Learning to Dance (3 page)

She remembered thinking that she would be forty soon. Forty years old. But what had that got to do with the boys being hijacked by Len?

They had gone to Australia together, and it had been wonderful. Two months later Eunice Denman had had her first stroke. It was Jack who had leaned over her in her hospital bed and whispered, ‘I can’t cope with all the housework any more, Eunice. You’ll have to come and live with us and take some of it off my hands.’ Judith had wept then, because it was the first time her mother had smiled since they had found her on the floor of her bathroom a month before. He had loved and helped to nurse Eunice over the next nine years; he had gone to Perth every year, and the boys had come home each year, too. Eunice could not be left, and Judith could not bear to send her to a nursing home, so Jack had looked after the ‘home front’, as he called it, while she went to see the boys. She always thought they would come back home, but they loved it in Perth. So life gradually shook into a new pattern; the good days were when Eunice managed to come and sit with them in the conservatory and look at the garden. Jack had always worked from home with forays to London to discuss his work. They were a tight-knit trio. Stupidly, Judith thought it would never change.

For some reason, Jack worried about her and could only explain it by saying she had ‘nothing for herself’. At his suggestion she took up her painting again and he refurbished one of the bedrooms, filled it with artists’ materials – even an easel – and called it ‘Jude’s stude’.

And now … Now he had left her.

There were six other people on the minibus: two married couples, a single man, and another single woman. The man was courtly; no other word would do. He was taller than Judith, but that was because she was so short. He was much shorter than the other woman. She was probably only just under six feet. She reminded Judith of Naomi. She followed Judith to the back of the coach and asked if she could sit with her. Judith smiled and nodded gratefully. It was immediately established that neither of them was the odd one out.

The man took the seat in front of them and watched while the couples chose where they were going to sit and struggled out of their topcoats. The weather called for topcoats; it might be September, but the seasonal mist that morning was damp and cold.

The man leaned over the back of the seat. ‘I expect we’ll all be introduced in a moment, but may I say what a pleasure it would be if you two ladies would look on me as your escort during this holiday?’ He smiled benevolently. Both women stared up at him. He said, ‘I am Nathaniel Jones, and Robert Hausmann was my neighbour in Cardiff when I was a boy. I’ve never kept in touch, but as my own work is to do with
printing, I thought I would look him up.’ He paused, then widened the smile.

Judith glanced at her neighbour, and seeing a kind of numbness there, said quickly, ‘I’m Judith Freeman. I don’t know anything about the artist, but he does landscapes and I used to … when I was a student … myself …’

Her voice petered out, and luckily the other woman carried on almost seamlessly. ‘I’m Sybil Jessup. I used to be a painter, too. I know Hausmann’s work. That’s all.’ She looked embarrassed. ‘I think, if you don’t mind, I’d prefer to be on my own, but if the occasion arises …’ She petered out, too.

Another man leaned out of his seat. ‘We’re the Olsens. Margaret and Sven.’ He shook hands all round. ‘And these are our friends. We stay with them every year. Jennifer and Stanley Markham.’ All six of them smiled, nodded, murmured things. Judith felt grateful that Sybil had said nothing about her personal history; she had no wish to tell everyone she was waiting for her divorce papers to come through and this long weekend would help the time to pass. She turned and smiled at the Markhams.

The woman, Jennifer Markham, said, ‘Margaret and I are school friends, we go back nearly thirty years.’

Margaret Olsen pushed up a sleeve and thrust her arm into the aisle. ‘That scar – you can only just see it now – is where we became blood sisters at the age of ten.’

The driver loomed behind Nathaniel Jones.

‘Doing my job for me? Excellent! Excellent! You all know that I am Martin Morris – also from Cardiff, Mr Jones. I, too, am acquainted with Robert Hausmann and have done this trip several times. I’m sure you will enjoy the exhibition as well as the glorious countryside around.’ He flapped open a folded sheet of paper. ‘You all have copies of the itinerary,
so I need not go through it too thoroughly. Our first port of call will be Taunton – a convenience stop, but time enough for coffee if you wish. And then we wind through the villages of the Blackdown hills, taking in Dunster and its castle, Blue Anchor, Minehead and then up into the Quantocks and beautiful Exmoor to Castle Dove.’ He folded the paper, looked round with a beaming smile and rallied them all. ‘So here we go. Is everybody ready?’

