by Sue Watson
‘It’s something he always wanted... for all of us. He even bought me a flamenco dress, you know? Red it was. I never wore it.’
‘Really? I didn’t know.’ Then I said, ‘Mum, why don’t I take you to Spain? Next year, we can watch the flamenco dancing together.’
‘Dreams are for young people, Laura. I’m too old now for any of that.’
‘Mum, the young don’t have the monopoly on dreams – none of us know how long we’ve got, but we have to make the most of that time. I’m in my forties, does that mean I’m too old to dream? I don’t think so, and neither are you.’
She patted my knee. ‘You’re more like your dad these days, full of hope. “Always believe in a better tomorrow,” he’d say. I see him in you now.’
I smiled; ‘Thank you. ’
‘All I want, and all your dad would have wanted is for you to be happy.’
‘I am.’
‘Those dresses, in the attic,’ she suddenly said, ‘I’m sure that’s where that flamenco dress is... the one your dad bought me. Why don’t you have a look, you could wear it?’
‘I’d love to wear your dress, Mum, but it’s probably too small for me.’
‘You could get it widened?’
‘Yes, I’d have to, you were a slip of a thing, remember?’
‘I do,’ she said, getting that faraway look in her eyes again.
‘Mum, you’re not cold are you?’ She shook her head, she liked sitting outside these days, after being locked in the house for so many years. But it was getting chilly and I knew it would soon be time to go in, I just had one last question.
‘Mum?’ I said, breaking into the thick silence. ‘Do you think Dad would be proud of me?’
‘Do you want to know what I think?’
My heart sank, it had been an emotional afternoon and I wasn’t sure I was ready for one of mother’s brutally honest answers. I braced myself.
‘I think... yes. He would be very proud of you – and so am I.’ She put her hand over mine in a protective gesture and I wanted to cry with happiness. My mum had never been demonstrative, never told me she was proud, and I knew it wasn’t easy for her to say that. Mum and I had both been battle-scarred by the past – and we were both scared of loving too much because it meant losing too much.
‘Laura,’ she said, ‘if I’m still here this time next year I might come with you, see Spain, the dancing...’
I nodded, and took hold of her hand, determined to take her there.
As soon as I got back, I called Tony and told him all about mine and Mum’s conversation.
‘Oh I’m so pleased for you, love,’ he said. ‘I’ve always thought it so sad that you both love dancing yet couldn’t share it. We need Margaret’s top tips on tango now,’ he said.
‘Yes – I just wish I could fit in her dresses too. Mum mentioned that Dad had bought her a flamenco dress... a red one... I’m probably too fat for it, but I was thinking, perhaps your Rita might be able to alter it? You haven’t seen it in the bin liners in your garage have you?’
‘No, love – I’d remember that. I’ve been through them all.’
‘Never mind, I’ve been worried about what I’m going to wear for the flamenco dance and I thought my prayers might have been answered.’
‘Look, I think your practice skirt will be fine... nice fitted black T-shirt with it... lovely.’
‘Yes, I suppose,’ I sighed. Blackpool was a big deal for me, it was a place of my dreams and my nightmares and it was important to me that everything was done right, because if Dad was anywhere, he’d be watching me dance at The Winter Gardens. It would have been wonderful to dance in a proper dress, but even if we found Mum’s it would be far too small. I wasn’t going to let it get me down, I’d come too far for that.
26
FILM STARS, FLAMENCO AND A VERY SPECIAL DRESS
By early November we were ready. Our flamenco was passionate and fiery and our Argentine Tango was fast, exciting and sensual – according to Mandy it was like ‘shagging, standing up... in a posh frock,’ which I took as a compliment. We were training so hard I worried Tony had put too much strain on his injured leg, but he wouldn’t let that stop him. After the assault, Tony had called up all the local and regional newspapers and did several interviews on local radio about his ordeal. As awful as it all had been for him, he was certainly enjoying his new-found fame – and milking it. He was such a funny, colourful character the radio stations had asked him back and his recovery had become a regular feature in the local paper. So for the Blackpool festival he’d even managed to drum up some national coverage about how ‘Tony WILL Dance Again.’ A local college had offered to film our performance and put it on the internet too which was all good news for Tony’s dream of building his classes so one day he could leave the day job. He’d talked of ‘Tony’s Dance School’ and had even suggested I go in with him as a partner, but it felt like a big leap too soon.
