Page 8 of Dancing Fools and All That Jazz

Fay Langridge

It is pouring with rain and I returned from the dance class drenched despite it only being a short walk from the studio to my flat.

My wet coat and shoes – packed with newspaper – are drying by the small radiator.

I close the curtains and once changed into my nightdress and dressing gown, I pour myself the tot of brandy I allow myself each night and sit in my armchair.

My jaw is tense so I open my mouth and move my chin from side to side to relax the muscles.

Rain pounds at the window, but it is not the weather that is playing on my mind. I am seething over the finances.

Janine is totally incompetent and clearly does not know what she is doing.

I used to watch her when she only had the lottery money to look after, long before she took on the Paris payments.

She was hopeless. Never seemed to know who owed what, and it was impossible to find out which numbers our money had been gambled on.

I know we all agreed on lucky dips and they change each week, but she could easily have photographed the ticket and downloaded it to our chat group.

I mean, it is not exactly rocket science.

But no, when I repeated this request Asha drew me to one side and told me not to be so hard on the girl. You would have thought a dentist would not be so sentimental.

‘Fay, Janine is having a terrible time of it,’ Asha said.

‘Yes, well, that is not the concern here.’

‘Her mother has early dementia and Janine is her main carer.’

I almost replied that surely any dutiful child – should one be lucky enough to have a dutiful child – would be happy to take on the care of an infirm parent? But I did not wish to come across as unsympathetic.

‘This is, of course, most regrettable, Asha. But when it comes to finances, the only consideration should be a person’s competence. In my opinion, if you take on a job you should do it properly or not at all.’

Asha shook her head. But I am sure she would be the first to complain if she was not paid correctly or short-changed at the supermarket.

We have been paying into the lottery for years now.

It goes against my better nature to take part; I have always thought of it as a tax on the stupid.

However, if I withdraw, it would be just my luck if the numbers came up.

I would be the only one not to share in the winnings; it would be insufferable.

The others all say it is only two pounds a week, but they must realise this soon adds up – one hundred and four pounds a year, no less.

And the odds of winning are ridiculously low.

We have been led to believe we have won on just two occasions, a good nine months apart.

Janine said it was around four pounds each.

However, we only had her word for it as the girl did not show us any proof.

The others did not seem to care a jot if they did not get their winnings.

‘Put it towards extra lines, for luck,’ Cath told her before starting to sing Kylie’s song about being lucky in her somewhat annoying habit of singing at every available opportunity.

‘Yes, good idea. Get a few more lucky dips,’ Bonnie added. ‘You know what they say, nothing dentured, nothing gained.’

‘No, Bonnie. They do not say that.’ I find myself constantly irritated with Bonnie’s propensity to butcher the English language. ‘If there were such a saying it would only be suitable as a poster in Asha’s dental practice.’

Bonnie looked at me blankly.

Cath dug her elbow into Bonnie’s ribs. ‘You daft eejit. You said dentured…’

‘Did I? I must have been thinking of having veneers if we were lucky enough to win all that money.’

They had then both squealed with laughter and while the volume was hard on the ears, I confess to feeling a tad envious these women can so easily migrate to mirth.

I lean forward to rub my sore feet before putting them up on my footstool and regard my tiny flat.

I spend as much time as I can out and about after it became such an awful prison for the long, long months of lockdown when all the libraries closed.

People appear to have forgotten all about his now, but I still shudder nightly when I remember my utter loneliness.

I rarely do holidays – well it is no fun on your own – so our dance trip will be a most welcome change of scene.

Paris.

I reach to the side table next to me for the guidebook and unfold the inner map of the city.

It lists ten key sights. I hope we will have time to explore some of them in between the dancing heats.

At least our hotel is relatively central so I can hopefully slip out when we are not rehearsing or performing.

It is frustrating not to have a single room – the cost of which is prohibitive – but I expect we will be spending most of our time in the theatre.

