No Dancing Tonight

She was disappointed; there’d be no dancing tonight.

The forlorn, dingy green hall was certainly large enough. There was a large, motionless mirror ball which promised so much, but the hall was filled with neat rows of seats. She sighed. No dancing.

                “You alright Maureen? You look...” Raymond smiled, his lugubrious face lifting so that his eyes scrunched up.

                “I’m fine Raymond, fine,” she patted his sleeve without thinking; it was the type of thing she’d have done with Ken.

“Sure?” There was concern, bit like the cocker spaniel they’d had, Rusty; it had this soppy look whenever it sensed something wrong. It annoyed her that he’d read something in her look, she was normally good at masking things. Forty years of marriage, two children and three and a bit grand-kids had taught her that.

“Now where shall we sit?” She’d learnt that deflection was the best distraction.

 

“You sure about this Mum?”

Maureen concentrated on George who was intent on painting his face with baked beans.

“Mum?” Lynn stopped washing up and turned round to look at her mum. Maureen put the spoon down. George decided it would be fun to see if he could stick it in his ear. Lynn dried her hands on a towel and leant back resting on the edge of the sink. “I’m worried about tonight. Are you ready?”

Maureen swivelled round on her chair to face her daughter. She smoothed her skirt out, placing her hands in her lap, right on top of left. She could feel the pressure of her wedding ring. “It’s a night out love. I’m entitled aren’t I?”

Lynn gave a reluctant ‘yes’.

“I know you find it difficult.” Maureen walked to her daughter, wrapped her hands in hers, and squeezed them. “If it was with the girls, you wouldn’t mind would you, so?”

Lynn looked up, “But Mum, it’s a blind date.”

“I’ve got to start somewhere.”

“But a blind date?”

“He comes on good recommendation.”

Lynn snorted, “I think that’s part of the problem, it’s your ladies who lunch who’ve set you up with this, and they can be, well, wicked.” Maureen hugged her daughter. She was right; her friends could be, well not wicked, but certainly naughty.

They’d been trying for months to pair her off. She’d stoutly resisted, but over time it got harder and harder to come up with excuses and then there was one who wasn’t one of their Sylvie cast offs, which was a definite plus, a friend of a friend. Widowed, like her, grand children, like her. Sylvie had checked him out. He’d phoned. Maureen gently put him off. He’d not given up, much like the cocker. Finally he’d called with tickets for this concert, he’d found out she liked big band music. She blamed Sylvie, she’d blabbed, she was sure.

“I’m just worried Mum,” Lynne whispered, “I don’t want you to...”

“Have fun?” Maureen stepped back and looked reproachfully at your daughter, “Enjoy myself?” Lynne looked sheepish. “Or are you worried that you’ve lost your baby sitter? Besides there might be dancing.”

“Mum, you know...”

“I know,” she caressed her daughter’s cheek, “I know. Dad...” the words didn’t come, “Oh is that the time, I must change.”

 

Raymond surveyed the room. He leant into her, his breath hot on her neck. Deftly he slipped his arm round her waist to guide her to the seat. She tensed.

“Seats aren’t reserved, so shall we go here.” He gave her a little push propelling her down the aisle toward the front. She turned and rolled neatly from his arm and then worked her way along the first empty row on the opposite side of the hall to where he’d been heading. Sure, it was petty, but she wanted some control.

She sat down and patted the seat next her. Raymond paused, looked to the two seats on the front row he’d been aiming for and dithered. He pointed. She made a show of not seeing his gesture. It was decided by a couple who plunked themselves in the places he’d been eyeing up. Raymond’s shoulders sagged. He waddled along the row, his stomach grazing the people in front. She patted the seat again and gave him a consoling smile, much as she would the cocker.

“Here’s nice,” she said, hoping it sounded warm.

