Such Visitors (12 page)

‘I haven't come here to drink,' snapped Joan.

‘No need to look so frantic,' returned Henry.

Two nights out running and he found his normal reserves of understanding severely tried.

‘I'm not looking frantic! And I wish you'd sit
down
somewhere, Henry. Nowhere near the dance floor.'

Her eyes swerved from her husband to a middle-aged man with crinkly hair who was approaching.

‘What did I tell you?' said Henry. ‘Here's Romeo.'

‘May I have the pleasure?' the man asked Joan, for all the world as if Henry did not exist.

‘Why, Jock,' smiled Joan warmly, ‘I do believe we meet again.'

Henry watched them glide away, merge with the dancers, sway easily together, their feet in perfect harmony. He watched the crinkle-haired man, Jock, look down on his wife's careful curls, and smile. He remembered Madame Lucille's words at the end of that first, difficult lesson. He was plainly not a born dancer, she said. But with a lot of practice, maybe …

Henry took her advice and changed to longer lessons after work. At first, his progress was definitely slow. But in the fifth week he felt for the first time some small sense of achievement, when Madame Lucille accorded him her first praise.

‘There's really a breakthrough, this evening, Mr Cake,' she said. ‘We're really getting somewhere, now, don't you feel?'

‘If you say so.'

‘How about one more turn?' She fluttered her lashes.

‘No. Really. I must be getting back. My wife'll be wondering.'

‘Of course. Well, there's Thursday to look forward to, isn't there? I thought we might try a quickstep, Thursday. I think we should try to race ahead a little if you're going to be ready for the Christmas Ball.'

The Christmas Ball. Just seven weeks to go, the evening Henry had planned for his surprise. He hurried home, noticing with alarm the time. It went so quickly, dancing.

He arrived almost an hour late, somewhat flustered. At first, it didn't seem as if Joan had noticed.

‘Do you know what a sissoo is?' she asked.

‘No. Why? Should I?' He wondered if it was a guilty man.

‘It's a valuable Indian timber tree.'

‘Is it really? That's most interesting.'

Joan dug a fierce needle into a froth of chiffon, a pink that hurt Henry's eyes.

‘I learned that today. Some magazine. I like to pick things up.'

‘That's good.' Henry sighed. He could see the way things were going.

‘I like to try, you see. To extend my accomplishments. Which is more than can be said for some of us.' She paused, took a pin from her mouth, leaned across the table, crushing the silk. ‘And why are we so late tonight, Henry Cake?'

Henry glanced at the clock on the wall to give himself time.

‘I'm sorry,' he said. ‘The traffic. Terrible jams.'

‘Forty-five minutes to be precise. Am I to believe there have been traffic jams every Tuesday and Thursday for the last five weeks, Henry?'

‘Very curious, I must say – '

‘Very curious indeed. Very curious, too, that you're such a bad liar. If you'd been more clever you wouldn't have met her on such regular nights. You'd have jumbled them up – '

‘Met who?'

‘Whoever she is. I don't know.'

Joan dug her needle more fiercely into the material. Henry heard himself laughing.

‘You mean, you think I'm meeting a woman, having an association, just because of a few traffic jams? Oh, Joan. Oh, love. Would I ever? Have I ever looked at another woman?'

‘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?'