Ask Me to Dance

by Sylvia Colley

  ‘We’ve got a private graveyard, the other side of the walk. Perhaps you haven’t seen it yet. Some of the old brothers like to go there to “talk to their friends”. The move will be hard for them. It’s not so bad for us.’

  I wasn’t sure whether he was mocking the old monks. Did they really think they were talking to their friends? Did they believe their friends could hear? Did they really believe? I never felt near to Dan or Fleur when I went to their little graves and so I’ve stopped going.

  Brother David pointed to a roll of chicken wire, which was hanging from a hook in the wall.

  ‘Bring that wire!’

  He turned to me. ‘Have you got everything, then? Only we must get on and mend this run before lunch.’

  I picked up a wicker basket. ‘I’ll take this to put the weeds in, if that’s OK.’ I took the fork. ‘I’ll just put them back here when I’ve finished, shall I?’ But they were already making their way back down the path.

  ‘Thanks very much,’ I called after them and then hoped they hadn’t detected a smudge of sarcasm as I followed them into the sunlight. But as soon as I was some distance away, I heard them talking; one of them laughed.

  Chapter 25

  By the time I returned to the rose garden, my enthusiasm for weeding had gone. That tiredness came over me, so I stood staring at the weeds in the central bed, fork still in one hand and wicker basket in the other. If I stood still long enough, I would go to sleep.

  But I made myself begin. I dropped the basket and began tickling the stony surface of the baked, crusted soil and then, without knowing, as if suddenly wound up, I plunged the fork into the earth rhythmically, mindlessly. The work was automatic, hypnotic, like the days of my life. I was programmed to perform quite well. Everything worked. I moved, spoke and smiled. The fork rang out as I plunged it against the tiny white stones that littered the dry earth. I thrust harder and harder, lifting, bending. Particles of earth spilt onto the crazy paving and my hair fell loose and into my eyes. The prongs of the fork dazzled in the sun and as I twisted my body to avoid the sharp thorns from a green sucker, I plunged the fork into my foot.

  My yell of ‘Shit!’ bounced off the walls.

  I hardly dare look at the fork prong, rigid and embedded just beneath my big toe, but I had to pull it out. I shut my eyes and pulled. I thought it would all go away if I started digging again, go on as if nothing had happened, but of course that doesn’t work, does it? The nerves in my foot began to recover from the shock and the pain started.

  I lifted my foot to somehow shake off the agony and blood was spurting onto the earth. The pain spread everywhere, so I hopped to the garden seat and rocked myself back and forwards in a kind of rhythm to ease the pain. I know I spoke to myself out loud, ‘You bloody idiot.’ And I knew I was going to have to do something. It was pouring blood, a bit scary. I had nothing with me to put round my foot so I half hopped, half limped back to the bathroom.

  It was agony running the cold water over the deep hole, but nothing I could do would stem the bleeding and I had only bought a couple of handkerchiefs with me and these were quickly soaked in blood. Back in my room, I found my nylon tights and used them as a tight bandage, but the blood seeped through, so, short of tearing up a sheet or using another piece of clothing, there seemed nothing I could do.

  Of course, I knew, with what I can only describe as shame, that I would have to go for help. Hadn’t Father Godfrey said something about a doctor staying with them? Oh, God, really, that was the last thing I wanted to do. But the bleeding wouldn’t stop and I began to feel sick and dizzy.

  I leaned outside my door, eyes closed for a moment and when I opened them I saw Brother Joseph standing at the far end of the path, staring at me. It was a relief to see it was him. Somehow it didn’t seem so bad asking him for help, so I called, my voice horribly shrill in that quiet place. The brother jerked into action, like a puppet on a wire, and ran towards me, dragging the rabbit behind him.

  He didn’t notice my bleeding foot; he was too interested in looking into my face and grinning up at me. His eyes blinked rapidly. ‘I was coming to find you,’ he panted. ‘Were you looking for me?’ His watery blue eyes longed for me to say, ‘Yes.’

  ‘You’ve come at exactly the right moment.’ I knew that would please him. ‘Can you help me, please? Look, I’ve hurt my foot. I need a plaster or something.’

