Page 17 of Waiting for a Bright New Future

“Dancing?” A streak of fear ran through him. “What kind of dancing?” Dancing as a student, in the dark, in the middle of a drunken crowd when everyone had had a few beers was good. But not now. Not with a virtual stranger; a woman he hardly knew. He was too old and set in his ways to consider any sort of dancing. Dancing was not in his plans for a bright new future.

At that moment an old Blackberries hit started on the radio.

“This sort of dancing!” Florence was on her feet, twirling around the kitchen floor and singing along to the music, drowning out the recording.

Suddenly she and her clothes didn’t look too colourful or too garish. Singing and dancing, Florence looked completely natural. Movement and music came to her as easily as skulking in the shadows came to Stuart. He was mesmerised by the way the supple movements of her torso reflected the rise and fall in the volume of the song, the way the rhythm from the radio reflected in the rhythm of her limbs and by the way the expression on her face shone with absolute happiness.

Stuart was envious. He didn’t want to sing and dance, but he wanted that happiness. He wanted to feel it inside him and he wanted others to recognise it in him. But this was one of those wishes that began in your head as a small boy on December the first. You wished with all your heart for Santa to bring the biggest train set in the toy shop window on Christmas Eve. You told Santa in his town centre grotto, with Mum sitting beside you. On Christmas morning, you knew immediately the box was too small. It was a train set but on a very small scale. Mum and Dad were looking at you hopefully, as though they had a vested interest in the outcome of the presents Santa brought. Robert and George made the condescendingoohsandaahsof older brothers. Everyone wanted this tiny railway set to be good enough for you. And you had to pretend it was.

“Do you like it?” Mum asked, kneeling beside you.

“Yes, thank you to Santa.”

There was a collective release of breath in the room and the day continued, but with a large lump of disappointment already filling your stomach before Christmas dinner appeared. If Stuart tried to reach for Florence’s brand of happiness, disappointment was bound to follow, just like it had when he’d tried to reach for the train set.

“Join me!” Florence paused and held out both hands towards him.

He wanted to follow her lead. He imagined himself with her confidence, her voice and her magical way of blending with the music and allowing it to enhance her. If he tried, he would fail and she would be a witness to it.

“It’s your era. You said so yourself.” Her feet were moving again. While that music played, she couldn’t keep still. It was her job but it also enhanced and fulfilled her. “Have a go. It’s joining in and letting go that matters. There’s no one watching.”

Incorrect, he thought to himself,the best dancer that I’ve ever met is watching and I will have to face her every morning over toast and remember how I resembled a sack of potatoes when dancing in the kitchen.

She came right up to him and took both his hands in hers.

A weird but not unpleasant feeling travelled up each arm. Florence’s eyes looked suddenly surprised and he wondered if she was sharing the same addictive sensation. It was akin to the glow of whisky trickling down the throat and reaching a sweet spot within. The sort of glow you always wanted more of. But however much he had, it wouldn’t give him dancing feet.

“No!” He spoke louder than he intended.

Florence stopped swaying and took a step back, an expression of shock and hurt on her face.

Chapter Twelve

Florence switched the music to Radio 4 and walked out of the room. A bright candle flame had been extinguished, leaving only semi-darkness. Regret hung on the fringes of Stuart’s mind.

He wondered about the electoral register — would she stay long enough to add her name to it? He was merely her landlord, not her educator nor her Henry Higgins. He couldn’t expect her to go to a polling station if he wouldn’t even dance in his own kitchen.

Later, Florence came downstairs in her stage outfit. This was bigger and brighter than her everyday clothes, but with the advantage that there were no colours battling furiously against each other. She stood in the kitchen doorway as Stuart stirred a pan of homemade carrot soup for his tea. In the overhead fluorescent light, her eyeshadow sparkled with metallic bronze glitter, her extra-wide belt glowed with the warmth of gold and the white catsuit looked like something from a washing-powder advert. All her curves were evident but covered tastefully while maintaining her attractiveness.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “This is your house and I shouldn’t have been so forceful about getting you to do something outside your comfort zone.”

Stuart shrugged. It was obvious that Florence thought he was boring. Did it matter? Not a jot to anyone in the big outside world. But to Stuart, what his lodger thought was beginning to matter a lot.

“We’re like chalk and cheese, us, aren’t we?” she continued. “Probably no bad thing if a little bit of each of us rubs off on the other. But best not to force it, eh? I’ve survived all these years without voting and you’ve got this far without letting your hair down with a song and dance. Truce?”

Stuart held back from shaking her hand. Her words were a seed of disappointment. Agreeing to the truce felt like waving goodbye forever to his chance at the happiness he’d seen on her face. He didn’t want to bang the door shut on that.

“I’d still like the chance to convince you of your electoral responsibilities.”

She frowned and then grinned. “In that case I think we’ve got ourselves a deal. I’ll listen to your persuasion but you have to sing and dance.” She looked at her watch. “No time now but tomorrow it’s a date!”

They shook hands.

“One more thing,” Florence continued. “I was going to ask you earlier but with us falling out, the moment didn’t come. I could do the cleaning for you. I’ve plenty of time during the day but you’re in and out with your carer visits. And when you’ve cleaned up for other people you probably don’t fancy getting stuck in here. What do you think?”

If this was a criticism of his standard of cleaning, Florence had more diplomacy than Stuart had given her credit for. “Is there something wrong? Tide mark round the bath? Dust on the skirting boards?”

“No, no. Nothing. I just thought it might help. A woman’s touch and all that.”

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