Page 136 of Dancing Fools and All That Jazz
‘Shall we do the dance barefoot?’ Cath points to my feet, decorated with henna in my light sandals. ‘It would be such a shame to cover those ornate patterns.’
‘It would look more authentic,’ I reply.
‘Well, without Fay there’s no reason to wear ballet slippers…’ Bonnie bites her lip.
‘Yes, let’s go barefoot. Thank goodness I put nail varnish on my toes.’ Ruby pulls off her ballet shoes and all the other dancers follow suit.
We all get into position, holding our scarves high – I have an embroidered tangerine one for the occasion – and we run through the dance. The beat of the drums reverberates through the room and our bodies. In costume, the entire dance is lifted, and the rehearsal is excellent.
‘Now remember, it is to look a bit like a flash dance. I will give you the nod and you will grab your scarves, and all come from different directions to join me on stage. I cannot wait to see Jay’s face.’
‘You did not tell him?’ Ingrida looks surprised.
‘It is the only secret I have kept from him,’ I whisper in her ear.
Ma appears at the door and says it is time to go and greet our first guests, who are all gathered in the enormous community centre we have decorated for the wedding venue.
I look at myself in the mirror and check my teeth, which sparkle beautifully in contrast to my dark red lipstick. I have butterflies in my stomach. By the end of the weekend, Jay and I will be married. Finally. And I will have performed my dance on stage to hundreds of our adoring relatives.
36
The Second Funeral
It is a wet gloomy day. A small crowd of around fifty people shelter under their umbrellas outside the place of worship as the hearse arrives. The vicar of the pretty village church hosting the funeral gently ushers the guests into the sanctuary. Their brightly coloured dripping umbrellas gradually fill three buckets at the porch door. The congregants emerging from under the umbrellas wear equally bright clothing of every hue. It had been agreed: no black. Although a few had clearly not got the memo and self-consciously smooth down their black suits or skirts, muttering apologetically to anyone who will listen that they had not known.
The coffin is bedecked in bright yellow sunflowers. It is lifted and carried into the church.
‘I am the resurrection and the life…’ Reverend Prudence intones as she leads the way.
Several mourners follow behind the coffin. All but one, who is wearing a stunning dress suit of yellow and black echoing the flowers on the coffin, are attired in whitepin-striped trousers and matching waistcoats. Each holds a brightly coloured bowler hat to their chests, which matches a satin flower sewn onto each garment. One of their number is in a wheelchair – she holds a green bowler hat. She is pushed by a slightly chunky lady carrying an orange hat. They sit in the front pews reserved for their number.
Following the opening prayers, a large drop-down screen displays images of the deceased. She is shown in an array of dance costumes in various tableaux with others from her former dance group. The mourners smile and point to the photographs, chattering quietly under the upbeat jazz music that fills the church.
‘Oh, will you look at that one now.’ Only the front two rows could discern the soft Irish accent. ‘That was Expression Margate, wasn’t it? We all look so young.’
‘Well, you do. It’s a terrible photograph of me. Look at my hair. I look like I’ve been dragged through a hedge backwards.’
‘You daft eejit, that’s not your hair. It was the scarf headdress we wore for the peasant skirt number. Aw. Look at this one.’
‘Is that Hazel and Clarissa as teenagers?’ The black lady with closely cropped hair waves her red bowler hat towards the screen.
‘We were only fifteen years old there, Ruby,’ the sunflower-suited woman turns to smile, a tear slipping down her cheek. ‘We had only met a few months earlier.’
A beautiful auburn-haired lady holding a pink hat leans forward to pat the yellow-suited lady on her arm. ‘You both look wonderful,’ she says before blowing hernose a little too loudly.
‘Oh look. There we are in Paris,’ an Indian lady points. Her other hand, hidden beneath her yellow bowler, gently strokes the barely discernible bulge of her stomach.
‘I like this photograph very much. We are on dinner cruise boat. I think it is after Hazel say her speech. It was very good speech. I remember it as if she say it yesterday.’
‘We were all in tears then too, ladies. Hazel’s “Dancin’ Fool” speech. She meant every word. I think she knew then she did not have long… long to…’
A few more pin-striped-clad women reach out to touch the chief mourner.
‘I wish I had been there.’ The smallest and youngest of the costumed ladies nods her head sorrowfully.
The photographs give way to short video clips of the deceased and her laugh rings around the church. The ladies stop talking and quietly watch the clips as they sniffle and dab their eyes with tissues. The presentation closes on a still of her smiling face.
Reverend Prudence takes the lectern.