‘One day perhaps, but I’m not good enough to teach yet,’ I’d said.
‘I told you... even if Laura can’t... Lola can.’
It was just a week before the Blackpool Festival and Tony had been keen to take ‘full creative control, darling’ where our ‘dancing look’ was concerned. Rita had taken my measurements but hadn’t been able to make any frilly additions to my practice skirt because one of her kids was sick and her dog had puppies and... well the last thing on the poor woman’s mind was my skirt. So I had bought a black T shirt and would wear my flamenco practice skirt and a shawl, which wasn’t ideal, but would have to do.
I wasn’t just worried about my outfit – I was also nervous because Tony had asked Mandy to come to the festival as ‘chief brow manager’. She was delighted and had also offered (threatened?) to do my hair and make-up. I felt like I was losing control and was at the mercy of a crazed beauty therapist and a mad queen.
‘Sorry the skirt enhancement didn’t work out, our Rita’s up to her neck in puppies and sick kids,’ Tony said as we watched a ‘Joan Retrospective’, - his whole collection of Joan Crawford movies - with a large bowl of popcorn on his sofa.
‘Poor Rita. My practice skirt’s fine and I have a shawl. I will be okay in my practice skirt won’t I?’
‘Yeah, great,’ he nodded absently, gripped with the drama on screen.
‘Christ, Tony, you’re supposed to be my gay best friend – it’s like being in a relationship with a straight man sitting here with you half-listening, your eyes glued to the telly.’
He turned it off. ‘Sorry, love, but I adore that bit when Joan says, “There is a name for you, ladies, but it isn't used in high society... outside of a kennel.” Classic Joan!’ he was smiling and shaking his head in awe.
‘I love Joan too, but Tony, we need to talk about our outfits and our hair... are you sure Mandy’s the right person to do our styling?’
‘Er hello? A beauty therapist who does hair? She’s a one-stop shop.’
‘Mmm, I believe that’s what they call her in Kavos,’ I smiled.
He laughed. ‘I wouldn’t let anyone else near this hair or these brows. It has been said that a brow shape from Mandy Johnson is more painful than childbirth, but darling, it’s brow art and we have to suffer for it. What that girl can do with a Brazilian blow-dry beggars belief,’ he said.
‘I don’t doubt it.’
‘I’ve told her that if I died... she would have to do my hair for the funeral. Oh God, touch wood I don’t, but that poor grieving girl has promised to do a Brazilian blow-dry on my corpse.’
It conjured up quite a disturbing image. Tony reminded me of my mum when she was younger, all about the clothes, the make-up and the drama. I think that’s why I took to him so quickly, it was like I’d known him all my life.
‘You and my mother both think you’re forties film stars, sipping on your gin cocktails and bitching through tight lips about everyone.’
Tony laughed. ‘Yes but Margaret’s more Bette Davis with her delusions of grandeur and intolerance
of anyone less than perfect. I’m more Joan Crawford... a clairvoyant once told me I was Joanie in a previous life.’
‘Well you’ve got the walk, and the eyebrows,’ I said. He took this as a compliment and was curtseying when the doorbell went.
‘I know who that will be,’ he said, mysteriously but all excited and ran to get it. I heard some talking then Rita came in carrying a large plastic bag on a clothes hanger.
‘Hope it’s okay,’ she said, laying the plastic across the dining table.
Tony clapped his hands together.
‘Thanks so much, Rita,’ he said. ‘Now you stroppy old cow, we have a little surprise for you.’
I was intrigued and a little excited, suddenly felt like I was nine years old and it was my birthday.
Tony clutched my arm. ‘I can’t look, you open it, Rita, I’ll just faint... brace yourself, Lola,’ he turned away theatrically with the back of his hand on his forehead as Rita slowly, carefully opened the plastic. I saw scarlet fabric and tears sprang to my eyes as a million scarlet satin ruffles were unleashed.
