Let's Dance

by Frances Fyfield

  Oh God, whatever did you do with human beings except patch them up and send them on their way? She was right. Sometimes he felt he was good for nothing more than tranquillizer prescriptions and sick notes. He could visualize the scene inside the kitchen he had left. Serena, touching George, the way she yearned to touch all men, both of them springing back as soon as the daughter came in, and she herself ignoring the evidence. Evidence of what? Forbidden affection? The occasional malevolence, as well as the occasional clarity and love in her mother’s eyes?

  Ignorance was a good idea. There were plenty of things it was better not to know.

  ‘Have some lunch, George? A sandwich, at least?’

  Isabel had taken to feeding him, whether he would or not. A ploy, George thought, or preferred to think it, against the other conclusion, disinterested kindness and gratitude for his unpaid labours, something to compensate for their mutual aversion. As long as he could imagine that Isabel gave him food, even of the bread-and-cheese variety, as a means to make Serena copy him in the act of eating, or as a bribe to make him stay longer in order to preserve the peace while she shopped, tidied and did whatever she did all day, he could tolerate the generosity. If it was simply a gift from her to him, he could not.

  George was particularly useful less for the heavy tasks, such as getting in coal, and more for the ostensibly light ones, such as persuading Mother to eat cereal and bread in the early afternoon without the deafening sound of the radio she carried with her everywhere, apparently as a means of blotting out other sound, particularly that of her daughter’s voice.

  George cleared his throat.

  ‘I could come back and sort of babysit in the evenings,’ he suggested. ‘If you wanted to go out, I mean.’

  Serena drew breath audibly. Understanding of the words seemed to come and go like a lighthouse beam. Isabel had long since concluded this had much to do with what Serena wanted to understand, and knew that to be a harsh judgement.

  ‘That’s very kind of you, George. I’ll think about it. Was there any post today?’

  ‘Nope.’

  ‘I can’t get her to give me the bills,’ Isabel went on, distracted by the prospect of a dozen minor tasks and Doc Reilly’s words. ‘She’s been hiding them. Do you think you could give any letters straight to me in the future? And I ought to call on the neighbours, thank them for taking in the post, should have done that weeks since …’

  ‘She’s not well at the moment,’ George said quickly. ‘Not keen on callers.’

  They ate in silence. Sitting across the table from them both, Isabel felt like a guest. She had a sudden urge, horrible in its intensity, to slap both their faces.

  As long as she loves me, she told herself with the familiar flush of shame, it does not matter if she does not love me best.

  Robert phoned in the evening. Was going to come and visit at the weekend, but things had got on top of him, did Isabel understand what he meant? Life was full, he hinted: the baby was sick and the boy in pain from the dentist. Another time, as soon as possible, certainly before Christmas. Had the doctor called and was everything all right?

  ‘Is it OK to forge her signature on cheques?’ Isabel asked. ‘Or is it a criminal offence?’

  He hesitated, nicely alarmed as Isabel had hoped he would be. Envisaging his sister emptying his mother’s account.

  ‘For the electric bill,’ Isabel added. ‘I’ve only just found it.’

  ‘Fine, I suppose. How are you, er, off for money?’

  ‘Fine,’ she echoed. ‘Everything’s fine.’

  Which it was. There was a bright full moon set high in a sky full of scudding cloud. Mirrored in the windows facing the phone, Isabel could see her mother by the fire, scribbling. TV substituted for music; sound for thought.

  She wished Andrew would phone, without quite wanting it. She had a longing for the sound of words formed into sentences, ached for company. A fourth glass of wine seemed a good idea.

  This time they came down the track in another van, slightly more deluxe. There was no laughter. Sure they had laughed before, but that was the first time and the denouement rankled still, despite their joking about it. Derek was wondering how long he would have to keep the auction-house job after this – for the sake of appearances, couple of weeks he supposed – as he chewed a fingernail and thought about money. Bob had a dull pain in his back and thought about money. Dick’s jaw was slack: his trousers were dirty and he fiddled with coins in his pocket. The equipment in the back of the van was the same as before. Derek was not wearing enough clothes and he shivered.

  Three in the morning and the night dead. The sky was clear enough for snow and the track was like a grey ribbon. There was not a single light in the cottage at the end.

