Dancing Lessons Read online

  He hoisted himself up beside me on the rock, an island in this green world, and I ached in trepidation. This was the moment I had hungered for, and my heart got ready to burst. But instead of putting his arms around me as I expected, crushing me to his body, he turned aside. Taking off his canvas knapsack, he unlatched the metal buckles, opened the flap, and put his hand inside. I watched, mesmerized by the golden hairs on the back of his brown hand, his long thin fingers, excited by his nearness, his acrid, smoky smell, dying to see what he was bringing forth. Two mangoes was not what I expected, but that is what he took from the bag. He handed one to me with a quirky little smile on his face and my disappointment vanished when I saw what it was. A Bombay! The finest of mangoes. I greedily took hold of it as he polished the other on his shirt sleeve, and I forgot everything, where we were, what I had done, as we tore into those mangoes like children, peeling off the skin with our teeth, biting into the fruit and letting the juice run down our chins, sucking the seeds until they were white, then rushing to the river to wash our hands, splash water on our faces, the discarded mango skins glistening like flowers on the black sand.

  When we returned to the rock and he lay down with his head in my lap, I never knew such joy or such terror, the terror muted by the awe of knowing he had brought me Bombays, the finest of mangoes, more spoken of than seen in our part of the country. There were mango trees everywhere, it is true, but not these, these never grew where we lived, as if they required a more rarefied form of cultivation, a richer soil. They were rare, treasures, and I had never eaten one before.

  Now I recall that as I gazed at him lying there with his face to the sky, his eyes closed, hearing behind me the chomping and snorting of the horse, the scent of mangoes perfuming the air, I felt the first little worm of anxiety, as if the mangoes were somehow tainted. I wondered where he had gotten them. Whether he knew beforehand today would be the day and had brought them specially to tempt me, their subliminal scent luring me to him, as the snake tempted Eve in the garden. Or whether, like Persephone, having bitten into the fruit offered by the Dark Lord, I was now condemned never to return. But there was no question of my returning, it was as if that morning my feet had set off down a path of their own and I could only follow where it led me. It had led me out of the district and away from everything I knew, beyond the cultivated plots and the increasingly isolated houses, into this wilderness, where even the birds sounded strange and aloof and lonely, leading to what ending I did not know.

  It turned out he didn’t know either, he had gotten no further than seduction. Once he got me, like Miss Celia and Aunt Zena, he had no idea what to do with me. He never called me by my name. He called me “Girl” like everyone else, though with him it became “Girlie” and then “G,” which is what everyone came to call me. I was a girl, a child, for I was not yet sixteen. Maybe it was that childish self that revealed itself to him with my delight in the mango, how easy it was to satisfy me. Or maybe what it revealed was a hunger that was deeper than he had realized, a hunger he, the Man-of-the-World, already knew he could never satiate. For he suddenly sat up, put his arms through the handles of his pack, and, jumping up, extended his hand. “Come,” he said, pulling me to my feet, and for the first time since I had set out on this runaway adventure, I was afraid, for he showed me the closed face of a stranger.

  He kept hold of my hand, but tightly, as I stumbled behind him back up the rocky path to the dirt track, for my feet felt less sure now and he seemed to be moving much faster. I never knew till the horse moved off whether we were going to go back the way we had come or carry on. Up to then, since I left home that morning, I had not spoken a word, my tongue as tied up in my head as it always was.

  He lifted me onto the horse and we carried on in the direction we were headed. He lifted me down again when we reached our destination. He never touched me again until we were married, although all I ever wanted was his touch. I was wearing my navy blue pinafore over a white shirred blouse and my shoes and socks in which I had left home that morning when he took me home to his mother.

