Such Visitors Page 9

  ‘Not as far as I know.’ Joan sniffed, almost convinced. ‘But it’s never too late. All I’m saying is, you’ve had your head in the clouds these last weeks. Your mind seems to have been elsewhere. That’s all I’m saying.’

  ‘You’re daft,’ said Henry, his heart racing.

  ‘Maybe,’ said Joan. ‘But I’m not a fool. After all these years, I know when there’s something up with you.’

  The awkward encounter that evening alerted Henry’s sense of urgency. Joan’s suspicions, once aroused, would be hard to quell. It was imperative Henry should take extra care in the future, so that he would not be forced to spoil his surprise in self-defence.

  For several lessons he made sure he left punctually, despite Madame Lucille’s pleading with him to do a few more turns ‘on the house’, and arrived home in time. Joan made no further mention of his imaginary girlfriend. But then came the evening of the second breakthrough: Henry mastered the reverse turn in the fast waltz. In his excitement, he twirled Madame Lucille round the studio till she was quite out of breath.

  ‘Beautiful dancing,’ she declared, when eventually he stopped and they stood, with arms about one another still, panting. Henry glanced at the clock. Ten minutes late.

  ‘Madame Lucille. I must rush.’ He made to leave her, but she clung to him.

  ‘No need to go on calling me Madame Lucille, is there, Mr Cake? After so many lessons? After all, all I want is that your wife should be happy with your dancing, isn’t it – Henry?’

  Quite violently, Henry wrenched her hands from his shoulders, and fled the studio. But he was out of luck. His slight lateness did not go unobserved.

  ‘It’s which one of us?’ asked Joan, in greeting. ‘That’s what I want to know. Which one of us is it to be? Her, the trollop, or me? It’s up to you. The choice is yours. Give one of us satisfaction, stop mucking about with us both. That’s all I ask.’

  ‘What’s all this?’ said Henry.

  ‘Such innocence! The game’s up now, that’s what. You can’t draw wool over my eyes any longer. I know when I’ve been made a fool of, and I know when the time’s come to put a stop to it.’

  ‘Let me explain – ’

  ‘You explained last time. The traffic. I almost believed you.’

  ‘It wasn’t the traffic this time. But I’m not having an association, I promise.’ He looked at her face. ‘I have to admit, there are reasons I’ve been late. But they’re reasons that will benefit you in the end. Can you believe that? It’s the truth, I promise.’

  ‘Huh, I don’t know what to believe, I’m sure.’ The edge had gone from her anger. ‘There’s never been any of this secrecy business before. Double bluff, most likely. Still, if that’s how you want it, that’s fine with me. Because I’ve made my decision.’ She paused, pursed her lips. Henry dared not ask her the question. ‘Nothing lofty, mind,’ she said at last. ‘Just, things will be a little different. I’ll go my way and you’ll go yours. I shan’t worry any more if you’re kept late by traffic jams. You mustn’t worry if I join my partner for a cigarette after we’ve had a dance.’

  Henry sighed, nodded silently. With any luck, before all that sort of gallivanting came to anything, it would be the Christmas Ball, his chance, and dancing together happily ever after.

  ‘How long till the Christmas Ball?’ he asked.

  Joan snorted. ‘You can’t butter me up like that! I know you’re not interested. Three weeks. There’s bound to be a lot of Charlestons, always a favourite at Christmas.’

  Henry turned away, dejected. He had not reckoned on the Charlestons. Another hurdle … More overtime, more difficulties. But he would manage it somehow.

  And he did. In three weeks he had mastered the art of the Charleston, much to Madame Lucille’s surprise, and his own. His rendering was a little cautious, but foot-perfect. With confidence, Madame Lucille assured him, he would become more flamboyant, twirling his hands and giving little flicks of the head, just as she did.

  On the afternoon of the Ball, Henry had his last lesson. For the first time in his working life, he had taken an afternoon off. (It was easier to lie to the Gas Board, he discovered, than to his wife.) It was also the last lesson of his course, and he felt quite sad. He had enjoyed the lessons. Judging by Madame Lucille’s farewell, the feeling had been mutual.

