Summer Flings and Dancing Dreams (4 page)

L
ater that evening
, I sipped my wine and watched the ‘Strictly’ Double Bill on TV and an actress I vaguely recognised from a soap being led onto the dance floor clad in sequins and sparkly heels. I wondered if my mum was watching – if so she’d be very confused, as I was sure this was another character who’d recently been killed off in a soap – not real life.

I knew it was painful for Mum to talk about dancing and the life she’d had with my Dad, but not talking about what happened hadn’t helped her all these years. I was guilty too, because after we lost my dad I didn’t want to talk about the life we’d had before either. But perhaps I’d kept it that way not only for my own security, but Mum’s too.

I tried not to think about that night. I’d been ten years old and Mum and Dad were smiling, at me, and each other and I had been so happy, contented, secure. Afterwards, I don’t recall ever feeling that safe, that complete again. I certainly never found it in a man.

I ate another Revel and scolded myself for dwelling on the past, on stuff I couldn’t change. And the judging was about to start, there was no way I was dampening all that glitter with darkness, so I turned up the TV and lost myself in the show.

I couldn’t get enough, watching the celebrities begin those first, faltering steps the swishing fabric and clicking heels on the dance floor were my therapy. As much as I didn’t want to dwell on the bad memories – there were great ones too and in those seconds of silent stillness before the music began I could feel it all again. I could almost taste the excitement and anticipation of that moment before my parents danced in a big competition. As a child I’d never realised how nervous Mum and Dad must have been because for me it was just another wonderful dancing adventure. All the preparation, the final sequins sewn on the dresses, the car filled with petrol and packed, the sandwiches in tin foil for the journey – expectation and probably a little fear sparkling in the air. Just like on the TV there was always a glitterball. I was transfixed by the one on the screen now, each facet a different dance, a single moment catching the light, illuminating all my memories as it spun.

When the dancing stopped, Mum abandoned everything – including me. The music was turned off, there were no more competitions and something that had filled every crevice of our lives was instantly gone. Sometimes I’d find a sequin on the floor and I would keep it in a tiny box in my bedside table – each one a happy memory – hiding them from Mum. I didn’t want her to find a reminder of what we’d had and be hurt all over again.

I’ll never forget that first ever episode of Strictly Come Dancing when news reader Natasha Kaplinsky was whirled onto the floor by dancer Brendan Cole. It was like an electric shock, the movements, the music, and the old world elegance dragging me back into a childhood spent watching impossible, magical steps my eyes could barely keep up with. Without Dad our whole world of dancing disappeared and here on my sofa thirty years later I was rediscovering it all. It was like yesterday had grabbed me by the throat and hauled me back to a world of taffeta, tulle and tight bodices. A world where no one hurt me, or let me down or left me – and whatever happened I was safe in the knowledge that when it was all over I’d be kissed and carried to the car in a warm blanket.

That first night watching Strictly Come Dancing I’d sat on the sofa alone, surrounded by the ghosts of people dancing, with tears running down my face. It was, for me pure nostalgia, a crystallised moment in time when life was innocent and safe – before our hearts were broken and the stars went out.

P
ulling
up outside my old family home on the Sunday morning, my heart did a little lurch. I’d last visited almost three months ago, but Mum had still been here then, so this was a difficult visit and opening the little front gate on the terraced row I felt guilt and the past weigh heavily on me. I was still looking for my dad as I walked through the empty house, and I swear I heard laughter, voices, the clicking of dad’s shoes on the wooden floor. I stood in the hallway breathing in the heady aroma of lavender and bergamot – the ghost of Mum’s perfume ‘Blue Grass’. I was comforted by that smell as I walked into the dining room, the big fake mahogany dining table stood waiting, as always, never really used. Dad said it was rather baronial for the three of us and he and Mum should have had more kids to fill it. Mum would disagree, and the look on her face told me the very thought of another child horrified her. Even as a child I wanted to make Dad happy and asked Santa for a little sister, but I’d received a Tiny Tears doll instead.