Both couples responded enthusiastically. Nathaniel Jones lifted a newspaper on high and waved it like a flag. Judith and her apparently shy companion smiled slightly, though Judith was already wondering whether she had done the right thing in coming.

Martin Morris slid into the driving seat and switched on. They eased out of the park-and-ride and joined the traffic going to Weston-Super-Mare. Judith glanced sideways and saw with enormous relief that Sybil Jessup had her head back and her eyes closed. She did the same.

Castle Dove was situated on a headland between Porlock Weir and the sweep of sandy beaches which included Croyde and Woolacombe. At one point its grounds actually straddled the Somerset–Devon border. It was Victorian Gothic, with turrets sprouting everywhere like giant pimples, and a conservatory almost overhanging the drop down to Dove Cove – where the River Dove emptied itself into the beginning of the Atlantic. Lundy Island was visible when the mist lifted, Martin Morris assured them. He pointed out a table with booklets about Lundy and its history and underwater gardens. The Lorna Doone trail map was of interest to the Olsens, they were walkers. Jennifer might go with them on their shorter hikes; Stanley would not. Nathaniel – ‘I really would prefer the full
name, Nat sounds a bit trendy for me!’ – was keen to meet Robert Hausmann. The housekeeper said he would be in the Long Gallery from midday, but he liked to go out looking for local colour most evenings.

Martin Morris guffawed. ‘You can find Robert Hausmann at the Dove Inn if you fancy a walk after dinner.’

‘Ideal. Would you ladies care to accompany me? A quiet stroll, perhaps a sherry or a soft drink?’

Sybil Jessup managed a smile. ‘I would like an early night.’

Judith followed up quickly. ‘Me, too.’ She worked out as they were shown to their rooms that Sybil had said six words and she had said two. Brilliant. It was a shame their rooms were on different floors, they could learn from each other. In fact all seven of them were scattered about the castle, apparently at random. But there were phones of course, and a proper room service, and everything had that touch of old-fashioned luxury mentioned three times in the itinerary. Dinner was good too: watercress soup and little roast potatoes with sea bass and kidney beans. She would have loved some of the towering trifle but knew it wouldn’t be wise.

She spent ages having a shower and investigating her room. The mini fridge was full of delightful bottles, fruit juices and her favourite tomato juice. The carpet was thick, the tea-making facilities included hot chocolate and coffee, and there were two kinds of biscuits and a mini box of chocolates. She wafted around in her best nightdress with her summer dressing gown slung over her shoulders in case anyone called. Well, you never knew, Nathaniel might decide against the Dove Inn. She sat with a drink and watched the television, switched it off, got into bed and read her book for a while, then, switched off the light and was almost immediately asleep.

She woke very suddenly knowing she needed the bathroom, completely forgetting she was no longer at home. She stumbled to the door, turned left and opened the next door, pulled on a light and immediately realized she was not at home. It was a bathroom but not hers. Better than hers. She grinned at herself and hastily used the facilities. The toilet seat was warm; the hot tap in the basin produced hot water; the pristine hand towel was thick and gorgeous. She returned, still grinning, and only then realized that her door had closed and locked behind her. She couldn’t get in; her dressing gown was at the bottom of her bed and the room key was on the dressing table.

She leaned her head on the door – her door – and closed her eyes and whispered several serious curses. Oaths. Good old-fashioned oaths to match the good old-fashioned castle. She lifted her wrist and looked at her watch. Three o’clock. Ack emma. Three ack bloody emma.

Of course she was going to laugh about this later; perhaps share it with Sybil or even Nathaniel. The thing was, what could she do now; at this moment? She had no idea where anyone else’s rooms were, and they had been the only group at dinner. My God, it was like a murder novel. Someone had been murdered, and she was the only one wandering around outside her room. She forced a giggle at such absurdities. She must pass it on to Jack. He could do a comic strip and save her at the end – perhaps she could have neglected to flush the toilet? A perfect alibi?

