Ask Me to Dance

by Sylvia Colley

  I stared at the Christ figure hanging on the cross, hypnotised by those outstretched arms. Outstretched arms should mean love, welcome, welcoming love. I wanted to cry out: ‘Bollocks. It’s all a load of bollocks.’ And I felt the prickling of tears. One of the reasons I didn’t want to go to Mass was my fear of crying, of being seen to cry. I had been betrayed: those arms of welcome, of love, of help, were useless. ‘I’m not the only one,’ I thought for the thousandth time. Those arms – they had meant so much to me once. But when it came to it, when the moment came, they were powerless; I was powerless; I just kind of stood by and could do nothing. How could I have been so useless, helpless? Because there was no help. I was weighed down, drowning, sinking into the black pit of madness. That’s how it felt and there have never been any words. It’s pointless, you see. A waste of energy. It happened, and that is that.

  It had been different once. Funny thing – I can still remember standing in the nursery and crying because it was the day Jesus was killed on the cross. Good Friday. I was very young, so how did I – the little girl who jumped off the dining-room table because she wanted to fly – know that? Perhaps through Granny, who had said simple prayers with me? Or, now I come to think of it, it was probably my friend, Margaret Cousins, who was very holy and took me to Sunday school. Yes, I think it must have been because of Margaret. I bet she became a nun; she was the type. But, of course, when we were moved away I lost all my friends and I never heard from her again.

  I started going to church at boarding school. We walked in a crocodile down the hill to the huge cathedral. And school assemblies were religious occasions with readings, prayers and a sermon. Once a week Canon Rogers came and took the school service, his head and body jerking uncontrollably and the girls would titter and nudge each other. I was embarrassed for him; I couldn’t bear to look. All I knew was that he was very brave to stand up in front of a hall full of giggling, unsympathetic girls. It was partly for this reason that I asked to join his confirmation classes.

  Then the heated debates began. Could you go to heaven without being a Christian? Was there really a life after death? Should you always turn the other cheek? What good did Jesus do by dying? I entered the debates with the fierce passion of a fervent twelve-year-old and was certain and unbending. Jesus could have prevented His own death had He wished. God could have intervened, for He did have the power to move mountains; you only needed faith. If you couldn’t move a mountain, it was because you didn’t have enough faith. It was as simple as that. Suffering brought you closer to God and if it didn’t, then you couldn’t have loved Him much in the first place. It all sounds so ridiculous now, but that’s how I was, and during our sessions and Canon Rogers noticed me. Though I was inexperienced and rather too fiery, he was patient and I could tell he thought something of me. That was important to me then. Probably still is. Now what would he say to me, this speechless, prayerless woman? What would he say to the stubborn, tearless challenge: ‘If You want me, You do something. I can do no more.’

  Scilla, my best friend at school, and I went to confession in the vast cathedral on the Thursday evening before Confirmation Sunday. Everything was silent and waiting, and our footsteps echoed as we approached Canon Rogers, who had taken on an awesome presence as, dressed in long, rich clothes, he waited, solemn and still, in the little confessional room.

  I was literally terrified; it was like going in to see God, not someone I knew. I went in trembling and knelt before him and took out the piece of paper on which were written all my sins. At least all the sins I could think of.

  ‘Read them out to me.’ He didn’t seem like my friend any more.

  My voice would hardly come out.

  ‘Speak up.’

  ‘I don’t always love God as much as I should. Sometimes I’m unkind to other girls. I have a bad temper and I’m noisy. Sometimes I tell lies. I speak without thinking. I’m selfish. I’m rude to my mother. My mind wanders when I’m in church and when I say my prayers. I am proud. I have stolen things.’ Then I stopped because my mouth was dry.

  ‘What have you stolen?’

  ‘Sweets from my grandmother’s sweet tin when she is not looking.’

  ‘Oh, I see.’ Did I detect a twinkle in his voice? I had my head bowed.

  ‘And how are you unkind to other girls?’

