I Hope You Dance (26 page)

And at the end, Dad beckoned me over and held out his hands in invitation.

Woah. I swallowed back the boulder in my throat, shook off a hundred screaming arguments that all ended with “I'm never going to dance again. Especially with you – ever!” and danced with my father, trying not to slip in the waterfall of tears that gushed from our pathetic eyes and formed a lake of wasted time and stupid regrets on the wooden floor between our feet.

Sometimes a big moment, a crunch conversation, is not required. Past transgressions aired, apologies offered and forgiveness accepted is not always necessary. As we swayed, twizzled and stepped together, we said it all. I had been a difficult, stubborn daughter who uttered some terrible stuff, hurting my dad in countless different ways. I had scorned his whole way of life – his passion, his business, the way he chose to build his family. In getting pregnant by a near stranger at a party, I also rejected the values and principles he raised me with. But I had been a kid. Angry, hurting and so very unwise, as most kids are.

Yes, he had handled it dreadfully. Accepted my rejection, instead
of fighting it. Failed to understand his strange, bewildering youngest daughter. Made no room for me to be myself, and still a valued, vital part of his family. But he was only human. Flawed, and proud and stubborn, as so many are.

There was no great reckoning. Just the power of dance, of moving in time to each other, holding hands, locking eyes, sharing that rush of joy and adrenaline as the music takes control. The girl – the Ruth who had sworn never to dance with her dad again – kept her promise. A different Ruth, a whole lot older and wiser and less complicated, danced with him instead. It was a rubbish tea dance. A near-total failure. It was the best hour I had spent since coming home.

Mum, exhilarated by the challenge, bouncing on a flicker of hope sparked by an hour working with her husband again, booked the hall for the following week. Dad, still smiling at me, agreed to give it one more go. The rest of the class mumbled and shuffled their feet; all except for Hannah, who, it turned out, found the whole débâcle hilarious. She booked her place for next time. John agreed to bring her, if she would consider giving him a twirl around the floor. Hannah flapped her gloves in front of her face, coyly ducking her head. “I'll think about it. As long as you know where to put those hulking great feet. I don't want any broken toes.”

“Oh yes, Mrs Beaumont. I know what to do.”

“My friends call me Hannah.”

A few days later, the temperature plummeted. We woke up to a town transformed. A thick, crisp layer of snow like royal icing coated every surface. Usual morning sounds of dogs barking and children on their way to school were swallowed up by a strange new world. The willow tree, comically lopsided from the firework damage, bent down even lower under the added weight.

I crunched my way to work and back in old walking boots, the bitter wind whipping my scarf back and forth as I battled through the snowdrifts. Only a couple of cars crawled past, churning up the roads to a dirty grey. My two clients cancelled their debt-advice appointments, and Martine sent me home at four to avoid having to walk the journey in darkness. Halfway home, the hum of a car joined me. I hunkered down into my scarf and kept moving. The car pulled ahead, stopping several yards in front. Carl got out and jogged around the car to the pavement.

“Hi Ruth.”

I nodded my head and carried on walking.

“I went to pick up Mum, but she's not been in today. They told me you'd just set off.”

I glanced at him, now only a few yards away, without slowing.

“Come on, it's freezing. Hop in.”

“No, thanks. I'm enjoying the snow.”

There was a short pause. I held my breath as I walked on.

“Not celebrity enough for you, Ruth?” The words were a sneer,
sending my pulse careening. “Not won enough BAFTAs? Ruth the secretary too good to be seen in the car of a small-town doctor? Who do think you are?” He spat this out. I flinched, trying to pick up my pace. “Well, look around you, Ruth. I can't see your famous boyfriend coming out to make sure you get home safe in the snow, or checking up on you, making sure you're taking care of yourself: sleeping enough, eating properly. You look scrawny, Ruth. He's obviously not taking care of you. Because he doesn't love you, not really. He can have any woman he wants. Be honest, Ruth: why would he pick you? I'm the one here every day, looking out for you, thinking about you. And you have the audacity to throw it back in my face.”

I stumbled, skidding along the packed snow, gasping in air that froze my chest and made my eyes sting. Carl still stood behind me, by his car, but I knew he could catch up with me in a moment if he chose.

“Don't walk away from me, Ruth!” He shouted now, the words echoing along the snow-muffled street. “Come back and get in the car, you stupid woman! I said I'm giving you a lift home!”

I realized that the strange mewling noises were coming from me. On this stretch of road the houses were far apart and set back behind security gates and privacy fences. It was growing dark beneath the sheet of heavy cloud, and fresh flurries of snowflakes were beginning to fall.

