by Sue Watson
I was thinking about Blackpool and wondering how I would feel going back there after all these years. After what happened to dad, I never thought I’d have the strength to return, but things were changing for me now. I tried to focus on the positive aspects – the beautiful Winter Gardens where we would dance, the candy floss...
‘I won’t meet anyone under the pier,’ Tony was saying. ‘The sea’s horrendous in November, big, rough and grey... and that’s just how I like my men,’ he smiled.
‘Forget men, Blackpool has the best fish and chips in the world, all salt and vinegary and hot and crispy. And they have to be eaten out of newspaper on the sea front, regardless of the weather,’ I said, pushing away dark thoughts, trying not to think of The Empress Ballrooms, my mother’s screams when the music stopped.
‘Do they still sell Kiss me Quick hats and candy floss?’ I asked, one half of me still there, the other forcing the juggernaut of my feelings into something lighter, more trivial.
‘Of course they still have Kiss me Quick hats... and pink rock with Blackpool written all the way through it. Blackpool’s full of queens not Quakers. We love the seaside like anyone else – riding on donkeys and getting sand in our spandex, as for candy floss, I can’t get enough. Mind you, last time I had some it played havoc with my lip gloss,’ he laughed.
I would need a flamenco dress and a decent pair of dance shoes, so we decided to spend the evening planning our outfits. Within minutes, we were on Tony’s laptop surfing dance shoes and dresses. Tony said the sooner I had my stagewear the better. ‘You have to get used to practising in your outfits – especially the shoes, it’s like an athlete and their trainers,’ he was saying.
Tony and I had gone through Mum’s shoes and dresses together when I’d moved them from Mum’s to his garage a few days previously. He’d kindly offered to store them for me as there was no room at mine. I was convinced he was trying them on late at night – he talked about them often, referring to ‘the pink chiffon waltz’ and ‘the aqua silk foxtrot’ like they were old friends. Tony had discovered Mum’s lovely dance shoes in various shades and though I’d said they were several sizes too small, he insisted they would fit me. But after much painful shouting and pushing, he conceded, ‘Yeah, you’re no Cinderella, love, more Ugly Sister.’ So we’d gone back to the drawing board.
‘For the American Smooth a woman should wear pastel pink and net with matching shoes, hashtag Grace Kelly!’ he was now sighing, clicking the mouse excitedly as he cruised the luscious satins and feathers and fringes.
If there was one thing Tony loved almost as much as ballroom dancing, it was ballroom dresses. He was smiling at the computer screen, lost in sparkle and tulle.
Ballroom porn he called it and whooped every time he saw something ‘orgasmic’.
‘I want long, I don’t want one that will show my cellulite,’ I said anxiously.
‘Darling, what do you think American Tan tights were made for? They were designed for cottage cheese thighs just like yours.’
‘Stop, you’re making me big-headed,’ I said sarcastically.
‘Oooh, ooh. You would look gorgeous doing the Argentine Tango in that little number, Lola,’ he was pointing to a lovely black dress with a hint of glitter and a slash up the thigh.
I sighed, agreeing it would look spectacular under the disco ball, even on my lumpy thighs. But looking at the price just made me want to cry. ‘They are hundreds of pounds, I can’t possibly afford that – if I start entering competitions next year and need a new dress every time, it’s going to be impossible... I can’t.’
But he was like a magpie and soon chasing something else glittery on screen. ‘Ooh come to daddy,’ he sighed, peering at a glamorous pink-feathered jumpsuit.
‘I’m not sure about feathers,’ I said.
‘Who said it’s for you?’ he looked at me. ‘I could carry that off, couldn’t I?’
I wasn’t sure if he was joking or not, so I gave him a doubtful look and continued to complain about the prices. ‘I don’t need a tango dress yet, but I need something to wear to dance flamenco,’ I pointed out. ‘I’d love to wear a real flamenco dress, but these are just eye-wateringly expensive.’
‘I know, you’d have to be a trust-fund chick or the wife of a Russian oligarch to own one of those – and sadly, my love, you’re neither.’
