Learning to Dance by Susan Sallis

that he was still on this earth was enough.
    After some time, she stood up, collected her things and went to the bathroom, showered, and returned to her room. And then, and only then, did she ring William Whortley.
    The phone in the Surrey house – genuine Elizabethan with stables at the back – rang a lot of times before the answering machine kicked in. She left a brief message asking whether William had any idea of Jack’s whereabouts. No mention of the rerun of his cartoon strip. Just a bare question with her phone number. And then she went to bed.
    She slept fitfully. She thought at one stage that someone tried her door, but she had locked it and left the key in. She slept again. This time she dreamed of Matt. He was asking someone where Toby had gone. And then he was running along a road, absolutely straight with no beginning and no end. He was wearing shorts, and she watched his beautiful legs pumping rhythmically and his arms punching the air with each stride. He looked round and saw her and shouted, ‘I’ll find him for you, Mum. He’ll be with Dad!’
    She woke up sweating and lay straight, telling herself over and over again that it was a dream, absurd, ridiculous, like all dreams. It was no good, she could not sleep. She got out of bed intending to make some tea. The phone rang.
    It was William Whortley.
    ‘Judith. My dear. We’ve just come in from the theatre and I listened to the messages. I hoped you knew where Jack was. I have no idea, and I am worried about him because he hasn’t been himself, has he? I’ve emailed him, sent him texts.’
    She said blearily, ‘I think he’s with Toby – one of our sons – not sure. If he is he won’t be able to text. Poor signal.’
    He laughed; a gust of relief that filled her ear. ‘Thank God. Judith, I can tell you now. I thought he might be on his deathbed! I expected something to come through from him: a skull – alas, poor Yorick – you know the sort of thing. Your message sounded desperate, somehow.’
    ‘Bad hair day.’ It was one of Jack’s sayings, and convinced him more than anything. He became bluff and avuncular.
    ‘Don’t worry, my dear. You know what he’s like. First one to hear from him gets in touch, all right?’
    ‘Sounds good.’ She was responding like Jack again. He said goodnight, and she said, ‘Sleep tight’, and they rang off. She sat on the edge of the bed. It was just past midnight. The Whortleys had come in from the theatre and would be having nightcaps and going to bed. And she had done with sleeping, yet was still tired.
    She made the inevitable tea and drank it slowly, remembering her dream and the rattle of her bedroom door before that. Hausmann had got away from all the sudden interest in the sitting room and followed her to make sure she was all right. She pictured him cradled in Jack’s arms, ill and haunted by ghosts. He had probably run to Australia in search of solace, and had found it with Jack. Jack was good at solace. Jack had always been good at solace.
    She refused to weep; weeping could become a habit. And she refused to stew in her own juice. She put on her dressinggown and then wrapped herself in the duvet, suddenly realizing how cold it was. Then she pocketed her key and went along the landing towards the Long Gallery. The heavy old double doors were unlocked. She pushed them open clumsily, duvet slipping down, another rush of cold air finding her shoulders. She got through somehow and closed the doors carefully, then hoisted the duvet almost over her head. She looked down the length of the gallery; it was flooded with moonlight. It was breathtaking.
    She waited for some time, not even looking, simply waiting for her perceptions to settle into this new dimension. Nothing was defined. Because she already knew that the display units were set at angles and that every flat surface held the Hausmann paintings, she could start from there. But the silver-grey light showed few details; the Long Gallery itself