Once Upon A Time in the West . . . Country (11 page)

Hoo – fucking – ray.

***

‘Perhaps we need to get more involved in village life,’ said Fran, looking up from the parish magazine that had just been pushed through our door.

We were taking breakfast at the table in the garden. Oh, what a joy this is. Were I ever to be convicted of a terrible crime (wrongfully) and slammed away in solitary confinement, then this would be one of the pictures that I would conjure up in my head to help make it bearable. The morning sun, warm but not yet hot, gentle and comforting on the skin, kindling the anticipation of a day coming to life. The methodical culinary journey through juice, fruit, cereals, egg, toast, and tea, leading to a satisfied stretching of the legs and a wish that if the stomach weren’t so limiting then one could simply do it all again.

‘Involved in village life in what way?’ I asked.

‘Take a look at this.’

Fran handed me the parish magazine, which wasn’t a magazine at all but a small booklet, although no one called it that. This was the second edition we’d received. Fran had read the first one from cover to cover, whereas I’d just thumbed through it and looked at the small ads at the back. I noted that one handyman had included in his ad that ‘no job was too small’. I’d been tempted to call him and explain that I’d dropped my Biro, and ask him if he could give me a quote to come round and pick it up for me. In another ad someone had been trying to sell a lawnmower. After the price and the phone number they’d written the words ‘No timewasters’. This intrigued me. What exactly
was
a timewaster? Was
I
a timewaster?

Clearly I was, because I was currently allotting time to the consideration of whether I was a timewaster or not. Hardly a good use of time. Did this mean that I was barred from making enquiries about the purchase of this lawnmower?

I knew, however, that this was not what the advertiser meant. What they wished to communicate was that they didn’t want anyone to phone them up and ask questions about this lawnmower, unless the caller was genuinely interested in purchasing it. One wonders what kind of person would choose to ask a string of questions about a piece of garden machinery that
didn’t
interest them. The type who would simply feign interest for their own amusement. Whoever these people might be, and I suspect that there can’t be many, I doubt that they are put off by the words ‘No timewasters’. Surely these words would act like magnets to them? If you happened to be one of these peculiar individuals, wouldn’t it be much more fun to waste the time of someone who had formerly announced that they didn’t want their time wasted, rather than someone who was more relaxed about their time? Anyway, enough about that. I don’t want to waste your time.

I looked at the piece in the magazine to which Fran had directed me. It explained that the village hall was in something of a crisis. No reason was given why, but apparently the entire committee had resigned, and nobody had put themselves forward to replace them. Unless a new committee was found, then the village hall would end up being locked permanently.

‘Are you thinking that you should stand for the committee?’ I asked Fran.

‘No, I was wondering whether
you
should.’

I had never been on a committee in my life. The very word sent shivers down my spine. It conjured up images of grey people, sitting around grey tables on grey days, discussing what particular shade of grey to paint the walls. Committees were flair-free zones. Bastions of boredom. Forums for elongated discussion rather than instant action. An ‘Emergency Committee’ was an oxymoron. Like Rasputin or Caligula, I wasn’t a committee man. (The comparison ends here.)

‘I’m not sure that I’m the stuff of committees,’ I said.

‘Me neither.’

The short discussion was halted as we looked out across the valley to the green hills that formed our morning tableau. The beauty soothed. It bathed us in goodness. Maybe that’s why I returned to the subject with more generosity of spirit.

‘It would be a shame if the village lost the hall,’ I said.

‘I agree,’ said Fran.

Metaphorically, we were standing on a sea cliff, wondering whether we should jump into the waters below. I peered over the edge.

‘I guess you’ve got to have a committee to get things done.’

Fran looked over too.

‘Yes, someone has to do this kind of stuff or it just doesn’t get done.’

Several minutes later we had joined hands and jumped.

We’d decided that we would both put ourselves forward. Neither of us admitted it, but mixed up in our good intentions there’d been the less noble element of ‘if I’m going to suffer this, then you should too’.

