Page 35 of Dancing Fools and All That Jazz

Asha

I have been feeling a little nauseous all day and as we step onto the stage, for one horrible moment I think I am going to throw up.

I had not expected my nerves to get the better of me.

Thankfully, the feeling subsides the moment the lights dim.

We all stand facing the audience, heads dipped down, one hand outstretched towards the floor.

All I can see are my feet. My heart pounds and I take a deep breath.

The first notes fill the air. One heel beats to the rhythm as our heads slowly lift and the arm simultaneously reaches up to the ceiling, fingers spread wide.

We are in perfect unison with Adele’s opening words about a fire within…

We move across the stage threading in and out of each other.

On the word dark and in canon, we lift our arms into a wide full circle, jack-knifing towards a raised leg with pointed toes.

Our isolation moves are sharp and coordinated with head rolls on the title words.

I do not think about the audience or the judges.

When we get to Monica’s solo, the rest of us spread out in a semicircle behind her. Our moves are slow and exaggerated, hers are fast, a synthesis of jazz and balletic styles. I can see her out of the corner of my eye, and she is incredible. This has to be the best she has ever danced her part.

On the same count, as Adele repeats her reflection about what could have been, we move as one to the edge of the stage, reaching out our hands to the audience, all at different levels.

None of us smile. Clarissa has rehearsed us to glare and simmer in this number and I can feel power emanating from our every step.

I can see members of the audience sitting forward in their seats as the pace of the dance intensifies.

We come to the line about souls and doors, and Fay and I turn to face each other as the other dancers swirl towards their designated partner.

This is where we do our high five – our joke for the move – which is in fact a most effective hand slap that stops before it connects before flying above our heads as we go into jazz reaches.

I give Fay a double take, she is usually a little expressionless, but I can feel her eyes burn into mine as she puts her heart into it.

I have never seen her dance so well. At one time she could be accused of cutting short some of the movements, but not today.

It spurs me on to dance with equal fervour.

When we reach the end of the dance, turning in canon, hands raised in fists and heads lifted to the sky, we hold our positions, and I am breathless.

There is rapturous applause from the auditorium. We stay frozen in tableau and wait for Monica to move first then all drop to a low bow. Even our exit has been rehearsed and we peel off one by one, departing the stage with shoulder rolls and drag walks.

I swear I see Ruby give a low wave to someone out in the audience, but I cannot be sure, and I am so ecstatic we danced so well I miss looking in the direction she waved.

So, this is what is like to feel as if you are walking on air.

We bunch up as soon as we are off stage, and our faces split into wides smiles. We are breathless with exertion and excitement. Even the backstage hands applaud us.

We are ushered through the door into the green room as we bubble and chatter.

‘That could not have gone any better, could it?’ Bonnie is aglow like the rest of us.

‘What a feeling – better than being blootered.’ Cath squeezes Bonnie’s arm.

Bonnie looks puzzled.

‘Tipsy to you.’

‘Ha ha. It is like being on a high, isn’t it? Ingrida, you didn’t make a single mistake.’

‘ Ja , I know. I am so happy. It went by too quickly. I want to do it again.’ Ingrida laughs.

The quartet of dancers are also applauding us in the green room and one of the two elegant French ladies hands Monica back her phone.

‘ Bravo, bien dansé ,’ she says to each of us as she strains her neck to survey our group.

I swear she is looking for someone.

‘ Merci ,’ Ingrida responds for us all. ‘This kind lady say well done.’

The kind lady then switches to perfect English with a slight Manchester twang. ‘You’re from the North West in England? Can I ask exactly where?’

Ingrida and I do a double take.

‘Cheadle, near Manchester,’ I answer.

She nods her head enthusiastically.

‘Do you know it?’

‘Yes. I was born near there.’

‘Really?’

But the woman is no longer looking at Ingrida or I, she is scanning the faces of the rest of Clarissa’s ladies, nervously rubbing her hands together.

Before we can say anything, the official calls the quartet to go through to the stage and Ingrida calls to them, ‘ Bonne chance à vous aussi .’