If only Jack were here, he would go to such extremes, and they would laugh just like they used to. If only Naomi were here … they would sit on the top step of the beautiful curving staircase and Naomi would mock herself, going through the alternative choices they must make, ‘We are responsible
for our actions, and therefore must be responsible for their solutions …’ She had had a deep-throated laugh, and she would close her eyes and tilt her head up as if to let the laugh soar up to the ceiling like soap bubbles … And she was dead.

Judith took a very deep breath and noticed how it caught in her throat. She mustn’t be found out here in tears; that wouldn’t do at all. She began to move along the landing, listening at each door, then tapping lightly, then hitting the door with the side of her clenched fist. There were four doors on the left of hers and another four on the right of the bathroom. All eight rooms were empty. So was hers. This was not funny any more.

She ignored the lift; if that got stuck she might lose what little self-control she had. She flicked every light switch she could find, and then started down the stairs. Dammit, she hadn’t even stopped to put on her slippers; the polished wood was distinctly chilly under the soles of her bare feet. Opposite the landing an enormous curved stained-glass window that had seemed benign in the setting sun was now black and ominous. She was glad when the stairs turned and the view was of another landing. Nine bedrooms and a bathroom. All apparently empty; not even the gentlest snore. She gave up hitting the doors with her fist and went to the stairs again; the window went with her.

She ended up in the entrance hall; to her right was the dining room and the sitting room, to her left was the reception area and the lift. The lights she had switched on above revealed a telephone on the highly polished counter. She ran to it with a little cry of sheer relief.

It didn’t click or tinkle as she lifted the receiver, and behind it was some sort of switchboard; it looked old-fashioned, each switch was numbered. She replaced the receiver and
counted the rows: four. Twenty-four rooms and only eight of them occupied. She searched for another key to switch the whole thing on and could find nothing. She leaned on the counter, suddenly exhausted. This was not good. And she was cold. For goodness’ sake, why was she here? She felt the ridiculous Gothic pile like a weight around her, cold and probably damp. She dropped her head on to her arms and let something wash through her, thinking it might be a philosophical moment during which she would come to terms with living on her own and perhaps decide to join the gardening club that winter. But it turned out to be a wave of misery, and she wept into the inside of her elbow and felt useless.

How long she was engulfed in self-pity she did not know; the sound of a key in the enormous oak door brought her quickly into the present. She glanced wildly around the big square hall, then up at the enormous stairwell lit by all the switches she had flicked on her way down, then at the nightie Jack had described as diaphanous but that was, in fact, just plain see-through.

The heavy oak door groaned a protest and gave way to the key, and she dropped like a stone behind the counter, eyes so wide they hurt, breath held in suffocatingly over-full lungs.

A draught blew across the floor and skittered behind the counter. A voice muttered resentfully, ‘Good God, all this talk of bloody economy and they’ve got every light in the place switched on!’ Already Judith could smell whisky, and her heart sank further still. But at least it sounded as if the owner of the voice had a right to be here, whoever he was. She breathed shallow quick breaths while he struggled to close and lock the door. Then she heard him start towards
the lift, his tread uneven, grunting, but unmistakeably leaving.

She made up her mind quickly and stood up.

‘Excuse me. Can you tell me whether there is a master key to the rooms?’

The man – a very dishevelled looking man – yelped and almost fell backwards. He grabbed the far edge of the counter and stared in disbelief.

She took another breath and went on, ‘I’ve locked myself out, you see. Went to the bathroom and the door closed behind me.’ He went on staring. ‘I really am a guest here. I’ve come to see the Hausmann retrospective.’

He peered over the counter and she held her arms in front of her nightie.

He said, ‘I can see you are sleeping here … or should be. You’re not Lorna Doone or similar … they often pop into my head. But you can’t be real. You’re like a forties pin-up. I’ve never painted you.’ He gestured a gigantic dismissal. ‘No … you’re not real.’

He turned to go, and she whipped round the counter and held on to him physically.

‘Listen. Are you Robert Hausmann? All right, don’t talk. I am Judith Freeman and I am real, and I need to get back into my room and make some coffee and get over this. Do you understand?’