I glanced up from the path in front of me, muttering a faithless prayer that God would get me out of this. But he answered me before I spoke the words. There, in the gloom ahead, I spotted the lithe figure of my father, striding over the treacherous ground as though the snow didn't exist. He reached me half a minute later. Only then, with my arm safely linked through his, did I turn to see Carl standing in the shadows like something out of a horror movie. He reversed backwards towards his car, and although his face was a mere silhouette, I could feel those laser eyes boring into me. Climbing in, he skidded the car around in a three-point turn and revved away.

Dad frowned. “Some people shouldn't be allowed a driving licence. Is he a friend of yours, Ruth? He looked familiar.”

“No. He's not a friend.” We began making our way home again. If Dad noticed how heavily I leaned on his arm, he didn't say anything. “Were you on your way somewhere, Dad? You don't have to walk me back.”

“I came to find you. Make sure you got home safe.”

“You were worried about me.” I gripped his arm a little tighter.

“I've been worrying about you since the day you were born.”

“Thanks, Dad.” I felt the breath coming back to me, my pulse slowing.

“You're very welcome. Are you going to tell me now or when we get home what he did to make you tremble like this?”

“I'm fine,” I lied. “In case you hadn't noticed, it's freezing.”

“In case you hadn't noticed, this is your dad you're talking to. I know the difference between my girl being cold and being terrified.”

I stopped there, at the corner of our little cul-de-sac, as snowflakes settled on our eyelashes and sprinkled our coats like lace, and threw my arms around him.

“I missed you, Dad,” I breathed into his damp chest.

“I love you,” he said.

“I love you. And I
am
freezing.”

“Come on. Your mother's got the kettle on.”

 

Over steaming mugs of tea I gave Mum and Dad a watery, half-hearted, sanitized version of the situation with Carl, omitting the gift, the phone calls and the hair-sniffing. Mum launched herself up from the table and began bashing pans about as she channelled her anxious anger into a “heart-warming, soul-strengthening, snowy stew”.

“Do you want me to speak to him?” Dad was papa bear, brow furrowed, knuckles white. “Or knock some sense into him?” he murmured under his breath, causing me to shake my head and place one hand over his.

“No, I can handle it for now. He's got a horrible temper. I don't want to provoke him if we can help it. He'll get the hint, eventually. I'll let you know if I change my mind.”

“Well!” Mum started hacking at a pile of potatoes with noisy thunks. “It's understandable, Ruth. You are
completely
gorgeous. I'm sure the only reason more men aren't following you about, half crazy, is because you intimidate them. If Dr Carl feels the need to make every last effort to win you over, who can blame him?” She scooped up the potato chunks and tossed them in a pan. “The problem is, he's quite clearly punching well above his weight. He thinks he can change your mind by prowling about the town after you, gunning his engines and ordering you into his leather man-lair. How utterly tiresome and ridiculous! Men like that need to be flicked off and squished like a mosquito.”

Dad glanced across at her, a rueful half-grin on his face, saying to me, “I always said I was just another one of her stalkers. But she happened to love me back, so nobody realized.”

“Gilbert Henderson! You never beat your chest at me like those prehistoric gorillas. You courted me. With style and panache!”

If I had even an ounce of the Henderson grace, I would have snuck away, slipping out of the room like a dandelion puff without breaking the moment. However, I have never once entered or exited a room silently, so I kept still, kept quiet and watched what might have been, quite possibly, another tiny flutter of life in my parents' critically ill marriage.

Over the next few days, it kept on snowing. Along with the rest of the county, Southwell ground to a halt. Schools were cancelled as buses failed to bring in the kids from the villages, and most of the teachers were snowed in. The shops began to run out of basic essentials like bread and milk as panicked buyers stockpiled and lorries failed to deliver fresh supplies. A couple of main roads were cleared by the snowplough, but the council, as always, focused on the larger towns, and within hours fresh flurries wiped out all their efforts.

I spent the mornings at work, enjoying the atmosphere of camaraderie as the staff and volunteers rallied round to keep things running as smoothly as possible. A rota was organized to deliver
groceries, medicines and other help to those who might struggle to get out in the bad weather, and most afternoons I took my turn dragging a sledge loaded with goodies to various elderly or otherwise housebound members of the town.

One advantage of this was that we visited in pairs, and I could move through the streets with relative confidence. The roads were completely empty of vehicles, so I was fairly sure Carl wouldn't be able to trail me in his car. However, if he chose to “run into” me on foot, I felt happier with the reassurance of Catherine, Oak Hill's formidable assistant pastor, beside me.

Wednesday lunchtime, as I chose a jacket potato from the café's increasingly sparse menu, the woman behind the counter chatted to me about the weather.

“Still,” she said, “you get some fools who think their job is so important they insist on trying to drive, despite the fact the roads are an ice-rink. My cousin, the one who works for the police, says they've had ten times the usual number of traffic accidents. Four fatalities. Just trying to get to work!”

I nodded my head and picked up a bottle of orange juice from the chiller.