I looked from brother to sister. ‘It’s a flamenco dress?’
‘Yes love, that’s right...
‘It’s red...’
‘It is, love... and the sofa’s blue, aren’t you good with your colours?’ Tony was talking to me like a nursery school teacher.
‘But how did you get this? I can’t afford a real one... and this is real,’ I said, holding the weighty dress, still on the verge of tears.
‘It’s your mum’s, you daft mare, she wanted you to have it,’ Tony laughed.
‘Oh?’ I was now in tears.
‘I took your measurements so I could do something with your skirt and in the meantime Tony tells me he’s found the dress in the garage. Anyway when I measured your Mum’s dress it turns out you’re now the same size your mum was when she was dancing,’ Rita explained.
‘Yeah, so I said forget about the practice skirt Rita we’ve got the real thing here so let’s just tidy it up... and she worked her magic, made a few minor alterations and it’s even better. We wanted to surprise you - it’s fabulous isn’t it?’ Tony sighed, gazing at it.
‘Oh thank you, thank you so much. But Mum was a size ten.’
‘A small size 12, love, and don’t let Margaret tell you any different,’ Tony laughed. ‘That woman lies about her age and her dress size – talk about giving her daughter impossible standards,’ he huffed, ‘but she loves you to bits, make no mistake about that.’
‘I know,’ I smiled.
‘And, you’ve lost a lot of weight in the last twelve months, babe. As Margaret said when I told her, “She’s not as fat as we thought,”’ he roared laughing at this and I had to join in.
‘Classic Mum,’ I laughed, caressing the smooth satin bodice. ‘I’ve only ever seen it in a photo,’ I sighed. ‘When Mum mentioned it to me, and neither you nor I had come across it, I assumed it had been lost.’
‘It was in the bottom of one of the bags. I almost died of excitement that night when you phoned and asked if I’d seen it... I rushed out to the garage and after about two hours I found it. Then the next day I popped over to see Margaret and asked her if she’d mind if we gave it a bit of a refresh and an iron and she was almost as excited as me. It was a bit crumpled but now Rita’s done her bit it’s as beautiful as the day your dad bought it for her,’ Tony said.
‘Oh Rita, and you had all those puppies and sick children...’
She looked at me blankly.
‘Oh you silly mare I just told you that so you wouldn’t wonder why she wasn’t tarting up your practice skirt.’
I stood there, clutching the dress, my chin wobbling.
‘Now try it on, you daft cow.’
I looked at Rita and smiled a thank you then lifted the dress, which was heavy with frills, and tried it on in Tony’s little pink bathroom. My only slight concern was that the dress might be a little tight – I wasn’t convinced I was the same size as Mum had been, she always seemed so slim. I watched myself in the mirror as I stepped into the scarlet flamenco dress and, pulling it gently up past my hips, my breasts filled the cups and my body fit into it like a glove, the ruffles, like a scarlet waterfall began at the thigh and swished to the floor. I couldn’t believe how good I looked. And for the first time in my life, at the age of forty-four, I felt beautiful. I looked at myself in the mirror and saw my mother – my lovely slim, attractive mother, something I’d never thought possible. I believed it was life’s cruel joke that I was made clumsy and plain next to my beautiful mother. But with confidence, a little make-up and the right clothes anyone can be beautiful. It had been up to me all the time. I had to believe in myself, surround myself with the people and things that made me happy and everything now fit into place. Happiness doesn’t land on your doorstep, sometimes you have to fight for it. My Mum’s happiness had been drowned and she was never strong enough to fight her way to the surface. But here I was wearing her dress and walking in her footsteps, with everything my father had wanted for me. Dancing had saved me from my little life and I was now ready to take on anything. Walking downstairs, I felt like a bride, gliding carefully down each step, anticipating the reaction of my friends. I couldn’t wait for my mum to see me, to see her beautiful dress resurrected and brought to life, by her own flesh and blood.
I entered the room and as soon as he saw me Tony burst into tears. Rita and I were laughing at him, but I had tears in my eyes too because the dress symbolised so much. It wasn’t just about the way I looked and the way my body had changed, but how far I’d moved forward with my life. I’d also made peace with the past, my Mum and all my parent’s dreams.