‘No,’ I sighed. ‘Thanks for reminding me.’ Even if I had the money, I couldn’t justify spending so much on one item of clothing. Sophie’s wedding money was still sitting in the bank but I’d already used some to pay my spending money in Spain and I wasn’t taking any more. Besides, the way things seemed to be going with Carl I wondered if we might need that money soon for another wedding.
‘No... we’re not going to be able to buy a flamenco dress,’ Tony was saying. I know it’s only a dancing display, but those East German lesbians are very competitive when it comes to dancing frocks, love. They are ballroom Olympians... big burly girls with a million sequins, fierce ambition and even fiercer eyebrows.’
‘I have my practice skirt... it’s frilly and I could buy a new shawl?’
‘Yeah that sounds good, let’s see if our Rita can add an extra frill here and there – we can work with that.’
It was disappointing not to be able to wear the real thing for the display, but there were other, more important things to worry about – like the dance itself.
Later we practised our flamenco in his garden, it was bloody freezing but the stomping on his wooden floor after 10 p.m. alarmed the neighbours. I practised in my swirling skirt, my shoes and my shawl with roses in my hair and hoops in my ears.
‘You look lovely, Lola... let me do your make-up,’ he said.
He drew sweeping black eyeliner on my eyes and brows, pulled down my hair and applied a scarlet lipstick he found in my bag that I hadn’t worn in years.
‘Is that a bit young for me?’ I asked.
‘No... you look like a dark and glamorous gypsy, only a little bit drag queen with those earrings...’
‘Oh!’
‘I’m teasing you – you stupid mare, you look bloody fabulous... even with the earrings.’
After Spain I wanted to make a fresh start with everything, ‘wipe away the cobwebs’ as my dad used to say. And the thing I needed to do most was talk to Mum. I wanted to clear the air and finally talk to her about Dad’s letter. I had to ask her who Dad meant when he wrote, ‘I know you’re thinking of him.’ I also wanted to ask her why she’d never encouraged me to dance as Dad had wanted. It was time to tell her about mine and Tony’s plans – and if she’d let me, I wanted to share my dancing with her. I wanted to talk to her about moves and steps, ask her advice – she’d been a wonderful dancer in her time and I wanted to learn more from her. So I headed to Wisteria Lodge with a bunch of red roses – the flowers my dad always bought for her.
We sat outside in the late Autumn sunshine, drinking tea and I decided it was time to talk.
‘Mum, I’ve started dancing... like you and Dad.’
There was silence while she fiddled with her saucer, I wasn’t sure if she’d heard, so I spoke more loudly.
‘I started classes almost a year ago. And when I went to Spain I was learning Flamenco,’ I offered into the silence.
‘Yes, I remember you said... your dad always wanted to learn the flamenco.’
I was relieved she acknowledged this – perhaps we were finally getting somewhere;
‘Yes... I know. It doesn’t hurt you, does it? That I’m doing it now?’
She shook her head and smiled; ‘I remember him shouting olé,’ she said, lifting her arms and clicking her fingers.
I smiled. ‘I remember us dancing on the table.’ I looked at her. ‘I didn’t want to tell you I was dancing – in case it upset you... reminded you of the past, what happened.’
‘Oh I’ve messed everything up haven’t I, Laura?’ she looked crumpled, like she might cry.
‘No, Mum, you haven’t, but we should have ta
lked – about Dad, about the past.’
She nodded, I wasn’t sure if she’d heard me but I ploughed on. ‘I’m sorry, I don’t want to hurt you and you can tell me to mind my own business... it’s just... I found a letter. I know I shouldn’t have, it was private, but I’m sorry, I read it...’ I opened my handbag and, carefully taking the letter out of its laminated sheet, I handed it to her. She took it from me silently.
‘I’m sorry, Mum, I’ve kept it for a while, I wasn’t sure how to ask you...’
‘I remember this,’ she said, nodding, putting on her glasses and holding the letter right up to her face. ‘I thought I’d lost it,’ she said, continuing to read it.
