Let's Dance Read online

  ‘I dunno. Must’ve been someone.’

  ‘You’re fucking right, someone. Old or young?’ Bob had found his voice.

  Derek faltered. ‘I dunno. Big on top. Big. She had a fork …’

  The giggling began again, relieving them. Great snorts of giggles, hands between knees, nearly wetting themselves, so infectious the sound that Derek joined in.

  ‘In her hand,’ he added. They were hysterical by now, utterly helpless. Dick, hugging the central white line, swerved to avoid a saloon car coming up fast on the deserted road. He had got the hang of the wagon, even felt grateful to it. Everything was outrageously funny. Bob roared, Derek giggled, Dick insisted they stop for a pee. In this camaraderie, against the backdrop of failure, suddenly brave again, they pretended that this had been the dummy run and planned the second attempt.

  Maybe this was a second attempt. Maybe Andrew was treating her as man does woman, flirting without being obvious. Maybe he was simply as kind an individual as he seemed and was being nice to her. Whatever the reason for his actions, Isabel forgot to question, and since there was no reason to impress, failed to try, found herself relaxing. She was also starving for the kind of food she no longer saw: tagliatelle, green salad, the sort of meal it was a balm to eat, a million miles away from Mother’s favourite fish and chips. Serena liked the food she had liked as a child: porridge, bread and butter, jelly and custard. Isabel tried to tell Andrew this, joking and gesturing between mouthfuls, gulping wine. He listened in a way men rarely listened, teased her about the sheer amount she consumed. It wasn’t flirting, she decided; it was talking, about something and nothing, while on the other side of the small table his smile grew more attractive, his eyes browner and the grin she had remembered more endearing. On top of that, as well as zabaglione, she could see him persuading Serena to release her baby grandchild and watch fireworks. OK, he was a nice, unpretentious man with the dress sense of a grandad.

  He saw something else. A beautiful, insecure woman with a comic propensity to pull faces and mimic voices. One who defied her intelligence, pushed it down like rubbish in a sack. Acted as she was expected to act until no one was watching, unsure of her authority or talent to amuse. Ready to trip over her feet and let someone ride roughshod over her too-thin body and too-unsatisfying life. All because of the chasm within. He did not know if his observations were right, but since he had done more observing of women than touching of them, watching them dance attendance on furniture, husbands, himself, he hoped his perceptions were accurate and despised himself for the sense of distance that encouraged him to make them. Before grace, after grace, eating food, digesting it, driving along in his car, he was always looking at people like a mild, uncritical voyeur. As if passion were something he had eradicated with the help of an inoculation. He ordered more coffee. Half a bottle out of two shared hardly counted in the drink-driving stakes: and she was steady as a rock as she moved through the place on the way to and from the ladies’ loo, not a tremor. He was ashamed of observing that, too. He had a head for the stuff as good as this girl sitting opposite, laughing one minute, then looking at her watch.

  ‘Cinderella time,’ she said. ‘Gotta go. My mother will turn me into a pumpkin.’

  ‘You give life, you take it away,’ he murmured, finding her coat.

  She paused in the act of shrugging into it. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘That’s what your mother will have done. If this goes on and on, that’s exactly what she will have done. Taken your life in exchange for the preservation of hers.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter.’ She was agitated, to the extent of pressing one arm into the wrong sleeve. Cold outside, winter, instead of autumn. She did not want to go home. Thought of breath on windows, a house where heating demanded labour and preparation, like all the tasks from slow dawn to early dusk. The constant watching, of her mother and herself. The hard-won patience, the constant reiteration to herself of how much, at last, her mother loved her.

  ‘As long as you know,’ he said cheerfully. ‘I looked after Dad for years. I wish I’d done more with the time, that’s all.’

  ‘Does he love you?’

  Andrew considered the question with some surprise. ‘Yes, I suppose he does, after his fashion. Doesn’t like me, though.’

  They had reached the car, clambered inside quickly because of the sudden cold and sat, waiting for the heater to melt the pattern of a delicate frost on the windscreen.

  ‘Seems a pity to ruin it,’ Isabel said, watching moisture form out of crazy flowers. ‘Do you like me?’