  ‘What do we do if she wakes up?’ Derek said, still gnawing the fingernail. Now was the time his lies might find him out.

  ‘I told, you,’ Bob said, his voice thick with impatience. ‘How many times? You know where the phone is. Unplug it, put it somewhere else and if the old dear disturbs us, we shut her in a bedroom and get on with it. For Christ’s sake …’

  ‘OK, OK … No lights?’

  ‘No lights.’

  ‘Gloves. Don’t forget gloves.’

  Yellow gloves. Dick had got them from work. Very decorative.

  They reversed up to the back door. Bob muttered how this was sensible, get in as close as possible, save on labour and have the thing ready in case of anything which necessitated a quick getaway. A giant in the kitchen with a machine gun, Derek suggested under his breath, stifling the whistle he needed for courage. He looked uneasily towards the window where he had seen the fleshy figure last time, turned and winked at Dick. Dick’s jaw still hung open. The memory had surfaced in his brain: the flash of skin had drawn him on, it was the cat that frightened him off. Derek had lost his pencil torch and brought another identical to it. He tried the back door, expecting it to be locked, ready to fiddle with it, because it was he who was best with locks, but it was open. That worried him a little: it was almost as if they were being invited in. There was always something sinister in other people’s stupid naïveté.

  The moon lit the kitchen through the big windows. It lit the sitting room where he went to unplug the phone, take it back down the corridor and stick it in the van. His training shoes were soundless, he was pleased with that; the yellow gloves twinkled like fireflies. Dick followed with the blankets and, without the aid of any electric light, began a skilful packing of the contents of a credenza. Bob it was who crept upstairs, checked that the bedroom doors were all firmly shut. One was ajar: he did not look inside, but closed it softly. There was within the gentle sound of snoring.

  Bob had the list written on the back of his hand; Dick had the list off by heart; Derek too could recite it like a parrot. A sort of shopping list of what was going to be moved and in which order. Get the noisier business done first, get the stuff down that awful corridor either into the kitchen or the backyard, because of the bedrooms being at the front; load the light stuff as you go along and the heavy stuff last. They weren’t such a bad team after all, Bob decided as the pain in his back subsided and he watched them work in unison. Dick carried bookcases with the ease he carried carcasses, as if he had done nothing else since he was five; he stacked the dining chairs, got them out of the house and into the van without much of a sound. Then he set about the task of dismantling the table with the aid of ingenuity and Derek’s little torch. Derek was good at this too, stacked up drawers from a chest, cantered out with them, never carrying too much or too little, never taking the risk of dropping anything. Ground floor only, Bob had dictated. Pity: he didn’t half like the look of the grandfather clock on the landing. Maybe … As they worked, all communication was by whisper and signals. Thank God for the moon, which seemed to inspire them. Made them sweat. After an hour they were huddled in the kitchen. They had dismantled half a house. The bloody dog had not moved a muscle and they already felt like kings.

  ‘
Fancy a cup of tea?’ Derek hissed.

  ‘Fuck off, I found the brandy.’ That was Dick.

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Back of that rolltop desk.’

  ‘Give it here, you arse.’

  Come to think of it, the fool had been weaving a bit, losing the knack of tidiness, spreading paper from that vast desk all over the floor. Dick must have given himself an extra turn of speed and a stagger from half a bottle of spirits, glugged from the neck. His eyes were glistening, just at that point when they needed a last burst of energy, plus precision, in order to load the heavy stuff. Bob had been cruising on confidence, ready to laugh out loud and shake his fist, but, Jesus Christ. He’d better stuff something else in Dick’s mouth before he fell over. Or take something out. Dick in drink was a dangerous beast.

  ‘Make him sick it up,’ he commanded Derek. ‘We got a long way to go yet.’

  They dragged him to the kitchen sink. He smiled at them until Derek held him over it, making encouraging noises and holding his neck. He snorted like a bull and shrugged them off, snarling.

  ‘Gimme,’ he hissed at Bob. Bob spread his empty hands.

  ‘Give you what?’

  ‘Gimme!’ Dick roared. Bob put a hand over his mouth, a big, meaty palm. Derek pinched his nose. He thrashed around, knocking over a chair. Just as they lowered him to the floor, footsteps sounded from the stairs. Quiet, determined, implacable, coming towards them. They froze.

