Dancing Backwards (16 page)

‘I think the firm can absorb a few reversed charges. Now then, about your friend…’

When Vi returned to the cottage Bruno was lying on the bed listening to the news on the radio.

Vi said, ‘Edwin was arrested for picking up a man in the public lavatories. The man, may he rot in hell, was a plainclothes detective. I think that is utterly, utterly vile, to trap people deliberately like that.’

‘So what follows now?’

‘What “follows” is that Ed has been charged with gross indecency.’

‘Are you surprised?’

Vi stared. ‘Bruno, you are Edwin’s oldest friend.’

‘He’s a faggot.’

‘I can’t believe you said that.’

‘No? Let me say it again.’

Vi put her hands over her ears and went, ‘Wurra wurra wurra,’ as she had done as a child so as not to hear what was being said. But the device no longer worked. She knew what was being said.

She took her useless hands from her burning face and stood looking at Bruno lying on the bed, looking at her with expression-less green eyes.

Vi, on her way to the morning dance class, met Martha wearing a red flounced skirt.

‘Hi there, Vi, I hear they’re doing jive today so I thought maybe I’d come along and brush up my technique.’

‘It’s the only dance I really know,’ Vi said. ‘I’m too young to have learned ballroom, but I just caught the tail end of jive.’

Martha spent some time looking over to the entrance to the room but there was no sign of Ken. Nor of Dino. The dance hosts appeared to be having a day off.

Marie put on ‘Jail House Rock’. ‘Now has everyone got a partner?’

‘D’you want to dance with me, Vi?’

‘OK, Martha, if you’re willing to put up with me.’

‘Sure. I’ll lead.’

Towards the end of the class, Patrick and his parents
appeared. ‘There’s Violet,’ Patrick called, pulling Greg’s hand. ‘Can I dance?’

‘Of course you can, Patrick. Come and dance with me and Martha.’

‘I’m shy of Martha.’

‘It’s OK, you guys.’ Martha had spotted a tall figure hovering near the doorway. ‘I’ve just remembered I’ve an errand I need to run.’

Greg and Heather took snaps with their mobiles of Vi and Patrick dancing to ‘Living Doll’ and Vi explained to Patrick that while she liked Elvis as a name she didn’t care for Cliff.

‘Why not Cliff ?’

‘He’s not a good singer. Elvis isn’t a great name in itself but Elvis Presley’s the absolute tops so you have to like his name.’

‘My friend at nursery is called Elvis.’

‘How sensible of his parents,’ said Vi.

Les and Valerie Garson came by, Les walking ahead of Valerie who nodded. ‘That’s a nice young man you’ve found to dance with.’

Les Garson stopped. Ignoring Vi, he walked across to Patrick and ruffled his hair. ‘Are you going to dance with me, young man?’

‘No I’m not.’

‘Why’s that?’

‘Because you’re too fat.’

Valerie Garson had a sudden fit of coughing.

‘That Heatherfield woman’s a snob if you ask me,’ Les said, as they entered the casino.

‘Hetherington.’

‘What?’

‘Her name is Hetherington. I must say she was very pleasant to me when we lunched together.’

‘For my money she’s a dyke. Probably make a pass at you. I’d watch yourself.’

‘You won’t anyway.’

‘What?’

‘I said we had a nice meal anyway. You’re going deaf, Leslie.’

Martha returned from her errand looking quite pink. ‘Will you be coming to the “Swinging 60s” dance tonight, Vi?’

‘Well, if you’re game I am. Where is it?’

‘The Prince of Wales. I’ll tell Baz.’

‘I see,’ said Vi.

‘Who’s Baz?’ Patrick asked.

‘He’s Martha’s husband.’

‘Do you like his name?’

‘I do,’ said Vi. ‘I like Martha’s name, too.’

‘As much as you like mine?’

‘No,’ Vi said. ‘I like your name best of all. Now, if it’s OK with your mummy and daddy I’ve got something for you in my room.’

‘Is it something which is good for me?’

‘Not at all good for you, Patrick, no.’

Des, on his way to serve lunch at the Alexandria, ran into Boris.

‘How’s Mrs Hetherington?’

‘Fuck off.’

‘I hear you were seen going to her room.’

Des stopped. This might be the case or it might just be Boris trying to wind him up. Boris had the uncanny ability of those who grew up in the shadow of the Stasi: the ability to see round corners.

‘Yeah, well she was ill and asked me to help her.’