  11

  MY FATHER CALLED ME by my real name, once, and that was the time I lost him. The time I climbed out of my bedroom window after everyone had left and night had fallen. Under the orders of Miss Celia and Aunt Zena, they had tied him to the mango tree, his mates from the war, Mass Eustace and Mr. Beard. By the time I awoke, he had become quiet. Soon after I started to watch from behind the gauze curtain, the crowd in the yard had wandered off in ones and twos until finally no one was left. I could hear Miss Celia and Aunt Zena. Other voices at the front of the house. Pans clattering in the kitchen. Life back to normal. I climbed out of the window. Some light of day still lingered; in the western sky a pale moon was rising. I could see my father clearly. I saw nothing left of the man who had danced with me. His hands were tied together in front and a rope was looped around his waist and wound loosely around the tree trunk then tied, so he couldn’t move far. But he didn’t look as if he wanted to go anywhere: his body was slumped and his head was down, almost touching his chest, and all life seemed to have gone out of him. He seemed more like a half-empty sack than a man. When I came close and saw that, I couldn’t help it, I threw myself at him, trying to hug him, burying my head in his chest, uttering loud sobbing cries that drained me till I fell on my knees at his feet. “Papa,” I cried. “Papa.”

  I had never called him that before, never called him anything but “Sir.” But the cry was torn from me, along with the sobbing that I could not control, for I knew I was the one who had brought him to this. None of it would have happened if I hadn’t stayed home that Sunday. I vowed that if only He Up There would turn the clock back to that morning, to the way it was before I left my room and went to his, before we danced, I would never ever again even think about him being my father. I would be good, for all times, forever and ever, amen.

  I quietened down a bit, waiting on God, and I felt my father’s hand in my hair, stroking me, until I gradually grew calmer. “Don’t cry,” he repeated, and the words came out strangely, as if his tongue was swollen or he had rocks in his mouth. “Please don’t cry.” And then he called me by my name. My sobs ceased instantly. Everything seemed lighter. For once in my life, I had this feeling of belonging, as if I had a right to be in the world. He knew my name! He called me! I felt so drained, I couldn’t move for a long time, I just stayed there, on my knees, my hands still wrapped tightly around his legs, my tears soaking through his clothes.

  I don’t know how long I stayed like that, but when I heard voices approaching I got up quickly and dried my eyes. It was Mass Eustace and Mr. Beard, returned with chairs and blankets, food and the water canteen from the war that Mr. Beard held to my father’s mouth for him to drink. I could tell they planned to spend the night. They followed orders, for fear of the Richards women, but they would not desert their old comrade. I could see there was no place for me. I was too happy anyway to care, too wrapped up in the solace he had given me. I didn’t look at my father as I got up off the ground or as I hoisted myself back through my bedroom window with the long legs I knew I had inherited from him. I felt I had all the time in the world to get to know him. My father. That from now on he would always be there for me.

  So just keep dragging YOUR RED WAGON along…

  I couldn’t help singing and jerking my body to the beat as I headed for my bed, like sticking my tongue out at those two women and the rest of the world.

  The next day they put him in a straitjacket and they took him away in the Black Maria.

  12

  “MRS. SAMPHIRE WEALLY SHOULD try harder. To feet in.”

  I return to this buzzing in my ear which is Matron still complaining. She’s never referred to me as Her mother, as if she can’t believe in that possibility. But what makes me want to laugh is this business of “fitting in,” for that is something I have never managed to do. Because there’s never been a place for me to fit in to.

  Perhaps by “fitting in” she
is referring to my refusal to go to church on Sunday with all the old hypocrites, led by Mrs. Humphrey the Minister’s Wife, or rather, the minister’s widow. Though I don’t think she realizes the Reverend Mister is late and she is no longer required to enforce the moral code of their county parish. Anglican, of course. The rest, Catholic. Nothing less elevated than that in our lovely Home except for Mr. Levy, who is Jewish and goes to the synagogue on Saturday.

  Of course going to church gives the ladies a chance to dress up and show off. They all come out of their rooms at the same time, doors shut with a collective bang and keys turned, rouge and lipstick askew and perfumes sending out challenging signals left and right as they gather in the forecourt, leather handbags laden with prayer books, mints and tissue swinging martially, as if they are ready to have a go at each other, eyes narrowed and glasses glinting, weighing up the competition to see who is wearing more rouge. Who has a new outfit. The Over Seventies Handbag Heavyweight Bash of the World!