He flopped into the seat and smiled weakly. He was going to say something but stopped himself with his mouth half open. She could see his fillings. He gave one of those non-committal noises, which in her experience, men were excellent at, as it neither conveyed approval or hurt. He produced a programme and buried his head in it.

She watched the seats fill. It was a mixed crowd; young people casual dressed, jeans, t-shirts, the odd one in smart work clothes, a suit, tie, jacket; couples in two classes, those draped over each other and those barely occupying each other’s space. There were the jazz aficionados, Ken had taught her to spot them; serious expression, sad eyes, crumpled jackets. No chance of them cracking a smile or cutting a rug, jazz was anything but frivolous. No dancing, that was clear. Nothing had been said; but the way Sylvie had suggested Raymond, the call about the concert and that in her mind a big band only meant one thing. And she was surprised to find a sense of anticipation, so she’d hoped.

She’d been pleased to find that Raymond was tall, had a bit of a paunch, but that was forgivable. He didn’t look like a dancer but size wasn’t necessarily a problem. She’d seen the bulkiest man float across the floor. She’d surreptitiously checked his shoes as they’d walked the car. He was wearing sensible shoes, black and scuffed, not like the two tone brogues Ken wore dancing, (so polished they dazzled in the reflected light) but perfectly suitable. If they’d been trainers they’d be no chance; how could you hope to feel the music through an inch of foam?

She closed her eyes. There was Ken on the door step, seven o’clock sharp on a Friday or Saturday, dressed immaculately. They’d walk hand in hand or catch a bus and end up at the Rialto, Regal, Palais, Ritz, Coliseum, dark caverns illuminated by a thousand mirror ball stars.

Raymond coughed.

“Sorry, drifted off,” she smiled, “Not being a very good,” the word stuck in her throat, “date.”

“Oh you’re fine.”
                There was pause.

“Thought there might be dancing,” she blurted.

“Dancing?” Raymond’s eyebrows nestled together, “Dancing? No. What gave you that idea?”

“Oh, nothing.”

 “Dancing? No defiantly not. Not with this band and what they’ve got on the programme.” He shoved an open page at her, “See? Anyway I’m not much of a dancer, more of a lumbering elephant, or so my daughter says,” he chortled. “No, this evening’s all about a celebration of the British jazz modernist movement, picking up on the Be-pop movement of the late 50s in America. Music to listen to, to make you think.”

She looked down at the programme. ‘Twist in Blue,’ ‘Red Rag,’ ‘Helter Skelter’, ‘Cubist Blues’. Where was ‘In the Mood’, ‘Moonlight Serenade’, ‘Night and Day’, music with melody and movement.

 “You OK Maureen? You look...?

“Fine Raymond, fine,” disappointment wrapped round her.

 “Call me Ray, all my friends do,” and he smiled a big, goofy smile that she wouldn’t have minded if it hadn’t been accompanied by Raymond placing his big, warm, slightly clammy hand on her knee. She stared at it, hard. With a splutter Raymond removed it, trying to pretend it was an accident. She looked at the stage with all the instruments propped up. After a suitable pause she turned back. Raymond was bright red.

She’d made her point, “So tell me about tonight,” she paused rolled the name round her palette, “Raymond.”

He hesitated, then the words began to flow. He talked with a passion which had its attraction. He talked about syncopation and free form structures, the balance between soloist and band. He waved the programme and pointed to bits of it. He told her how much he was looking forward to the evening. Ken had liked all types of jazz, from the scratchy records of Jelly Roll Morton, Louis Armstrong, the Duke and the Count right through to Miles Davis and into all kinds squeaks and, squawks which she just didn’t understand. Ken tried to explain but in the end he’d slip his headphones on and settle down in the chair, and she’d enjoy his serene peaceful expression and feel the same.

 “Oh,” Raymond was staring at her, he looked as if he’d just eaten something sour. “Oh, I didn’t mean to put you off, you know they draw on the classic canon from the 40s and 50s.”

