Ask Me to Dance

by Sylvia Colley

  ‘In the back.’ Jill pointed, and so up the garden path, through the side gate and into the garden they tramped.

  Once under the tree they stared, bewildered, at the hanging pigeon. I had expected them to use ladders at least – it was the only reason I had called them – but no, instead the larger of the two men wedged himself into the lower branches and instructed his smaller, rather frail companion. It was like a Laurel and Hardy episode, so ridiculous. I thought the smaller man would never manage to steady himself on his companion’s shoulders and meanwhile the one underneath was red in the face, increasingly bending and puffing; I really thought he would have a heart attack, but eventually the little fireman (Laurel!) did succeed in half standing on the shoulders of the large man (Hardy!) wobbling underneath. But he couldn’t reach the pigeon.

  ‘Pass us a stick up,’ he panted to me, while I stood staring at the whole procedure with utter incredulity. I picked up a fallen twig from the lawn and handed it up, and with this the by now hot and flustered man hit out frantically in all directions at the terrified pigeon, all the time obeying the grunting, painful commands from the crumpling shoulders below.

  Suddenly, and unexpectedly the pigeon was loose. It dropped like a stone, recovered for an instant, flapped a couple of times and then dived over the hedge and dropped quite dead onto Josephine’s lawn.

  Oh my God. I had to lie to Fleur, who couldn’t have seen the pigeon’s final descent. ‘The pigeon’s fine, Flower,’ I lied to the tear-stained and anxious face.’ He’s flown back to his nest now, I should think. Isn’t that a good thing? Good thing you made me do something.’

  I did lie over things like that. If the cat caught a mouse, or worse still a bird, Fleur screamed to do something and every time I would lie that everything was OK, that I had rescued whatever it was that needed rescuing, otherwise the tears and sobbing would have been too awful.

  I was so happy to have remembered that. It didn’t make me cry, which was just as well, as round from the back came a small, wiry woman with short-cropped grey hair, wearing baggy blue trousers and a navy-blue-and-white T-shirt. She was carrying a wooden box. She crossed behind the tree and went into a shed, reappearing a moment later with what looked like a box filled with cabbages. ‘It must be some sort of garden shop,’ I thought. She returned without a glance in my direction and again I heard voices and laughter. The woman and Guy? I couldn’t be sure, but honestly, I think for moment I was jealous because they had a relationship, knew each other in a way that excluded me. I was the outsider. I didn’t know them and they didn’t know me. But they knew each other and would do long after I had disappeared from the scene, and I wished I wasn’t there at all. The truth is difficult sometimes.

  I sat in the car feeling isolated, but I did give myself a talking-to – I think out loud (first sign of madness): ‘Make an effort. Get out and be sociable.’

  But I left the car door open, wishing, as it were, to hedge my bets; I could always return quickly and no one would be any the wiser. The voices were further off. Would it seem like an intrusion? I didn’t know what to do, couldn’t make up my mind whether to go on or whether to return to the car.

  It was always the same; I could never make up my mind about anything. Over the simplest choices, I would be in confusion: what to wear; what to eat; what to do. The only release was to go to bed and sleep and then I didn’t have to think about anything for an hour or two. Except I hadn’t slept properly for so long I had forgotten what a good, deep, restful sleep was. It was a miracle that I had managed to work and even more that I had managed to get myself to the abbey, but then, I had had no real choice. It had been that or hospital, for ‘a thorough rest’, the doctor had said.

  Guy appeared around the corner.

  ‘Oh, there you are. I was coming to fetch you. Do come and see the chicks.’

  I went with him round the back of the farm and into the open garden, which was mainly a rough, bumpy lawn surrounded with wide herbaceous borders. The bottom of the garden led naturally into the farm, only separated from it by a worn footpath, which ran along the bottom. We followed this and I could hear the frantic cheeping before I saw the masses of yellow chicks. We stopped by the wired pen and watched the heaving, jostling yellow fluff peep and push and peck. I glanced up at Guy, who was grinning at me. ‘Sweet?’ he questioned.

  ‘Yes!’

  ‘I thought you’d like them.’