From the satisfaction in Boris’s smile Des could see that the dig had been a lucky strike.

‘She’s lost some ring. Asked me to spread the word there’d be a reward. It’s valuable, she says.’

Boris grinned. ‘I will keep my eyes peeled.’

‘Keep them peeled, Boris, yes.’

‘I will tell Sandy. She has the sharp eyes, that one.’

The plastic Smarties-filled train went down well with Patrick until Vi made the mistake of pretending that it was Skarloey.

‘Skarloey doesn’t look like that.’

‘Sorry. I was being silly.’

‘Were you making things up?’

‘Yes.’

‘Daddy says it’s naughty to make things up.’

‘Well,’ said Vi, cautiously, ‘perhaps it is sometimes, but other times it’s a very good idea to make up a story. It all depends.’

‘What does it all depends on?’

‘That’s too difficult for me to answer.’

‘Why is it too difficult?’

Luckily at this point Renato knocked on the door. ‘Any news of your ring, madam?’

‘No, Renato, sadly. But may we have some fresh orange juice and biscuits, please?’

‘Of course, madam. For the little one?’ Renato bared his teeth at Patrick who shrank behind Vi.

‘I don’t like that man,’ he said, when Renato had closed the door.

‘Why not?’

‘I think he bites children.’

Patrick ate the plate of biscuits but explained that although he did like orange juice, because it was good for him, he didn’t want any right now. He might like a Coke, though.

‘I’m awfully sorry, but my minibar has no Coke.’

Patrick sighed philosophically. ‘That’s what my mummy says.’

Vi took him back to his parents’ room.

‘I expect Mummy has a headache,’ he suggested as he and Vi raced each other down the two parallel flights of stairs.

‘You’ve won, Patrick. Why?’

‘Usually when I go to see my Aunty Chris she does and my daddy lies down with her to make it better. Is that a story?’

‘It’s really very kind of you,’ Heather said, when Patrick showed her the train. ‘Sorry about the mess. You know what it’s like packing. I hope he wasn’t too much bother.’

‘I wasn’t too much bother,’ Patrick said. ‘Have you and Daddy been having a headache, Mummy?’

Passengers disembarking at New York were kindly requested to leave their luggage outside their rooms by four a.m. The luggage was sorted through a complicated colour coding system and Vi, queuing up at the desk for her label, found herself behind the critic.

‘What colour are you?’ he asked.

‘Purple, I think.’

‘I’m pink. Does it have any significance, one wonders?’

When they had been issued with their respective labels he said, holding open the door for her, ‘If you’re at a loose end in New York do call me up and I’ll take you to a show. There are several I’m lined up to see. They all sound quite dire.’

Vi took his card. ‘You’re not coming to the “Swinging 60s” dance tonight?’

‘Now you tempt me. I just might.’

It did not take long to pack. Vi left out jeans and t-shirt for
the ‘Swinging 60s’ dance, Annie’s shoes and a blouse, a skirt and underwear for the following morning. She packed all the books and the notebooks, except for one. Then she went down to the library to return the Works of William Shakespeare.

‘Funny,’ the librarian said. ‘You’re the only person who’s taken this out since we started the Atlantic run.’

‘You don’t have a copy of John Donne, by any chance?’

‘He’s a thriller writer, isn’t he?’

‘In a sense.’

‘I’m afraid we can’t allow any further loans till we leave New York.’

‘It’s OK,’ said Vi. ‘I just wanted to look something up. It doesn’t matter.’

Lying on the hard mattress on the iron bedstead, Vi heard an engine starting up and then the sound of the Hillman driving off down the uneven track. She got up and went into the other room. The fire had died down but the ashes were still warm. There was a note from Bruno on the table saying that he was returning to London. When she was ready, she could come and collect her things.

Towards lunchtime, she walked down the track to the phone box and called Edward Hetherington but he was out.

‘May I take a message?’ asked his secretary. She sounded almost friendly.

Vi said there was no special message but to tell Mr Hetherington that she had called. She walked on into Knighton, cashed a cheque at the local Barclays and bought a few supplies from the Co-op.

The following day she rang Edward Hetherington again. He was still out of the office but there was a message.

‘His wife’s had one of her poorly turns, I’m afraid,’ his
secretary explained. ‘So Mr Hetherington’s off for a few days. He asked if you would kindly ring him when you get back to London. Meantime, he says you’re not to worry, everything with Mr Chadwick is in hand.’

