Page 5 of Not Strictly Ballroom

“Well, we shall see. All that work for nothing, though!” She sits back, looking peeved, and I fear she’s gearing up for another round. I can’t take any more. I need to get out of here. Do something different for once. I can’t listen to it for a moment longer.

I rise and start gathering the empty plates and dishes, taking them over to the dishwasher. I place my hands on the counter and lean heavily on them, taking a few deep breaths. The overwhelming air of perpetual disquiet is more than I can take. I need to get out of the house, to get some air.

“I’m going out,” I announce, pushing off from the counter and turning round to face them.

“Out? Where?” my mum exclaims. She isn’t concerned about me, more that she’ll lose an audience. I pity my dad sometimes, but he always seems content, and I think he likes to spend more time in the kitchen nowadays. It’s his sanctuary. He gets up, and brings some more dishes over and sets them on the counter.

“I’ll load the dishwasher. You go on out,” he says, then leans close and speaks quietly, so only I can hear. “She’ll calm down in a few days, don’t worry.”

“Thanks Dad,” I say equally quietly, and he nods in acknowledgement.

Nick rises. “Thank you for supper, Mrs Franklin, Mr Franklin. It was a treat, as always.”

“You’re welcome dear.” My mum smiles at him.

“Next time I’ll teach you how to make a red-wine sauce,” my dad tells him.

“I’ll look forward to it, Mr Franklin,” he replies, and we head towards the back door, grabbing coats as we go. The back door leads out onto a small balcony with steps down to the ground level, so we don’t have to go back through the studio to get out.

“How do you do that?” I ask, as I follow him down the steps.

“Do what?” he asks.

“Just seem to be able to talk to anyone?”

“I don’t know.” He shrugs. “I guess I spent so much time as a kid listening to my mum and her friends talk about anything and everything.”

I reach the backyard and tip my head back, spreading my arms wide. I embrace the feeling of not being cooped up in the house, listening to my mother go on like a stuck record. I just hope the batteries will wind down soon. I let out a sound—half groan and half cry.

“Do you want to go up to the park and shout it out?” Nick asks.

I agree, and we head on to the street and along the shops.

“Hold on,” Nick says when we reach the convenience store, and he ducks inside. I find him in front of the chocolate stand.

“Well, we did leave before dessert.” He makes a mock sad face when he catches me watching him and I chuckle. Nick has the worst sweet tooth I know. He hovers over the assortment of chocolates for a few more seconds before selecting a couple of bars and a bag of gummy sweets.

We turn towards the park. At the end of the shops is a piece of wasteland. There’s been nothing on it for as long as I can remember, it’s just full of overgrown brambles and litter, but now a hoarding has been erected. I stop and look up at what it says. “Land acquired for development,” is in large writing across it, along with the developer’s name: D. H. Gregory.

“How long has that been there?” I ask.

“I’ve no idea.” Nick stands beside me, the sweets already open. He offers them and I take a cola bottle. “I’ve not seen it before.” He stuffs a sweet into his mouth.

“Hmm. What do you think they’re building?” I muse, mostly just asking out loud.

“Houses probably,” Nick offers, seemingly unconcerned. “Aren’t the government always going on about how they’re going to build so many new homes?”

“I guess.” I shrug, dismissing the small, disconcerting feeling I have at just not having noticed it before. “C’mon.” I dip a hand into Nick’s sweet bag, not at all surprised that they’re mostly gone. I’ve no idea how he can demolish a bag so quickly. I pull out a fried egg and pop it in my mouth, chewing slowly as we make our way to the park.

Dusk has given itself over to full dark as we make our way through the gates and follow the path. We leave the streetlights far behind at the entrance, but we’ve no need of a light to find our way. We’ve been following the same route for as long as we’ve been friends. Our eyes soon adjust to the gloom and we can see well enough. The tarmacked path wends its way through the grassed area, a small copse, and a bridge over a brook until we emerge at the top of a hill that overlooks parts of the city. There is a play park, and we enter it, sitting side by side on a set of swings. We idly swing backwards and forwards for a few minutes, enjoying the silence.

“Ready?” Nick grins at me.

I nod, beaming back at him. We rise and then stand on the swings, bending our knees to push them to get them moving, daring each other to go higher. We’ve been doing this for years when something has got either of us down, and I feel a warm sense of gratitude that Nick suggested it.

We swing as high as we can, and when we reach the apex of the swing, Nick lets out a howl. The next time, I holler in answer. We continue like that for a while, each cry getting louder and more frenzied, until we sound like a couple of demented madmen. Eventually, I have nothing left, and I let the swing slow until I can jump off. I’m panting and my legs feel wobbly, so I collapse onto the grass for a rest. I lie on my back and hear Nick drop next to me.

“Feel better?” he rasps, clearly as out of breath as me.

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