  ‘Not much potential, Henry, when you started,’ she said, ‘but you’ve come on surprisingly. Your wife will never believe her eyes. I wish you luck tonight. You’re one of my successes.’

  ‘Well, thank you for everything, Madame Lucille.’ His hands were trapped in her small warm fingers. The Charleston still played through the grille.

  ‘There are some pupils, my dear Henry, that stand out in the mind … years and years. If ever you want a little course in revision, I’d be only too delighted, on the house …’ She gave him a peck on the cheek, and they parted.

  On his way home Henry had not known the thrill of such anticipation for many years. In fact, he felt quite dizzy, a little peculiar. His legs ached from all the Charlestoning, his heart was thumping. Not wanting Joan to observe anything unusual in his appearance, he decided to slip into the pub at the end of their street, and have a single medicinal brandy. He needed strength, courage, calm.

  The pub was crowded, it took a long time to be served. Then Henry drank slowly so that the brandy’s effects would be beneficial rather than inebriating. What with one thing and another he found that, to his dismay, it was past seven by the time he left. Still, they weren’t due to catch the bus till seven-thirty. Henry hurried down the street, knowing Joan would be fretting, waiting for him to do up her hooks and eyes.

  Home, he found the house empty. No sign of Joan. A note on the kitchen table.

  I’ve gone on early, it said. Please don’t follow me, I want to go to this Ball alone. Seeing as how things have been this past few weeks, I’m sure you’ll understand. P.S. All the same, don’t worry.

  Henry crumpled on to a chair at the table, sunk his head to his hands.

  It took him a few moments to make his decision. He changed quickly, ran for the bus, arrived at the dance hall soon after eight. It was already crowded, the ceiling strung with balloons, Christmas trees in the corner. All very pretty, the perfect setting to put his plan into action … But the beneficial effects of the brandy had worn off. His heart reverberated all through his body. His courage had quite gone.

  Henry soon caught sight of Joan. She was waltzing with the crinkle-haired Jock, laughing. Henry decided to waylay her when the dance was over, and ask her for the next one. But when the music stopped, and she walked with Jock unknowingly towards her husband, something in her face made Henry abandon his plan. He hid behind a pillar, watching as they made their way to the bar.

  Henry remained hidden, dodging from pillar to pillar, most of the evening. His eyes scarcely left his wife, dazzling as ever in some new dress of gold sequins. The strange thing was, although she was rarely off the floor, she did not seem to be entertaining her usual amount of partners. In fact, dance after dance, she stuck with Jock. It was no doubt he was a very good dancer, though Henry could see little charm in the red puffiness of his face and the greasy gleam of his crinkled hair. Still, it was the dance, not the man, that Joan went for, as she always said.

  The first Charleston added to Henry’s distress. His toes leapt in his shoes – what he would have given to show Joan how he could do it! – while he watched her and Jock, flushed and laughing and winking, as they kicked up their heels. When the music came to an end, Jock took a handkerchief from his pocket. Joan snatched it from him and with a sort of secret smile – or so it looked to Henry from his distant viewpoint – dabbed his sweating neck. Henry could bear no more. He left.

  He sat in the silent empty kitchen brooding for many hours. It was almost three when Joan returned. She came bouncing in, humming, snapping on lights, and was none too pleased to see Henry.

  ‘What on earth?’ she said. ‘There was no need to wait up for me.
’

  She took off her coat. Henry observed that the expanse of chest above the gold sequins had a bruised, flushed look. And there was something strange about her face – her mouth. It was pale as first thing in the morning. The carefully painted plum red had quite gone. He made no comment, rose from his chair stiffly.

  ‘Lovely dress,’ he said. ‘Nice evening?’

  ‘Very pleasant, thank you. Someone said they saw you. I said they must have been mistaken.’

  ‘Quite. Got the last bus, did you?’

  Joan looked at him. ‘No. Missed it. Got a lift.’

  ‘Oh, good. Wouldn’t like to think of you so late, walking

  ‘I was all right, don’t worry. I can look after myself. Now I’ve broken the ice I can do it again. You won’t need to come any more. All it needed was to break the ice.’

  She pranced over to the stove, began to make tea. The gold sequins twinkled conspiratorially in the harsh electric light. Henry would have done anything on earth to have been able to have seen through their eyes, tonight: to know what she had been doing, just how her evening had passed. He gripped the back of a chair, spoke softly.