Not knowing what to do or where to be, Vi set out to walk up the lane which ran on beyond the track. She walked uphill until she came to a high ridge, where she climbed through a fence into a field, scraping her scalp and wounding her leg on the barbed wire.

Sheep were standing, or lying in heaps, in Samuel Palmer’s incredible light. Beyond them, the land mounted, gathering in light, to hills and valleys within hills. Fields of ripening cereal stretched far behind her. For a moment, she was back in the shrouded room of the Fitzwilliam, from where, each evening, she went home to the little house in Church Rate Walk. But she wasn’t there. She was here, and alone.

She walked on for what seemed like miles and lay down at the edge of a field of barley, overcome by a searing exhaustion.

A lark shot like a bolt into the terrible blue above and opening its throat sang relentlessly into the bounding light. The lines from Donne’s poem were running through her brain:

When love with one another so Interinanimates two souls, That abler soul which thence doth flow, Defects of loneliness controls.

But she had betrayed Edwin and there was no soul in all the world able to counter her terrible loneliness.

When she opened her eyes Edwin was there. He was standing a little way off, where the line of hedgerow ran, but
she saw him, quite distinctly against the hilly skyline, with the noonday sun making a halo of his long hair. She stumbled to her feet and hurried towards him, but the figure dissolved into the half trunk of a burned-out tree, which must have been struck by lightning or suffered some other natural disaster. Looking through the cage of her fingers, her fingernails and the poppies among the yellowing barley were bright beads of blood.

It was dark by the time she found her way back to the cottage, her skin torn by barbs of wire and brambles and with an itching rash down the length of one arm. Unequal to undressing, she fell asleep on the bed, hardly able to pull the musty-smelling eiderdown over her tired body.

She woke next morning, stiff and cold, feeling that she had been in a bad accident. The rash had developed into a series of ugly wheals and her eyes were swollen and red from the damp feather eiderdown. She tried to boil an egg but the pan boiled dry and the egg, black and cracked, smelled vile. She set out down the track but turned back not knowing what she had set out for. That evening she burned her hand on the kettle trying to fill a hot-water bottle.

Fool, fool, fool, the voice tolled.

Several days later, she was not at all clear how many had passed, she heard a car coming up the track and then the sound of a door slamming. A feeling, half joy half terror, seized her. She got up from the bed and walked to the doorway, swaying from dizziness and lack of food. For many days after, she retained the delusion that it was Bruno who had caught her as she fell and carried her to the car.

As the fog lifted, the passengers due to disembark strolled about on deck taking in last impressions, or photographs, quarrelling
over the packing or how best to get into Manhattan, via taxi or coach. Vi ate lunch uninterrupted, reading her notebook. In the afternoon, she went to her balcony and sat outside, watching the sea.

Renato called in to see if she needed any help. A form on which it was possible to nominate crew who had shown ‘exceptional service’ had been placed, prominently, at the front of the information folder giving details of the procedures for departure.

Vi tried to reassure. ‘You have been wonderfully attentive, Renato. I shall certainly make sure to say so.’

‘Thank you, madam. But your ring?’

‘I have a hunch it will turn up, Renato, and if it doesn’t well…’ She shrugged.

Renato smiled obligingly. Surely it was impossible for a sane woman to be taking the loss of a diamond with such calm.

The question of her emails had been pushed guiltily to the back of Vi’s mind. She had been failing, on a daily basis, to check them since the day Ken had helped her. By good fortune, on her way to ‘Links’, she found Ken and Jen at their jigsaw puzzle, which, nearly complete, now extended to almost as much sea as sky.

‘What is it?’ Vi asked.

‘It’s the
Titanic
going down, but at a distance, see?’ Jen pointed to a small perturbation in the upper left-hand section of sea.

‘It’s like Brueghel’s
Icarus
.’

‘We’ve not seen that one.’

Ken said, casually, ‘You coming to the hop tonight, Vi?’

‘You’d better,’ Jen said. ‘Or I’ll have to go and I want to finish
The Young Queen’s Secret
. Kimberley’s going to sign it for all the girls in the book club. I promised I’d tell her what I thought of the ending. She thinks it’s her best yet.’

‘OK,’ said Vi. ‘But in return, may I ask for Ken’s help getting online?’

‘Of course he’ll help,’ Jen said. ‘Go on now, Ken. Go and help Vi.’

Before they had quite reached ‘Links’ Ken said, ‘Would you mind looking at something for me?’ He rummaged in his pocket and produced a small envelope from which he extracted a pair of earrings, each a large silver treble clef dangling from a long wire. ‘What do you think?’

