Dancing Lessons Page 10

  Perhaps I wouldn’t have been so conscious of this if I hadn’t had imprinted on my mind all these years the image of that gaunt-looking Shirley in the photograph taken a few weeks before her death. Although I knew it was a gunshot that killed her, that last image made me feel as if she was already facing death, the thin body under the baggy clothes, the starkness of her facial bones, her shadowed eyes. I didn’t conjure these thoughts up, they forced themselves on me. Which is why I can’t stop worrying about Celia now.

  I wouldn’t have thought Celia’s thinness was anything if I hadn’t seen this headline and the awful picture staring at me from the cover of a TIME magazine someone had left on a chair in the lounge. It’s the sort of thing that sets us all off nowadays, isn’t it, seeing something in print or on TV and allowing it to percolate in our brains until it embeds itself there and refuses to let go. The latest thing to worry about. So I suppose I am getting as bad as everyone else. I was caught by the cover picture and garish caption, so I picked up the magazine and started reading the article then and there. I became so engrossed that without thinking I walked with it to my bedroom and shut the door and sat on the bed and finished reading. Which of course brought another charge against me, for the magazine was the Pitt-Bull’s and I forgot to return it, forgot I had it even, when she was turning the place upside down in search of it. Well, to show I hadn’t stolen it, as she was to allege, hadn’t I left it right there on my bedside table, to be found by Matron as she stalked the corridors, doing her daily checks as she called them. I normally keep my room door closed, and locked, not that that would stop her with her bunch of keys, but that day I had left it open and gone off, to show the state my mind was in, having just read the article again. She didn’t have to go inside to see it on the bed.

  I did try to apologize to Miss P, but it came out the same as all my other efforts at communicating with that formidable lady, “Sorryididntknoitwuzyursmeanttoreturnsorry,” which made her toss her head and walk away from me. She didn’t speak to me, aside from a curt greeting, or a mini-lecture now and then, in that upmarket English voice of hers, so her withdrawal of speech wasn’t very noticeable. It made the Pancake Sisters ever so nice to me, for a day or two, since they disliked the Pitt-Bull even more than I did. On one thing I could agree with them, that we were ever so thankful we were never at her school.

  Of course the Pancake Sisters don’t believe I ever went to school. “What school?” was the first question they barked at me, the day Matron seated me at their table and introduced me. From the way they pulled back from the table over which they were leaning and sat up straight in their chairs, I could tell they were shocked to see someone like me there. But it was the only vacant place at the five round tables that served the Home’s twenty current residents. The gentleman who previously occupied it had just passed—Matron’s word. Never having heard that expression before, I looked around to see where he had gotten to and couldn’t understand how he could have passed so quickly. The three women at the table mumbled hello in various tones and smiled with their teeth and looked me up and down.

  On approaching, I had thought they were much younger for it seemed like a table of colourful, noisy birds. But up close I could see they were not only old, like me, but very old. Not that they were like any old ladies I had ever seen or heard; clearly someone had forgotten to give them their age paper. I mean, they were so made up and dressed up and loaded down with jewellery—rings and things that were jangling and earrings and bangles and bracelets and ropes of pearl necklaces. I thought maybe they were dressed up for a party, but I soon realized this was their normal gear. They wore the most extraordinary colours too, especially the one I came to know as Ruby.

  I took them all in, even as they were raking me over themselves. They greeted me politely enough, but didn’t relax in their seats until Matron told them whose mother I was. Oh, they said then, collectively, leaning forward and raving to Matron, not to me, about Her and how wonderful she was, only last night on TV blah blah, with three pairs of eyes still scrutinizing me so closely I could feel my newly bestowed curls uncurling under their gaze, rivulets of unladylike sweat cutting furrows down the unfamiliar makeup and powder on my face.