  ‘I follow the crowd when they are saying unkind things because I’m afraid. And I’m not friendly to people I don’t like. I don’t fix a church walk with a girl because she has really awful spots and it makes me feel sick.’

  ‘Will you try to be stronger in these matters?’

  ‘Yes, Father.’

  ‘You have not strayed far have you, my child? God loves you and all your sins are forgiven you and the slate is clean.’

  Oh, the relief. I knew I would cry from relief. From the kindness, for the forgiveness. He put both hands on my head.

  ‘God have mercy upon you, pardon and deliver you from all your sins, confirm and strengthen you in all goodness, and bring you to life eternal, through Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen.’

  I felt his hands on my head and then all I wanted to do was to escape. He was going to ask more of me than I could give. I knew it.

  ‘Rose.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You are God’s child. Are you willing to give your life to Him?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Always?’

  ‘Yes. I will try’

  ‘Good, Rose, and God bless you always. Now go and pray for a little while.’

  I wanted to run from the room.

  I walked back to school with Scilla, who went in after me. It was dark and windy that November evening. Neither of us spoke a word. I felt energised, happy. I could do anything now – except keep silent!

  I whispered to Scilla, ‘I daren’t say anything. I’m frightened to open my mouth. I’ve never been so holy before and if I speak I’m sure to ruin everything.’

  The monks were filing up for communion. Father Godfrey held up the silver chalice and Brother Joseph stood beside him holding out the plate. I didn’t go up. I just watched the brothers go one by one, kneel at the chancel step and put their heads back to receive the sacraments. I watched, pitying their naivety as Father Godfrey took a wafer from the plate, which Brother Joseph held, dipped it into the cup and placed it into the open mouth. I could hear the mumbling every time he did so. I had been fascinated by that secretive mumbling before I’d understood what was going on and, even now, it seemed private and mysterious. Each monk crossed himself before standing and returning to his place.

  Father Godfrey turned towards the altar, the service now concluding, but the little monk remained, facing us, waiting expectantly. I dropped my head, certain he was looking for me, expecting me to go up. Please don’t make a fuss, I thought. But after a moment he, too, turned and placed the silver plate on the altar and then took up his kneeling position. I had disappointed him.

  They all stood when Father Godfrey stood and the monks filed out behind him, but I stayed where I was. I sat, staring ahead, thinking I’d got to work things out. I’d got to get a grip on myself. But I didn’t know what sort of grip. After all, to all intents and purposes, I had got a very good grip on things. I was living a perfectly normal life, doing perfectly normal things, like everyone else. After all, I wouldn’t have been there except for the odd memory lapses. I tried testing my memory: phone numbers, titles of the books by my bed, films I had seen, theatres, but it was exhausting and unproductive.

  ‘Mrs Gregory! Mrs Gregory!’ I turned abruptly to see Brother Joseph leaning towards me. ‘It’s breakfast.’

  He was serving at table and brought me cereal, a boiled egg, toast and a large cup of tea, slopped in the saucer. I smiled because he deserved a smile, I thought. Nobody took any notice: they were all too busy eating. A young brother, the one with the spotty face, mumbled from Luke’s Gospel; again, nobody appeared to be listening. I noticed the way they launched into the food. Mouthfuls of tea were gulpe
d to wash down even larger mouthfuls of cereal and toast. They bent their heads to the task, much as they had while praying. The twanging of the metal cutlery on the white china and the clanging of cups on saucers rang in a kind of rhythmic chorus.

  He was there. The man I mentioned before; the one who was not a monk. He was there and raised his spoon to me in a quick greeting. And this time I nodded in reply. But that was all. I tried not to catch his eye again, concentrating on my boiled egg and then on the view from the windows.

  The garden was already filled with sunlight, which threw armfuls of shadow as its rays blanched through the trees, and I suddenly longed to be outside, to go to the walled garden and to sit and look at the lights and shades, the tones of the garden. To smell the freshness, the sweetness, away from this stuffy claustrophobia. I wanted the warmth of the sun very badly indeed. Perhaps I would paint.