  ‘Joanie, if I was to say … What if I was to say I could dance?’

  Joan laughed. She did not bother to turn round.

  ‘Huh! I’d say that was a good one. I’d say I’d believe that when I saw it. After all these years of stubbornness.’

  ‘Well, I’m saying it,’ went on Henry. ‘I can dance.’

  Joan turned to the table with two mugs of tea.

  ‘It was quite easy, breaking the ice, when it came to it,’ she said again, as if she had not heard him.

  ‘Would you like me to prove it to you? That what I’m saying is true?’

  Joan sat down. ‘You do what you like, one way or the other.’

  Henry left the room, went to the sitting-room, and put a record on their old gramophone. ‘The Very Thought of You.’ Back in the kitchen, the sound was very thin.

  ‘There,’ said Henry. ‘Well, would you care to dance?’

  ‘What’s all this?’ Joan wrinkled her nose. ‘Be a bit silly, here in the kitchen, wouldn’t it?’

  ‘If my plans had worked out, and you hadn’t wanted to be alone, we would have been dancing together at the Christmas Ball.’

  ‘Likely story! So who’s been teaching you to dance?’

  ‘Come on. Give it a try.’

  Joan stood, half reluctant, half intrigued. She stood with hands at her side, grasping bunches of sequins on her skirt.

  ‘Not much room in here, is there? –’

  ‘The heater’s off in the front room.’

  ‘ – For you to show your paces.’

  They were suddenly shy of each other.

  ‘You could make allowances,’ said Henry. He stepped towards her, nervous. Held her stiff arms. He waited for a bar or two, counting under his breath. Then they began to waltz, moving cautiously round the kitchen table.

  ‘How’m I doing?’ he asked after a while.

  ‘Amazing.’ Though Joan’s feet responded naturally to the rhythm, her voice was flat. ‘I would never have believed it.’

  Henry laughed, tightening his grip on her golden waist.

  ‘Thought I’d surprise you. I’ll tell you all about it, one day. Those traffic jams.’ More confident now, he twirled his wife more firmly. ‘Dance with anyone special tonight, did you?’

  ‘No. Well, the usuals.’

  ‘Jock included?’

  ‘One or two with him.’

  ‘He’s a lovely dancer, Jock. Brought you home, did he?’

  ‘He lives this way,’ said Joan.

  ‘The very thought of you,’ murmured the singer, making Joan shut her eyes with a small wince of pain that Henry did not see. Then the music changed to a quickstep. Henry was all delight.

  ‘Hey! I can do this too, you know. I can do all sorts.’

  But Joan was pulling away from him.

  ‘Come on, Henry. That’s enough. Tea’s getting cold.’

  ‘Just a minute more. I’m beginning to get the feel of it. Come on, Joanie, be a sport.’ She ceased to struggle against him. They moved round the kitchen table once more. ‘Tell me, honestly – am I any good as a dancer?’

  ‘You’re a lovely dancer.’

  In his exuberance, Henry did not notice that Joan’s voice was weary, and that her dancing, for all its accuracy, was uninspired, automatic. Turns out, though, it isn’t just the dancing that counts. Not just the dancing,’ she sighed.

  Henry, his head pressed excitingly close to her myriad curls, could not be sure what she said.

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘I said you’re a lovely dancer, Henry. A lovely dancer.’

  ‘Just think … years ahead. What you’ve always wanted. Me to dance with. How about that?’

  With unbounded happiness, Henry twirled even faster, undaunted by the surprising heaviness of his wife in his arms. He tripped slightly in a reverse turn, but no matter. They both recovered together, Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers, whirling through timeless space between kitchen table and stove.

  ‘How about that, indeed,’ answered Joan, seeing a grey dawn through the window.

  Despite this sudden dancing, she was feeling the cold. She hoped to goodness Henry would soon be finished with his quickstepping, and let her have her cup of tea.