‘He wrote it before Blackpool,’ she was still looking at it. ‘Who’d have thought it?’
I let her read it to the end, she half-smiled a little here and there, but I could see she was upset. When she finished, she folded the letter and stared ahead. If I didn’t ask now, I never would... and I finally felt strong enough to hear what she had to say, whatever it might be.
‘Mum... in the letter Dad talks about a man?’
She didn’t respond, just kept staring ahead.
‘Dad say she changed everything... this other man, and he couldn’t bear to say his name.’
She wiped her eyes with a handkerchief, but fat tears sat in the crinkles of flesh on her cheek. I took the hankie and wiped her face gently, she had that same faraway look Dad spoke of in his letter – the one we both knew so well. What was she thinking about? Who was it that made her look this way?
‘Did something happen Mum... between you and Dad? Did you meet someone else? Were you going to leave him... us?’ There I’d said it and as hard as it was for me to say, it must have been harder for her to hear. She didn’t respond, she was staring into space and for a few moments I thought she might ignore me, pretend she hadn’t heard, when I knew she had.
Then she reached for my hand.
‘No, love. I talked about it, but I’d never have left,’ her voice faltered.
‘Why... who?’
‘It was only ever your dad for me – I never looked at another man.’
‘Why were you going to leave Dad? Who is he talking about in the letter, Mum?’
‘David... he’s talking about David,’ she said, her voice breaking, more tears emerging.
‘Who’s David?’
‘He was your little brother, love.’
25
ANSWERS, QUESTIONS AND TEARS
My head filled with questions and confusion. I’d always been an only child, like it or not I had always defined myself as such, this news shifted my world on its axis.
‘Me and your dad should have talked, but we never did. It was my fault, I found it all too painful and I wanted to run away from everything. That’s why he wrote this letter – he didn’t want me to go,’ she started to cry.
‘Tell me... about David,’ I begged, my heart was hammering in my chest.
‘When you were four, I got pregnant... we’d wanted another baby for such a long time – a little brother or sister for you. Oh, your dad was delighted, we were so happy, but I’d had a difficult time carrying you, so we decided not to tell anyone until we knew it would all be fine. You probably don’t remember, but for a few months we didn’t do any competitions and your dad treated me like I was made of glass, wrapped me in cotton wool, he did,’ she was smiling at the memory. ‘He’d always wanted a house full of children, but I didn’t get pregnant easily and when I did, well I’d already had two miscarriages before you.’
‘I had no idea, Mum.’
‘Miscarriages weren’t something you spoke about then, you just got on with it. I’d sometimes have to go into hospital afterwards, the loss of a baby at any stage is terrible... just terrible. Each blow knocked me further, but in those days there weren’t these therapist people to talk to, you just carried on.’
The jigsaw was slowly coming together: Mum’s stays in hospital when I was a child were about depression, about her grieving for the babies she lost. This also explained my father’s desperate need to make her happy all the time, regardless of the cost.
‘When I got pregnant with David, it seemed like everything was fine,’ she was saying. ‘We bought you a Tiny Tears doll so you could get used to a new baby in the house. It was our way of introducing the idea, a way of telling you, so it wouldn’t be such a surprise when the baby came. Then... at eight months, it was a Friday night and we were eating sponge cake, your dad always brought one home on a Friday... do you remember?’
I nodded.
‘Anyway, I suddenly knew something was wrong, and your dad called the doctor and David was born that night. I’m sure he would have been fine if that had happened now, with all the technology... but he was a month early and in distress… There was nothing anyone could do.’
She blew her nose, she was shaking and I reached out to hold her hand. She squeezed mine. ‘The midwife said he looked like your dad, a perfect little boy she said.’ Then that faraway look came in her eyes. ‘A perfect little boy... except he wasn’t breathing.’
I rested my eyes on the smooth, green lawn with pale yellow edges, I was desperately looking for some order, some calm. But I felt like there’d been an explosion in my head. All this heartbreak and pain had happened in my own family, in my home, and I’d had no idea. I gave Mum some time, it was clear that in telling me all this, the emotion she’d packed down for so long had overwhelmed her.
