Page 4 of Not Strictly Ballroom

Luckily, the bus is on time and we pile on. I sit, willing it to go faster, and ignore my knee jiggling in impatience. As soon as it stops at the right place, I erupt from it and walk as fast as I can up the road to the Franklin School of Dance.

The Franklins are dance, certainly in this corner of the city, and are well known throughout the whole county. Sheila and Arnold Franklin had been very successful dancers in their youth, and set up the school when they settled down to start a family. The building was erected in the seventies and is at one end of a small parade of shops. It has a couple of large dance studio rooms, a kitchen, toilets and showers, and a reception room with a small office off it. Upstairs is a large apartment that the Franklins—Sheila, Arnold, and Darcy—live in. Darcy’s sister Claire, older than him by a couple of years, lives elsewhere in the city. She’d decided that she wasn’t going to stay in the family business of dance, and went to work for a media and events company. The shops on the parade are a strange mix of convenience store, pizza place, hairdresser, and vape shop. The rest are empty or boarded up. It has certainly passed its heyday.

“Nick! Nick!” Sheila’s wail greets me as I enter the reception room looking for Darcy and only finding his mum instead. “What are we going to do?”

“I don’t know,” I reply. “Where’s Darcy?”

“In his room, sulking. Yes, go talk some sense into him. He says he won’t dance at the Nationals even if we do find another partner for him. Tell him he must dance.” I frown at her pushiness, but it’s not really surprising. I head towards the door marked “Private,” that leads upstairs. I close it behind me with Sheila’s final remark following me though. “And tell him there’s a class in ten minutes.”

I track Darcy down in his room. He, too, is still living at home, part of the same generation for whom home ownership seems unattainable. He is sitting on his bed, knees drawn up, his bear—Bearlero—locked tightly in his arms. I bought it for him a few years ago for his birthday, laughingly telling him he could pretend it was me when I wasn’t there. Trust Darcy to name him after a dance. That he went to it for comfort sends a warmth blooming in me. I don’t take time to register it, and the feeling is doused by his dull eyes and slumped shoulders. He doesn’t even look up as I enter, seemingly staring at a point on the wall opposite. I sit down on the bed next to him, shuffling back to lean against the wall. I put an arm round him and he leans into my side, still not looking at me, still no words. One reason why Darcy is my best friend, apart from our love of dance, is that he doesn’t mind this closeness. I’m not sure most straight guys would be okay with their gay friend putting their arms round them and holding them close without thinking something of it. But Darcy has always accepted me for who I am, never questioned it, or my motives. He always seems just as comfortable hugging as I am, and it’s never awkward.

He doesn’t speak for a long moment, and I don’t ask him anything, allowing him the comfort of being tucked into my side, processing his own thoughts.

At length he sighs. “I’m done with all this.”

I’m sure he doesn’t mean what he’s saying. The Darcy I know would rather stop breathing than give up dancing. I squeeze him a little tighter.

“I mean, I just don’t think I can go back out there again. I don’t feel it anymore.”

I look at him and he tilts his head towards me, dejection weighing down the corners of his mouth.

“Give it time. You’ll find someone to dance with. It’ll work out.”

He gives a half-hearted shrug. “Now you sound like my mum.”

I slap my hand to my chest. “You wound me, D.” It raises a slight chuckle from him. I proceed, in the best imitation I can do of his mum’s tinny tones. “Darcy Franklin, you get back out there and you dance, do you hear me?”

I see the faintest glimmer of a spark in his eyes, and he presses his lips together as if to suppress a giggle.

“Darcy, get down here now. You have a class.” I feel him shudder as her real, steel-honed voice booms up the stairs.

“I could never do it that loudly,” I say, and he huffs a small laugh. I take my arm from round his shoulders, scoot forwards on the bed, and then look back at him.

He tips his head back and bangs it against the wall. “Urgh. I really don’t feel like doing this right now. Can’t they just let me wallow in my misery a little longer?”

That he shows a bit more spirit pleases me, as that’s more the Darcy I recognise.

“You know that if you don’t appear in approximately thirty seconds, she’ll be up here giving you ‘the speech,’” I say conspiratorially.

That finally gets me a smile—a small one, but I’ll take it. Sheila’s speeches are as legendary as they are awful, and always delivered at full volume.

He sighs resignedly and I hold out a hand.

“Come on, I’ll help you.” I would help anyway. I always do if I’m around. I learned early on that if I stayed around and helped in the classes, I’d get extra dance practice time. Over the years, I’ve learned both male and female parts, as there were never enough partners to go around and being able to do both helps. I’m almost as much of a fixture at the dance school as the sign above the door. He takes my proffered hand and I pull him up before we head downstairs to stave off his mum coming to find him in person.

I get through the beginners and improvers classes without really taking much in. I certainly don’t remember any of them. Except for Nick’s help. His unwavering support and ready smile charming everyone, young and old alike. I don’t know how he does it. He looks ridiculous dancing in his beanie, which he refuses to remove, claiming his hair isn’t fit to be seen. He’s always been like that, taking care over his appearance. I’m far more relaxed about mine, unless I’m getting ready for a competition of course, but most days I run my fingers through my hair and that’s as good as it gets.

The last customers are leaving, and Mum’s just finishing up the private lesson. She’s been teaching a couple who are practising for their wedding-day dance. We get a lot of couples like that, wanting to make that first dance memorable on their special day.

Dad has already gone upstairs. The arthritis in his knees prevents him from dancing anymore, so he normally chauffeurs us to competitions, and does a lot of the cooking and other household chores.

“Nick, will you stay for supper?” my mum asks. He often stays for something to eat after classes, but today I see him waver for a second. He probably thinks my mum will keep up her current complaints about Julia and the Nationals. It is likely, so I mouth a “please” at him, and see the corner of his mouth twitch before he turns back to my mum. “I’d love to, Mrs Franklin. It smells delicious. What is it tonight? Is it Mr Franklin’s famous mac ’n’ cheese?” He’s a consummate charmer. My mum leads him upstairs while I lock up the studio. When I join them in the kitchen a few minutes later, he’s already sitting on one of the stools at the breakfast bar, beer in hand, talking to my dad about the best way to make cheese sauce. I grab a beer from the fridge and then start setting the table in the dining part of the open-plan living space.

My mum doesn’t disappoint in her predictability throughout supper, and continues to prattle on at length about the situation. I don’t bother joining in or, even worse, offering an opinion. There’s no point, and it just prolongs the diatribe. My shoulders sag as the sombre hues of desolation settle over me again and I stare down at my food, not tasting any of it, until I feel the bump of a knee against my leg. Only Nick is sitting close enough to do that. I look up and he gives me a small smile. My mouth twitches in response and I’m rewarded with a bigger smile. He bumps my leg again, but doesn’t move it away this time, and I feel the pressure of it, lending me strength and fortitude. I’m grateful and can finish the rest of my dinner. At length, my mum runs out of breath, or rather, things to say, at least for now.

“What do you think, Nick?” she asks him, and he looks up from his plate, startled, as if he were miles away.

“I . . . err, Mrs Franklin, I think it will all be alright,” he offers tentatively. I don’t think it matters what he says as long as it’s a general agreement.

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