Dad could never sit still and on the rare occasions we did sit at the table he would be up and down, his legs constantly moving, toes tapping. I could hear Mum chastising him, ‘Sit down and eat your tea, Ken,’ she’d snap from behind a piece of celery and an ounce of cottage cheese. He’d suddenly leap up – ‘Margaret, quick,’ he’d say, opening his arms to dance. ‘Oh Ken, you silly bugger, I’m having my salad,’ but her feigned grumpiness dissipated into thin air as soon as he put the music on. Delightedly she’d leap up from the table and join him in a waltz or a tango, dancing around the room, she’d smile indulgently over his shoulder to me and I’d giggle happily. He was our hero – he was like an excited little boy, but at the same time the best husband and father.

I smiled to myself as I wandered through the rooms of my past. Without us here it was as empty and alien to me as visiting a stately home.

This was the first time I’d been back to the house alone, and it felt like I was seeing it for the first time, through someone else’s eyes. Looking at the photos, the shabby furniture, the peeling wallpaper – it seemed time had stopped somewhere around 1980. In some ways, for us it had.

I wandered into the kitchen and turned off a dripping tap, the place smelt damp, unlived in, and soon it would be up for sale and all the memories sold with it. But just being here, breathing in the past was enough to evoke a million yesterdays. I remembered Mum standing on the kitchen table, stomping flamenco style as Dad clapped along. I’d joined in the clapping and when I tried to climb up to take part, Dad had lifted me onto the table where Mum and I stomped so hard we’d left marks in the wood. As I ran my hand along the table, I could feel the indentations from our dancing, an imprint of how we once were, a happy yesterday preserved forever.

Walking upstairs into my parents’ bedroom was probably the hardest part. The photos were still on the wall, gathering dust, a grainy black and white print of mum and dad in dancing clothes holding a trophy – I remembered the night, I could almost hear the applause, a golden memory from childhood. I gazed for a long time at a photo of me and Dad on the carousel in Blackpool. We were there for the Dance Championships and in between we’d gone out to the pier, up the tower and my favourite – the Pleasure Beach. It was a magical place for a child, filled with rides and roundabouts, fruit machines, faces full of candy floss – but the best of all was the candy-coloured horses on the carousel. I’d wait by the side with Dad, shaking with excitement, and when the ride stopped I would run to get on the purple or the pink horse, Dad running after me, laughing and calling my name. He’d sit behind me, holding me round my waist and when the ride started it seemed to go so fast my stomach would lift into my mouth and I would scream, scared I’d fall, but knowing I was safe in Dad’s arms.

I moved along the photos on the wall smiling to myself at the 1970s shots of flared jeans and long hair. Mum’s hair was always lovely and thick and blonde, but looking at her now, through my middle-aged eyes, I saw a beautiful young woman with so much to live for – who’d have thought her life would turn out the way it did?

I turned on the ceiling light, a large fake chandelier, all glitter and grandiosity, so typical of my parents. ‘Kippers and curtains!’ I murmured to myself, gazing up at the twinkling drops of glass twisting in the light. Then I spotted the opening to the attic and my heart sank. I hadn’t even started yet and I’d forgotten about the bloody attic, a whole extra room to clear out – and no one had been up there for years, God only knew what was up there. And knowing Mum’s hoarding tendencies you could bet it would be packed to the rafters – literally. Come to think of it, she had hinted that I might find the family treasure up there, hidden away.

‘If only,’ I’d said, knowing there would be nothing of value, because we had never owned anything of value. But I was intrigued as to what I might find there.