Tony held out his hand and I took it and we danced across the carpet.
‘I have a little something else for you,’ he said, letting me go for a moment and wiping his tears on a lavender-scented hankie.
Rita was smiling, and when he came back in the room she had her hands clasped together expectantly.
Tony handed me a beautiful oblong box, it was black with a huge silk bow tied around it. I stood in the middle of the room holding it. ‘Oh it’s too pretty to open,’ I sighed.
‘Open it, you daft cow, or I’ll have a coronary,’ Tony hissed. He always got overexcited about presents, especially if he was the one giving them.
I untied the bow, carefully opened the lid and delved gently into the tissue paper, where my hands alighted on something leather. I lifted up a pair of perfect flamenco shoes, the exact scarlet of my dress and I just stood holding them, speechless.
‘Go on, Lola, put them on, I felt so sorry for you when you couldn’t get into your mum’s size fours. I thought, “She might look like an ugly sister but that poor cow has to have her Cinderella moment.”’
And I did – as they slipped on easily. ‘They are so, so beautiful,’ I sighed, my eyes filling with tears again. I was sitting on the edge of the sofa with my feet out, just admiring them like a little girl.
‘From me to you, Lola.’
I hugged him and Rita, unable to find the words to truly thank them.
‘And guess what? They have a name – you’ll love it - they are called ‘Leona Freed.’ It made me think of you. You’re freed now, aren’t you, Lola?’
I nodded. I was.
27
LIP BALM, TEA BAGS AND A PUSSYCAT DOLL
The following day I went straight to Wisteria Lodge to see Mum. Tony had taken some pictures of me on his phone so I could show her how I looked. I would have tried the dress on there and then for her, but the residents were all so theatrically rampant I was worried they might make me part of a Wisteria Lodge show. There had been vague talk about an ‘Our Kids Have Got Talent’ show and I knew mother was dropping hints for me to do a reprieve of my Celine Dion Titanic number. I’d received a standing ovation the previous year, but there wasn’t much competition, just Doris’s sixty-two-year-old daughter, dressed as a Pussycat Doll demanding to know if everyone wished their girlfriend was
hot like her. I’m the last person to stop an older woman doing her thing... but as Mum had loudly observed, ‘Ripped stockings, and a mini skirt are just not right on a woman in her sixties.’
So instead of trying the dress on and risking an impromptu audition for ‘Our Kids Have Got Talent’, I decided to just tell Mum about the dress. ‘Mum, thank you, it actually fits,’ I said, hugging her as I walked in. She was in the communal area with ‘the girls’ and they all smiled and nodded.
‘Your mum’s been showing off all morning about you,’ one of the ladies said.
I looked puzzled.
‘Yes... I thought it was an alarm when my phone went off, but Mrs Rawlins got these photos up,’ Mum said, like it was magic.
I took her phone off her and smiled. Tony had already sent the pictures over.
‘Ah, do you like it, Mum, the dress?’
‘I was never sure of that dress,’ Mum started, addressing the assembled throng. My heart sank, I thought it had been too good to be true, Mum ‘showing off’ about me. ‘Yes I never really suited red... but our Laura looks smashing.’
‘She’s got that lovely Mediterranean colouring,’ Mrs Rawlins piped up.
‘Yes, she’s like her father,’ Mum smiled, looking fondly at the photos. ‘She’s quite beautiful.’
I almost choked on tears, Mum had never said anything so lovely about me.
‘Will you excuse me ladies, Laura and I are just going to pop to my room. She’s very busy with her dancing career and I don’t want to keep her too long.’
I had to smile as I walked back to her room with her. ‘Mum I don’t have a career as such. I’m still at Bilton’s.’
‘Oh I know, but you’re not a checkout girl – you’re a dancer, it’s in your blood. Besides, it shut those shady bitches up.’
‘Mum... you can’t say that.’
‘I can, the girl that comes to do my nails is always saying it.’
‘Really? Her name isn’t Mandy by any chance is it?’