  “What school?” was the question that came as soon as Matron left, before I had finished unfolding my napkin. This from the one thin as a razor blade who said I was to call her Ruby, who wore lipstick of that colour caked into the creases of her lips and surrounds, and rings the size of birds eggs on gnarled fingers stained brown from the cigarette that was never far from her hand, lit, even at the table and between courses and while she checked the racing form which I came to discover was her main diversion.

  I didn’t understand what she said at first for Ruby spoke in a deep rasping voice and mangled her words, so it came out as “wazhul?” But even when the others, Babe, with a long face with glasses, and Birdie who was plump, with a sweet round face, repeated the question in increasing loudness, “What school?” I still didn’t understand, for such a question had never been addressed to me before. So I had no idea that it was part of the social code, knowing if a new acquaintance had gone to one of the right schools or not and so was worthy of one’s attention. You can see how far removed from present-day reality these ladies are. By this time I was so confused by the attention I could feel my usual shyness coming over me, shutting me down like a crab in its shell, so all I could manage was “zntcathrycadmy” under my breath before falling on the soup that had mercifully, been placed before me.

  “What? Where? What did you say?” my table-mates cried, but I kept my head down. They got no more out of me. By then they had decided that I was someone to be ignored. They’d gone back to their chattering.

  Ignore it, is what I was telling myself as the car sailed so smoothly down the hill. I have never interfered. From childhood She has always gone her own way and I’ve had little to do with the shaping. So I can’t take any credit for the admirable things about her, and there are plenty I have to admit. But I don’t know how she came by her achievements. The thought brings tears to my eyes, this not-knowing. I steal another look and wonder again, what drives her, this stranger? There’s this public self that’s vocal and courageous and then there’s this private self that’s guarded and watchful. She knows everyone, but who knows her?

  I blink and wet my lips, for I am thinking this would be a good time to broach the subject that’s uppermost in my mind right now, to ask her outright: My daughter, are you starving yourself to death? Is this anorexia? Bulimia? Are you one of those women? Or are you simply like the Rubys of this world, fashionably thin to the point of emaciation? Can’t you put some flesh on your bones? It’s not a look I’m familiar with, or one I could ever get used to, though more and more it’s the look I see on so-called celebrities. But you are not their age, my love, you are at the time of life when you should have some flesh on you. Is something the matter? Cancer? Something else?

  But try as I might, I can’t get the words out. Something flashes into my mind that I had never thought about, in all these years. My husband Sam’s sister, Jean, who lived at home with her mother and weekend husband. How thin she was, skeletal even, in a country where the norm was well-padded women. I knew nothing of these illnesses then, of course, I just thought the thinness went with her absent personality, her listlessness, her lank hair, her bloodless lips. She had had no children and died fairly young, in her thirties, but her passing made as small a ripple on my mind as her life had. Is this how it was to be with my daughter? I stifle the thought, and try again to speak, but I have never learned how, and nothing at all is said between us as she swings the car into the shopping centre and we find ourselves walking in step to the bookshop.

  Walking in step with my daughter! In all our lives this has never happened before. Walking in step together, even to a place as ordinary as a bookshop. If only we could walk backwards together, undoing the miles, unravelling the web, starting all over.

  31

  WHE
N DID IT BEGIN, this separation, this distance between us?

  You weren’t there the first time they came, for you had already left for school, neat in your uniform of navy blue pleated pinafore and yellow blouse, your hair in two plaits tied in blue ribbons from which wiry golden strands were already escaping. The neighbour’s big children were happy to take you to and from school, and to tie and retie your ribbons, the laces of your white crepe-soled shoes, for to them you were like a little doll. So you weren’t there to hear how these people spoke of you, the little prodigy, how you had been the star of the summer camp, what a brilliant child you were.

  I remember I was hanging out clothes on the line, and had clothespins in my mouth, the bucket at my feet, filled with the children’s garments already wrung out, several more loads waiting for me in the washing basin out back. Shirley was scratching around in the yard with a stick, already covered in dirt though the day had just begun. Junior, like his sister, naked except for underpants, was standing braced against my bare leg, holding on. He followed me with every step as he was at that stage where he couldn’t bear to let me out of his sight. We were both standing still, Junior stuck to me tight, when a large black American car stopped at our gate.