I searched for a stepladder under the detritus of my mum’s life optimistically called ‘the spare room’. There is nothing ‘spare’ or ‘roomy’ about it, I thought as I heaved up dusty boxes and tore my way through a dense forest of bags and clothes. I finally discovered the ladder and torch and headed back to the master bedroom from where I entered the dreaded attic. Reluctantly pushing open the hatch that lead into the roof, I saw the amount of stuff and all I could think was ‘room of pain’ – and not in a sexual way. Just what was my mother hoarding up here? Random flashes of my torch revealed huge black bin liners were stacked against the walls, but as shocked as I was by the quantity, I have to confess to slight relief at the vague sense of order. Even in torchlight I could see the bags hadn’t just been thrown or piled six feet high with stuff spilling out, which seemed to be my mother’s signature storage solution. Whatever was in these bags had been put away with care and I was vaguely optimistic that it would be fairly easy to see (once I’d found the light switch) what was inside each one before clearing the space.

God only knew what those bags contained, but it was going to take more than a day to sort that lot out. I clambered up into the attic it was dark and cramped and I could taste the thick dust at the back of my throat. I found the light and looked at the first of the bin liners. It was huge, so I grabbed it with both hands and pulled at it with all of my weight to bring it out into the tiny square of attic that was unoccupied. As soon as I tugged at it however I realised it was light as a feather, which was surprising and I almost lost my footing, but managed to steady myself and sit down with the bag. It crunched slightly as I manoeuvred it into a position where I could open it – Oh God, don’t say mother was hoarding family bags of crisps? Mum was particular about her food and though she didn’t eat much she overbought her favourites perhaps she’d once had a thing for crisps? I began to tug at the knotted plastic tied several times – whoever packed this bag wasn’t planning to open it again... or let anyone else open it either. Was this Mum’s ‘family treasure?’ I doubted that very much, but whatever was inside would at least be protected from all the dust now nestling in the folds of the black plastic. The more I tugged, the more hopeless it became. I decided to throw caution to the wind and rip open the damn thing. I tore at it, gasping as the plastic split open easily and the contents slowly burst into life. Like a beautiful sea urchin, the powder blue tulle frothed out as I gently teased it out of its black plastic grave and within seconds transformed back into my mother’s ballroom dress.

My heart lurched; this was the one she was wearing the night it happened and I slowly and carefully brought the dress out of the bag. Gently wafting the layers of netting, breathing life into the frills as a handful of sequins fell to the floor, I gasped as my life rewound like an old cassette tape. There it was again, Mum’s familiar fragrance of bergamot, dry and floral still living in the heart of the dress, now coming back to life in my arms. Again I breathed in my mother’s perfume and was taken back to that night, the taste of happiness, the smell of Blue Grass, then nothing.

I sat for a long time holding the fabric to me, as if I was holding my mum, the one I’d known as a little girl. The Mum who’d laughed and danced and took joy in simple things, the Mum who’d needed no excuse to put the record player on and sing along. But then there were the times she’d cry for days, followed by a visit from the doctor, Dad’s worried face, his wringing hands. Then sometimes Mum would go away for a while – as a kid I didn’t know how long, but it seemed like forever.

One of my earliest memories is dancing with Mum to Elvis singing ‘The Wonder of You’. It was a fox trot and Dad said I was a natural, shouting ‘bravo’ and clapping loudly when we finished.

Perhaps there was treasure here after all? I continued to tear at the bags, finding dress after dress, and as each one unfurled, another yesterday came to life and I was back in the moment. The black and scarlet satin Mum wore when they danced the Salsa at the North West Championships; a fringed dress in citrus shades she’d trotted around in when they danced the Charleston for a competition somewhere in Kent. Then I found bags containing all their trophies and medals. Holding the Latin American Dance Championships trophy from Sheffield 1976, I’d felt like an Oscar winner. I remember the clapping, the whistling, Mum’s flushed, happy face and how I’d clutched the huge trophy as the photographer from a local newspaper took pictures and Mum and Dad beamed. Then I smiled, remembering the best bit of that night – we ate chips out of paper on the way home in the car. I licked my lips at the memory as I opened another bag and discovered my favourite of Mum’s dresses. It was a delicious fondant pink and always reminded me of the thick, sugary icing on a birthday cake. I’d loved this pink dress as a child and remembered quite clearly it was the one she’d worn for the waltz for a competition in Birmingham. I carefully stroked the fondant pink satin bodice, which was tiny - I had never realised how slim Mum had been.

