The Lavender Touch
by
Michael
Graeme
I've never felt so
embarrassed as I did on that particular evening - the
evening I decided to take the plunge. I'd been steeling
myself for weeks you see - forever unfolding that
dog-eared advert from my wallet, to read the words just
one more time:
Learn to Dance - Beginners Night....
"Dancing!" my father had said in bewilderment.
"Why can't you go to the pub like everyone
else?"
It wasn't even as if I cared for dancing. But when you're
a shy young man without the easy comfort of friends, the
pubs and disco's aren't for you. And besides, I was on
the lookout for romance - not just any romance, mind! I
was searching for a quiet, modest beauty with the power
to soothe my tortured soul. Girls like that are the stuff
of dreams. They don't waste their time in pubs and
discos, do they?
I needed to look elsewhere - somewhere off-beat and
different. So here I was in Riley's Dance Hall, an old
attic above a supermarket - the whole place in motion, a
kaliedescope of soft colour, all moving to the strict
three-four tempo of a scratchy record-player - a place in
motion that is, except for me. I was quite still, sipping
nervously at my orange juice and longing to be somewhere
else.
"Partners not needed," the advert had said. So
they were bound to pair me up with someone weren't they?
I mean, that is how you dance isn't it? You take a young
lady's right hand in your left. Then you rest your right
hand on her waist. And you dance!
Most people had decided not to risk it though. They'd
brought their own partners just in case. But there had
been this one girl - small and quiet looking with deep,
dark eyes. She'd come with friends, all bright and bubbly
- eager for fun and like me she'd gazed anxiously around
the room, searching for a partner.
For a moment I'd thought: "This is it!" Our
eyes had met, just like in the movies and I'd felt my
heart leap. But as I'd taken my first bashful step
towards her I'd been swept aside by a hulking, dark
haired man equally desperate not to be left out.
So there they were, the whole class having learned the
first four steps of a waltz, putting it into practice on
the floor - one mad giggling throng and me looking on
from a corner table.
That's when the dance mistress caught my eye - Miss
Riley, a very trim, very upright old lady with white hair
pulled back into a severe little bun. They say she'd been
a competition dancer in her time and that ballrooms the
world over had thrilled to her performance.
"Not dancing, young man?" she said - her prim
expression melting into a sympathetic smile.
"Not tonight," I replied quietly.
"No partner, eh. Ah well, you mustn't let that stop
you. "She held out a long, boney hand and, with a
tilt of her head, she coaxed me onto the floor.
At first, I felt nothing but humiliation - everyone else
dancing with partners their own age and me with someone
old enough to be my grandmother! But Miss Riley was such
a sweet and gentle a soul, it was impossible not to be
charmed by her.
"No...No....," I can hear her say, as she poked
my feet into place. "One two three....Slow two
three....No..No...!"
She was a good teacher and thinking back, I learned more
that evening than any of them. But my heart wasn't in it
and I spent the whole time straining to catch a glimpse
of the dark eyed girl I'd come so close to partnering. I
felt the room pulsating with life. I saw the smiles and
sensed the joy of every person in it and yet I've never
felt so alone in all my life.
When it was over, we spilled out onto the quiet street,
the night ringing to the cheery parting of new found
friends. I hung back and watched them scatter. The
hulking man was slapping someone's shoulder in hearty
farewell, tipping his head back and laughing loudly at a
shared joke. Meanwhile, the dark eyed girl skipped
lightly across the road - a bright butterfly, arm in arm
with her friends.
Then I watched him swing up the steps into the Queens
Head. I took comfort in that. He was a man out for fun, I
reckoned and not romance. Perhaps he'd pick someone else
next week. Perhaps he'd have no choice, if I got there
first!
I was early next time, giddy from thinking about her all
week. Her friends had arrived - all flushed with
excitement, searching out their partners from the week
before.
He was there too, oozing swarthy charm while his steely
eyes twinkled and scanned the room. I held his gaze for a
moment - my faint heart sinking at the sight of him.
Then the crowd parted and there she was, radiant - her
eyes glowing with innocent wonder at the lively
atmosphere. I think we both saw her at the same time and
we each made our move, taking her by surprise. He pressed
on and so did I. But there was something undignified
about the whole thing - I mean what was I to do? Rush
over and forcibly snatch her from him? Would it not be
better if she chose freely. If she and I were meant for
each other, I reasoned, then my quiet dignity would
surely triumph over his blustering brawn.
She looked at me and smiled beautifully.
"Yes!" I breathed.
But then her eyes slid away and she held out her hand to
him. Perhaps she sensed I was less likely to cause a fuss
at being passed over. He grinned back at me - pleasantly
mind.
"No hard feelings?" he said.
"Not at all," I replied with a careless shrug
before heading once more for the cover of the deep
shadows and the humiliation of my corner table. Curse the
man! If he hadn't been so pleasant, it would have been
easy to hate him.
"Still not dancing?" It was Miss Riley.
"Come on then," she said. "Let's see what
we remember........"
Week after week, I returned with foolish optimism, only
to see my dream-girl becoming ever friendlier with the
handsome hulk. And each time it was Miss Riley who
rescued me from the depths of my inevitable despair.
"Ah, you're dancing fine, tonight," she would
say and as the weeks passed I realised she was right.
Gradually, I became less of a gangly youth, moving
differently - more confidently. Somehow I'd begun to feel
the music and the dancer in me. In time, I became quite a
showoff, taking the lead with daring steps. It was as if,
by some magic on the dance floor, I could express myself
without words and shake-off that old straight-jacket of
shyness.
Then one evening I was sitting at my usual table when my
dream came true.
"My partner's not turned up," she said,
hovering before me. "Would you mind?"
