might also suddenly disappear.

  It started to feel almost like a guilty pleasure – this affectionate mutual healing, the delight in little moments of unexpected humour, the rediscovery of togetherness and trust. Until one evening, wrapped around each other watching your old favourite Slum Dog Millionaire for you, Dad paused the film, turned to me and said he believed you’d left us a parting gift: you’d given us back to each other. That night he scooped up Kenny from our bed and put him back into his own room, returning with an awkward smile. We’d been sleeping like spoons, affectionate brother-sisterly, but he got into bed and turned me towards him. The first time for a long while.

  ‘It’s... I’m not on the pill,’ I whispered.

  He sort of shrugged and carried on; I think we both thought that bereavement would be some kind of contraception. How could anything positive come from our sad, stressed and self-hating bodies? And when we eventually talked about it a few days and kindly distracting evenings later, there was still no real decision – as if we were no longer entitled to such things. If it was going to happen it would.

  And it did. But not how we expected. We were stunned by the almost immediate and convincing onset of symptoms, as if you’d just been waiting for the chance to be reincarnated by us, we said; I’d felt tired and nauseous with stress for some while, but my tummy was expanding rapidly, as if, third time round, it knew exactly what to do. We didn’t know how to take it, it was all too soon. We only really felt happy about it when we told Kenny and saw his excitement. There was also a sense of being given another chance.

  But actually, we were being given another test. Because after the scan we were told that I was more like twelve weeks pregnant, not seven. But I’ve had a period, I shouted at the woman. But she said that can happen. And apparently all that throwing up – after the wine when I came home, rang you at Ben’s and realised Dad was spending the night with Sarah, and then with the two-day migraine a few days later – must have stopped the pill from working. And then I’d had a mid-cycle amorous afternoon with Ricardo passionately wanting a baby. Willing it to happen.

  Well, it seemed that he’d got his wish. There was a humiliating trawl through my code-filled Filofax that confirmed – for the doctor – that Ricardo was the father, but Dad and I couldn’t stop believing there was still a remote chance that the baby was his. We considered amniocentesis and a paternity test, but it didn’t happen; I don’t think we had the strength for it. So we just clung on to the hope.

  Anyway, after a while it didn’t matter so much; Kenny was missing you dreadfully and needed a sibling, and the baby needed a father. Ricardo blamed himself for your death and understood how I couldn’t leave Dad and Kenny now that you’d gone. Once the hospital knew why I was on extended leave, and people were talking about me, it became clear that our affair had been public knowledge for a long time. And he said he couldn’t face seeing me there now that I couldn’t be his. So he decided to take up the post back home in Rio, and had left before I went back to work.

  It was obvious as soon as she was born. When people remarked on her colouring we simply and semi-truthfully pointed out that she resembled my half-Spanish mother. But in private the three of us would stroke her olive skin and black hair with amazement, look into those large dark eyes and wonder what she would make of us. And we had to put away the dreams we each had of a blonde boy, a new you. We called her Fernanda – after Dad’s favourite plant, a Brazilian ballerina, and a Strictly Come Dancing dancer that Kenny had a crush on.

  I wrote to Ricardo and told him, and will never forget the sound of his crying down the phone. He was furious that I’d let him leave the country knowing I was pregnant and that the baby was almost certainly his, said he wanted to look for another consultant post in England and come back and live with me and Fernanda. I had to tell him I’d changed. But she would bind us together, and at first we could only imagine that this would always be painful for all of us.

  But we’re beginning to think it’ll be okay. He’s talking about coming over to meet Fernanda soon, hoping to see her two or three times a year. As Uncle Ricardo, until we feel she’s old enough to know the truth. A few months after they moved to Brazil, his wife met someone and they amicably separated. ‘So, I’m free’, he’d said on the phone. ‘Are you sure you...?’ I didn’t let him finish. He now lives with Gabriel’s guitar teacher, and seems to be happy with her.

  Your little sister Nanda was a strange baby, unusually quiet and late to talk – as if as stunned at her entry into the world as we were. But once she was talking my expectations of having an uncomplicated, diligent and academic schoolchild – a female Gabriel – were quickly dispelled, with so many can-I-have-a-words at nursery school that we’ve decided to keep the little senhorita out of private education for the time being. Even though it’s now within our means and Ricardo keeps trying to send us money for it. She spends a lot of time playing make-believe games in the garden with her friends, and sings to herself. Just like you used to. And she’s got no interest in numbers or forming letters, useless at getting herself dressed and other practical things – other than helping her Daddy in the garden. She’s clearly destined for a bumpy school life and dodgy self-employment in the arts like the rest of us.