  ‘Yes, very much.’

  ‘Which is more important?’ she demanded. ‘Liking or loving?’ The car engine was quiet as the ice trickled away.

  ‘Liking, in the long run. It means respect. Love doesn’t always mean that.’

  ‘Oh.’

  The silence was not uncomfortable as they cruised away from the lights of the centre, through a suburb and then on to a road lit only by their headlights. He did not play music as they drove, for which Isabel was grateful. Serena’s constant music had begun to eat at her nerves.

  ‘I wonder if I’ve ever been liked, in that case,’ Isabel said thoughtfully. She thought in this warm car of Joe, and his heated demands, and his habit of never listening to a word she said.

  ‘You may not have noticed being liked,’ Andrew suggested. ‘It isn’t always easy to detect.’

  She had never counted the miles from town; six or seven; ten, fifteen minutes, longer with Mother, but always a journey from one extreme to another, a passage between alien lives. Joe would probably have refused to drive his fancy car up this track and be careless of damage the way Andrew was. Yes, she liked Andrew, even though she disliked making comparisons.

  ‘I don’t suppose I was very likeable at twenty, was I?’

  He laughed, uncomfortably. ‘Does it matter? You were, as a matter of fact, and also entirely lovable. Until you took to writing obscene letters.’

  ‘What?’

  They had turned through the gates, stopped by the back door.

  ‘What?’ she repeated. ‘Me?’ There was less outrage in her voice than puzzlement, but she no longer wanted to sit beside him. She fumbled with the seat belt and slammed the door behind her. He followed, cursing himself.

  Drawn curtains in the kitchen, porch light winking over the corpse of the ginger cat. Isabel thought it was sleeping. Even while knowing that no cat slept thus, still she bent to pick it up, then recoiled. There was a wound in the throat, spots of blood on the paving of the yard, a hammer lying a few feet away. She backed away, colliding with Andrew. He put his hand on the nape of her neck, where the hackles rose. She avoided his touch, sidestepped the cat with a shudder, put her own hand on the kitchen doorknob, turned it, watched the door yield.

  ‘I locked the cat out,’ Isabel whispered, her face stricken with guilt. ‘And I locked Mother in.’

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  You do not, should not, lock your mother indoors so that you can go out and play. Upstairs, listening for the stroke of midnight from the grandfather clock, Serena sat in the armchair in her room, conducting the orchestra in the overture to My Fair Lady. Her slippers were an unmatched pair: she extended one slim ankle and admired it. The bundle of post, which she carried around like a talisman, waiting for the miracle that would make it meaningful instead of merely important, sat at her feet, free from Isabel’s interference. She made one foot join the other, turned both inwards so the toes met, and gazed at them with considerable satisfaction.

  There was someone knocking at something somewhere. The music rose to a climax announcing the imminence of Act One.

  Such a nice young man, standing in the doorway, dressed so unnecessarily in a winter coat. The music had reminded her obscurely of another form of dress, which bore no resemblance to his. He seemed to be looking for something; eyes everywhere, speaking pleasantly, half of him there and half of him not. A spasm of disappointment crossed her features since the man was not George
, but he was still, quite definitely, male, so she smiled.

  ‘Hallo, Mrs Burley. Remember me? I’ve come to see if you’re all right.’

  His was a face she had seen before, although not one of those villainous ones with gun in hand which she shot with such regularity on the TV screen downstairs; this one was one of the nice guys she had applauded. A sort of prince, apart from his dull clothes. Far too many clothes on his frail frame. What a waste, when he needed no embellishment other than his boyish grin.

  ‘Fireworks?’ Andrew suggested, thinking she might remember him if given a reminder.

  ‘Not at the moment,’ she said, wondering what it was he wanted. Her back felt stiff. All that reaching up over the kitchen curtain pole, where Isabel left the spare keys (what a silly place to leave anything), hoiking them out with the aid of a fork, getting down off the chair to open the door, had been activities that reminded her body of the existence of ribs. But it was imperative to resist being locked in, however kindly that had been done. The instinct to remedy such an unpardonable situation had occurred halfway through preparations for a bath. Windows and doors had no business being barred: no one could walk through walls, although this man had. He smiled as she smiled back.