  He looked to where I was pointing and stared, then turned without a word, and quickly jogged away towards the house, stopping once to see if I was following. He could have been leading me to some priceless treasure, he looked so pleased with himself.

  He disappeared into the house and by the time I reached the French windows he was nowhere to be seen. My foot was trailing blood and throbbing badly and I was irritated. Where was he, for goodness sake? The blood was seeping through the tights and I didn’t like to go into the house and drip it all over the place. I wanted to cry. But at that moment Brother Joseph reappeared with someone.

  ‘She’s hurt her foot. She’s hurt her foot. Dear, dear dear dear.’ And he patted my arm as he stared earnestly at the blood. I could feel the heat of his body.

  ‘What have you been doing with yourself, then? That’s a nasty gash.’ And the man in the jacket I had seen at breakfast knelt to unwind the tights. He looked up at me and smiled. ‘Wait a minute while I fetch some dressing.’ He walked back the way he had come, almost casually.

  The rabbit was sniffing at the blood and I tried to hold it off by pulling hold of the lead.

  ‘Come away, Francis. Leave it alone.’ Joseph chuckled. ‘Poor Francis got to sleep outside now, haven’t you?’

  He looked so hopefully at me, but I couldn’t concentrate on anything for the pain in my foot.

  ‘Got to go into the old dogs’ run, haven’t you?’ he repeated.

  ‘Oh dear,’ was all I could manage.

  ‘We’re not very happy about that, are we Francis?’ And then, ‘You like it in my room, don’t you?’

  Thankfully, the man returned with a bundle of cotton wool. With this he mopped up the dripping blood and then, fixing a lump of it over the wound, he took me by the arm and guided me through the door, past the dining room and kitchen to a little room that had in earlier days been a pantry.

  Inside was just like the school sickroom. There was a camp bed with a pillow and grey blanket folded at one end, a small, light brown wooden table and two chairs, and the walls were lined with white cupboards. There were some scales on the floor by the window and in one corner a washbasin.

  ‘Do you want to lie down?’

  ‘This is fine.’ And I sat on the chair. I knew, of course, that he was the doctor. ‘Sorry to be such a pest.’

  ‘How on earth did you do it?’

  I tried making a joke out of it and he laughed, an ugly guffaw that quite unsuited his dark, musical voice.

  He knelt beside me, eased my sandal off, now discoloured and sticky. They were ruined, and I liked those sandals too! He lifted my foot and began to clean the gash. ‘Well, this is not a very good start to your stay, I must say.’ And there was that sensuous tone again, always on the edge of laughter.

  He poured some water into a stainless-steel bowl, adding some disinfectant, which he took from one of the cupboards.

  I watched him watch me. I think I must have gone white, because I was feeling faint.

  ‘I think you should lie down,’ he said and helped me from the chair to the patients’ couch.

  ‘Sorry to be such a nuisance,’ I said again, and then wished I hadn’t.

  ‘You’ll have to have a tetanus injection,’ he said as he finished dressing my foot. ‘When did you last have one?’

  ‘When I was about six months old, I should think.’

  He laughed. ‘Thought as much. It’s not something we bother about until something like this happens. Well, that’s all right, because I can do it for you.’

  He went to one of the cupboards and took out a small vial and placed it on
the table. From another cupboard he took out a white plastic dish, a syringe in paper and a needle capped in a blue sheath. He put everything into the plastic dish, then took out some squares of disinfectant tissue. He washed his hands, dried them carefully and then proceeded to fix the needle into the syringe. He had fine hands, strong and skilful, and he radiated confidence. There was something presumptuous about him, which both attracted and repelled me. I wanted to provoke him, to challenge him. I don’t know why. I examined him closely as he pushed the needle into the rubber cap of the vial and drew up the liquid. He was extraordinary, both attractive and strange-looking at the same time. He was tall and wide-shouldered with straight brown hair cut in an uneven fringe over his high forehead, but growing thick and long into his nape. His face was round, almost podgy and his large brown eyes stared out from behind round wire glasses.

  ‘Roll up your sleeve, please.’