  I jabbed the clothespins onto the line and used my hand to shield my eyes from the morning sun in order to see who it was. Two people came out of the car, strangers, a man and a woman, and I thought they had stopped to ask for directions. I moved from around the side of the house where I was and started walking towards them, picking up Junior and carrying him. I was surprised when, before I even reached the gate, the woman called me by name, “Mrs. Samphire?” And when I nodded asked, “May we speak with you for a moment?” I could tell right away they were Americans.

  He came around from the other side of the car and stood beside her, and I took a good look at them then. They were white people, of that flat chalky whiteness that is hardly ever exposed to the sun, so although they were both fleshy with strong features, their faces looked pale and indistinct, almost nebulous, shadowed under their hats. Hers was a rolled-brim cream leghorn with a blue band around it so tightly fitted that none of her hair showed, his a white Panama which he took off and held in his left hand as he extended his right to shake mine. He was wearing a plain white long-sleeved cotton shirt buttoned at the wrists and neck, a black string tie, and grey woollen slacks with turned up cuffs, a bit too short for him as I could see the green and yellow pattern of his argyle socks peeping above the oxblood oxfords. She was in a blue and white long-sleeved seersucker shirtwaist with a white Peter Pan collar, crisp and simple, which is indeed how both of them struck me, standing there looking as scrubbed if they had both been spat out by a washing machine.

  Her face looked as shining as his and she wore no makeup. Their only jewellery, matching gold wedding bands. She had a square face, a broad jawbone and regular features that didn’t add up to anything one way or another, nothing memorable, and washed-out blue eyes with lines around them that hinted at something both shrewd and kind. His eyes were a much darker blue and piercing under large glasses in black frames. His hair was light coloured and very thick though cut in a crew-cut. He seemed a much more hearty specimen than his wife, towering above her by at least a foot, for he was well over six feet and well built, with a booming loud voice to match.

  By this time they had introduced themselves, but their names meant nothing to me, until they said that my daughter had probably mentioned them from her time at Maryfield Camp. And they both proceeded to speak of you for a good few minutes, smiling all the time.

  That gave me time to think and realize that they were referring to the camp your teacher had taken you to over the summer holidays, two whole weeks of it, run by American missionaries. So these were they? That cleared up my initial confusion, but I was always flustered by strange people, by most people actually, so I didn’t tell them you hadn’t spoken of the camp at all. I said nothing, my heart fluttering with anxiety, unsure what these people wanted or what I was expected to do. In the silence I became suddenly aware of how I must have looked to them, my head wrapped in an old cloth for my morning’s labours, my face already dripping with sweat, my old house dress patched under the arms and damp from the washing, my feet pushed into a pair of broken-down old shoes of my husband’s that I wore around the yard.

  I had put Junior down and I could feel him pressing against the back of my legs, probably exposing only one eye to peek out at the strangers, for at that stage he was as timid as I was. Shirley had no such inhibitions. She marched right up to inspect them, her face and body streaked with dirt.

  The woman smiled at the children. “Oh, these are the other two,” she said. Then she bent down and simpered at Shirley and held out her hand, which Shirley took willingly, though still wide-eyed. “You must be Shirley.”

  Shirley nodded.

  “Your sister told me all about you.”

  Shirley looked pleased at that and pulled away and did a somersault right there on the grass which made them laugh. Even Junior was giggling behind me. The woman reached into an embroidered straw bag that she was carrying over one arm, the kind of fancy bag they sold to tourists at the straw market, and took out two huge lollipops with swirly colours. Peeling off the cellophane, which to my amazement she neatly crushed and kept in her hand, she offered one to each of the children. Well, that certainly pulled Junior from his hiding place.