  ‘Mind if I look around?’

  That, too, reminded her of a familiar phrase from somewhere else, and, in response to almost any set of words framed in familiar patterns and delivered quietly, Serena could usually dredge up some formulaic response. Her replies were often way off beam and, equally often, uncannily correct. She had what Doc Reilly called an excellent social armour. She could pass for a wise and articulate old crow, capable of appreciation, even while half of what she said was inspired guesswork.

  She inclined her head graciously; winked. ‘You’re welcome. Go ahead, son, why doncha?’

  He opened her wardrobe door, appeared to admire the contents, looked behind the curtains. Looking for a stiff, she told herself. Stiff or stuff; Raymond Chandler on the page or a drugs raid on TV, same difference, same response.

  ‘Are you looking for Stinker?’ Serena asked.

  ‘Stinker?’

  ‘The rat.’ She laughed gaily. ‘He sometimes hides under the bed. He’s a very naughty rat.’

  ‘I didn’t know you had rats, Mrs Burley.’

  ‘ ’Course not. Stinker eats them.’ Nice, this young man, but slow on the uptake. She was enjoying herself.

  Andrew looked under the bed. There were signs of spasmodic dusting from each edge in, not quite reaching the centre space. Something was hanging down below the headboard at the pillow end. He shifted the whole mattress while she watched him in the way she might have watched a maid sent into a hotel room to arrange a complimentary bowl of flowers, giving him her full and indulgent attention. When he raised one end of the thing on her bed, she indulged that too, as an activity which seemed without purpose but nevertheless was conducted by someone who knew what he was doing. Even if she did not.

  ‘Quite a collection of hardware, Mrs Burley. What’s all this doing here?’

  All this? All what? Her spectacles were in another place: she felt around for them. Two carving knives, a small saw and a twelve-inch length of barbed wire were displayed on the end of the bed. Serena’s smile wavered.

  ‘Mine,’ she said, falteringly. ‘I think.’

  Of course the bed was hers: why did he doubt it? She had no recollection of the things he held aloft, only a sense of sorrow that he might take them away.

  He bent over by her chair, bringing his face level with her forehead, and took her hand inside his own calloused palm, a sensation she liked so much she tried to imprint it on her memory, along with other dreams of being touched and held by someone who was not waiting to let go, even though this man’s hands were colder than hers. Fresh-air hands, whereas hers were ready for bed, made of paper and full of fragile warmth from sitting in the chair in nightie, slippers and winter coat while the bath water in the bath, long since forgotten, cooled. There was strong, wiry hair on the backs of his hands; he was more like a dog than a cat.

  ‘Puss, puss,’ said Serena, stroking. ‘Where is the Stinker?’

  ‘Did anyone else come in and see you this evening?’

  She looked at him, eyebrows raised, as if the question were impertinent. Pausing in this fashion was guaranteed to make people repeat what they had said several times in quick succession, for as long as the inquisitory look demanded. Sometimes it triggered understanding; not always. Andrew followed the cue.

  ‘Any more visitors, Mrs Burley?’ he said, louder, and then repeated himself.

  ‘People? You mean people?’

  ‘Yes, people.’

  ‘No.’ She leaned forward, about to impart a secret. ‘They can’t. People can’t get in. Isabel. My girl Isabel. She scares them away. She won’t even let me have my cat. She locks it out.’ Nodding wisely now. ‘She locks everything out.’ Her voice descended into a whisper. ‘I should look out if I were you. Isabel eats people.’

  For a moment Andrew wondered if that were true. The conversation, such as it was, had begun to exhaust him. It was similar to the effect of talking over a din, shouting to make oneself heard, receiving a coded response which demanded he shout louder. Perhaps Isabel was in the habit of scaring people away, for whatever purpose. The motives of others were ever mysterious, even if usually reducible to greed or fear. Or perhaps the erstwhile friends of this grande dame simply no longer had the stamina for little chats such as these. He was surprised to find he minded not being recognized as the provider of fireworks.

  ‘I’ll let you get to bed. Thanks for asking me in.’ She beamed in benediction, maintaining hold of his hand.