  He wiped the top of my arm with one of the antiseptic squares and then, holding the skin tightly between his fingers of one hand, he pushed the needle into my arm and slowly squeezed the plunger until all the liquid had gone. He placed another square over the spot where the needle was before pulling it out and pressing the square onto my arm.

  ‘Hold that for a moment.’

  ‘Ten out of ten!’ I mocked.

  ‘What?’

  ‘It’s a family joke.’

  ‘Oh! I scored high, did I?’

  I didn’t want to smile.

  ‘You’ve got mud on your face.’ And he began to wipe my forehead and then my chin with the antiseptic squares. I noted his shoulders and the nape of his neck. He was so sure of himself. I liked that.

  ‘How’s the foot now?’ he asked, and I sat up as he pulled his chair up to the couch.

  ‘Well, it’s throbbing, I must say. My whole foot’s dropping off, I think!’

  ‘Look, I’m going to give you a couple of painkillers and then I want you to lie down for a bit. Don’t come for lunch. I’ll have something sent over.’

  There he was, bossing me about, and there seemed no point in arguing. I wanted to ask him what he was doing in this place. Normally I would have done, but I did feel extremely tired, my energy had gone for the moment.

  Chapter 26

  He walked with me to the lobby without taking my arm this time; he simply walked beside me with his hands in his pockets. He had a slow, leisurely gait and I guessed he was gearing his pace to match mine. My foot was throbbing badly, now that I was walking, but I didn’t say anything. I felt less tense once we were out of that small room. Now we could speak without actually looking at each other.

  Expecting him to leave me at the entrance to the gardens, I turned to thank him, but he touched my elbow through the open windows saying he would see me safely ‘home’. Again, that faintly amused tone – yet with an authority that I obviously needed, although I couldn’t have expressed it or consciously realised it then. But it was there and it had some kind of effect on me. Like a father, perhaps.

  The heat outside really hit me after the coolness of the house and in the bright light the cedar tree stood exceptionally dark and solid above the sunlit lawn. The rabbit was nowhere to be seen, although there were still scraps of carrot and potato peelings dotted near the tree.

  ‘Why has the rabbit got to sleep in the chicken run now?’ The question was out before I knew I was speaking, but it diluted the tension of our togetherness.

  ‘Ah! Brother Joseph.’ He hesitated. ‘That’s a difficult one.’ He was being diplomatic and cagey and it annoyed me.

  ‘He’s obviously upset about it.’ I think I snapped a bit, as if it was his fault. ‘He might pretend otherwise, but you can see that he’s not all that thrilled about it.’

  I did look at him then, and realised that I didn’t know his name. In any case, he was ignoring the rabbit business, obviously didn’t want to be drawn over it. And I felt even more annoyed. ‘Why isn’t it OK in his room? Apparently, it always has been. I know—’

  ‘It’s the smell.’ And then, ‘I don’t really think a bedroom is the best place for a rabbit to be, do you?’

  The tone was patronising. He was clever, throwing the question back at me.

  ‘I feel sorry for him, that’s all. What can he do against all you big, strong, clever people? Not a lot. What’s your name, by the way?’

  He laughed and told me Guy Harwood, but they called him Dr Guy.

  ‘You are a doctor, then? Just wondered.’

  He laughed again. I don’t know why he kept laughing.

  ‘Yes, I’m a doctor.’

  ‘Why are you here?’

  He said something like, ‘Long story. Not for now, for another time, perhaps,’ and I wished I hadn’t asked, because his manner changed, became not so relaxed and his voice wary. He didn’t like the question and I felt awkward. I told myself that I couldn’t care less if he didn’t want to say. Yet, really, I was struck by his flirtatious protectiveness, as if, somehow, we had a shared past. I knew he was staring down at me and so I glared ahead as if deep in thought, hiding my feelings, denying him my eyes, which might give things away.

  ‘And what about you?’ he asked suddenly.

  ‘That’s a long story too.’

  ‘So, it looks as if we’re going to have to have a long session some time!’

  His presumption and laughing voice were hard to bear.

