Page 3 of Not Strictly Ballroom

Tomorrow we can celebrate.

Darcy: . . .

I watch as the three dots dance on my screen, disappearing and reappearing, bouncing up and down, creating their own form of torture. I don’t know if Darcy is typing and erasing, or if it’s a really long message. I stare at the screen. Gran is right, it doesn’t make any difference, but that doesn’t mean I’m not willing the message to appear. In the end, it’s a simple message.

Darcy: I can’t go to the Nationals.

I explode up off the bed in surprise, cursing loudly and shooting off a message that echoes what I just shouted.

Nick: WTF!!!

An icy hand of uneasiness traces its finger down my spine. Has something happened? Is this why it took him so long to answer? It’s amazing, the horrendous scenarios a brain can conjure up in the briefest slivers of time. Within seconds, I’ve imagined the worst, and given in to some fantastical notion that there’s been some sort of accident on the drive back up, resulting in Darcy never being able to dance again. That he’s lost all his family. I try to control the shakes that my hands have taken on and send a text back. My fingers don’t work and I have to delete several letters before I manage to type a coherent message.

Nick: What happened? Are you ok? Is everyone ok? Tell me you’re ok?

Darcy: I’m fine, we’re all ok

My heart rate returns to something close to normal, but it takes a moment for me to draw a steady breath. I’m not willing at the moment to examine why my brain went for the worst-case scenario and I still need to know the details, so I reply quickly.

Nick: Phew, you had me worried there D. Then what’s up?

Darcy: Julia got a job. She’s going away before the Nationals

I take a moment to breathe and compose myself, letting the overwhelming sense of relief seep through me. After what I’d conjured up, this seems a trivial thing, but I know the blow to Darcy will be deep. We’ve talked about it enough. I remember how, when he talks about it, his eyes light up with a brilliance that shows the green of his irises, like polished sea glass. I dismiss the image, confused why my best friend’s eyes are something that lingers with me.

Nick: That sucks, man! Can you find someone else?

Darcy: Maybe, I guess

I hate the tone of his text. His quiet resignation. But that’s Darcy. He’ll be hurting inside, but he always puts on a brave face. Sometimes I wish he’d let his feelings out, but I wonder if he’s just spent too long hiding them. His mum has outbursts enough for the both of them. I can just imagine what the journey back would have been like for him. We text for a little longer. He doesn’t seem hopeful that he can find anyone else, and I don’t blame him. Great dancing partners don’t grow on trees. I’m looking forward to seeing him tomorrow so I can see how he’s really doing.

“You done in here?” My dad pokes his head round the door of the room I’m working in.

“Just a few more minutes.” I run the brush along the last section of skirting board. Painting and decorating might not be exciting, but it’s a job, and better than working at a fast-food drive-through or something. I didn’t get good enough grades to go on to further education, let alone university, though if I had, I would’ve been the first in my family to do so. We Richardsons are working-class stock, the backbone of Britain, my dad would say, and he’s proud of that. We don’t need fancy bits of paper to get by.

For as long as I can remember, at least since I discovered dancing, that was all I’d wanted to do when I grew up. But as much as we Richardsons don’t get university degrees, we also don’t work in the arts. I had a few blazing rows about that one with my dad. It wasn’t all about him wanting to make sure I had a proper job. For him, it was about pride. He’d followed his father and grandfather into steelmaking, and then had to pick himself up after redundancy from the industry he’d thought he had a job in for life. He’d managed to forge himself a new future as a painter and decorator. I remember that he never had a prouder moment than when he added “and Son” to his business cards and the signwriting on his van. He’d created a legacy for me, and enjoyed thumbing his nose at an industry that had cast him out. That he worked hard meant he could also hold his head up high in the Working Men’s Club, where he spent a lot of his spare time.

For me though, I still want to dance, but sometimes, we don’t get to do everything we want, and so I content myself with going as often as I can.

