She scans his eyes and casts a brief, sideways glance over his shoulder. In the interminable moment it takes for her to respond, Henry manages to convince himself that all she wants is a little peace and quiet to enjoy the dancing. Why else would she be sitting up here all alone?
Who or what, if anything, she sees or doesn’t see, he can’t be sure, but gradually her mouth softens into an irresistible smile.
‘The seat’s free,’ she replies. ‘Sit down. It’s so quiet up here today we’ve got the entire row to ourselves.’
Henry grins and lowers himself beside her. The second his buttocks hit the chair he’s overcome by a violent urge to face her, to win her over before he’s even learned her name. Instead, he does as she does, only with considerably less grace – pinioning his eyes to the dynamos on the dance floor, his hands clamped like barnacles to his knees.
‘Venus and Adonis,’ she says, after a beat.
Henry stares into the gaping void before him. He didn’t think it was possible he could feel any more affronted by this unbearably slick, depressingly accomplished couple if he tried.
‘You’ve got to be kidding me,’ he replies. He turns mechanically to meet her gaze.
‘What?’
‘You’re not seriously telling me they’re called Venus and Adonis? If they are professionals – and with names like that, I pray to God for their sakes that they are – then Venus and Adonis have to be stage names. I mean, it’s a bit over the top, isn’t it? You do realise their real names are probably Shirley and Ken?’
The girl stares at him for a stunned five seconds, then bursts into a helpless fit of giggles. Her laughter is so infectious that soon Henry is laughing, too. In fact, the suppressed nervous tension that’s been building inside him from the moment he sat down quickly runs riot, and before long they’re both laughing so hard, they’re practically doubled over.
She leans towards him and, still giggling, holds up a thin, pink hand. ‘No! I’m not talking about the dancers. I’m talking about that… right there… the inscription engraved in the stonework above the stage. Can’t you see it?’
Instantly sobering, Henry follows her gaze. ‘Sorry?’
She leans a fraction closer. ‘Straight ahead of you… I asked Jimmy the doorman where it comes from and he told me it’s from Shakespeare’s Venus and Adonis. I’d never heard of it, much less read it, but it made me laugh how it’s wound up here, in a dance hall. Must be a reference to the music, don’t you think?’
Henry sees it now; frankly, it’s impossible to miss when she’s pointing at it so prettily, the graze of her voice just inches from his face. He clears his throat and reads the quote out loud:
‘“BID ME DISCOURSE, I WILL ENCHANT THINE EAR…” Yes,’ he says, trying his utmost to compose himself, ‘I’d say it is. It might refer to the music, or maybe to a fellow music lover, like you?’
He peels his hand from his knee and holds it out towards her. ‘I’m sorry – you had me distracted there for a moment – I should have introduced myself. I’m Henry Applebee. It’s a pleasure to meet you.’
‘You don’t need to apologise.’ She gives him a dizzying smile. ‘Honestly, I haven’t laughed so much in ages.’
Henry casts an anxious glance at Shirley and Ken, who (to his immense annoyance) are still lording it over the dance floor. If that’s what he’s up against, then what he’s about to say next could quite possibly result in the most mortifying ten or fifteen minutes of his life…
‘Would you like to dance?’ he ventures, regardless. ‘I must warn you, though, I’m not much of a dancer. It’s the music I enjoy most of all.’
‘Oh, I wouldn’t let them put you off,’ she replies. Her expression, her voice, are utterly forgiving, wholly kind. ‘Music lovers make the best dancers of all. My nan told me that. She had polio when she was a lass and she’s been weak in her legs all her life, but no one loves a tune more than she does. It’s worth dropping by for tea just to see her doing the rumba around her kitchen.’
Henry laughs, then remembers she hasn’t yet accepted his invitation.
She holds his gaze, her blue eyes appraising him once again. ‘I haven’t seen you here before. Are you stationed at Kirkham?’
His hand, still reaching towards her, starts to shake. ‘I am, yes. Actually, I just arrived today. From the Far East.’
‘You arrived today and you’re already at the Tower Ballroom? You really are a music fan, Henry!’
Henry grins. ‘Certified. Have been my whole life.’
‘Me too. Hook, line and sinker!’
She smoothes down the skirt of her dress. ‘How long are you here for?’
‘Forty-eight hours,’ he replies. ‘Then it’s demob for me.’
‘Oh.’ Her voice gives nothing away. ‘In that case, we’d better get moving.’
Henry glances back over the barrier. ‘There’s just one thing… If you expect me to share a dance floor with Venus and Adonis down there, could you at least tell me your name?’
‘Of course! But we have to be quick if we want to get downstairs before this song finishes. Come on, I’ll tell you my name on the way.’
She rises from her seat, and as she edges past him, the hem of her dress brushes against his knees. All at once, the possibility of holding her in his arms on the dance floor scatters Henry’s thoughts like bowling pins. His heart batters furiously against his ribs.
It is then, without warning, that it begins…
She takes his hand and everything around him starts to disintegrate. Henry feels his feet slide from under him as a sharp, violent jolt yanks him against his will by an invisible chain, back, far back along a dark, dank tunnel. The swell of music fades, and as the light from the glitter balls begins to dim, Henry finds himself struggling to retain the receding image of her face. He strains, forcing himself to stay present, but while sound and vision distort, the warmth of her hand and the touch of her skin remain both elusive, and at once, agonisingly real.
Henry’s body jerks and tenses. He’s in Kentish Town, in his bedroom, the only sounds the contented sighs and snuffles of Banjo’s nocturnal breath.
Willing himself back along the thin, dark tunnel, Henry silently repeats the words over and over:
Don’t wake up. Don’t wake up. Don’t wake up.
He keeps his eyes firmly closed. There is a moment’s grace, a final glimpse beyond the velvet darkness, and then, from far away, her voice:
‘Don’t worry, I’m not much of a dancer either, but I could happily watch everyone else dancing all day long. It’s nice to meet you, Henry. I’m Francine, by the way.’
The Glass Wall
KING’S CROSS STATION, LONDON, DECEMBER 6: DEPARTURE
Ariel
Ariel