  The figure of an old lady appeared in the doorway. She fumbled for the light switch, bathed them all in ghastly neon which found them in a huddled trio and herself fully in command of the situation. Her hands fluttered, as if there was something she had forgotten; she beamed. Her eyes moved away to the furniture piled in the doorway. She shivered with pleasure, like a confident child on the brink of a party. Moved smartly to the drawer in the table, pulled it out, extracted three candles and handed them to Bob.

  ‘Light these and stick them somewhere, I would. I knew I should have paid that bill, I knew it. Light them from this one, stick ‘em on the table, it won’t hurt. How nice to see you all again.’

  Candlesticks. Somewhere in this wonderful heap of goods awaiting removal there were candlesticks. Sitting in a clutch on the draining board, beautiful silver, fresh off the dining table. Bob placed the candles offered from Serena’s steady fingers and, with movements less steady, struck a match from his pocket and lit them. Serena sighed, an exclamation of joy as she switched the light off again. The three men remained immobile as she marched forwards with the tape deck she had left by the door and placed it in the centre of the table with care. There was an immediate blast of sound, then the room reverberated to the music of a full-bellied waltz.

  ‘How absolutely lovely to see you, and how good of you to come,’ she said, curtsying to each. ‘Let’s dance. She keeps the booze, top cupboard, on the right. Let’s all have fun!’

  They were mesmerized. Obedience was automatic and seemed entirely appropriate. Bob went to the cupboard. Somehow he produced glasses as well as sherry, a bottle of whisky and one of gin. Derek stepped forward, awkward with politeness. Offered a yellow-gloved hand, which seemed to add to the sense of crazy formality. He noticed her hat, her nightdress, her coat, the little heels to her shoes, sweet. He nodded at Bob and Bob nodded back.

  ‘We thought some of your stuff needed mending, lady. Not the best of times to move it, but…’

  Serena paused, then took him in her arms.

  ‘Heavens!’ she trilled. ‘Take it all away, why don’t you? Let’s dance.’

  ‘Take it away, George,’ Derek said gravely. ‘Just take it away, man, take it away.’

  Come on. If this was going to be the worst of their problems, it was not so bad. Bob could feel laughter gurgling in his chest: the pain in his back had entirely gone. They had all the time in the world. To the tune of a waltz, then a polka, they continued the loading, while the princess, oblivious to the draught from the door, conducted her own orchestra and maintained a flow of commentary.

  Isabel dreamed of being with Joe in a nightclub, surrounded by pulsing music. Glamorous darkness and spangly lights on the floor. A body pressed against her own, wanting to go home. She was waking slowly from the slurred sleep induced by wine. A reluctant awakening that did not involve opening of the eyes, but a wish for more sleep and the hope that turning her face into the pillow would send her back into oblivion. She often woke this time of night, aware of Serena’s wanderings, and squeezed her eyes closed, determined not to interfere, but checking over in her mind the pitfalls downstairs. There was a sensation of having been half awake for a long time, as if her sleep had been punctuated not by dreams, but by sound.

  Alien sound. Music in the distance, coming from the other side of the world, penetrating into consciousness slowly. Once she had established that it was not a dream she could feel only acute annoyance. For heaven’s sake, Mother played that dreadful music all day, couldn’t she leave off at night? If this was going to go on, then she, Isabel, would have to do something about the wandering, she couldn’t cope, not without sleep. Mother, please do not be an inconsiderate old bitch. The phrase, fully formed, popped into her mind, anger getting her out of bed with such speed she made herself dizzy, and angered herself more. She would throw that tape deck and radio out of the house, she would, too. Start wearing earplugs, scream.

  It was cold: she could not find her slippers, stood shivering in indecision. Leave it for tonight, deal with it in daylight? No. Dressing-gown, where? Here. Bare feet would do. Downstairs, past the clock with the moonlit face telling her it was four-thirty, a ridiculous, ludicrous time to be awake, damn, damn, damn. Noticing from her feet up how cold the floor was in the hall. Without rugs on the stones. Without rugs. She looked down at her feet in consternation. The cold burned. She could hear her mother in the kitchen, singing loudly. Turned the corner, saw the candlelight, thought for a moment as she ran towards it that what she had seen was flames and Mother was trapped in there, roasting and chanting.