"....Why...Not at all..." I stammered clumsily,
suddenly breaking out into a sweat.
The first crackly bars of a waltz filled the air as we
walked onto the floor. Timidly, I took her hand, fumbling
a little as I struggled to catch the rhythm. Then....we
were off.
I still remember the blue dress, the sparkle of her
earrings and the graceful tilt of her chin. I remember
that wide open smile and her lavender perfume. I caught
Miss Riley's eye. She lifted her head a little and
pretended to applaud. She sensed my triumph and was happy
for me.
Later, when we spilled out into the street, the girl
turned briefly and squeezed my arm.
"Thanks," she said.
She lingered for a moment and then ran to catch up with
her friends. I watched as they linked arms and skipped
lightly once more into the chill of the winter's night. I
think she liked me.
Climbing into my car afterwards I sat a while in the icy
silence as street-lamps scattered ferny patterns over my
frosted windows. It was as if she was still there. I
could hear the brush of her dress and I could smell the
lavender perfume. It was my hand. My left hand, from
holding hers as we'd danced. I brought it to my nose and
breathed in that clean, clear scent - the scent of
innocence, the scent of undiluted joy.
So, it was with great
expectation I returned the following week. But fate can
play cruel tricks with a young heart. She wasn't there.
Nor was she there the week after. Each time, the handsome
hulk would appear, scanning the room briefly, only to
disappear no doubt for a laugh and a joke at the Queen's
Head.
"You're missing someone," said Miss Riley as
she coaxed me through an intricate foxtrot.
"A little," I confessed.
"Nice blue dress," she recalled. "Friendly
smile."
"I waited months to dance with her," I
confessed. "Now I feel as if I'll never see her
again. Was it something I said, do you think?"
Miss Riley shook her head.
"She couldn't really dance, you know."
"She wasn't so bad," I said, feeling a little
hurt.
"Oh, she had the steps fine - but she hadn't 'the
look', the grace. No - what you need now is someone who
can really dance."
Later, as I walked back to my car, I wondered if Mis
Riley had been right. I sat behind the wheel and breathed
in the memory of the perfume. It seemed to me as strong
as ever. But was it to be my dream-girl, or one who could
dance?
I started the car with a wry smile. After all it didn't
really matter did it, since it seemed I could have
neither. Driving home, I made up my mind the following
week was to be my last - just one final dance and then to
say my goodbyes.
"Still missing her," said Miss Riley, as we
tapped our way through an energetic quick-step.
"Not so much, tonight," I replied. "Miss
Riley, there's something I've been meaning to
say...."
But when I looked at her, she was smiling - the wrinkles
fading in the speckled ballroom light, leaving her
youthful and glowing. I imagined her as she'd once been -
a young woman with the poise of a princess, in a flowing
ballroom gown. Sequins sparkled, a band played and my
shabby old suit was transformed into a smart tailed coat
as we wheeled across the floor.
When the music stopped, I headed back to my corner in
defeat. I simply couldn't bring myself to tell her.
"Perhaps I should just sneak away," I thought.
But then it hit me. It was the dancing I came for now,
not the romance. I'd first come chasing a dream, only to
find myself trading it in for an impossible ambition. I
should have listened to my father in the first place and
gone to the pub like everyone else! Then as I approached
my table, I noticed a young woman standing in the
shadows. She was dark haired and tall and by the way she
held herself, a dancer to the core - now I knew what Miss
Riley meant by 'the look'. Her sharp, inquisitive eyes
scanned me from head to toe.
"Well?" said Miss Riley, from behind.
The woman smiled. "He'll do," she called over
my shoulder while holding out her hand for me to shake.
"I'm Christy," she said, warmly. "I hear
you might be needing a partner."
"This is my grand-daughter," explained Miss
Riley. "She's in training for the
competitions......"
Nowadays my smart tailed coat is for real and I've traded
Riley's Dance Hall for the International Ballroom
Circuit. T.V. cameras peer down and spotlights swivel. I
feel their heat as Christy's hand tightens reassuringly
on my arm. I see the sequins twinkle on her gown and I
read her smile. Then the band strikes up and we're off -
the floor a sparkling sea - a wax scented kaleidescope of
colour as dancers waft by in bright swirls.......
Later as we sit in the cosy quiet of a railway carriage,
another trophy glittering on the table between us, I rest
my head on my hand and catch her eye. She smiles a
knowing smile and gives me a familiar look, a look that's
long since soothed away my tortured soul. I breathe in
her scent from my fingers - warm and sophisticated. But
it's lavender and innocence I remember, and with it a
brown-eyed girl whose name I never knew.
"We danced fine tonight," she says.
"Yes," I reply and as the carriage lulls me to
sleep, I realise how mysterious fate can be. It's true -
we're seldom aware of the most significant moments of our
lives, until they're long gone!
Now my father sits up late at nights. "Hush
mother," I can hear him say. "It's the dancing
on the telly....!"
_______________________________
~ First Published
March 1995 ~
_________________________________
The story behind the
story
This was my first
published story. It is half truth, half fiction and was
born out of personal reminiscence of my own ballroom
dancing days. If you've never danced ballroom, you need
to understand that there's a mixture of discipline and
grace involved and that the finest ballroom dancers have
the ability to truly astonish anyone who witnesses them
practice their art.
I took to the dance
halls in a way simlar to the young man in this story, in
order to meet girls. I suffered a similar fate, mostly
partnerless but gradually drawn in by the rhythm of the
dance, and eventually unable to let go. There was indeed
a brown-eyed girl whose name I never knew, there was the
scent of lavender and, years later, the sense of a
significant moment, but for other reasons,... and I made
the ending up.
________________________________
Copyright
© M Graeme 1995
Index
M_Graeme@yahoo.co.uk
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