  There was something about the chicks that reminded me of the rabbit and Brother Joseph. ‘There’s something I want to talk to you about. About Brother Joseph.’

  ‘When we’ve finished what we’re doing. You stay here if you want while I just pile the stuff into the car.’

  I watched him go round the back of the house, outside of which stood laden vegetable boxes, and I assumed he was going for those, but he emerged carrying the filled egg cartons. I indicated did he need help, but he shook his head.

  ‘Stay there,’ he shouted as he rounded the corner to the car. ‘Molly wants a word with you.’

  I looked round, expecting to see someone, but there was no one about. I heard the car boot bang shut and hoped that Guy would return before I had to face ‘Molly’ on my own. He returned beaming and rubbing some earth off his hands.

  ‘Everything done,’ he said. ‘Molly not appeared yet? Well, come on, she’s over there.’ And he pointed to a greenhouse a couple of hundred yards to the right.

  ‘Who’s Molly?’

  ‘There she is!’ And the woman I had seen earlier hurried towards us carrying a large pink geranium.

  ‘I had to plant it up,’ she said somewhat breathlessly. ‘It’s called “Florentine”.’ She held it out to me. ‘Might take a day or two to settle. You can keep it in the pot or put it in the ground. Whatever you want. But give it a drop more water when you get back.’

  ‘For me or…?’ I looked from the geranium in the woman’s hands to Guy, but he had turned away and was stroking one of the farm cats as it lay in the grass that bordered the path.

  ‘You can choose another colour if you prefer, but I thought you would like this best.’ She spoke with familiarity, as if she’d known and liked me for years, as if I belonged quite naturally, like everything else in her life. There was a selflessness about her, a practical, useful energy. I couldn’t imagine her worrying about tomorrow. She would be too busy just living life as it came. No amount of philosophy or introspection would alter, after all, the movement of the sun, of night or day, the seasons in their time. One was part of it and that was all. Take no thought for tomorrow, or yesterday. Sufficient unto today. Perhaps that’s what we should always do. Live today as if there had been no yesterday and will be no tomorrow. Memory’s the problem.

  ‘It’s really lovely. Thank you. It will look beautiful in one of the pots outside my house.’

  ‘Well, there you are then.’ Still holding it, she led the way back to the car, turning all the time to talk.

  She handed the pot to me once I’d settled back into the car – there was no room anywhere else – and then stood for a moment speaking to Guy before he, too, got in. She waved goodbye before hurrying behind the house. He hooted goodbye as we drove away.

  ‘Right! Now let’s find that river, shall we?’

  Chapter 37

  The air was now humid under the thickening purple clouds, which graduated in darkness as they glided away from the choked sunlight. Guy opened his window but even the draught was clammy and airless. I sat still, clutching the plant and gazing out the window, and I felt happy and as comfortable as possible for me at that time, but there was this thing, this stuff not talked about that got in the way. And I knew he would never speak of it first. I just knew it. And I thought, It’s today or never.

  ‘Did you know both my children died?’

  ‘Yes. I’m sorry.’

  ‘How? Father Godfrey?’

  ‘Yes, I want to—’

  ‘That’s why I’m here, I suppose, in a roundabout way. Going a bit crackers, I s
uppose.’

  Guy made to pull the car off the road, but I didn’t want to face him then, to be intimate in any way.

  ‘Don’t stop.’

  He turned the car back to the road and with him driving along, his eyes on the road, I was able to tell him everything. Telling Brother Joseph the night before had been a kind of rehearsal. I was matter-of-fact, and he listened and we both looked straight ahead. I didn’t cry. ‘So, that’s it,’ I concluded. ‘There’s nothing more to say, really. So, don’t worry. Don’t be concerned. It’s not as if I’m the only one. Sadness is not my prerogative, so let’s just go on having a nice day. And let’s find that river.’

  I threw him a bright half-smile. Anything to appear brave, not self-pitying. Did he ever realise what a mask I wore?

  He said nothing immediately, but I could almost hear him thinking what to say. It was like a ticking clock.

  ‘What you’ve been through is horrendous, Rose. Beyond imagination. You are right, there are no words.’