  ‘Don’t leave me with her,’ she said with sudden distinctness. ‘Kiss me good-night?’

  He bestowed a kiss on her cheek, felt the hand that relinquished his own move round his neck, drawing him down, murmuring in his ear with sounds he associated with someone enjoying food: yummyummyum. Then, without quite believing the sensation at first, imagining some ghost, he felt her other hand creep between his legs, touching his corduroy-clad thigh, lightly at first, as if feeling the cloth. Then kneading and patting it, in a manner less suggestive of sexual invitation than of someone tickling and pulling the ears of a dog, which, in his case, had no idea how to respond. He stood upright, slowly, detached her hand with a smile and put it back into her lap. The music from her tape deck swelled into the First Act, and the plaintive voice of a street singer.

  ‘Bollocks,’ she said, still smiling with wide-eyed innocence. ‘Fucking bollocks, is that it?’

  He had finally released himself. Close, like that, she had smelled both sweet and sour and on his way downstairs, he wondered if the smell lingered on his coat.

  The grandfather clock on the upstairs landing struck a gentle midnight, sweetly and hurriedly, as if getting through the duty while making apologies at the same time. Norwich-made, eighteenth-century, fairly valuable, Andrew noted on the way down. The knives and the saw were tucked under one arm, the barbed wire carried gingerly between finger and thumb. He wondered where she had found it. There was something particularly cruel about barbed wire: it had no value; it existed for nothing but the potential to harm.

  When he and Isabel had come into the kitchen, they had known the non-existence of intruders from the sheer quality of the silence. The clock ticking with no need to turn its face to the wall, the dog lazy and docile, the drip of the tap, all clues to the lack of trespass and the sensation that the danger lay within. He and Isabel had looked through the downstairs rooms before he, at his own insistence, went alone to the upper landings. There was no real bravery in a search that could serve no purpose other than the confirmation of innocence. Isabel had resented him for it. By the time he came back, the cat lay outside where Isabel had left it for burial in the morning, with the respectful addition of a shroud fashioned from a tablecloth.

  ‘Nothing,’ Andrew said, ‘but these.’

  She gazed, stupidly, at
Serena’s armoury, laid out next to the hammer. Then she glanced at Andrew’s face. A sense of guilt made her skin glow pink. Serena purloined things all the time – scissors, forks, screwdrivers – they turned up on window ledges, in the fridge, in the bathroom, and in due course Isabel returned them to their own corners, pretending they had never gone. But she had never imagined there was a theme to this harmless kleptomania, other than a simple feature of her mother, busying herself ineffectually and then forgetting whatever it was she had been going to do. Sew a button on something; change a plug; everyday tasks with everyday reminders and no memory to achieve them. In better days Mother’s contempt of domestic chores had not excluded pride in a level of self-sufficiency. She had needed to do everything for herself.

  ‘Do you think she could have hurt the cat?’

  Isabel thought of the ferret with the white teeth, then the hammer, shook her head. There was not enough coordination between hand and eye in her mother’s slow movements to do such frightful damage, although there was still plenty of strength.

  ‘Might she want to hurt herself?’ Andrew asked, inexorably. Isabel felt the undertone of accusation in his voice, hinting at her own inefficiency; it made her clam up in defensive fury.

  ‘I don’t think so. But then I rarely know what she thinks. Do you want some coffee?’ Without waiting for an answer, she began moving about the business of preparation, like a child sent out of a classroom, walking like a marionette. Andrew came close to her, touched her shoulder lightly.

  ‘Stop it, Isabel. I’m not blaming you.’

  ‘Yes, you are.’

  ‘I wouldn’t know how. Look, do you want me to stay? I think I should, even if it was a false alarm. Nobody’s been in here, I’m sure of it. She must have found the keys to open the back door. Why she threw a hammer in the backyard, God only knows. Perhaps she’s contemplating a new career in joinery and found the thing surplus to requirements?’

  Isabel laughed. She looked a little like her mother when she laughed. Any sexual frisson between them engendered by the evening had disappeared. He could still feel Serena’s hand, patting the warmth of his thigh, killing desire more effectively than any dead cat or full stomach. Andrew yawned, half naturally, half contrived.