The annoyance of the spiralling costs of the competition hits me afresh.

The trip is costing a small fortune what with costumes, airfares, hotel and then we must find all our meals other than breakfast. And why do we have to pay in cash?

Everyone does bank transfers now. Besides, money should not be handled when it is known to carry viruses.

Mental note, I must buy hand gel to take to Paris.

I have informed Janine I am prepared to share a room with Ingrida.

As Clarissa is sharing with Hazel – providing she is well enough to travel – Ingrida is the only other one I could tolerate overnight.

I am a private person, and it will not be possible to hide my disfigurement from whoever I share with; I need someone who is discreet. Besides, Ingrida is a nurse.

I have not spoken much to her; despite the fact she was the one to introduce me to Clarissa’s class.

I decided to keep Ingrida at arm’s length, concerned she might tell the others about the details leading to my divorce – I am fully aware she attends my old church where my ex-husband, Andrew, and his floozie are still masquerading as Christians.

I am under no illusion Ingrida will not know about what happened.

However, to be fair to her, it has now been over two years and there is no sign she has trespassed on my privacy.

I shudder with irritation that I have allowed my divorce to enter my thoughts.

The vicar of Andrew’s church had the temerity to telephone – yet again – the other week.

‘Hello, Fay. Prudence here. From St Mary’s. I was wondering how you are keeping?’

‘Perfectly fine, thank you, Reverend. But if you are calling to ask if I am returning to church, I can only reply in the negative.’

‘No, I just like to check in on you now and then to see if you are OK. Did you get my previous messages?’

‘I have been rather busy with work and my dance group. We are going to Paris for the finals of a large amateur dance competition.’

‘How marvellous. Would that be the same competition one of our congregation is dancing in? Her name is Ingrida.’

I chose not to say anything.

‘She is a nanny… to Neil Goodman. You may remember his wife, Maya. She sadly…’

‘Oh yes.’ I decided to engage with the vicar on this subject as it could throw more light on Ingrida’s circumstances. ‘There is an Ingrida in our group. A Latvian lady. She is also a nurse.’

‘Yes. That’s her. She is an absolute treasure.’

I say nothing. Ingrida tells everyone and anyone she is a live-in nanny – as if this were a badge of honour – but I suspect there is more to it than that.

She and Neil attend the very same church where my Andrew felt quite at liberty to commit adultery with a foodbank volunteer, despite the teachings of the bible.

If the sacrament of marriage is not taken seriously, I would not put it past another congregant to replace his deceased wife before she was cold in her grave.

The basic commandments appear to have gone right out of the window at this so-say church.

‘Actually, Fay, I have asked Ingrida if she wants to come and live with my family. We have plenty of spare rooms at the vicarage.’

‘I see. Are you concerned for her reputation? Living with someone recently widowed?’

‘Goodness, no. It is just that she has no gap between nursing and nannying and it must be exhausting for her… Well anyway, Ingrida is a lovely soul, and we just want what is best for her. I know she adores dancing, and I can thoroughly recommend her to you as a friend, Fay. When you next see her, do say to her she is welcome to move in with us.’

I will certainly do no such thing; I do not intrude on other people’s privacy.

‘Yes, well, I must get on. Thank you for calling again, Reverend, but I must stress there really is no need. Goodbye.’

I contemplate what I know of Ingrida. She is polite and courteous. She even pays heed to me when I correct her English. Indeed, she seems extremely grateful to know the proper pronunciation, which is more than you can say for Bonnie, who is a language hoodlum.

Ingrida’s dancing – as Clarissa will keep saying – is wonderfully fluid and elegant.

It is down to her balletic training, I am sure.

She appears to be a kind enough person and I suppose it takes someone with real empathy to nurse the dying.

But what if we have her all wrong? I have read enough articles about those from East European countries cajoling unsuspecting Brits into marriage, no doubt hoping to gain British Citizenship and, after all, what better opportunity than nannying for a grief-stricken widower?