  ‘That’s OK. I don’t really feel anything, so don’t feel sad for me – or whatever you might feel. My mouth speaks, but my heart feels nothing. I’m not sad, I’m just a bit – well, blank, I suppose.’

  He shook his head. ‘Of course you’re sad. You seem devastated to me.’

  ‘Do I? Well, I suppose that’s good in a way. Shows I feel something.’

  He ignored all my stupid quips and looked a bit helpless.

  ‘Don’t let’s talk about it any more. I’m enjoying today. Thank you for today. And it’s so nice to be driven, be in the passenger seat for once.’

  ‘Well, today is not over yet. Lots more surprises!’ And the laugh, the warmth returned to his voice. There was something about that, something about him. He was so easy, so comfortable to be with. It was such a relief, like a soothing drug to a pain-ridden body.

  ‘What then? What surprises?’

  ‘Wait and see.’

  Now he turned the car into a narrow lane edged with wide, unkempt grass verges, smothered in white cow parsley and dandelions, straggly briar and hawthorn hedges heavy with overripe and falling white blossoms, and pulled onto the grass opposite a public footpath and stile. Beyond this lay clumpy fields of grass, shaded by clusters of oak trees, which sloped down to the river. Because it was so heavy and overcast there was none of the filtering sunlight and shadows, which I particularly loved; the water alone lit up the humid gloom.

  ‘There’s your river!’

  ‘Fantastic!’

  ‘Do you think you can walk that far?’ He noticed my sandals and where I had cut the strap that ran across the bandage.

  I nodded.

  ‘Careful, then.’

  He held out his hand for me as I climbed over the stile, but I managed on my own, deliberately.

  ‘OK? Well done.’ He offered his arm for some support.

  I was suddenly unreasonably excited. ‘You know what? I really wish we could see … some kingcups.’ Then just for a moment I took his arm. ‘They remind me of my childhood. I’m always searching for kingcups. There’s something about them. Don’t you think?’’

  ‘I don’t quite know about those,’ he said, ‘but you’ll find plenty of watercress, if that will do.’

  ‘Not quite the same!’ We laughed and I let go of his arm and moved off towards the water. It was only yards away.

  ‘I’m going to paddle! Good for my foot, doctor.’

  The river, more of a stream really, was only a few feet across, shallow and clear. The water splashed refreshingly in the breathless air and rocked fronds of green weed back and forth. And he was right: there were thick shining clumps of watercress, the dark, round leaves sky-lit with water drops. I really wanted to paddle.

  I took off my sandals and, holding them in my hands, stepped carefully down the shallow bank and into the icy water. I laughed. ‘Oh my God! It’s freezing. Why don’t you come in? Do you good.’

  But he shook his head. ‘You’re mad. You know that.’

  ‘Catch!’ And I threw my sandals at him then, bent, cupped my hands with water and plunged my face into them, gathering up the water, splashing my face, eyes closed, splashing and splashing ritualistically, soaking my hair, my clothes. I was in the moment, as they say. In the moment. And I didn’t want to come out of the moment. Face dripping, I flung out my arms wide towards him as he stood there. ‘Ask me to dance. Ask me to dance!’

  He stared at me in a kind of disbelief, kind of astonishment, then he turned abruptly and walked back towards the meadow. For no reason that I could understand, I burst into tears. Yes, Mother: I was crying, crying. And they weren’t quiet tears, but great gulping sobs that I couldn’t control. Was it his turned back? Was it the moment of happiness ruined?

  ‘It’s just a family thing. Something I used to say to my mother.’

  He heard me, and turned back and offered his hand as I got out of the water.

  ‘Come on,’ he said, and he put an arm round me as I sobbed so absurdly. I put my head against his shoulder as we walked.

  ‘Sorry.’

  He squeezed my hand.’Look, none of it was your fault, you know. You were never to blame for the children. It wasn’t your fault.’

  Not my fault? Not my fault? No one had said that before. Was it possible that I could be exonerated? Oh, the relief. The crucifying burden of responsibility began to roll away. Not my fault! I had to stop walking and I put my arms round him, buried my face and sobbed.