‘How do we let them know?’ I asked.

‘There’s an Annual General Meeting coming up, where volunteers for a new committee need to make themselves known, otherwise the hall will close.’

‘And when’s that?’

‘Next Tuesday.’

‘Right.’

A thought occurred to me.

‘Do you actually know what happens up at the village hall?’

‘No, but it says here,’ said Fran, finger delving into the parish magazine, ‘that there’s a new Zumba class starting there on Monday night.’

‘Ah yes, I’ve seen posters around the village for that. You should go along. It’s important that we see what kind of stuff currently happens there and how well-attended it is. It’s very fortuitous that there’s an opportunity for one of us to do so before the AGM.’

‘I can’t go.’

‘Why not?’

‘I told you. I’m going to London on Monday. To hand in the corrections to my PhD.’

‘Oh, no. That’s a shame.’

‘You could go.’

‘What?’

‘You could go to Zumba.’

‘I can’t. It’s a ladies thing.’

‘No, it isn’t. It’s a health and fitness thing. You’ll be good at it.’

‘Oh, I don’t know. I’m not sure that it’ll be my thing.’

‘Right. And what
is
your thing?’

This was an unfair question from Fran. In life, one needs only a list of things that
aren’t
your thing – like ironing, queuing in airport security or Prime Minister’s Question Time. Not a list of things that
are
. Fran should know that.

‘It’s dance,’ said Fran. ‘You like dancing. You’ll be good at it.’

***

So it was, that in the interests of research, it fell upon me to go to the Monday-night Zumba class. By this time I’d made enough enquiries to know that I would be attending a kind of fitness/dance class that drew on Latin-American rhythms. A glance at Wikipedia had informed me that Zumba was created by Alberto ‘Beto’ Perez in Colombia during the 1990s. I guess when he’d first made it all up he figured it was only a question of time before it made it to a small village hall in Devon. He would no doubt be delighted to know that the great Tony Hawks was now going to give it a go.

I wasn’t overly nervous. I’d done aerobics classes in the past and I’d been skilful enough to learn some of the moves. In my first aerobics class, when I had been outnumbered ten to one by women (this is not compulsory, but seems to be the standard ratio), I had been completely thrown off-guard when the instructor bellowed ‘Grapevine!’ and everyone in the class set off on a kind of wiggly shimmy to the left or right. (How they knew which way to go still remains a mystery.)

Initially, my attempts at ‘grapevining’ had been, at best, embarrassing and, at worst, dangerous. Setting off in the wrong direction with flailing limbs causes painful collisions and does not endear you to other Lycra-clad participants, who are already deeply suspicious of you because of your slightly grubby tracksuit bottoms. Wishing to avert future humiliation, I’d practised the ‘grapevine’ at home and, though I say so myself, I’d become pretty adept at it, only letting myself down occasionally in classes when I launched into it in the wrong direction.

The village hall interior, like its exterior, was unremarkable. Exactly what you’d expect from such an edifice. Wooden floorboards, large windows, a rather unattractive low suspended ceiling, and a kitchen at the far end, the other side of a serving hatch. I’d arrived at the village hall at 7.25 p.m. for the 7.30 p.m. start, well kitted out in a tracksuit (not slightly grubby anymore, due to just another one of Fran’s many positive influences in my life) and with a towel and bottle of water. This impressive display of preparedness may have given a false impression of competence to those waiting inside the hall, who were, of course, all women. The recognised ten to one ratio had been respected. Ten women of different shapes, sizes and ages were milling around, limbering up or chatting, as a super-fit-looking instructor fiddled with a ghetto blaster. I felt a flutter of nerves, but reassured myself.

‘I’ll be all right,’ I said to myself. ‘I can grapevine.’

Besides, I thought, at least it’s a new class, so we’re all in this together. There would be a fair chance that most of the others would be as much in the dark as me when it came to the finer points of ‘Zumbaring’, or however they liked to describe it.