Vi hesitated.

‘I got them in one of the boutiques on Deck Five.’

‘They’re most unusual.’

‘Would you say they were memorable?’

‘Definitely memorable.’

‘Thanks, Vi,’ Ken said. ‘Only I’m not much of a hand at knowing what women like.’

‘I think you do pretty well, Ken.’

Fewer emails had collected in Vi’s inbox. One was from Annie, asking to be remembered to New York:
There’s a guy I dated there once who’s in real estate. Jim Sands. He’s divorced. I’ll text you his number
.

The next was from Harry with the news that he’d been
offered a job at the firm of solicitors in the City where the senior partner had worked as a junior with Dad
. Vi had to suppress a certain irritation when she read that Harry had FedExed her mobile to her hotel, having
taken the precaution of copying the Sim card first
.

The third email was from Dan.

Dear Mum, Tanya’s pregnant so we’re getting married. Still staying at your flat as T likes it better here than at mine. When are you back? Lots of Love, D xx

‘You all right, Vi?’

‘I think so, Ken. I’ve just heard I’m going to be a grand-mother.’

‘Never mind, no one would guess it.’

The ‘Swinging 60s’ dance was well attended. For those leaving the ship, the tiresome business of repacking, squeezing in the extras acquired over the course of the voyage in a mood of mindless extravagance, had been accomplished and there was a general atmosphere of celebration. When Vi arrived at the Prince Charles Salon, the voice of Lonnie Donegan singing ‘Hang Down Your Head, Tom Dooley’ was being imperfectly imitated by the energetically swinging crowd.

Ken, in jeans and a black t-shirt bearing the legend ‘Bob Dylan for President’, was on the look-out for her.

‘You look dishy, Vi. What’ll you have?’

‘You know, Ken, I might stick to water.’

‘It’s not that bad, surely. You’d win the Glamorous Grandma contest hands down.’

Martha appeared in a pair of new sneakers and wearing the treble clef earrings which swung when she made an impatient little gesture with her head. ‘Baz says he’s coming to watch.’

‘For anthropological reasons, purely. I’m afraid the sixties passed me by.’

Martha said shortly, ‘Yes, honey, we all know you’re the youngster out with the geriatric ward.’

‘Baz, there’s something I wanted to ask you,’ Vi interposed. ‘Would you mind?’

‘It would be a pleasure, Vi.’

‘Maybe Ken would dance with you, Martha?’

‘It would be a pleasure, Vi.’

Really, thought Vi, I am turning into an elderly Emma. I must watch out. She steered Baz through the heaving mass of dancers, by now collectively swinging to the Beach Boys’
‘California Girls’, and out of the over-heated room into the Mary Queen of Scots Bar.

‘It’s quieter here and cooler. May I buy you a drink in return for your time?’

‘A tomato juice on the rocks would be great. But there’s no call for any returns. I’m grateful to be out of that hellhole. I only came to keep Martha company. She’s very patient with me. I can be something of a pain in the arse.’

‘Ken will look after her. He’s exceptionally gentlemanly. I wanted to pick your brains a little more about your traditional healers. What were you saying about suggestion?’

Baz, relieved to be on familiar ground, slung an elegant ankle over his knee and grasped a grey silk sock with an equally elegant hand. ‘It’s like I said, the human organism is infinitely suggestible. This is how hypnosis works, and in fact I would say most upbringing. You could even say that much of what is commonly called civilisation is born of the power of suggestion. Look at advertising.’

‘You mean we simply believe what we are told?’

‘Not always so “simply” but yes, that’s about the size of it. If for some reason, the defences are down, or not yet formed, suggestion has quite magical effects. A parent tells a child that he or she is clever or beautiful, or stupid or ugly, well-behaved or badly-behaved, and nine times out of ten that is what the child will obediently become. Teachers are the same. Children who excel, as is well known, do so because their teachers believe they have talent or promise. Shamans or healers activate cure in the human system in the same way.’

‘And harm?’

‘Same principle. Kids who are trouble-makers or failures of some sort are most often told this by significant others from the start. You can make someone ill by suggestion if there is
sufficient belief. It’s the power of projection. The power is really the subject’s own, but if it is projected on to someone of significance it can be turned for or against the subject’s person. That’s how possession works. It’s what the shrinks call transference, but really it’s as old as God. Or the gods, as I prefer to say.’