  After breakfast, they all disappeared, as before. No one was in the hall this time, which was a kind of relief. I noticed the rabbit as I crossed the lawn and stood watching it for a moment. It was perfectly at home hopping around on the end of the rope. I went over to stroke it, remembering the white rabbit Father had bought me in place of the dog I had really wanted. This rabbit had a far better life than my poor Bambi, which had been cooped up in a small cage, generally thick with droppings and acidly wet with urine. Father had made a run, but the rabbit always managed to claw its way out and then we had the difficult task of catching it. In the end, it was seldom free. No, it had had an awful life. This Francis, though, seemed happy, free and fat. As I approached, it stopped eating, pricked its ears forward for a moment and then quickly hopped away until it was jerked to a halt by the end of the rope. ‘All right, I’m not going to hurt you. I won’t touch you if it frightens you.’

  I didn’t stay long, and after a moment of curiosity, the rabbit returned to the vegetable scraps.

  Chapter 21

  I stood, wondering what to do next; there was nothing but go back to my room. I drew back the curtains, straightened out the bedcovers, shoved a jumper and some underclothes into one of the drawers and hung up a skirt, a pair of trousers and a shirt in the curtained corner. Why did I bother to look at myself in the mirror? To see if I looked so washed out? But I wasn’t as pale as before; that eased my anxiety, and I didn’t care that my hair looked a mess. Nothing seemed important at that moment, but I rummaged in my toilet bag and found the tortoiseshell comb, which I pushed into a bundled-up knot on the top of my head. And then, of course, I would go to the walled garden for a smoke and take my book, in case anyone came along. At least I could make a pretence of reading.

  The rose garden was empty and I chose the corner where the sun had reached and lit my cigarette. Wood pigeons echoed from somewhere, but there was no cuckoo. Nor any sound of water.

  We had debated long and hard whether to buy the house with the river at the bottom of the garden. Was it too risky with a four-year-old? But it was such a welcoming old house, and as well as the river, I had fallen in love with the wooden veranda that ran along the back, despite its peeling paint and rotten floorboards. The house had no front garden, just a few steps and some iron railings down to the street, but the back was sprawling and wild with unpruned fruit trees that almost obscured the view of the river. There was one old pear tree and in August the grass was strewn with yellow, rotting pears, which attracted hordes of wasps. But what should we do about the river? Really it was no more than a large stream, for it was only roughly thirty feet across and shallow, three to four feet in depth at the most and in a drought we thought it could dry up altogether, although in fact it never did as long as we lived there. Like old Father Thames, it kept going, somehow. It was always clear and pebbly with weeds and reeds that needed clearing a bit every year, and then you could easily see the slippery brown fish as they glided nonchalantly above the stones. But a child could drown there. I was finally persuaded that it would be all right when Peter described the fence he would build, and the gate that we could safely padlock. Because the garden sloped down to the stream we could still see it over the fence, which was tall enough to deter a child.

  The fence was in place before we moved in at the end of August, a week before Dan’s fourth birthday, but even so we both watched him like hawks and if he disappeared behind the trees for more than a minute, one or other of us would run after him. In truth, it was safe and Dan was perfectly content to stand at the fence and look out. In fact, there were, then, far more interesting things to attract his attention in the new house and garden. The river seemed rather tame in comparison with the tree house Peter built with some of the timber left over from repairing the veranda, and the cellar, which could be approached by stone steps leading off the kitchen.

  Our first job in the garden was to thin out the trees so that we could enjoy the river and the trees beyond from the house and the veranda. Neighbouring riverside houses had manicured lawns sweeping down to smart landing stages and well-varnished summer houses, but we kept the old wildness and Peter simply patched up the dilapidated landing stage. We bought an orange rubber dinghy to begin with. It was light and unsinkable, a good first boat for any child, and we both spent more time than we should have done either rowing Dan up to the bridge and the public landing stage from where we could walk within a few minutes to the shops, or we simply drifted downstream, trailing fishing nets or lines.