  There was a blast of air from the open back door, the kitchen a mess. Two rolled up rugs from the hall impeded progress. A large man coming in from the yard stopped and stared at her with bloodshot eyes then, slowly, smiled. A smaller man appeared at his shoulder.

  ‘Oh, shit,’ said Derek.

  Bob turned from the sink where he had been washing his arms free of the oil from the base of the dining table, now neatly installed inside the van. Nearly finished, all of them infected by the old lady’s party spirit, full of devil-may-care, give-me-hell any day, and it did not matter any longer that Dick was dangerous drunk. Isabel flew to her mother, clutched her tight, protectively. Serena dug an elbow into her ribs, shrugged her off.

  ‘Go away,’ she said crossly. ‘You’re always spoiling things. Go away.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Bob softly. ‘Go away, girl. I would. Quickly.’

  ‘I didn’t know,’ Derek bleated. ‘I didn’t know.’

  ‘You haven’t danced with me,’ Serena said, pointing at him.

  ‘Oh yes,’ Dick crooned, squinting through the candlelight. ‘Oh yes, oh yes.’

  Bob moved towards her. Isabel sidestepped him, picking a bottle off the table, holding it in front of her, spilling the dregs. There was a piercing, whisky smell.

  ‘Tutt tutttt,’ Serena admonished.

  It was so easy to disarm her. Bob simply hit her a glancing, almost apologetic, blow on the side of the head and plucked the bottle out of her hand. She whimpered. ‘Look,’ he said to her reasonably, ‘if you just sit down quietly, no one gets hurt. This your mother or what?’

  Isabel nodded.

  ‘Well, she doesn’t mind us, so why should you?’

  ‘Get out,’ she whispered. ‘Leave us alone.’

  Dick elbowed Bob out of the way. ‘Oh, it can talk, can it? What’s a lovely girl like you doing in a place like this, then? She is lovely, isn’t she, Bob? Very lovely.’

  Which she was in the candlelight, all pale skin, hug
e eyes, breathless, a dressing-gown patterned with roses, hanging open over a low-necked nightdress that showed the curve of full bosom. Like her mother’s had been. Lovely was an understatement. Ripe for the picking: he could have sunk his teeth into that flesh. Isabel felt the dressing-gown removed from her shoulders, felt the cold draught raise goosepimples on her arms, while an acrid, warm mouth grazed her neck.

  ‘Put her down, Dick. You don’t know where she’s been.’ Bob spoke in the tones of sweet and cheerful reason that worked better with Dick than orders.

  ‘I could put her down the cellar, but it seems a waste,’ Dick leered.

  ‘Put her in that chair by the fire. Get some rope. Tie her up – loosely, mind. Just the hands. C’mon, man, we’re nearly done.’

  To Bob’s relief, Dick obeyed like a man in a daze, but not quite with implicit obedience. He manoeuvred Isabel across the floor in imitation of a dance, holding her from behind so his groin pressed into her buttocks, his hands splayed across her breasts, lowered her into the nursery chair which always stood by the stove, his hands sliding down her body, lingering. She sat, blood pounding, the sound of her own heart deafening. She would have scratched and screamed; wanted to scratch and scream, but another instinct prevailed. Be good, sweet maid, don’t provoke anything: then they won’t hurt Mother and they won’t hurt you. Through a haze of fear she made herself smile at Serena as her own hands were tied behind the chair. Smile, to prove everything was going to be all right. The most revolting moment of all was when Serena smiled back, sketched the equivalent of a royal wave, and laughed explosively.

  ‘Nice daughter you’ve got,’ Dick slurred at her.

  ‘Oh yes, she likes you too, I can tell,’ Serena trilled.

  Someone had turned down the music. Mother turned it up. Bob and Derek began to move with urgent speed, almost running in and out of the open door, laden. Dick was slower, reluctant to move from the stove. Isabel heard the sound of an engine, closed her eyes. The moments were endless; the sounds distant. Minutes passed. Emblazoned on the inside of her eyes was the image of Serena, laughing.