“No Raymond,” she was blushing, he’d caught her in her own world, “I’m sure I’ll love it. Ken... my husband,” she swallowed, “always encouraged me to listen to a wide range, and this will be,” she searched for the right word and was disappointed that all she could come up with was “lovely.”

Raymond didn’t look particularly reassured. She was rescued by movement from the front of the hall, the band sauntered in. They were all dressed in black. One was under 35, several in their mid 50s the rest were over 60 easily. They all had that series jazz look. One, he wrestled his double bass into an upright position, was wearing sunglasses. He clambered on to his stool and then caressed the bass, as if greeting an old lover. The conductor, a scratty little red haired man scuttled to the front. He paused, waited until the band focused on him. Sunglasses at the back leant forward, licked his lips and silently dragged his bow across the strings of his bull fiddle. The conductor lifted his hand. It hung in the air. With a deep breath it came crashing down. The band lurched into five percussive beats; silence, then again, a jagged attack. The bass and drums laid down a rolling, rattling rhythm, a horn wailed, a trombone slid in. They fought, honking and tooting. With a tumble of notes the whole band rallied. The music zigzagged, an argument with no reason or logic. She sighed. There was no tune. She flicked Raymond a look. He was gone, his eyes were closed, his head was bobbing up and down, pink pin pricks flowering on his checks. His hands jerked and spiked on his lap. The cocker had moved the same way when it was sleeping. Chasing rabbits Ken said.

Maureen fumbled in her handbag carefully unwrapping a mint. Her phone was there, she pressed a button. The text icon proudly announced “You have no messages”. She sighed. She wished she’d taken Lynn up. (“Mum, how’s about I send you a text, give you a call or something. Family emergency or something, gives you an excuse to leave if you need to...want to.”) She shuffled in her seat. A saxophone had a solo, a jumble of notes as far as she could tell. Ken had tried to explain. He’d sat her down one wet Saturday, but despite his enthusiasm she didn’t understand. She needed a tune, something to sway to. He gave in, dug out some Artie Shaw and they’d ended up in each other’s arms, and well, the memory made her blush.

Her reverie was broken by a harsh rasp and then noise not unlike finger nails on a blackboard. She yawned, doing her best to stifle but failed miserably. She focused on the bassist, who was leaning precariously over his fiddle, any further and he’d fall of his perch. Sweat beaded on his face as plucked vigorously at his strings. The rest of the band skittered to a halt and suddenly it was just him, fingering and thrubbing. There were murmurs of appreciation from the band. Then a saxophone belched and it was tit-for-tat with the bass until the horns kicked in playing as if they heard an entirely different rhythm. Raymond shifted in his seat. She glanced discretely at him. He was slouched, his head nodding to the beat. The pink pin pricks had bloomed into one huge rosette that flowered across his cheeks. As she watched a tiny dot of droll surfaced on his bottom lip, it teetered and then rolled down his chin.

He was asleep.

She wiggled her wrist, turning her arm so she could see the time. The evening was barely half over. The band slammed to a stop. Raymond’s head lolled. The music rolled on. There was a gentle, rumbling snore from her right.

She looked round the room, taking in the nicotine patina of the walls, a plaque declaring some minor singer had performed here, the heavy green damask curtains, draped to hide the world beyond. She decided it was sad, a room missing its true purpose. The music slowly seeped though and to her surprise she realised that her foot was tapping. Somewhere in the morass of notes there was a melody. It rippled through the brass and was held by the reeds, the bassist had a beatific smile on his face. It warmed her. It was something you could’ve danced too.

And there was Ken, stick thin but proud in his two piece suit, a grin as wide as the Thames. He’d asked her out, what three times? Each time she’d made it quite clear he was not her type. But he’d pursued her, wooed her and she’d enjoyed the attention. It was when she’d seen him at the Pally she realised she’d have to act or lose him.