  Dan quickly learned to row and all the codes of the river and so for his sixth birthday we bought him a small, light rowing boat. He was so sensible and reliable that we had no fears now for his safety. He developed into a fine fisherman, as Peter taught him how to use a rod and to bait the hooks with bread pellets or worms found in the garden. If he caught a fish he always put it in a bucket so that he could show us before throwing back. We all so enjoyed the river on sunny days when the pebbles glistened yellow and on rainy days when the drops bounced off the water. You could hear it at night; it was the loveliest sound in the world. We had to admit that it would have been nice to have a summer house by the river for cold and bright or rainy days, and Peter often discussed the design with me, but it never happened, of course.

  Fleur was born in the November after Dan’s sixth birthday but her pet name was Flower mostly, although like all families I suppose we called her many flower names as family fun. Come here, Buttercup, Lilly, Dandylion, Snowdrop, Daffodil, and she would laugh. But one day she stood with hands on hips and announced ‘I want to be Flower.’ but mostly when she was being particularly sweet, it was Flower. Dan called her Toadstool if she was being difficult and this made her giggle as well.

  By the time she could crawl, Peter had fixed wire netting along the fence but even then, we didn’t let her out into the garden on her own if we could help it. It was OK if Dan was there. We knew she would always be safe with him. He taught her what she could and could not do and, because she loved him with such a fierce passion, she never disobeyed him. Often, I would turn to Dan for his help if she was being particularly awkward. ‘Dan, tell her, will you?’

  He would call: ‘Toadstool! Toadstool! Do as Ma says. Titch, don’t be naughty.’

  As Fleur grew older she would go in the boat with Dan. He taught her to row, although she was always too impetuous and heavy-handed and ‘caught crabs’ endlessly, the oar leaping into the air and out of her control. But he was patient, only laughing where others might have been irritated. He pretended to be cross if she refused to put a caught fish back, and on one occasion actually smacked her behind because she took a fish out of the bucket and ran into the house to show me, saying she had caught it. The fish died, of course, and then she was heartbroken. Sobbing and screaming uncontrollably.

  Dan had a small biscuit tin with holes in for his worms and naturally Fleur had to have the same. Often you could see her in the garden hunting out worms for Dan, quite oblivious to any damage she might be doing to the lawn, but she always insisted on keeping them in her own tin. If she found an extra-juicy one, she didn’t wait to put it in
the tin but ran to find him with it dangling between her fingers, shrieking out with excitement. ‘Well done, Titch. That is a good one. Now go and find some more.’ He had his own ways of getting some peace.

  Dan’s other preoccupations were football and reading. He would kick a ball about in the garden, but more often he would go with his friends to the park. At these times, I would have my work cut out keeping Fleur busy until he returned. Reading was not such a problem, though because Dan wisely made a rule very early on that he would only read to her as long as she did not interrupt with questions, she would listen to anything. Once I came upon her listening to The Life Cycle of the Mexican Lizard! Dan simply read out loud whatever he was currently reading, sometimes Dickens, sometimes Football News. Fleur didn’t care, providing she could sit cross-legged on his bed and be part of whatever he was doing. As a consequence, she learned to read herself very quickly and was reading her own books before she started school.

  She was happy to go to school because she was familiar with the building and with the teachers, as she went every day with me to meet Dan and as soon as the bell rang she would run to the school door to find him. Sometimes, impatient as usual, she would disappear inside. I used to laugh. How she found him I was never sure, but they would emerge hand in hand, she skipping and talking, with Dan trying hard not to look pleased. By the time she went though, Dan had moved to the grammar school, which was a short bus ride away. Fleur and I would walk with Dan as far as the bus stop in the mornings and then go on to her school. In the afternoons, I fetched her in the car and then drove to Dan’s school. I needn’t have done this, because Dan was just as capable of coming home from school as he was of going, but Fleur made such a fuss if we weren’t going to pick him up that I generally gave in. If we were early I took her to a nearby park and duck pond and we would feed the ducks with crusts of bread. Meanwhile, in anticipation of seeing Dan, she talked faster and faster – never stopped.