  Yes, I’ve gone over to the arts. Well, almost: I still do my Monday afternoon paediatric clinic, but now the only research I undertake is looking for music for my demanding pupils. Sometimes it’s easier just to write my own arrangement of what they want to play. Remember how I did that for you sometimes, with the themes to your television programmes? Now I arrange ballet themes. Because my pupils are nearly all dancers, and the star – and the most demanding – is Alejandro Cortés. Ali. Remember how impressed you were when you saw him in Mayerling? I met him on a train. I was going to tell you; if you hadn’t been at Thorpe Park with those Brighton College girls that day, I’m sure I would have. And then... well, I can’t explain why I never did.

  Ali says I should get my arrangements published. I said there aren’t many takers for ballet, so there won’t be many takers for a piano book of less well-known excerpts from ballets, lovely as they are. But he’s developing quite a commercial sense in the autumn of his career, and is convinced that if each piece is introduced by a pictured dancer describing why they love the piece, and it has a picture of him on the front playing the piano, the Opera House Shop would sell them like, how-you-say, hot cakes. Well, we’ll see.

  Meanwhile, I’ve got my two evenings of teaching dancers, as well as occasional lessons for myself – I’m det
ermined to keep ahead of Ali. Emma bought a piano and I teach at her flat. Ali’s lessons always run over, but the pupil after him – Gerard, the wonderful Widow Simone who made you laugh in La Fille Mal Gardée, in real life not a widow but a divorcee – was always happy to be looked after by Emma while he was waiting. A few months ago Ali and I sneaked out of the room and found them kissing. ‘At last!’ we said in chorus. As we did when we turned up and found that he’d moved in.

  When I’m not working or seeing to Nanda and Kenny, I help Dad. He needs it. He was much noticed in the NGS Open Garden programme, and not just by Sarah – who was shocked into leaving other people’s husbands alone and finding one of her own. She and Jez were in an episode of Gardener’s World about creating tropical gardens. After that, he was asked to front Channel Four’s Weird and Wonderful Gardens and there was no looking back: no more Cretan pot importing, no more illustrating – other than, eventually, some chapter-headings in his own book. He’s become something of a celebrity: famous for the passionate and tactile relationship he has with his plants, his unrestrained repartee and mimicry of fellow presenters, and the frequency of left-in bloopers and chuckles. Last year he was voted number three in the Sexiest Man on Television poll, which can feel a bit of a joke as, frankly, we sometimes struggle to find the energy for it at the end of a busy day and you forget how bloody early under-fives wake in the morning. But at other times, after an evening of salsa for instance... Yes, I finally managed to get him to have a go at dancing, and – as Ali somehow predicted – he’s turned out to be a wonderful partner.

  Kenny’s started to fill the house with thudding music. To be honest, he had a bad couple of years being the jumped-off-the-groyne-boy’s brother, but he’s been much happier since he started senior school. He goes to the one that was being built down the road, having forgiven it for replacing the field of sheep now that he’s enjoying its wonderful art department. Ollie went there too, after he was kicked out of Lancing; he’s now doing Law at Durham. Ben took a year off and is doing Music Tech – says he feels like he’s there for both of you. Kenny thinks he might want to be an illustrator, concentrating on animals. And if he can’t get enough work he could always teach Latin and Ballroom; he’s doing very well with his medal exams. Much to the Battleship’s frustration, he’s never wanted to be entered for any competitions; he just likes being one of the stars at the dance school’s medal evenings. I think one of those slinky girls might persuade him one day though. I just stand back and enjoy seeing him feeling good about himself; I don’t want to be a pushy mum again – one of the if-only-I-hadn’ts that I can’t shake off.

  A few months ago I came home to find him teaching the basics of the Samba to Nanda. ‘Surely that’s not the easiest dance to start with?’ I asked.

  ‘No, but... I thought she should try it,’ he said, unable to look me in the eye. It turns out he’d known for a while, pieced it together over the years, having overheard something between you and me on the NGS day, part of an anguished phone call with Ricardo, and Dad and I laughing at Nanda’s precocious fondness for our Santos coffee. He’s got her doing the under-six Rosette class on Saturday mornings, where he helps out each week for a few pounds; she looks convincing, but like me, has trouble remembering steps. Kenny tries to give her extra help at home, but after a while she just jumps into his arms and laughs.