He was dancing with a girl she didn’t know. As they swirled and swung round the floor she was surprised to find herself jealous. He was nimble, precise; gracefully compensating for his partner’s deficiencies. As they span past she caught his eye, she made sure of that, pushing herself to the front of the huddle that ringed the dance floor. He’d come to her, the girl, whoever she was, never had a chance. The moment he slipped his arms round her she knew they’d never by another partner. And so did he.

They found a shared love; Glen Miller, Tommy Dorsey, Artie Shaw; he liked Duke Ellington with a passion, she wasn’t so sure. Then there were the crooners, Bing, Frank. When the children came they were confined to the front room on a Saturday night. They’d push the furniture back and dance to the gramophone, until her feet ached and they’d collapse into the arm chair, a happy, hot mess. When the children were older they’d joined in until their music tastes had gone their separate ways. Then it was the two of them again and she relished the intimacy of a slow waltz as Ken visibly shrank before her until there was nothing left but the memory of the warmth of his kiss.

The conductor was like a manic traffic policeman, pushing and pulling the band. They were chasing the tune. It span giddily about them until it reached its climax, then silence as the last note ebbed away. The applause jolted Raymond upright. He clapped louder and longer than he should’ve done, turning enthusiastically to her: “What d’ you think?”

“I liked the way it ended,” pause, “Raymond, reminded me of my time when I was a girl and...”

“I thought the beginning was brilliant.” Raymond launched into an animated description. He didn’t see the uncertainty in her eyes, didn’t ask her opinion; it was a torrent of words as off putting as the music. She wondered how Lynn was, would George be in bed? It would’ve been nice to read him a story. She needed tea bags, she must remember that and it was her turn to book the table for the ladies who lunch. Oh, she’d have to have an explanation for tonight. How would she tell Lynn about it all? She could see the smug ‘I told’ you smile. Her attention snapped back as the band wandered back into the hall, she’d forgotten she’d got another half to endure. Raymond had stopped talking.  He was wriggling in his seat

 “Bum’s gone a bit numb,” he whispered, “You OK? Really unbelievable this is free.”

It took a moment for Raymond’s words to percolate through, “Free?”

 “It’s a demo night, like a play before it formally opens; they’ recording  a concert tomorrow night, for the radio.  Alright for a first date, particularly ‘cos your friend Sylvie couldn’t make it, you know,” then he winked, a big, theatrical stage wink.

She didn’t know what to say.

“Here we go again,” he nudged her as the conductor to his position, “You alright? You look a bit odd Maureen.”

“I’m not a cheap date Raymond. Nor am I replacement. And I wanted dancing, that’s what I wanted.” There was a cascade of thoughts and emotions. (Later that night, sitting with Lynn and the kitchen table, her hands curled round a mug of tea she couldn’t remember it all. Lynn squeezed her hand tightly and tutted in a way that said I told you so.)

She was standing looking down at his reddening, wide eyed pudgy face. “Maureen, Maureen, what you doing’? They’re going to start.” And in the hush of anticipation she knew the whole room knew. There were so many words piling up laced with the cold appreciation that this was a cheap date, that she’d be well and truly set up. The anger was pressing at her wanting to burst. She bit her lip, hard.

“Maureen, sit down,” he implored, pawing at her jacket sleeve, much like the cocker when it wanted food.

She’d wanted a special night, but they’d been no flowers, nothing to eat. He’d not shown any interest in her and she’d had to sit through this raucous mess.

“Please Maureen, they’re waiting,” he hissed desperately.

All she’d wanted was to dance. Like she’d done with Ken.

“Please.”

She looked round. The conductor, his baton raised, was staring at her. Sunglasses was leaning forward, the glasses pushed down his nose. She felt the attention of the room. She swallowed hard.

“Maureeeeen.” Her name echoed round the room.

“Sorry,” she murmured slumping back into her chair. As she folded into her seat the band kicked in five, spikey, dark beats. She closed her eyes tightly. Ken took her hand, reeled her into his arms and span her onto the dance floor.