I finish the last brush stroke and, picking up my stuff, I head out to the van. I don’t mind the work. It isn’t hard, and I can usually listen to music on my earbuds. But today I’m restless. I want the working day to be over so I can go see Darcy. To find out how he really feels. I’ve never been to the Nationals, even just to watch, as they’re held in different cities every year. But this year they’re being held here, in Sheffield, at the City Hall. For Darcy to not even be able to compete in his home city would be an even bigger blow. I’m looking forward to watching the big competition, the most prestigious of the dancing calendar, and not being able to see Darcy is a disappointment to me, too.

I take a quick shower to wash off the grime of the day, scrubbing at the paint splatters I invariably end up covered in. I lament my nail polish is already disappearing. Usually, I can’t stand seeing it chipped and worn and would remove it completely, but today I have more pressing things on my mind. Same with my hair. It’s super short at the sides—sometimes I shave it—but the top is long and I usually style it over my eyes. Today, though, I grab a beanie and shove it on. It’ll have to do.

“Don’t you want any tea, love?” my mum calls, as I clatter down the steep, narrow staircase and into the kitchen, pulling my coat on as I go.

“I’ll grab something later.” I lean down and press a kiss on her cheek before pulling open the back door. I see Mrs Smith, our neighbour on the other side of Gran, opening our back gate into the yard. No one uses their front door round here. The front door usually means official business, or trouble, as my dad calls it. Everyone uses the back door. We’ve no garden. Steelworkers, who these houses were built for, didn’t have time to garden. The yard was for the privy. Ours has long since gone, with the introduction of indoor plumbing, and the brick building is used as a garden shed and the washing line. The wall between our yard and Gran’s had been removed years ago, and my mum makes use of the larger space by filling it with flower pots. The daffodils have more or less finished, but the crocuses are just starting to show themselves. There’s also a table and chairs—a metal bistro set that one of Dad’s customers was throwing out to make way for a more modern wicker set. Dad painted it in bright colours, and it lends a cheery feel to the yard.

“Hi Mrs Smith.” I call out to her from the top step. No doubt she’s heading round for a brew and a gossip with my mum.

“Hello, young Nick.” She’d started calling me “young Nick” when I would do odd jobs for her as a young boy—another way I could earn a bit towards paying for dance lessons. But I think she’ll be calling me young Nick forever, even though I tower over her now. “You still dancing?”

“Yes Mrs Smith, I am.” When I bounce down the steps, grab her hands, and twirl her around, she gives a girlish giggle. “Sorry, gotta dash. Mum’s inside if you want her.” I release her and turn towards Gran’s house.

Mrs Smith giggles again and heads up our back steps, calling out, “Doreen, you’ll never guess who I saw earlier.” I laugh at the comfortable predictability of it. I quickly check that Gran has everything she needs until Mum or Dad come round later, and head down the road.

I let the steepness of the hill carry me down at a fast walk, to the bus stop on the main road at the bottom. I can drive, but I don’t own a car. We only have Dad’s work van and he doesn’t often let me borrow it. I’m saving all my money to try to buy a house so I can move out. It’s a bit crowded at my parents’ with three adults in that space. I know that larger families did and still do occupy them, but it still seems like we all live on top of each other, and that’s one of the reasons I spend so much time out of the house or at Gran’s place. It’s also another reason why I don’t date. Not seriously, anyway. Not, bringing-a-guy-home type of seriousness. If I need to scratch an itch, I’ll go out to a nightclub. Maybe hook up there or at his place, if he has one. Not that I’ve found anyone I would want to take home with me yet, but then I don’t look either. Maybe when I save up enough money for a deposit and get my own place, I can think about it then. So, I manage without a car. We have a good bus service in the city anyway, so it’s not too much of an issue, and the bus that runs along the bottom of our street takes me to the dance school, anyway. I can walk it, but it takes thirty minutes and I don’t want the journey to be any longer than necessary. I’ll most likely walk back later, though, if it’s after the last bus has run.

I say hello to the couple of people also waiting for the bus, and they ask how I am and how my mum is, promising to call round soon. No doubt she’ll be going to see them, too. The friends’ network in our little suburb is very active.

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