  I didn’t smile, for already I was hardening my heart against them, already jealous that they were claiming even a little part of my child.

  I felt foolish, embarrassed, not knowing what to do, wishing my husband was at home. He had all the social skills, he was good in any situation. They must have felt my discomfort, for I noticed them glancing at the laundry bucket, the washing on the line, taking me in, all of my dishevelled, incompetent self. Finally, the man said, “Look, we know you are busy and we won’t take up your time. But my wife and I really were enchanted with your daughter at camp, and since we were passing by … well, we were wondering …” He paused then, as if unsure how to go on, but she chimed right in.

  “Our own children are grown up, the last one just went back to the States, you see, and we are going to be alone over Christmas, for the very first time. So we were wondering if you would allow your daughter to come and spend a little time with us. Over the holidays? We would love to have her and it would mean so much to us, to have a child in the house.”

  “Otherwise we won’t even feel like decorating the tree. Will we, Mother?” He moved to put his arm around her. He was full of voice and authority all right, but I realized then and there that she was the cleverer and more dangerous of the two. For what she said next was, “It would give you more time to spend with these other two, wouldn’t it?” And then she looked down at my belly in a meaningful way, as if she knew before anyone else what I was carrying there.

  It was only afterwards when I replayed the scene in my head to my total embarrassment—at the state they found me in, at my lack of manners, for I knew I should at least have offered to invite them in, offered them some refreshment—that I realized that I had not spoken a word. So it was my silence that was making them trip over themselves to find even more elaborate means of persuasion, for they kept talking, on and on. But they needn’t have bothered. I was so uncomfortable I wasn’t even thinking about what they were saying. I was simply itching for them to leave.

  “Of course we know you need to discuss this with your husband,” he wound up.

  I nodded then, for that was something that made sense. Then he got brisk. “Listen, Mrs. Samphire, we won’t keep you any longer. Here’s my card.” He handed me a white rectangle. “That’s our address there. Why don’t you or your husband drop us a line when you have decided. We hope you will say yes. We could come right back down to collect her as soon as the holidays begin. You can talk to Mrs. Johnston at the school, and her husband for that matter. They can vouch for us.”

  I clutched the card tightly and nodd
ed, and they said goodbye and walked backwards for a bit before turning around and getting into the car. “Goodbye Shirley, goodbye Junior,” she gaily called out and waved as they moved off.

  Shirley stood smiling and waving and ran to the road to watch them disappear in the direction in which they were headed, the direction of the school, while Junior clung to me and sucked his lollipop, his hands and face already sticky and streaked with colour. As I heard the car wheels crunch, crunch on the gravel as it moved off, in my mind’s eye it was no longer a car but a hideous black beetle, intent on grinding down every foolish stone in the road. The most foolish one of all was me.

  32

  “HEY MOM! G! HEL-LO!”

  It was like coming up from a deep dive. I’d been so into my thoughts I had to shake my head to clear it. I was embarrassed to find Celia standing with a tray in her hand and smiling down at me. It took me a moment to realize where we were. It was the coffee shop in which we had ended up after our book buying spree and our stroll around the shopping centre, which, I have to confess, I quite enjoyed. She put the tray down on the table and sat across from me and, still smiling, started to unload from it the teapot and cups and cake she had gone to the counter for. She was smiling and energetic and looked nothing at all like the hollow-eyed skeletonized girls in the pictures. Why had I made that association? While she laid out the tea things I looked around, and the bright colours of the place, the plants hanging in pots, the painted tabletops and chairs, lifted my spirits. Every table was taken, the occupants for the most part stylishly dressed women like my daughter, many of whom had greeted her as she entered. I settled my body in the chair and brought my mind back to the present. It immediately focused, I have to confess, on the huge slice of chocolate cake that Celia put in front of me. I could hardly wait for her to pour tea for us both before starting on it. She dug her fork into her cake and after sampling the first mouthful I think we both said “Mmm” at the same time, which made us smile at each other.