We head back to the dressing room, and it suddenly strikes me – they were the dancers Fay had sat forward to watch. What was the name she muttered? I cannot think of it. Ah well, it will come to me but for now I am buzzing.

‘That was the best we have ever done it.’

Monica’s phone sounds and she reads Clarissa’s message as we navigate the busy corridors.

‘Clarissa said we were magnificent.’ Monica’s eyes sparkle as she reads the text aloud.

I could not be prouder of you ladies. You shone like the brightest stars in the firmament.

But now you must descend like comets and return to Earth.

You will need to keep your heads for “Dancin’ Fool”.

Remember, it is a change in tempo and approach.

Bright smiles – goofy moves – you can go over the top with facial expressions in this one.

Send it up. Think Charlie Chaplin in silent movies. Ladies, give it your all.

We all race to the dressing room but stop short at the entrance. Our euphoria evaporates. All our carefully placed costumes are now strewn all over the floor, our hats, our white pin-striped waistcoats, and matching trousers. Sheila’s group is nowhere to be seen.

‘Oh, my goodness.’ I stare at the mess.

‘What bitches. Look what they’ve done to our outfits.’ Ruby marches into the room.

‘My bowler is dented,’ Bonnie cries as she bends to retrieve her damaged purple hat from under a dressing table and attempts to push the hat back into shape.

‘I can’t believe what those vile wee hallions have done.’ Cath starts to pick up all the waistcoats now spread round the room.

‘I’d like to give them a slice of my mind,’ Bonnie declares.

‘A slice? Is mean slice of cake?’ Ingrida asks as she picks another hat off the floor.

Ruby bangs the costume rail with her fist. ‘Piece, slice, I want to shove an entire cake into their faces. Wait until I get my hands on that bloody woman and her cronies…’

Monica interjects. ‘We cannot afford to be distracted by this. We are on stage again after the next two numbers. Quick, everyone, find your costumes and change.’

‘We have no idea whose trousers are whose…’ I start before Monica pulls a pair off the floor and checks the back seam.

‘Thankfully, I labelled each pair on the inside hem. Ingrida, these are yours. And the waistcoats are easy. They have the matching flower to our hats.’

‘Brilliant.’ I sigh with relief and help Ingrida to sort the rest of the trousers as Bonnie and Cath pair up the waistcoats, wristbands, and bowlers.

Time is marching, so we hurriedly strip off our red tunics and leggings, discarding them where we stand, and start to pull on the new outfits.

Some of the flowers have been damaged, so Monica, still in her underwear, deftly pulls out her pocket sewing kit from her bag and retrieves a tiny pair of scissors.

She trims the satin petals to neaten them up.

When Monica has finished, Ruby, who is the first to be dressed, calls, ‘Here, I’ll take those, Monica.’

I see this as Ruby’s attempt to make reparations – offering to put the scissors away – but Monica simply hands them over without looking at Ruby and turns to pull on her own costume. Any anger Monica might be showing towards Ruby is surpassed by our combined fury at the actions of Sheila’s group.

‘How dare they? Can we report them to the organisers?’ Bonnie asks.

‘They’re not worth the energy it would take,’ Cath tuts in the mirror as she quickly brushes her hair. ‘So spiteful. And just because their dance went so badly wrong, as if that was our fault. To be sure, I should have guessed when we were out of the room, they’d be acting the maggot.’

Ingrida and I exchange a baffled look.

‘Maggot?’ We all start to chuckle.

‘Maggot is too good a word for them,’ I say, zipping myself into my trousers. I am glad Cath has lightened the moment.

‘What is this word maggot?’ Ingrida looks up from lacing her jazz shoes.

‘A disgusting little grub that feeds on rot,’ Ruby calls as she crosses to the rail where the Bold as Brass costumes hang ready for their second and final number.

‘Accurate description I think.’ Cath laughs. ‘They are rotten to the core.’

‘And Sheila has rotten teeth,’ I add. ‘What? What are you laughing at, Ruby? Well, it is true. Her mouth is full of amalgam fillings. Every time she laughs you can see them glinting.’