  He also helps Grandpa and Jan with their ballroom. She moved in with him when he was having his chemotherapy a few years ago and never moved out. She’s now been diagnosed with cancer, but for now they’ll keep dancing. Hanging on in there, as Grandpa says.

  Ali wants to keep dancing, thought he’d go on until he was forty, but at thirty five he’s having a constant struggle with injuries and has started to look at his future. Which will be back home in Cuba. He’s beginning to tire of London, wants to be near the sea and surrounded by tropical vegetation again. He loves coming down here for lunch in the garden, picking up cartoon-drawing tips from Dad, helping us with our salsa. His girlfriend Jessie still hasn’t got him to marry her, but when Nanda asked them why they didn’t have children Ali said they were thinking about it. I’ll miss them when they go, but he insists we’ll have to keep coming over and visiting them in Cuba, let him show us some real salsa clubs.

  I can’t imagine not having him in my life. I know I shouldn’t have been on that train. Meeting him tilted my world, set me on a course that took me away from you. If I hadn’t met him you might still be here; I could have been there for you, not just that night, but at other times when you needed me, even though you didn’t ask. But I can’t go on and on accusing myself. I’m going to say it just one last time: I’m sorry. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry. And I hear you say, that’s not one time, it’s four. Enough. Telling me I’m going on. Looking bored. Like you often did when I came into your room, stopping you from doing what you wanted to do, going where you wanted to go.

  Now I think of it, you don’t come to me as often these days. Almost like you’ve left home, a 20-year-old as you would be, getting on with your life – or death in your case – and visiting just to use the washing machine, see how the folks are doing, tell them how you’re getting on.

  Which reminds me. You’ve done really well, Seb: your punishment essay The Fall is going to be published in a book of short stories by teenage writers. And no, not just because you’re dead; they didn’t ask for your date of birth until your story had been accepted, and then I had to explain that I hadn’t made a mistake – you’d been fifteen for five years. And of course the school, somewhat belatedly, has now put it in their magazine. The bastards – why wouldn’t they appreciate it at the time? They just couldn’t see past the fact that you hadn’t written about the dangers of falling from the school roof as you were told to do. Couldn’t they see how beautiful it was? The boy falling into the sea and entering a calm and forgiving undersea world, happy to swap the pressures above for the silent but sensual attention of a mermaid. A kind of eternal, underwater pas de deux. Presumably that’s where you’re off to all the time. I like thinking of you there. We all do. Dad, Kenny and Nanda have drawn pictures.

  I never know when you’ll come, when I’ll feel that warmth of knowing you’re there beside me. Even though I know it’s probably just in my head. But I’m going to be picking Kenny up from the Brighton Odeon later, parking on the front in the usual place. If you’re coming, don’t make me look for you at the doughnut stall. Get the fuck in the car, I’m not hanging around.

  Acknowledgements

  I’m very grateful to everyone at Indepenpress – particularly my eagle-eyed and enthusiastic editor Claire Spinks – for taking on my novel and patiently taking me through the steps to turn it into a book.

  A special thanks to my self-appointed mentor, writer Ian Walthew (www.ianwalthew.com), whose talent, wisdom and kindness saw me through many months of unpublished author angst (‘Onwards!’).

  I’d like to thank the friends and relatives who encouraged me and/or bravely read early drafts, especially those who gave feedback way beyond the call of duty (Helen Peacock, María Alicia Ferrera-Peña, Naomi Cohen and Phil Radford).

  Not many men would be happy for their partner to be holed up in a study with two Latins for six months, but it helps that he also makes up stuff for a living. I dedicate this novel to Phil, and Jack and Robin, with love.

  Flamenco Baby

  Jeremy and Yolande enjoy life in London’s artsy Islington. He’s a novelist; she’s in a flute trio. They love the dance theatre, Spanish films and arm-in-arm walks along the canal. But both are searching for a dark and sensitive Mr Right – and at thirty eight, Yolande is running out of time.

  When Jeremy offers a ‘consolation prize’ after another failed romance, she asks for his baby. But he can’t face fatherhood, and gives her flamenco instead – tickets for the London festival, followed by classes in Spain.

  An entranced Yolande returns from Granada having started a cosy relationship with guitarist Javi, and Jeremy fall
s for Fernando – an enigmatic dancer with whom Yolande has had a hidden brief liaison. So begins a whirl of secrecy, love and jealousy that has them all wondering if there’s more than one way to have a happy-ever-after…

  ‘A lively tale, with all the emotion, darkness and humour of flamenco.’

  Sarah Bird, best-selling author of The Flamenco Academy