  We had nearly reached my room, which was now in shadow, and it was cooler walking along the shady path.

  ‘How’s the foot?’

  ‘Swelling nicely, thank you.’

  We stopped for him to examine the puffy flesh, which bulged up either side of the bandage. It was a sight, and his laughter was both reassuring and sympathetic.

  ‘The bandage will help that a bit, but I think I’ll take a look at it after lunch. I would lie down for a little.’

  He was serious for the first time and I knew that I must have looked pale. I was very tired.

  He opened the door of my room and stood in the doorway watching as I sat on the bed.

  ‘Have a rest,’he said, ‘And I’ll have something sent over for your lunch.’

  ‘Look, please don’t trouble. I’m not hungry. And don’t worry any more. I’ll be fine. Try to keep out of the way,’ I joked.

  ‘We’ll see.’ He studied me closely and then smiled. He pulled off the top covers. ‘Come on, lie down.’

  It was like being a child again.

  Chapter 27

  The Angelus rang for Matins, but for once Guy didn’t want to go; Rose Gregory would be the excuse. Instead, he decided to walk the avenue, something he hadn’t done for ages.

  When he had first come, he thought that he would often be walking this lane between the beech trees, but there never seemed time, what with his role as house doctor and handyman, for he was clever with plumbing and electrical gadgets, and there was always something that needed repairing. And then the fetching and carrying; he was the only one who could drive a car. But the fact was that he always happier when he was busy. Despite all this, he’d had the time he needed to do some serious thinking and had decided that, after all, he must return to general practice. It was ironic – one of the reasons he had wanted to leave his work as a GP, take this sabbatical, was because he too often felt inadequate. Helpless at times. There had been so much pain and suffering he had been incapable of alleviating. He had found the whole business deeply disturbing, thought he was inadequate as a doctor. And he didn’t do failure very well.

  ‘I’m risk-averse,’ he said out loud. ‘Anything to avoid failure. Coward!’

  He had always excelled in everything he did and his seniors and peers alike recognised him as especially gifted. This made him who he was. Perhaps because of this, he couldn’t bear to fail. He remembered his moods and sulks if he failed at anything. He had walked out of that card game once because he was losing! And yet it was nothing to do with having to win, but to do with vulnerability, to do with lack of control, to do with self-este
em. More like pride before a fall, he thought. He had spent many hours questioning why he should be as he was. Now he had more or less accepted himself for who he was, how he was, and realising that he was unlikely to change now, had learned to avoid situations he couldn’t control as far as possible.

  But before, as a GP, his frustrations grew and he had convinced himself that medicine was the wrong profession for him. Tom in particular argued that it was the exhaustion that was undermining his confidence, but nevertheless he left the practice and went to Australia to stay with friends, which irritated his father, who thought him weak and foolish. My father! What can I say? he thought with a wry smile to himself.

  As a boy, his precociousness had been a source of parental pride, a cleverness for which his father took credit. But as he grew tall and strong, and his voice broke and he was no longer a child but an intelligent young man, his father became increasingly judgemental and his mother’s love for him became, for his father, a constant irritation. He was jealous of me, Guy thought, shrugging, for he understood this now but at the time it had been a mystery and a source of constant friction. Then Guy responded the only way he could: by challenging his father’s intellect, his logic, his wisdom, and he became obsessed with winning every argument, every game, every problem, and learned to avoid all those areas he couldn’t be master over. Risk-averse. ‘Avoid at all costs.’ He spoke out loud again as he thought of Rose Gregory. And this accepting attitude was symbolised by the casual shrug of the shoulders that had become his trademark, along with his unhurried movements and apparently pragmatic approach to life.

  However, he was grateful to his father – who had known Godfrey from their student days – for suggesting this place. Godfrey often shared his problems with the old and the sick – and the not so old – with Guy’s father. He received one letter in which Godfrey described the monks’ difficulties in coping with one of the older members of the community, who had had a breakdown and was very unwell. He had written some details about the dog kennels and how they were allowing the ailing monk to breed cocker spaniels. His father wrote to Guy in Australia and suggested he offered Godfrey some help for a time.