arc, and disappeared beneath her cloak. Jo could think of nothing to say, and in silence watched her leave.
Some time later, when he had finished the bridle, he went to Stormâs stable. The animal made a small welcoming noise. Jo remembered the night of his birth: a wicked night, thunder, lightning, rain through the roof, the lot. Now, running his hand down the black line of Stormâs spine, came disquieting thoughts of the emptiness of tomorrow. But soon, because he had an orderly mind in which optimism swiftly followed upon melancholy, he began to imagine the summer ahead: the record crowds, the happy children, the sounds of sea and laughter â all the pleasures that Jo had learned come every year in the donkey business.
Sudden Dancer
âThereâs not much point, far as I can see,â said Joan Cake, âkeeping on going to these things. With someone who canât dance, that is.â
âYou enjoy yourself,â said Henry.
âIâd enjoy myself more if I could dance with my husband.â
âYou enjoy the outings.â
âItâs not the same.
âI couldnât get my feet to dance, no matter what.â Henry sighed.
He and Joan sat together on the late bus home, their bodies rolling slightly, used to the journey. They were splattered with rain. From the hem and neck of Joanâs mackintosh sprouted frills of pink net. Her hair, piled up in meringue-like curls, was covered with a transparent plastic hat. Her mouth was down.
âI donât like to remind you,â she said with a small sniff, âbut when youâve been champion at something, once, you donât like to have to retire before youâre ready. You donât like to have retirement forced upon you.â
âYou dance with plenty of others,â pointed out her husband. âYouâre never wanting for partners.â
He took her arm, as the bus drew up at the stop. He liked to think the descent from the bus might deflect her train of thought.
âNot the same as having someone you can always rely on,â retorted Joan, stepping recklessly into a puddle and soaking the toes that pudged through the straps of her golden sandals. âThe last waltz, this evening. There was no one to do the last waltz with me, was there?â
âI knew thatâs what was getting you down.â Henry was sympathetic. âStill, you had a lovely foxtrot, just before, you said.â
Home, glittering mackintoshes hung side by side in the narrow hall, Joan smoothed the skirt of her bulbous pink dress.
âOnly three months till the Christmas Ball,â she said. âThat should be a big do, if itâs anything like last year.â
âCertain to be,â agreed Henry, dread in his heart.
Joan straightened herself, punching the rhinestones on her bosom.
âIf we never went to anther dance, it wouldnât make a mite of a difference to you,â she shouted. âI shall have to think about a new dress.â She knew the last suggestion, at least, would provoke her mild husband: he hated the very idea of anything new in the way of dresses.
âThat oneâs very nice,â he said, sadly scanning the mass of pink. âItâs always been my favourite.â
âHuh! Not for a Christmas party.â
She paused, suddenly feeling all the despair of being wasted: all afternoon setting her hair, ironing her dress, doing her face, and for what? For a disappointing evening dancing with dull old men, and now this late-night confrontation with a husband who did not know the meaning of the word appreciation.
âI wish you could
try,â
she said.
Henry coughed. He longed to go to bed. After a dance, this was always a long ordeal, what with the ungluing of the false eyelashes, and the stuffing of tissue paper between each layer of the pink net. He tried to be patient.
âThere are some things a person canât bring himself to do,â he said.
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