Let's Dance (20 page)

The figure of an old lady appeared in the doorway. She fumbled for the light switch, bathed them all in ghastly neon which found them in a huddled trio and herself fully in command of the situation. Her hands fluttered, as if there was something she had forgotten; she beamed. Her eyes moved away to the furniture piled in the doorway. She shivered with pleasure, like a confident child on the brink of a party. Moved smartly
to the drawer in the table, pulled it out, extracted three candles and handed them to Bob.

‘Light these and stick them somewhere, I would. I knew I should have paid that bill, I
knew
it. Light them from this one, stick ‘em on the table, it won't hurt. How
nice
to see you all again.'

Candlesticks. Somewhere in this wonderful heap of goods awaiting removal there were candlesticks. Sitting in a clutch on the draining board, beautiful silver, fresh off the dining table. Bob placed the candles offered from Serena's steady fingers and, with movements less steady, struck a match from his pocket and lit them. Serena sighed, an exclamation of joy as she switched the light off again. The three men remained immobile as she marched forwards with the tape deck she had left by the door and placed it in the centre of the table with care. There was an immediate blast of sound, then the room reverberated to the music of a full-bellied waltz.

‘How absolutely lovely to see you, and how good of you to come,' she said, curtsying to each. ‘Let's dance.
She
keeps the booze, top cupboard, on the right. Let's all have fun!'

They were mesmerized. Obedience was automatic and seemed entirely appropriate. Bob went to the cupboard. Somehow he produced glasses as well as sherry, a bottle of whisky and one of gin. Derek stepped forward, awkward with politeness. Offered a yellow-gloved hand, which seemed to add to the sense of crazy formality. He noticed her hat, her nightdress,
her coat, the little heels to her shoes, sweet. He nodded at Bob and Bob nodded back.

‘We thought some of your stuff needed mending, lady. Not the best of times to move it, but…'

Serena paused, then took him in her arms.

‘Heavens!' she trilled. ‘Take it all away, why don't you? Let's dance.'

‘Take it away, George,' Derek said gravely. ‘Just take it away, man, take it away.'

Come on. If this was going to be the worst of their problems, it was not so bad. Bob could feel laughter gurgling in his chest: the pain in his back had entirely gone. They had all the time in the world. To the tune of a waltz, then a polka, they continued the loading, while the princess, oblivious to the draught from the door, conducted her own orchestra and maintained a flow of commentary.

I
sabel dreamed of being with Joe in a nightclub, surrounded by pulsing music. Glamorous darkness and spangly lights on the floor. A body pressed against her own, wanting to go home. She was waking slowly from the slurred sleep induced by wine. A reluctant awakening that did not involve opening of the eyes, but a wish for more sleep and the hope that turning her face into the pillow would send her back into oblivion. She often woke this time of night, aware of Serena's wanderings, and squeezed her eyes closed, determined not to interfere, but checking over in her mind the pitfalls downstairs. There was a sensation of having been half
awake for a long time, as if her sleep had been punctuated not by dreams, but by sound.

Alien sound. Music in the distance, coming from the other side of the world, penetrating into consciousness slowly. Once she had established that it was not a dream she could feel only acute annoyance. For heaven's sake, Mother played that dreadful music all day, couldn't she leave off at night? If this was going to go on, then she, Isabel, would have to do something about the wandering, she couldn't cope, not without sleep. Mother, please do not be an inconsiderate old bitch. The phrase, fully formed, popped into her mind, anger getting her out of bed with such speed she made herself dizzy, and angered herself more. She would throw that tape deck and radio out of the house, she would, too. Start wearing earplugs, scream.

It was cold: she could not find her slippers, stood shivering in indecision. Leave it for tonight, deal with it in daylight? No. Dressing-gown, where? Here. Bare feet would do. Downstairs, past the clock with the moonlit face telling her it was four-thirty, a ridiculous, ludicrous time to be awake, damn, damn, damn. Noticing from her feet up how cold the floor was in the hall. Without rugs on the stones. Without rugs. She looked down at her feet in consternation. The cold burned. She could hear her mother in the kitchen, singing loudly. Turned the corner, saw the candlelight, thought for a moment as she ran towards it that what she had seen was flames and Mother was trapped in there, roasting and chanting.

