Page 9 of Dancing Fools and All That Jazz

I think of Ingrida’s round, smiling face and how she always makes a point of saying hello to me at dance and I feel a little ashamed.

As a well-read, sensible woman I should know better than to stereotype an immigrant.

I resolve to cautiously extend the hand of friendship to Ingrida.

As we will need to talk on subjects other than our domestic situations, I have borrowed a library book on Latvia.

I read a few pages each day. Life appears hard there with a shockingly low birth rate and high emigration.

The country, adjacent to Russia, is wet, flat, and full of forests.

Yes, I will converse with Ingrida about her home country.

I have even learnt a few key words in her native Baltic tongue.

Ja is yes, ne is no, labrit is good morning and please and thank you are ludzu and paldies .

She could teach me a few more phrases while we are away.

I congratulate myself that this will be a good occupation of our time together when we are not dancing.

Ah, the dancing.

I find it hard to express the joy it brings me.

I had forgotten how exhilarating it was to learn the discipline of a new routine and perform with other competent women.

I joined a dance troupe at college having learnt as a child at St Eulalia’s.

Sister Josephine discovered I had an innate musicality when I was just a few years of age.

Perhaps my parents were musical? Who knows?

But I do know Sister Josephine would be immensely proud of me dancing on stage without a single person knowing about my deformities.

She was the closest I had to a mother and showed me how to walk correctly and adjust my balance.

She is one of the few nuns I truly miss.

I glance at the photograph of Edith and Bethan on the mantelpiece.

Dressed in pink ballet costumes, they were only eight and seven years of age when they took part in the showcase.

They were such sweet little girls, back then.

So alike. They had been my pride and joy.

Edith, in particular, excelled in ballet.

She persisted with dance when Bethan began to take an unhealthy interest in skateboarding, of all things.

I had high hopes for Edith – perhaps the West End?

But that was before everything went horribly wrong…

A deluge of distressing memories flood my mind.

It was high school that turned out to be unbelievably bad for them.

My girls were polite and fairly obedient up until they got to Queensway High.

I told Andrew we should have paid for the girls to go to St Clements.

But no, despite being able to afford the fees, he sided with them when they refused to go to a secondary school without their primary school friends.

As the years went on, they rebelled, becoming rude and uncooperative in every aspect of life.

Nothing I did helped. I stopped their pocket money, forbade them to go out and sent them to their rooms more often than not.

I should have realised they would run to their father who was weak and did nothing.

I think back to the row that changed everything.

‘Your father will agree, you cannot go out without telling us who you will be with…’

‘We don’t know who we’ll be with!’ Bethan had shouted.

‘Fay, my dear, look it’s a party at a friend’s house. At least we know where they are going…’ Andrew, as always, sidestepped the issue.

‘Well, they cannot go out dressed like that. The Spice Girls wear more.’

Edith swore at me, so I told her she was grounded. She glared at me, grabbed her sister’s arm and headed for the door.

‘Young lady, if you disobey me and walk out I will never…’

Edith turned sharply. ‘What? Never speak to me again? Good. Fine by me.’

‘And by me,’ Bethan added.

‘Now look here…’

‘Dad, just tell her. We’re not in a bloody convent.’

‘It did not do me any harm.’ I had responded.

‘No? All you ever go on about is your immaculate upbringing. Oh, and your precious four P’s. We’re sick of it.’

‘There is nothing wrong with prayer, practice, punctuality and perseverance. The teachings are an important life lesson…’

‘Dad, tell her to give it a rest.’ Edith, Bethan in tow, headed for the door.

‘Andrew, are you not going to stop them?’

He just stood there, raking his hair with his hand.

The front door slammed.

Andrew turned to me, hands open in supplication. ‘Fay, you are too harsh.’

‘And you are too indulgent. This defiance will escalate if we do not give the girls a clear message that they cannot continue to act outlandishly.’

‘Can’t you go a bit easier on them, Fay?’

‘I beg your pardon? Easy? Fine. From now on, you do the parenting. You do the cooking, washing, homework duty. In fact you can do everything if you can do it so much easier. I wash my hands of them.’

It was the first – and last – time I had completely lost my temper with Andrew. The memory of him shrugging and walking away is crystal clear, even all these years on.

I blink back a tear and tighten my grip on the arms of my chair.

From that evening, Andrew did take over, in his own haphazard way.

He did everything I used to do and – as a woman of my word – I stopped.

I resolved not to speak to Edith and Bethan until they were prepared to apologise and reform.

Why should I put up with their insolence after my years of devoted motherhood?

Determined to make my stand, I would read in my room and cook for myself when they had all eaten and left the kitchen. Andrew completely sided with the girls and even had the audacity to suggest I alter my approach. Outrageous. It was not I who was behaving badly.

Those years were fraught with tension and unpleasant incidents.

It was a relief when the girls both went to university and did not return home.

I wanted nothing more than to get back to the former footing I had enjoyed with Andrew.

I longed for a sense of peace and harmony to return to our house.

But Andrew clearly did not share these desires.

I feel a tug on my heart, and I purse my lips in annoyance. I will not allow these memories to intrude. It was all Andrew’s fault our girls turned out badly and then he followed suit. If I never set eyes on him again it will be too soon.

I used to wonder when Edith or Bethan would get in contact with me but of late, I have started wondering if they will ever do so. I have not spoken to Bethan since Andrew and I divorced and only to Edith on two occasions.

‘You do realise, Edith, your father is the one who committed adultery,’ I had told her as I moved out of the family home.

‘If you want me to blame him, you will be sorely disappointed,’ she responded.

‘Will you stay here with him and that… that woman?’

