‘My mummy and daddy aren’t very good dancers, they could probably use some practice. But my Aunty Belle, she is the best dancer, she taught me all my moves.’
‘That explains a lot,’ I say, reaching Belle who gently taps me on the arm.
‘Be kind,’ she admonishes.
‘I was.’ I laugh.
‘Shhh!’ Marsha shoots over her shoulder.
‘Okay, ignore the music for now and we’ll learn the steps. Three slide steps towards the window, one two three, then tap, tap, tap.’
I hold Belle and we do our slide steps and tap, tap, tap.
‘Two steps back to here then I’ll step forward with my left, if you do that as well, sir, and then you step back with your right.’
I step forward and so does Belle.
‘Ouch!’ I say, picking up my foot and waggling it in the air.
‘Oh, you make such a fuss, put your foot down.’
‘And two forward and then two more steps back.’
‘Ouch! Are you doing this on purpose?’
‘No!’ she says indignantly. ‘I’m not good at formal dancing. Honestly, they tried to kick me out of country dancing at primary because I kept stepping—’
‘Shhhhh!’ Marsha hisses at us again.
‘Sorry.’
‘Yeah, sorry!’ Belle adds and gives me a fierce look.
‘Don’t go looking at me like I’m the bad one. You’re the one with the rhythm of a demented otter.’
‘A demented otter, that’s very rude, how dare you… Ooh, what are we meant to be doing now?’
‘Sliding, I think. Let me lead.’
‘Let you lead, why let you lead?’
‘I’m the man, I’m meant to.’
‘Let me tell you what I think of the Patriarchy…’
‘I don’t think Victorian heroines had an opinion on the Patriarchy. Look, tap, tap, tap.’ Somehow we’re managing to do the dancing thing, with Belle only trampling on my feet periodically and giggling as we do so. The woman restarts the gramophone and we dance. Belle is clearly made for a slightly more modern era.
‘You’re meant to love dancing,’ I hiss at her.
‘I do love dancing but I can’t find the beat.’
‘Here, listen, one two three, one two three, one two three.’ I count out the rhythm and she joins in, our feet sliding and stepping and tapping in unison once she masters it.
‘We’re getting quite good.’
‘We are,’ I say in return as we glide around the room, lost in the music and with me enjoying the feel of having Belle in my arms, her looking up at me as we both silently mouth the numbers. Half of me wants to pull her close and keep dancing. There’s something about having another person so close to me, something I hadn’t realised I had missed as much as I have. Somehow this crazy world I now inhabit means that I, Rory Walters, am waltzing around a Victorian stately home with Belle Wilde in my arms and absolutely loving it.
We keep dancing, both of us caught up in each other’s rhythm, only to be jolted out of our little waltzy trance state as I hear the woman who had taught us the dance say in an aside to Marsha, ‘That’s lovely, isn’t it? To see your mummy and daddy so in love.’