  All except for Miss Loony Tune, actually Miss Louella Dune, professional spinster. And singer. Who carries only a change purse. Beaded. By herself. To match her eyes? Probably. And her covered hymn book. Beaded, etc. And who now tends to sniff at makeup but only because she says her skin became overly sensitive after years of stage makeup. And Mr. Radcliff, whom I mentally call Heathcliff for reasons that are obvious to me. He is the only male among the churchgoers, being principal, retired, of a progressive co-ed school and self-appointed attendant to Miss Loony because, I think, her trim figure and scrubbed face remind him of schoolgirls.

  Off they go, piloted by Matron who is herself a vivid sight, in her Sunday uniform of tailored pantsuit in extreme purple, canary yellow, or pure white, with floating scarf and earrings. All handed into Matron’s estate wagon, courtesy of Ellesmere Lodge. Except for those whose relatives and friends come to collect them, in a loud hallo-ing swarm, for these people all seem to know each other and I think recommend the Home amongst themselves when an old relative needs to be parked. So you can see how well I fit in! Among the chauffeured are the three Pancake Sisters—Catholic—who are driven back and forth to these events by one who looks like Old Family Retainer—I swear they speak like that—in a car that could only have belonged to Daddy.

  Of course they all come back exhausted and eat a hearty lunch and have a no-sleep snooze and then spend the rest of the afternoon in the lounge or on the veranda tearing other churchgoers and one heathen resident, usually absent but cleverly listening, to shreds.

  Every Sunday morning it’s the same tune, or even beginning from Saturday: Matron asking me if I’m joining them for church this week. Why she bothers, I don’t know, but it clearly worries her, and my refusal is obviously a great addition to her dossier of my not “fitting in.” Though she finds it a problem with me and no one else, because others don’t go to church—none of the men except for Heathcliff, who just likes to be with the ladies. I don’t bother to tell her that I was raised by people who were the world’s greatest churchgoers, and more mean and spiteful people I have never encountered in my life. Ditto for some of the people here, but I am calling no names. All will be revealed on Judgment Day, as every good churchgoer knows.

  13

  IT’S FUNNY HOW I’VE had this journal for so long and I never felt like writing a single thing in it before and now I’m having so much fun with it. The morning after the fiasco with the gentleman and my being dragged onto Matron’s carpet—a threadbare raffia mat, actually—when I returned to my room I had to admit to myself my gut-wrenching, acute embarrassment over my own behaviour, which I still cannot account for. Jesus wept! I acted the clown all right. But it was so out of character it made me wonder if it might not be something they are putting in the food here and if I shouldn’t make a note of it, just in case. Without thinking any further I headed for the bureau drawer and took out the book and a pen and started writing in it, just like that, as if it were the friend I needed. I’m beginning to think my days here are numbered anyway—not that I have a friend here. I have never had a friend. Not a real one. Perhaps that is what I thought he was going to be: Friend. And not just friend but lover, father, mother, brother, sister, all those missing from my life suddenly rolled up into one person. Well! He wasn’t even a good husband. But let’s not go into that now.

  It was She who gave me the notebook. Without a word, as usual, gift-wrapped with other Christmas presents—she has never been stingy with me, I can say that. But it’s stayed in the drawer ever since, along with all the pens and pencils and markers and crayons she has of late taken to giving me. Enough to open a shop. None of them used up to now. Every time I open the drawer and see the pens and pencils, I get a little twinge and I wonder, does she know? Why does she keep giving them to me? Well, I’m sure she doesn’t know since only Matron would tell her, and the whole world would have heard about it by now if Matron knew. Maybe I should stop pilfering pencils, though it’s hard to break the habit of a lifetime. But people are getting cranky, especially that Miss Pitt-Grainger when for the second time in as many months she couldn’t find her crossword puzzle pencil, which she was absolutely certain she had left on the small table beside Her Chair in the lounge, along with Her Newspaper, neatly folded into a square, open at the half-finished crossword. The Cryptic Puzzle, she is always very careful to point out, not the Quick and Easy, as she calls the other one. She says this in a voice that implies moral as well as intellectual deficiency and casts daggers at the Pancake Sisters, who argue loudly over the clues in the Easy every morning and whose necks you can see she would wring if they had dared to attend her school. For Miss Pitt-Grainger has spent her life as a teacher in the colonies, culminating in the headship of The Best Girls’ Boarding School on the Island, as she is fond of saying.