‘Of course I understand why you didn’t tell me at the time...’ I said after a few minutes. ‘I remember the Tiny Tears, and I remember you crying. I was too young to comprehend what was going on.’
‘We never intended to keep it from you, but when we buried David we buried everything else. From the day he died we never talked about it. I think we were protecting each other, but it wasn’t the answer. Your dad adored you and was able to pour all his love and all his hopes into you, which helped him to move on, but I couldn’t escape, I found it so hard to live again. Then when your dad… went... I was swallowed up in a sinking sand of grief and loss and my heart broke completely. I sometimes wonder if the clock started ticking for your dad the day David died – the stress must have weighed him down so much. And I was helpless, he must have felt so alone, carrying the burden, looking after you and me and keeping life on track. He couldn’t opt out, he had to keep on going for all of us.’
‘Oh Mum, all those years, you never talked to me... you never talked to anyone.’
‘I couldn’t burden you. There were times I wondered if it would be kinder to you if I just ended it all, but I couldn’t leave you, your dad had already left and you only had me.’
‘Oh Mum, you should have talked to someone after Dad,’ I sighed.
‘Yes, but you didn’t in those days, young people today talk more to each other. I sometimes hear you and Sophie arguing or talking about how you feel – it’s not easy to listen to – but it’s healthier. You can’t keep stuff locked up inside – it rots away, poisons you. I’ve been talking to Mrs Brown, the matron here, she says it helps to talk about things, she lost her mother last winter and she said she’d have gone mad if she hadn’t talked about it. That’s why I’m able to talk to you now... a year ago, I couldn’t have had this conversation. Your dad was right when he said in his letter that we weren’t good at talking, so we just kept on, lying to ourselves, lying to each other and covering everything in sequins.’
I was seeing Mum through new eyes, she’d had such a difficult life, yet she’d done what she thought was right and protected me, keeping me from her pain. My Mum was a lot stronger than I’d ever given her credit for.
‘Thanks for telling me, Mum, I can imagine it must hurt, trawling through the past like that. I wish I’d known and could have helped... or at least listened.’
‘The thought of you kept me going, love... so you did help me. I’d been with your dad since I was eighteen,’ Mum started, smiling at the memory. ‘Oh he was handsome, all my
friends fancied their chances with him, but he only had eyes for me. My mother, your grandmother, used to say we lit up the room when we were together. He looked after me, especially after David... he wanted to leave the country, live in Spain where we could dance and forget. But I knew we could never forget, and leaving here would mean leaving David... his memory at least. But then I lost your dad and I felt like I’d lost everything... ’
‘Is that why you gave up dancing?’
‘Yes, your dad was all part of that, he brought it into my life, taught me everything. Ken was my dancing, my memories, my music. Sometimes, when you were at school and I was all alone at home, I would steal myself and put a record on. I’d do what he used to – I’d move that big mahogany table and make some space to dance, but when it came to actually doing the steps... I couldn’t, I always ended up crying. Dancing is for two people, and when you find the right partner it’s for life.’
We sat for a long time in silence while I took everything in and we both cried a little and hugged a lot.
‘I think I was meant to find that letter, it gave me direction, something to aim for,’ I said. ‘That’s when I started dancing – it’s why I went to Spain. A year ago if Tony had offered me that trip I’d have turned it down, but something, someone, was behind me urging me on... you know?’
‘Yes. I’ve felt that too recently... I can’t quite put my finger on it, but I know he’s around. It feels nice.’
‘Good. I’m glad you feel like that. Perhaps we’re both letting him back in, Mum? He never really left us, but we were too closed up.’
She nodded. ‘And now look at you. You’re dancing and you’ve even been to Spain, and learned flamenco, he’d be so pleased. I’m sorry I never encouraged you to dance, I could have taught you, but I would have got upset, and that would have upset you. I decided it was best just to leave it... too painful, too many memories of him in the music and the dances.’
‘Yes, I understand Mum. But I got there in the end and I danced under the stars – just like he talked about.’