“Not to mention that couple from Fiskerton who were found half frozen to death in the ditch. They were going to the cinema. Taking a fifteen-mile drive in a blizzard! It's not like there aren't enough things to watch on the television these days…”

She carried on, decrying the stupidity of the English in bad weather. I listened with half an ear as I helped myself to cutlery and a paper napkin, nodding and murmuring my agreement at appropriate moments, until, as I walked towards a free table, she said something that nearly made me drop my tray.

“It's all very pretty and all that, nice for the kids to have a day off school to build a snowman, but your fella must be run off his feet, what with the cars crashing and old folks slipping over. Not to mention hypothermia. That drunk man who nearly died.”

I put the tray down carefully on the table and turned back to her.

“Excuse me?”

“Didn't you hear? The man that used to work at the garage, with the moustache.”

“No,” I continued. “You said something about my fella.”

“Well, it's a lot of work for him, isn't it, the snow?”

“I'm not sure who you mean.” Only I did. I knew exactly who she meant.

“Your boyfriend, Dorothy's lad – he's a doctor, isn't he?”

“Yes. But he's not my boyfriend.”

She coloured slightly, tugging at her cap. “Well, I don't know what you young people call it these days. That one you're seeing.”

“No. I don't mean that. I'm not seeing him. We don't have any sort of relationship. We aren't even friends.” I tried to keep the strain from showing in my voice. “Who told you we were seeing each other; that he was my boyfriend?”

“He did.”

I was momentarily speechless.

“I think you'd better put him straight, love. He seemed to think it was pretty serious, from what I gathered.”

“Yes, I will. Thank you.”

I gave my potato to the caretaker. My stomach was full of black-bellied hornets.

 

At the second tea-dance lesson, things got worse. A total of eighteen students came, including an additional three of Maggie's friends. The mobility-scooter couple couldn't manage the snow but had sent four neighbours in their place, along with a message saying they would be back next week. John braved the ice to bring Hannah in his truck, there was a slightly strange young man in a teddy-boy outfit, and me. Oh yes, and one late arrival in a pink anorak, saggy leggings and glittery silver leg-warmers.

Ruby removed her anorak and shook the snow from her hair. Every man in the room's jaw dropped open at the sight of her leopard print leotard straining to contain that enormous chest. A
bra might have helped. Mum practically sprinted over to where Ruby stood, preening, by the doorway.

“Ruby.”

“Harriet.”

“How excellent to see you! We were just wondering who Frank here would have as a partner.”

Nobody had been wondering that. By default, I would have danced with the teddy-boy. Now I would have to either partner with Maggie's friend Misha or stick with Dad. Mum thrust Frank at Ruby, and stormed back across to where Dad fiddled about with the CD player, his face stricken.

“We had an agreement, Gil. You have broken that in the
worst possible way
!”

Oh dear. Mum whispering. Might as well have used a megaphone.

Ruby called out, “Is there a problem with me being here, Harriet? Gilbert did invite me.”

Mum ignored this. Dad tried to put a calming hand on her arm, but it was swiped off.

“I didn't invite her, specifically,” he said softly. “I told you I put it up on the U3A website. She must have seen it there.”

“Must she?”

“Harriet. Remember you are a professional. We don't veto members of our classes.”

Mum snorted. She stamped out a pasodoble on the parquet floor.

“I'm not the one who needs to remember, Gilbert.”

Mum wasn't merely professional, she was sweetness and light, grace and serenity as she guided us through the Viennese waltz, using every male in the room except Dad as a partner. In choosing not to compete with Ruby, but to simply be her very best self – not hard, considering the context – she outshone her in every way. How could a six-foot, elegant swan in a flowing ball gown compare to a jealous, desperately dressed duck out of water?

A tiny bit of my seething rage towards Ruby actually melted into pity as I watched her floundering to elicit anything beyond the
minimum courtesy from Dad. Ruby turning up at the tea-dance class might end up being a blessing in disguise.

Two of the new students, Viv and Eddie, expressed their surprise that my nice handsome boyfriend wasn't there to dance with me.

“Ooh!” Viv winked at me. “I bet he's got some moves.”

“And he trusts you with all these other men!” Eddie laughed, and then broke into a fit of coughing.

“If you mean Carl Barker –”

“Him with the eyes – the doctor.”

“Yes. Him. He is not my boyfriend. I'm not seeing him. I just know his mum. That's all.”

“Whatever you say, love.” Viv, absentmindedly patting Eddie on the back, winked at me again.

I swallowed hard, determined not to throw up.

 

Frazzled, frayed, frustrated and frantic with fear, I was in dire need of a girls' night. It was my turn, which meant it was Mum's turn, to cook, clean and bark orders while I mentally counted my tiny stack of new-house savings and willed it to grow faster.