I made a base camp in the corner of the hall, putting my accessories on a windowsill, and I began gentle limbering movements. Then I took a deep breath and made the bold step of striding across the room to announce myself to the instructor – the presence of a man in proceedings seeming to create something of an edge to the atmosphere. Or was that me being paranoid? Or vain even?

‘Hello, I’m Tony!’ I said, as I arrived in front of the teacher, like a small child pushed forward by an overzealous parent at an audition for a show. ‘I’m here to represent the male sex.’

It seemed like a good idea to open with a gentle bit of humour, but as soon as I’d said it, I realised that it sounded naff.

‘Hi, Tony, I’m Sandra,’ replied our tutor, ‘have you done Zumba before?’

‘No.’

‘Are you reasonably fit?’

‘Yes, I think so.’

‘Great. Well, it may take you a while to find out what’s going on, as we’ve been doing this for twelve weeks down at the neighbouring village hall.’

A cold shiver.

‘What?’

‘We’ve lost the use of that village hall – which is why we’ve moved up here. The others know the moves pretty well, so you may be a little at sea for a while.’

Shit. This wasn’t good. Not good at all.

‘Maybe find a place at the back, so you can follow what’s going on.’

And with those words, she clapped her hands and summoned everyone into starting positions with a hugely enthusiastic:

‘OK, girls. Let’s go!’

Normally I don’t respond to such a call, but I recognised my place as an ‘honorary girl’ and carefully positioned myself in the extreme back right-hand corner of the hall, which seemed to be the most private place I could find, short of being in the storage cupboard.

The first song began, unrecognisable, but driven by a strong, pulsating Latin rhythm. Sandra counted to four and then suddenly everyone was off. Instructions were barked and the ‘girls’ duly followed. They clearly knew what they were doing. For them, it was like practising a dance routine that they’d been rehearsing for months. For me, the experience was different. It was like being thrown into a room where . . . well, where ladies were practising a dance routine that they’d been rehearsing for months.

I had no clue what was coming, or what to do once it had arrived. The moves seemed to run for eight bars of the music. This gave me enough time to sort out my direction and begin to make some pathetic attempt at the move that was being done by everyone else in the room. However, just at the very moment when I’d begun to establish what was required for that move, Sandra would bark instructions for another. The process would then repeat. There appeared to be about five moves for the entire song, and each time they repeated, I was able to make a better fist of getting them right. But then the track finished. Sandra looked at me and smiled.

‘Well done, Tony, not bad!’

For the second track, I made going in the right direction my main priority. The session for the lady to my left was being made more testing by the need to keep an eye out for the idiot to her right. Suddenly a huge sweeping move to the right was required, bringing me into direct contact with the outer wall of the village hall – which I could now confirm, was very well-constructed. Worse still, it meant that all the ladies in the room were facing me, and they could see that I was not even beginning to do any of the things that were required of me. Now in the spotlight, I just guessed at what I should be doing, and flailed some arms and legs in a kind of medley of every move that had happened thus far. At the end of the song, and with the patience of a careworker, Sandra smiled at me encouragingly.

I was now getting very hot. I drank some water and decided that the tracksuit bottoms would have to come off. I’d booked for the full hour of torture, so I might as well be comfortably attired. Besides, I thought I looked pretty good in shorts.

As the next song raged into life, something alarming began to happen. It became clear that the elastic had gone in the waistband of the shorts and that what had been holding them up before had been the elastic in the waist of the tracksuit bottoms. Any jolty movement from me now meant that my shorts started to fall down. I clutched at them with one hand, but Sandra was constantly calling for us to wave our arms about. I tried, but to let go for too long was risky. Shorts around the ankles, in front of a group of women at my first village hall event, was unthinkable. Better to fail even more hopelessly than before with each move, than to tarnish my reputation for years to come.