There was a blast of air from the open back door, the kitchen a mess. Two rolled up rugs from the hall impeded progress. A large man coming in from the yard stopped and stared at her with bloodshot eyes then, slowly, smiled. A smaller man appeared at his shoulder.

‘Oh, shit,' said Derek.

Bob turned from the sink where he had been washing his arms free of the oil from the base of the dining table, now neatly installed inside the van. Nearly finished, all of them infected by the old lady's party spirit, full of devil-may-care, give-me-hell any day, and it did not matter any longer that Dick was dangerous drunk. Isabel flew to her mother, clutched her tight, protectively. Serena dug an elbow into her ribs, shrugged her off.

‘Go away,' she said crossly. ‘You're always spoiling things. Go away.'

‘Yes,' said Bob softly. ‘Go away, girl. I would. Quickly.'

‘I didn't know,' Derek bleated. ‘I didn't know.'

‘You haven't danced with me,' Serena said, pointing at him.

‘Oh yes,' Dick crooned, squinting through the candlelight. ‘Oh yes, oh yes.'

Bob moved towards her. Isabel sidestepped him, picking a bottle off the table, holding it in front of her, spilling the dregs. There was a piercing, whisky smell.

‘Tutt tutttt,' Serena admonished.

It was so easy to disarm her. Bob simply hit her a glancing, almost apologetic, blow on the side of the
head and plucked the bottle out of her hand. She whimpered. ‘Look,' he said to her reasonably, ‘if you just sit down quietly, no one gets hurt. This your mother or what?'

Isabel nodded.

‘Well, she doesn't mind us, so why should you?'

‘Get out,' she whispered. ‘Leave us alone.'

Dick elbowed Bob out of the way. ‘Oh, it can talk, can it? What's a lovely girl like you doing in a place like this, then? She is lovely, isn't she, Bob? Very lovely.'

Which she was in the candlelight, all pale skin, huge eyes, breathless, a dressing-gown patterned with roses, hanging open over a low-necked nightdress that showed the curve of full bosom. Like her mother's had been. Lovely was an understatement. Ripe for the picking: he could have sunk his teeth into that flesh. Isabel felt the dressing-gown removed from her shoulders, felt the cold draught raise goosepimples on her arms, while an acrid, warm mouth grazed her neck.

‘Put her down, Dick. You don't know where she's been.' Bob spoke in the tones of sweet and cheerful reason that worked better with Dick than orders.

‘I could put her down the cellar, but it seems a waste,' Dick leered.

‘Put her in that chair by the fire. Get some rope. Tie her up – loosely, mind. Just the hands. C'mon, man, we're nearly done.'

To Bob's relief, Dick obeyed like a man in a daze, but not quite with implicit obedience. He manoeuvred Isabel across the floor in imitation of a dance, holding
her from behind so his groin pressed into her buttocks, his hands splayed across her breasts, lowered her into the nursery chair which always stood by the stove, his hands sliding down her body, lingering. She sat, blood pounding, the sound of her own heart deafening. She would have scratched and screamed; wanted to scratch and scream, but another instinct prevailed. Be good, sweet maid, don't provoke anything: then they won't hurt Mother and they won't hurt you. Through a haze of fear she made herself smile at Serena as her own hands were tied behind the chair. Smile, to prove everything was going to be all right. The most revolting moment of all was when Serena smiled back, sketched the equivalent of a royal wave, and laughed explosively.

‘Nice daughter you've got,' Dick slurred at her.

‘Oh yes, she likes you too, I can tell,' Serena trilled.

Someone had turned down the music. Mother turned it up. Bob and Derek began to move with urgent speed, almost running in and out of the open door, laden. Dick was slower, reluctant to move from the stove. Isabel heard the sound of an engine, closed her eyes. The moments were endless; the sounds distant. Minutes passed. Emblazoned on the inside of her eyes was the image of Serena, laughing.

Dick was straddling the chair, his flies undone, holding his penis in his hand, thrusting it against her mouth. Flaccid, purple, grimy, nuzzling her cheek as she twisted her head away. He pinched her jaw in one huge, gloved hand, forcing her lips apart, stuck his penis in,
his belly ballooning round her face. Vomit rose in her throat. He thrust, lazily, almost absent-mindedly. Then he looked at his member in dim surprise at its lack of compliance, did not persist. The smell of him was overpowering. He grunted, zipped up his trousers furtively, looked over his shoulder as the engine revved outside. As one final action to appease his disappointment he caught hold of her cotton nightdress, ripped it to the waist, pinched one nipple between thumb and forefinger, painfully hard. She screamed.