‘Asha, you’re a hoot.’ Cath sniggers. ‘Well, I think we should call those Bold as Brass women Sheila’s Maggots from now on.’

‘Ha ha. I like it.’ Bonnie applies more bronzer to her face and neck. ‘Well, we’ll show them. Their grubby little tactics won’t stop us dancing our best.’

‘Well said.’ Monica removes her red ribbon and undoes her ponytail to brush it straight and flat.

My fingers fly over my waistcoat buttons, but I cannot pull the top one close enough to fit in the buttonhole. ‘Are you sure this is mine?’ I call to the others. ‘I am struggling to do it up.’

‘Yes, look – yellow flower like your hat, Asha.’

Monica is right. This has to be mine, but it is much tighter around the bust than it used to be.

I have not put on weight, have I? I flatten my chest to squeeze the top buttons in place and sigh with relief when they fasten.

Perhaps it is my new sports bra purchased especially for the competition?

I should have worn it in. I feel a small niggle at the back of my mind, but my attention is taken up as I catch Ruby in my peripheral vision.

The scissors are in her hand as she determinedly starts to quietly snip at the costumes on the rail in front of her.

I open my mouth in shock, planning to say something to stop her, but my words dry up.

Sheila’s group has tried to scupper our chances after all.

I am not close enough to see exactly what Ruby is doing with those scissors, so I deliberately look away.

No one else appears to have noticed her and it is better I do not witness whatever it is she is doing, so I am not complicit in her actions.

Truthfully, inside I find I am cheering Ruby on. Sheila’s group deserves to be punished for what they have done.

Ingrida, also now changed, is removing her red head band when she points to the screen. ‘Oh ne . We have missed the Body and Soul group. Look. They have just finish. They are smiling and bowing. I think they are getting very much clapping. I did so want to watch them.’

‘Whose costume is this?’ Bonnie holds up the green bowler hat and pin-striped suit.

‘Fay. That is Fay’s costume. Where on earth is she?’ I cry.

Cath dashes to the door to look down the corridor. We all stop in our tracks and look anxiously at each other. We need Fay.

‘Panic over. She’s coming,’ Cath shouts.

Fay races in, her face glowing and eyes moist.

There is no time to ask where she has been as we help her strip off her red costume and get into her pinstripes.

‘What on earth has happened here?’ Fay surveys the mess of our previous costumes haphazardly strewn about the room.

‘Sheila’s group. They trashed our outfits,’ I tell her.

‘What?’

‘Come on, we can tidy up after. We are on after the next dance.’ Monica points to the screen where the next troupe is assembled and ready to start.

I quickly pull a brush through my hair and tie it into a low ponytail, which will not interfere with my hat. We all put on new lipstick and head back to the stage carrying our brightly coloured bowlers.

‘We need to show those bloody women they haven’t phased us or put us off,’ Ruby calls as we run. ‘Are we going to give “Dancin’ Fool” our all?’

In unison, we respond, ‘Yes we are.’

We make it to the green room just as the official is calling for us.

My heart is racing, and I feel a little sick again as we rush to our places on stage and each of the ladies places her hat down on the floor before assuming a jazz pose and freezing above each hat.

I lean slightly back, one knee inverted. My arms are raised, elbows bent at shoulder height, the fingers of each hand are splayed with my palms down high above the yellow bowler. We joked in rehearsal it was as if I was poised to levitate the hat upwards to meet my hands.

I know all the other ladies are all in different stances, a leg or arm outstretched or bent at a jaunty angle. We are briefly backlit, giving us a silhouette shaping as we look intensely at our own hats, a wide smile fixed on each face.

Awaiting the first note, I am aware of the audience watching with bated breath. You could hear a pin drop were it not for my heart thumping in my ears.

The first beat starts. The lights blaze.

Monica and one of the other ladies reach for their hats first with a variety of sharp kicks and flicks and freeze with one hand on their hat rim.

Then the next two launch into their steps to each hat and finally my group executes our precise moves to place a hand on our hats before we all pick them up in unison.

I quell the nausea and tell myself to focus and stay sharp.

At this very moment, nothing else matters.