Let's Dance by Frances Fyfield Page A

old for you, I would have said, but very respectable.’
    A lot of old flames, Isabel thought, even after I left with my inheritance. They all doused themselves, even the ones I brought home afterwards. First they were there, then they were gone. Have you got a big man, Issy? No, they all disappeared like smoke: I lived on my own. The sweet smell of rot in the orchard and the unwanted touch on her arm made memory part of a cycle. One in the dying phase, while fecund Joan was longing to impart the news of rebirth. The elbow was squeezed again, roguishly. The grin given with the squeeze was supposed to say, Come on, sister, you can tell me, while the school-prefect voice went on.
    â€˜Well done, Issy, I say. Must be a bit lonely for you out here on your own. Glad you’ve got yourself sorted out so quickly. Got to get a man on board. Never at a loss in that direction are you?’
    Issy, Bella. Each vision of her shortened name made her smaller, unless it was done with permission and affection. Patience in the face of unintended insult was something she was learning fast, so she kept her voice mild, mindful of the boy who was holding her hand.
    â€˜That’ll be Andrew Cornell. He’s a valuer. I’m sure he’s come to see Robert.’
    Joan giggled girlishly. ‘I don’t believe you,’ she said.
    They had traversed the lawn at the front quickly in response to the onset of darkness over dusk, no one noticing how weedy it was. Jack had his matchbox safely in his pocket. He sniffed the air like a dog.
    â€˜Nice,’ he announced. ‘Ever so nice here. Mum, why is Cathie screaming?’
    â€˜What?’
    â€˜Cathie. Screaming like that.’
    Joan broke into a run.
    W hen George came back with the dog the kitchen was a nightmare of suppressed screams, the adults frozen in terror. There were dirty dishes in the sink and the overhead light illuminated a series of harsh faces. For a moment he could have been back in his hostel, waiting for a fight to happen. Only Serena’s expression was blessed with contentment as she crooned to the baby in her arms, rocking it with rhythmic violence, squeezing it hard. Peripheral to this embrace was Robert, who was trying to unhinge her arms from round the baby’s chest while Cathie bawled for redemption. They were the screams of distress from a child beyond pique and discomfort and well into the realms of hysteria, face flushed, choking on tears.
    â€˜Let go!’ Robert yelled at his mother. She grinned, squeezed harder, raising bruises, hummed louder and moved her burden in the direction of the corridor. He had visions of the child’s ribs popping out through her ample flesh, her cries dying away into a series of gurgles, then silence. Two doll-like arms beat at Serena’s face; the thick, frail neck wobbled dangerously; the china-blue eyes formed slits and the two fat legs hung out of the bundle like helpless sausages with feet. The little boy laughed to see such fun: Jack wasbeside himself, yelping. Robert was desperate. Tears had formed in his eyes. He balled his right hand into a fist.
    â€˜Dance for your daddy …’ Serena crooned.
    â€˜Put her down! I’ll kill you!’ Joan’s voice was hoarse with threat.
    Serena took no notice. The baby’s screams descended to a steady howl of pain.
    Andrew appeared from nowhere, the last visible person, pushed Robert to one side.
    â€˜You look lovely today, Mrs Burley. Where did you get that hat? Isn’t it noisy? Shall I carry this for you? It is very, very heavy, isn’t it?’ He spoke loudly and firmly, kissed her on the left wrist, held out his arms beneath the child.
    Jack’s laughter fell into silence as his mother slapped him. The fridge hummed. They all watched. Mrs Burley smiled more widely than ever. Her arms opened with such abruptness that Andrew’s thin back bowed under the weight of Robert Burley’s daughter. George was behind