  The Bull

  The bull had spent a restless night. Through the shallows of her sleep Rachel had heard him snarling and groaning, sometimes angry, sometimes sad. Now at dawn she peered through the curtain of the small window to look at him: he stood knee-high in mud, curly forehead stiffly silvered with frost, furious pink-lashed eyes staring at the cows on the far side of the field. Maddened by the way they ignored him, he roared again, a sound that ended in a high-pitched whine: a sound pathetically thin from so large an animal.

  Rachel shivered and got back into bed. She wished Jack was there. But he was away on one of his conference trips, the Canary Isles this time. She had had a postcard saying wonderful sun for the time of year, and too much wine. He always sent her postcards but never said he missed her. Sometimes Rachel wondered how the evenings on such trips were spent. Jack often said they were very boring, endless talking shop at the bar with the boys, and Rachel liked to believe him. But occasionally the nastier part of her imagination activated itself, and she imagined her husband slapping his thigh in delight at strip shows, or flirting with a passing air hostess. She never, of course, spoke of her suspicions: they only came to her because her days were too empty. In their idyllic cottage, a mile from the nearest village, there was little for her to do: no defences with which to keep lurid thoughts from an empty mind. Every day she wished she had never agreed to leave London. But it was too late now. Nothing on earth would make Jack return.

  The last time he had been home, ten days ago, Rachel had mentioned the bull’s restlessness, wondering what it meant. Jack had laughed at her, seeing the unease in her face. He often scoffed at her for her lack of understanding of the countryside. When she could tell an elm from an ash, he said, he would take her fears seriously. As it was, the bull was like a frustrated old man – feeling sexy, but overweight and not up to it. No wonder he bellowed all night. Wouldn’t anyone?

  Rachel managed to laugh. Standing in the kitchen in his vast gumboots, Jack seemed very wise. When he was at home there was no worry that the bull, suddenly enraged, might trample over the flimsy fence that divided their garden from the field, and storm the cottage. When Jack was there, throwing huge logs with one hand into the fire, or tapping his pipe on the hearth, any such thoughts seemed absurd. When he had gone for a while, they came back to haunt her, and she made sure she never went into the garden wearing her red skirt.

  Back in bed Rachel knew she would not be able to go to sleep again. She stretched a foot into Jack’s cold part of the sheet, and wondered how she would pass the day. Squirrels in the roof scurried about: she tried to imagine the dark warmth of their
nest, and felt grateful for their invisible companionship. At first, thinking they were rats, their noises had alarmed her. But now she was used to all the sounds of the cottage, the creaks when the central heating came on, the gurgle of pipes, the flutter of birds nesting in the eaves. Now, none of them alarmed her. Even on stormy nights alone, rain pelleting the windows, wind keening down the chimney, she was not afraid. She was only afraid of the bull.

  Smiling at her own stupidity, Rachel got up and put on her dressing-gown. She went down to the kitchen and switched on the kettle. Outside, the morning was pale. A yellowy light, reflected in the water-logged field, meant a weak sun was rising. The distant cows, lying down, were almost submerged by mist. The bull stood up at the fence, chest rubbing against it. The wire bent beneath his weight. Rachel could hear the animal’s soft, patient lowing. Hand curiously unsteady, she cut herself a piece of bread and put it in the toaster.

  Then she looked at the bull, eye to eye. It jerked its head back, increasing the large folds of reddish skin round its neck. Its dilated nostrils smoked streams of warm breath. The small mean eyes remained on her face.

  ‘Bugger you, bull,’ said Rachel out loud.

  There was a loud roar. Rachel jumped back from the window. The bull moved away from the fence. Turning its back on the cottage it rumbled towards the cows, hunch-shouldered, long scrotum swinging undignified as a bag of laundry against its muddy hocks.

  Rachel heard a click behind her. In her nervous state, she jumped again. It was the toast, blackened. Smoke filled the room. She opened the back door, felt a blast of cold air, watched the blue smoke seep on to the terrace. The bull had almost reached the cows by now. So far away, Rachel felt quite safe. The pomposity of his shape reassured her. If that bull had been a man, he would have been a chairman – a stumpy-legged, huge-bellied chairman, rolling down executive corridors chewing on a fat cigar. He would have been disliked, not trusted, but respected for his power. At office dances he would nudge secretaries with plump knee or elbow – even as now the bull nudged one of the cows which, in awe, heaved itself to its feet.