In the background, throughout it all, there were shouted instructions, and, over the sound of the music, the noise of her mother, clapping her hands, like a child at a pantomime, her voice rising into a high shriek of utter hilarity. Saliva dribbled down Isabel's chin. The laughter continued.

A different smell now, cleaner. Bob, leaning over the chair designed for the nursing of children, fumbling with the bonds. Speaking. ‘Sorry about that,' he was muttering.

Perhaps she fainted for a minute, perhaps oblivion mercifully arrived on demand, but it seemed to her later that she had remained where she was for a long time. Enough for the first shock to recede, the spittle to dribble on to her chest and a self-protective anger to follow in a great white-hot surge which had her screaming over that bloody music, wrenching her hands free. The kitchen swam into focus, candles still burning. Someone had trodden on her bare toes. The pain brought life. Her eyes sought out her mother.

There she was, standing by the door, one arm across her chest, the other waving goodbye into the darkness like a wistful child. As she waved, her body swayed in tune with some long-remembered dance.

Isabel's fingers and toes were as cold as snow, her head wet with perspiration. She could not coordinate her movements; nothing worked to order. Yet she limped over to where the ancient one stood, grabbed hold of the neck of her coat and slapped her face. Once, twice, four times before she lost count. The knuckle of her right index finger caught the outcrop of eyebrow: she could feel that, sensed damage being done, skin torn, and then she stopped. It was impossible to imagine that her hands had done that. Serena's face swam before hers as something hideous, requiring destruction. Isabel was not horrified for the moment, merely temporarily satisfied.

Serena staggered, fell against the door frame, then righted herself. Her hands came up to embrace her purpled face: she closed her eyes as she felt the left one, gingerly. Tears formed. Her head wobbled dangerously on her neck.

‘What did I do?' she asked, clearly bewildered. ‘What did I do?'

The room was still blurred. Serena's ability to speak worked on Isabel's mind like one more insult, enraging her. Her own tongue felt like an obstruction inside her mouth, preventing words.

‘It's what you – didn't do – you filthy-minded old cow!' Isabel yelled and then found herself shaking so
hard she could not speak at all. She leaned on the table to keep her balance, looked around, shaking her head unsteadily, trying to suppress the panic and find some clue as to what to do next. Something, before she shook to pieces. She wanted to lie down on the floor, but the floor, she noticed, was filthy. Someone had to tell her what to do. She could not think of it herself.

Serena turned on the light, moved uncertainly towards the candles on the table, blew them out, one by one. With enormous difficulty and greater reluctance. Three, four puffs each. Smoke idled in the air. The tape came to an end.

‘They forgot these,' she said sadly, gesturing to the silver candlesticks.

Isabel burst into uncontrollable laughter. Spasms of it shook her naked breasts. Loud, hysterical giggles rising to screams, descending into barks and yelps, on and on, choking her. She staggered against the stove, recoiled from the warmth, collided with the chair on which she had sat, leaped out of it and cracked her knee against the table.

‘Take a deep breath, I would.' Serena's disinterested instruction had an effect.

The room settled into its familiar contours, reminding Isabel of duties, obligations and the panacea of little, familiar tasks. It was imperative not to stay still. Without any conscious thought she knew that in movement she would find sanity of a kind. If she did not move, she would freeze in this attitude. She would simply freeze.

With slow steps, she went to the sink and doused her face with water. Put on the kettle, found her dressing-gown and buttoned it, making her fingers work. While the kettle made reassuring noises she found a hot-water bottle with a fleecy cover, gave it to her mother to hold while she herself made tea. The water splashed everywhere; the finding of milk and sugar was an almost insurmountable task. There was a sense of triumph in achieving it. The cup made a loud noise against her teeth. Somewhere in the course of all this, with the deliberate steps of a puppet, she looked for the telephone: it must have gone with the van. She made Serena sip the tea and escorted her to bed with another hot-water bottle. She found witch hazel in the bathroom, soaked a pad of cotton wool and applied it to the injured face where one eye was puffed like a purple balloon. Her touch was trembling, full of revulsion. She marvelled at herself, encouraged herself, muttered under her breath; good girl, good girl.