Page 17 of Dancing Fools and All That Jazz
The vicar of Andrew’s church had the temerity to telephone – yet again – the other week.
‘Hello, Fay. Prudence here. From St Mary’s. I was wondering how you are keeping?’
‘Perfectly fine, thank you, Reverend. But if you are calling to ask if I am returning to church, I can only reply in the negative.’
‘No, I just like to check in on you now and then to see if you are OK. Did you get my previous messages?’
‘I have been rather busy with work and my dance group. We are going to Paris for the finals of a large amateur dance competition.’
‘How marvellous. Would that be the same competition one of our congregation is dancing in? Her name is Ingrida.’
I chose not to say anything.
‘She is a nanny… to Neil Goodman. You may remember his wife, Maya. She sadly…’
‘Oh yes.’ I decided to engage with the vicar on this subject as it could throw more light on Ingrida’s circumstances. ‘There is an Ingrida in our group. A Latvian lady. She is also a nurse.’
‘Yes. That’s her. She is an absolute treasure.’
I say nothing. Ingrida tells everyone and anyone she isa live-in nanny – as if this were a badge of honour – but I suspect there is more to it than that. She and Neil attend the very same church where my Andrew felt quite at liberty to commit adultery with a foodbank volunteer, despite the teachings of the bible. If the sacrament of marriage is not taken seriously, I would not put it past another congregant to replace his deceased wife before she was cold in her grave. The basic commandments appear to have gone right out of the window at this so-say church.
‘Actually, Fay, I have asked Ingrida if she wants to come and live with my family. We have plenty of spare rooms at the vicarage.’
‘I see. Are you concerned for her reputation? Living with someone recently widowed?’
‘Goodness, no. It is just that she has no gap between nursing and nannying and it must be exhausting for her… Well anyway, Ingrida is a lovely soul, and we just want what is best for her. I know she adores dancing, and I can thoroughly recommend her to you as a friend, Fay. When you next see her, do say to her she is welcome to move in with us.’
I will certainly do no such thing; I do not intrude on other people’s privacy.
‘Yes, well, I must get on. Thank you for calling again, Reverend, but I must stress there really is no need. Goodbye.’
I contemplate what I know of Ingrida. She is polite and courteous. She even pays heed to me when I correct her English. Indeed, she seems extremely grateful to know the proper pronunciation, which is more than youcan say for Bonnie, who is a language hoodlum.
Ingrida’s dancing – as Clarissa will keep saying – is wonderfully fluid and elegant. It is down to her balletic training, I am sure. She appears to be a kind enough person and I suppose it takes someone with real empathy to nurse the dying. But what if we have her all wrong? I have read enough articles about those from East European countries cajoling unsuspecting Brits into marriage, no doubt hoping to gain British Citizenship and, after all, what better opportunity than nannying for a grief-stricken widower?
I think of Ingrida’s round, smiling face and how she always makes a point of saying hello to me at dance and I feel a little ashamed. As a well-read, sensible woman I should know better than to stereotype an immigrant. I resolve to cautiously extend the hand of friendship to Ingrida. As we will need to talk on subjects other than our domestic situations, I have borrowed a library book on Latvia. I read a few pages each day. Life appears hard there with a shockingly low birth rate and high emigration. The country, adjacent to Russia, is wet, flat, and full of forests.
Yes, I will converse with Ingrida about her home country. I have even learnt a few key words in her native Baltic tongue.Jais yes,neis no,labritis good morning and please and thank you areludzuandpaldies. She could teach me a few more phrases while we are away. I congratulate myself that this will be a good occupation of our time together when we are not dancing.
Ah, the dancing.
I find it hard to express the joy it brings me. I hadforgotten how exhilarating it was to learn the discipline of a new routine and perform with other competent women. I joined a dance troupe at college having learnt as a child at St Eulalia’s. Sister Josephine discovered I had an innate musicality when I was just a few years of age. Perhaps my parents were musical? Who knows? But I do know Sister Josephine would be immensely proud of me dancing on stage without a single person knowing about my deformities. She was the closest I had to a mother and showed me how to walk correctly and adjust my balance. She is one of the few nuns I truly miss.
I glance at the photograph of Edith and Bethan on the mantelpiece. Dressed in pink ballet costumes, they were only eight and seven years of age when they took part in the showcase. They were such sweet little girls, back then. So alike. They had been my pride and joy. Edith, in particular, excelled in ballet. She persisted with dance when Bethan began to take an unhealthy interest in skateboarding, of all things. I had high hopes for Edith – perhaps the West End? But that was before everything went horribly wrong… A deluge of distressing memories flood my mind.
It was high school that turned out to be unbelievably bad for them. My girls were polite and fairly obedient up until they got to Queensway High. I told Andrew we should have paid for the girls to go to St Clements. But no, despite being able to afford the fees, he sided with them when they refused to go to a secondary school without their primary school friends.
As the years went on, they rebelled, becoming rudeand uncooperative in every aspect of life. Nothing I did helped. I stopped their pocket money, forbade them to go out and sent them to their rooms more often than not. I should have realised they would run to their father who was weak and did nothing. I think back to the row that changed everything.
‘Your father will agree, you cannot go out without telling us who you will be with…’
‘We don’t know who we’ll be with!’ Bethan had shouted.
‘Fay, my dear, look it’s a party at a friend’s house. At least we know where they are going…’ Andrew, as always, sidestepped the issue.
‘Well, they cannot go out dressed like that. The Spice Girls wear more.’
Edith swore at me, so I told her she was grounded. She glared at me, grabbed her sister’s arm and headed for the door.