  When Miss Pitt-Grainger gets up steam, it’s like a whale blowing or, since I have never witnessed that, how I think an alligator would sound if it spoke with an accent like hers, sawing the words up the length of its mouth and spitting them back at you. Her teeth are like that too, saw-edged. Unlike Matron, who tends to fade out words as she speaks, like a sputtering candle, Miss Pitt-Grainger is given to emphasizing them, sometimes with a hand gesture to signify pounding of the furniture, even if she’s standing in the middle of the room, as she is now. I was just passing through the lounge and stopped when I heard the commotion.

  Miss Pitt-Grainger is standing there waving her arms around, an unfortunate gesture as it makes the ample flesh on her arms jiggle, as does most of her when she speaks, for that is the most emphatic thing about her. Miss Pitt-Grainger is built like a tree trunk that has lost its firmness and is slowly being squashed, for fat seems to have gathered in strange places on her body so that when she walks or talks, different parts of her move, varying according to the mood she’s in. This time it’s mainly the upper arms and the jowls to match. Poor Annie the unofficial housekeeper is standing there saying nothing, but no doubt feeling the icicles darting from Miss Pitt-Grainger’s blue eyes. Her straight snow-white hair bobs up and down as she speaks, looking as usual as if she had hacked at it herself. Her face has never known makeup, leaving her plain but regular features looking strangely vulnerable behind the thick glasses. Don’t let that fool you.

  Miss Pitt-Grainger (or the Pitt-Bull, as I have come to think of her) is the opposite of the Pancake Sisters, for everything about her proclaims the Death of Style. She wears simple short-sleeve cotton dresses in what used to be called a sprigged print, of the type not seen for many a year, so I can’t help wondering where she gets them, probably from the same place she gets her shoes. The type of clunky sandals you’d only see in English magazines of small print and cream paper and dark muddy photos with advertisements in even smaller type with woodcut illustrations for goods which can be purchased only by post from furtive mail order houses located in places with names like Slough and delivered in plain brown wrapper. Big chunky sandals with small wedge heels and tiny decorative perforations in the leather and thick soles t
hat will never wear out. Built for people like Miss Pitt-Grainger, for she has them in three colours—brown, black, and white. She reserves the white for daily wear. Why, I don’t know, unless she uses it to do penance, for believe me, white means white. Miss Pitt-Grainger is the only person I know who still uses that horrible white liquid to clean her shoes, the kind all of us as children had to use on our crepe shoes. She does it every day.

  Who am I to criticize another’s style, you might well ask, but at least I just throw on any old thing that will fit me, I don’t bother to make the effort, while Miss Pitt-Grainger’s clothes are always neatly pressed and shoes shined or whitened faithfully, clean cotton handkerchief at the ready and handbag always by her side, even in the lounge.

  Poor Annie! Miss Pitt-Grainger’s jowls are acting in concert and the right hand is beating an imaginary drumstick in the air.

  “There!” she is saying, pointing at the small table where the neatly folded square of newspaper rests, the crossword uppermost. “That’s where I left it. For just one minute. To get ice”—icicles thrown at Annie—“since no one bothered to bring me any.” O yes, we know what for at 11:00 in the morning. We know what’s in the handbag. We know who took her pencil, don’t we? I had passed there a few minutes earlier and don’t even know how it happened, I leaned over to take a peek at how far she had gotten and next thing I know, as I walked away, I felt the pencil in my pocket.