‘Her name is Rachel and no, I am not staying here but only because I’m going to travel Europe. And before you ask about Bethan, she is backpacking around the world.’

‘How ridiculous. You are both going to waste three years of study at university on hippy trips…’

‘There you go again.’ Edith retreated behind the front door and as she shut it, said, ‘Have a nice life, Fay.’

I tear my eyes away from the photograph and force down a surge of emotion, wrenching my mind back to the present. To banish the past, I reflect on our dance practice this evening.

I summon the music of Adele’s “Rolling in the Deep” and my feet twitch as I mentally run through the dance.

My toes point and lift.

I confess I am a little irritated Clarissa has barely complimented me on my steps, which I know to be accurate and in time to the music. The only comments she has ever made to me have been to suggest I feel the dance or put my soul into it.

‘Ladies, dance with your heart and your feet will follow.’

This is typical of the sort of sentimental advice Clarissa frequently dishes out. I rarely challenge her but when I pressed her to explain herself further, she merely smiled as if I should mind-read her answer.

I once plucked up courage to ask her if I was executing the dance correctly and was rewarded with only a perfunctory nod.

I refuse to tell her I have overcome many issues regarding my brachymetatarsia to dance.

I had to exercise relentlessly – I walk at least three miles every day – wear modified shoes and endure no small degree of pain to dance even the most basic steps.

But I do not want Clarissa’s sympathy. I crave only a little of her praise.

She tells Monica and Ingrida quite openly they are her best dancers.

Of course, it is because they studied ballet in their childhood, so the movements have been instilled in them from an early age.

However, most of our routines are not balletic and Clarissa’s praise for these two women is not always deserved.

I have seen Ingrida make many mistakes. In the North West Expression heats, she stepped into her fouetté turn on the wrong leg and furthermore her angle was not the correct arabesque position.

That is what cost us the first place that day, without a doubt.

It is as well Ingrida is only a reserve in Paris, we cannot afford any mistakes there.

My legs lift from the stool as I pantomime the balance steps and half leaps to the track in my head.

When I think of it, the winning group, led by that dreadful woman Sheila, had a ridiculously easy routine unworthy of their first place. Of course, I know all about Sheila Bold and the animosity between her and Clarissa. Hazel regaled me with the details.

‘Sheila was one of Clarissa’s dancers for years. Pretty good, too. But Clarissa and she had a blazing row about a jazz sequence they were doing to “Sweet Dreams (Are Made of This)” by the Eurythmics.’

‘Really?’

‘Yes. Sheila wanted to elaborate on Clarissa’s choreography, but Clarissa deemed her moves to be coarse and lewd. Sheila walked out taking three of her friends with her and then she set up an alternative dance group.’

‘What disgraceful behaviour.’

‘Now Bold as Brass are our bitter rivals and Clarissa is desperate we should beat them in the French competition, especially as they got a higher placing in the North West heats.’

‘I agree. I have only seen Sheila Bold once. Everything about her is tacky from her ridiculously short skirts to the dreadful name she has given her troupe.’

I reach for my sewing box and, in my head, I pause at the point in the routine where Monica dances her solo.

Her performance tonight was, I have to say, dazzling.

She did, however, make one error. I will perhaps have to tell her she is setting off with a toe lead in the opening phrase when it is in fact a heel lead that is required.

I fear Clarissa has not noticed due to her bias, but I will be careful not to mention it to Monica within Clarissa’s hearing.

Our dance teacher is an intelligent lady and extremely good at choreography.

I would not like her to think I am undermining her teaching.

I finish the dance with an imaginary flourish and smile.

Since my divorce, dance has become one of the few activities I look forward to. The ladies are very friendly.

I am particularly fond of Hazel, Clarissa’s dear friend.

I am sorry she is no longer attending class, as she is my kind of woman.

She is well-read and has great poise and decorum, unlike Ruby who, to be quite honest, is what some would call trashy.

Ruby swears continuously and is known to cavort with many men.

I have heard her talking to Monica, not that they realise it.

Working in the quiet of a library, I have developed a sharp ear.

I know Ruby has given some of our group supposedly comical names, like Batty Bonnie and Lady C.

Dear, oh dear, the level of her sense of humour is not just juvenile but borders on the infantile.

I suspect she has also given me some derogatory name.

Well, I refuse to stoop to her level; she is not worth my contempt, especially after her rudeness towards me this evening.

Up until that point, it had made a pleasant change to concentrate solely on the dance and not the disruptive undercurrent Ruby usually creates.

She was clearly too wound-up with some disagreement she has had with Monica.

I start to sew my new badge onto my top. The top is not to my taste. It has been designed and made by Monica and errs on the side of being rather ornate in cut. However, I have to concede it does suit all sizes, which is just as well as Ingrida has become rather hefty in the last year or two.

I prick my finger on the needle and force down an automatic panic response.

I have always hated needles. Had I not been sitting down, I might have fainted.

As it is, I feel light-headed, and I take a couple of deep breaths.

I shiver and pull my finger away from the patch so as not to stain it with blood.

I place a folded tissue over the puncture and slowly recover.

I must find my thimble before I finish the sewing.

I regard the insignia and shake my head.

Clarissa has made a dreadful mistake renaming our group.

How could she have chosen that awful font for the embossed letters under the figure’s raised leg.

She has utterly botched Hazel’s lovely design.

Anyone glancing at the badge will assume it says that vulgar slang word for the male appendage.

Dear, oh dear. None of us had the heart to point this out to Clarrisa.

After all, she is having such a hard time with Hazel only a few months out of chemotherapy.

Poor, poor Hazel. I do hope the dear lady is able to join us in Paris.