I sat among the dresses for a while, running the soft satin and prickly tulle through my fingers and marvelled at the memories suspended in those frills and spangles.

I held the pink fondant up against me and moved slowly around the attic in an attempt at the foxtrot. Catching myself in a dusty old mirror, I was disappointed to see me waddle – it wasn’t Mum’s elegant glide, but then I’d never been as beautiful or graceful as my mum. Even as a child I was aware of the surprise on people’s faces when my mum or dad would say, ‘And this is our Laura.’ ‘Your daughter?’ they’d ask with unconcealed amazement that two beautiful people could create this chunky, plain child. It didn’t bother me, I’d come to expect the reaction, and apart from some painful times as a teenager I didn’t let my looks shape my life. Or did I? Here in the colours, the sparkle and surprises of the past... my past, I realised how grey my life had gone on to be. As I’d grown up, my parents’ firework display was over and I’d been left with the embers. I’d retreated into a life, where I could be in control and there were no surprises – but looking around me at all this, I realised, there hadn’t been any sparkles either.

I eventually gathered myself together, and remembering it was Sunday and the ‘Strictly Come Dancing’ results show would be on later I was slightly lifted. I would have a glass of wine in front of the TV and come back to Mum’s later in the week to sort through all the gowns and the rest of the house. I would have to store them at my house. Despite the fact that they would fill up my tiny spare room, I didn’t want to sell them. I couldn’t bear the thought of flogging my parents’ past on Ebay for a few quid. To others they would just be sparkly dresses, but these were the fabric of my childhood, their layers and sequins told a story – my story. I put the gowns back into their bags. They’d been preserved for over thirty years, I didn’t want to leave them exposed to the dust and elements now.

Frothing the tulle on the pink fondant gown and drinking it in one last time, I noticed something fluttering out from the folds. An envelope, like an escaping butterfly, preserved in pink satin landed on the floor. I bent down to pick it up, and when I pushed my fingers inside the ripped top, I could see there was folded paper inside. A letter. I held it for a few seconds, knowing it was probably private – but I couldn’t help myself, I had to read it.

M
y Darling
,

You said last night you might have to leave me and I’m sorry I was angry. I wanted to write to you because it seems we can’t talk to each other anymore without hurting. I don’t blame you for saying you want to go – I haven’t been the most attentive of husbands. But I’m begging you not to.

I can see the effect he had on you, and how, he changed everything. But leaving me isn’t the answer, and my heart bleeds when I see that faraway look in your eyes. I don’t know what to do, I don’t know how to make it better. I’m hurting too, I can’t even bear to say his name.

I know you think after what happened that I don’t love you. But I love you in spite of everything – nothing has or ever will change my love for you.

I want you to stay, Margaret. It won’t be easy but let’s try to put the past behind us and concentrate on the future. If you won’t do this for me, think of Laura. Let’s make the most of what we have – our beautiful daughter, the golden link between the two of us. Let’s teach her to dance, to lose herself in movement, and to ‘feel’ the music that has given us both so much. We must share that gift with Laura – I want her to believe in herself, to shoot for the moon and dance under the stars. I don’t know where we’d be now without our ambitious tangos and complicated waltzes. Our dancing is the life blood that flows through both of us. During that difficult time when we couldn’t speak about what was happening, our touch on the dance floor meant more to me than anything else.

Darling, stay with me and we will win at Blackpool, then sell up and move away from the painful memories, and start a new life somewhere else. We’ve always wanted to dance flamenco – let’s stop putting it off – we can open that little school in Southern Spain and feel sunshine on our faces instead of tears.