  There was a low, distant rumbling of thunder and it began to rain intermittent, heavy drops. He took my arm and led me to the shelter of some trees. Together we sat against the trunk and I battled with the sobbing and gradually my body stopped quivering. After a moment, he touched my hand, just briefly. ‘Don’t be afraid to live,’ he said. You can’t help being alive, Rose. Let me ask you something. How is your foot? It’s hurting, isn’t it?’

  I nodded; it was true it was aching.

  ‘And so you can feel your foot all the time. You’re aware of it being part of your body, because it’s so painful.’

  I was leaning against the trunk, one hand across my eyes. But listening.

  ‘Look,’ – and he leaned towards me. – ‘when the damage to your foot heals and the pain goes away, does your foot cease to exist? Of course, not. Your foot is there, pain or no pain, is it not?’

  ‘Yes, of course.’

  ‘Rose,’ – now he put his hand on my arm – ‘it’s the same with the pain of your grief. I understand that you dare not let it go. Who could? But I just want to tell you that the pain changes nothing, nor does the loss of it. Your children and your relationship with them will not cease to be true, real, present just because the pain goes away. Something from The Prophet says,’ – and he quoted these beautiful words, which I have learned off by heart – ‘“When you are sorrowful, look again into your heart and you will see that in truth you are weeping for that which has been your delight. The deeper that sorrow carves into you being, the more the joy you can contain.”’

  He sat there looking at me

  ‘Yes, I know it really,’ I said, and the tears began again. ‘But I want them here so much, you see. It’s so lonely … there’s nothing else to cling on to, no one to help except them. They are the only ones who can make it all right – and there’s this awful silence. Please—’ I couldn’t go on and we just sat there. After a few moments, I could say, ‘Thank you,’ and then, ‘can’t say any more now, but thank you. I won’t lose them, will I?’

  He said, ‘When you let go of the pain, the silence will go, too. I think you have been struggling so hard, you were concentrating on the pain so much, you blocked out everything else.’

  All I could do was nod.

  He passed me his handkerchief. ‘How about some lunch? There’s a nice little place near here that does pub lunches and I don’t know about you, but I could do with a drink.’

  Chapter 38

  I gave him a quick kiss on each cheek as we parted in the lobby and in
return he patted me a couple of times on my arm, saying, ‘Go on, go and have a rest. Glad you enjoyed the day, but you do look a bit weary now.’

  I was tired, but it was not the usual tiredness; it was a gentle, a relaxed sort of tiredness, a sort of sit-in-the-sun-with-your-eyes-closed feeling.

  We had returned in time for evensong, but I didn’t want to go. I didn’t even want to go for the evening meal because I wasn’t the slightest bit hungry. I was agitated with excitement, uncertainty. Thinking, Was I going to find happiness?

  In my room, I undressed and lay on top of the covers. I was floating on the bed, which felt soft and comfortable, thinking about the day. And Guy, his voice, his expressions, solemn and concerned, gentle and amused. Thinking of those lovely words, which I could then only remember in part.

  I’d told him of my concern for Brother Joseph, how angry I felt about the rabbit being put into the old dog kennels, anger at their treatment of him. Life was hard enough for him, I thought; his rabbit brought him so much comfort and joy. Couldn’t he, Guy, have a word with Father Godfrey? Couldn’t he do something about it? Couldn’t he? It was such a little thing to ask, and he had promised to think about it.

  ‘I went,’ I said. ‘Last night. I think I shouted. Yes, I did, because suddenly I was outraged.’

  He shook his head. ‘Oh dear. You are hopeless.’ But he was smiling.

  Then I told him about the two brothers holding hands and kissing – yes, they were most certainly kissing – and his expression changed and he became somewhat thoughtful and said nothing.

  ‘Who were they? What were they doing out so late?’

  ‘Not sure.’

  It was clear to me that he wasn’t going to say more, so for once I didn’t press it. And I didn’t want to think about Guy any more. I kept whispering that he was not important to me at all; that I didn’t need him or anyone. Ever. Ever. I didn’t want the feelings I had. I didn’t want to care.

  Madly, I began to hit the side of the bed with my fist, whispering, ‘I don’t want you. I don’t need you – just Dan and Fleur. Nobody else. Nothing else.’