Third World (17 page)

With Boy hitched to the porch railing
in their back yard, with a trough of water right there and a
blanket thrown over him to ward off the evening chill, Polly closed
the door and took his arm.

The hall was only a few blocks away.
The sunset, with all the tops of the clouds glowing in a golden
salmon colour, was glorious. As they walked, other folks, couples
mostly, and nicely dressed for the most part, all seemed to be
going the same way.

It had never even occurred to Hank to
inquire about the music or who was playing. With only one place to
go in town, it hardly mattered.

She hadn’t noticed or didn’t remark
upon it. From talk he’d heard they had Bev Jones on accordion and
Jeff Snow did a mighty mean fiddle. There were one or two others,
but it was by no means certain what he was letting himself in
for.

The noise picked up considerably the
closer they got to the hall, which adjoined the church but wasn’t
strictly connected with it. The big old timber-framed building was
a community project, and Hank had put a little labour into it
himself. Once he’d built his own place and a few folks had seen it,
everyone thought he was an expert.

Judging by local standards, he might
very well be. The better houses around them didn’t look much
different from what he had, and the poorer ones were definitely
inferior work.

“
Hello.” Hank nodded
politely at a couple, who looked darned familiar but he couldn’t
put a name to them.

The lady’s eyes took them in and Hank
resolved to be polite above all else, but she said
nothing.

The fellow stuck out a hand and they
shook quickly.

“
I haven’t seen you in ages,
Hank.” The fellow took him by the left arm. “You really ought to
stop around more often.”

Polly gave a tug on Hank’s other arm as
she was anxious to get to the dance.

Hank tipped his hat and wondered about
it at the same moment. He hadn’t been to a dance in ten years or
more, and as he recalled they did have a row of pegs and places to
hang things right by the door. It was a good hat and he didn’t want
to lose it.

There was a small throng at the door,
and the screech and wail of the band tuning up came out through the
opening. The buzz of talk from inside the place was marvelous to
hear, far different from worship, or even the quiet mutter of
Greg’s Hotel.

“
Who was that,
anyway?”

“
Oh. You mean Mister and
Missus Murdock.”

“
That’s right, Gerry
Murdock. And Cynthia.”

“
That’s them.” She took a
long look at him. “You really should get around more
often!”

They chuckled at that. Three or four
people moved on in, and then it was their turn.

Hank bought two tickets for two dollars
from a bored-looking young man with slicked-back hair. The fellow
tore them in half and gave him the stubs, eyes taking in Polly with
some familiarity.

Her eyes were demure, and she didn’t
seem to want any part of the fellow, which Hank agreed with for his
own reasons. The guy didn’t look too tough, when you got right down
to it—no one in town really did, but Hank, all of a sudden, sort of
wondered at the possibility of trouble or unpleasantness. The
thought of someone making the wrong kind of remarks made his
stomach tense up.

Hank nodded in as genial a fashion as
he could muster, and they went in with eyes lifted to the far end,
where there was a small stage and several colourful figures with
instruments deployed but not actually making music yet. Two of them
conferred centre stage and Hank thought he knew them both. The room
was about fifty metres long, and about half as wide, and in this
light his eyes weren’t the best. He’d left the glasses in his
saddle-bags for safekeeping. He didn’t need them that
bad.

These boys had the hillbilly outfits
down perfectly, and he grinned at the sight.

Above their heads the trusses and roof
beams were exposed, displaying the smoke and grease of many years.
It was the same old place, all right.

It seemed like quite few people were
looking at them, but the majority ignored them and for that Hank
was grateful.

Of course all the young bucks would
wonder, but hopefully they would keep their thoughts to themselves.
On that score, Hank had just as much right as anybody. A bit of
liquor loosened tongues, he knew that from personal experience.
Even sitting at home alone he sort of opened up and spoke his mind
once in a while. It could be surprising what came out
sometimes.

“
Well.” She turned to shrug
off her knitted wrap, for the nights could get cool even in
mid-summer and it always rained or drizzled, sooner or
later.

Her glorious hair, jet black and
hanging down below her waistline, contrasted starkly with her
smooth, rounded shoulders and bare arms. Her lacy black gloves
riding up over the elbow were pure elegance.

His jaw kind of dropped involuntarily
but he put it back up as quickly as he could.

They’d already had a couple of drizzles
today, although the sun had kept popping out.

“
You look good, Hank.” He
was wearing his new shirt and his best jacket, a grey linen one,
woven of thick threads with a smattering of other yarns in it,
blue, grey, charcoal, even a few odd pink and yellow
ones.

“
Who, me?” He regarded her
with dead-pan expression. “I’m saving this to be buried
in.”

She threw her head back and laughed,
patting him on the upper arm.

“
Ah, thank you. You look
wonderful…Polly.” Her eyes lit up a little and she smiled, cocking
her head to one side. “The belle of the ball, in my humble
opinion.”

She twirled in front of him.

“
Oh—you think
so?”

He just had to laugh.

“
Yes—I do.”

Yes, he surely did.

This might go all right, one never
knew. All he had to do was sort of loosen up a little and go with
the flow. This shouldn’t be so hard. But for whatever reason, it
was.

Hank had danced with women
before, a lot of single males showed up at the dances. Married men
had learned to sit back and be polite when someone asked their
wives to dance…it was a question of socializing. A man couldn’t
take it too personal, although from time to time there was trouble,
usually started by some drunk who wouldn’t take no for an answer.
Or
yes,
in the
case of a drunken husband. He cast the thought aside.

He took her hand after hanging up her
wrap, putting his hat on the peg beside it. The crowd swelled, and
another bunch of strangers came in the door, with loud voices and
faces oddly darkened as if by sunburn. They were all young and
muscular, looking pretty fit and wearing matching uniforms,
Imperial working outfits being common to all ranks.

His heart began to thud deep in his
chest just at the very sight of them.

Strangers.

They ignored Hank and Polly, and headed
off to the front in a gaggle, no doubt looking for the bar by the
sound of them.

“
They still have a bar
here?”

“
Of course.”

Hank peered off over the tops of heads
as there were at least a hundred people already there and there was
one big clump of folks in the far right corner. That must be the
bar, it was more or less in the same spot he remembered
it.

Just then a man Hank thought was Glenn
Scranton stepped up to the front of the stage. In a deep and
lustrous voice, and with the band easing up into the tune, he
warmed up the early comers with an old love song, holding his hand
over his heart and swinging his hat wide in the other
hand.

With the lanterns lit and all doors and
windows open, the room was still warm and smelled of many different
perfumes, beer and tobacco. A couple of young kids ran past,
playing tag and Hank grinned. It was always the same.

“
How about a slow dance,
just for starters, or do you want to have a drink first?” The local
wine wasn’t bad, it was made from small pink clustering berries
that grew on shaggy-barked bushes that always seemed to sit at the
base of a hill where they could get the most runoff, and yet the
land never flooded, being partway up a valley wall.

Hank hadn’t had a beer in a few days,
but he might try the wine. He’d pretty much ruled out whiskey for
his own part, but some of the folks would no doubt be having it.
These shindigs tended to peak at a certain psychological moment,
when people were half-lit but still in control and it wasn’t time
to go home yet.

“
Sure. Then we can mingle a
bit.” Smiling, Polly raised an arm and Hank took the proper
stance.

She was light and supple in his arms
and she knew how to dance. The urge to stare at her constantly must
be avoided, and so he kept his eyes neutral, up a bit, and aware of
their surroundings. All he wanted to do at this point was to dance
successfully and steer clear of collisions.

He’d always kind of figured she would
know how to dance.

Chapter
Fourteen

The Wild Reel Called Far Out
Into the Night

The fiddle and the rest of the band
were getting into it, and the wild reel called far out into the
night.

Four hundred shuffling feet sort of
pushed it into the background, but the sound came through. More
couples moved out onto the floor under the dim light of lanterns,
upon recognizing the song. It was an old standby, one that went
back centuries.

“
Swing your partner, round
and round.”

The rhythm was good and they knew how
to play their instruments. The band was on to their second drink,
bottles and glasses stationed here and there on spare stools and
such.

Polly, her eyes flashing and her hair
spinning, whirled around on the end of his up-stretched
arm.

Their feet shuffled and couples all
round them whirled and twirled to their own time, a unique time
sometimes, but the young soldiers right next to them had never done
this dance before. They tried to watch and follow along.

They were giving it their best, but
collapsed in giggles halfway through the song and decided to leave
the floor, and right beside them were two more soldiers, girls in
their sock feet dancing merrily away without a care in the world.
It was kind of surreal, if that was the proper word for
it.

Hank was getting used to the sight of
them by now, and anyways it was all he could do just to focus on
the dance, his own demeanor, and on Polly.

“
Round and round and round
we go…”

“…
will you waltz me ‘round
the hall?”

Hank began nodding in an exaggerated
fashion as the expected words came.

“
Did you know you’re the
belle of the ball?”
Polly, blushing
slightly, but her eyes not leaving his, bit her lip and then smiled
gaily.

“
Of course!” And she spun
away and came back again, as his lifted arm signaled her
moves.

She came in close and her breath was
hot in his face, her smell clean and fresh in his nostrils, not
cloyingly sweet but a combination of things, all soap and perfume
and hair.

“
When they call the last
waltz, do you know what to do?”

His heart leapt strangely at the look
in her eyes.

“
Kiss your partner, kiss
your partner…”
Hank tried to look away, but
found he couldn’t do it or they would crash.

She was giggling and snickering at his
discomfort as the dance concluded and the band came to an abrupt
halt, as befitted their amateur status. Not that they weren’t
appreciated, for a round of applause came and one or two onstage
acknowledged it, carelessly, in passing. There was brief talk up
there as they considered what to do next, amid calls and
suggestions from all over the dance floor. Hank clapped along as
well, grateful for a second to think.

Snuggling quietly as the pair made
their way off the floor, Hank cleared his throat.

“
Sorry, I forgot about that
last part.”

She chuckled, taking a good hard look
at his face.

“
Sure you did. Anyways, I
guess there’s nothing else for it.” And she stopped, turned and
faced him, up close, brushing up against the front of his trousers
and holding onto his hips.

Taking her in his arms, he looked down
in sheer, miserable wonder, but her eyes were closed and her head
was tipped back and if that wasn’t some kind of signal, then he
sure as hell didn’t know what one was.

With an even deeper sense of wonder, he
carefully planted a kiss on those strawberry-red lips and, closing
his eyes, drank of this moment to the full, only opening his eyes
to see her staring up at him, calmly but also sort of appraisingly.
She was totally relaxed and seemed comfortable in his grasp. Her
own hands went roaming up through what was left of his hair and
clasping at the nape of his neck…he hadn’t kissed a woman in twenty
or so years.