The Summer We Danced

The oldest houses clustered around the main street, but the village had grown over the last century to include bungalows and a few oast-house conversions and two small estates of new-build houses in local stone.

If you ambled down the main street past The Two Doves and kept going, you’d reach the cricket pitch, complete with its vintage wooden scoreboard and pavilion, and past that, tucked away, out of sight down a side road, was a little church hall. It had once belonged to St Christopher’s C of E church, but the main building had been flattened by a stray doodlebug during World War II. In the early seventies the last of the rubble had been cleared and it had been paved over, turning the footprint of the church into a large car park for the hall.

It was a beautiful little building, almost a miniature version of the church it had once served: red brick that had now weathered to a rusty brown and tall mullioned windows with decorative arches. It even had a little belltower perched on top of the slate tiles. Once the church had gone, the village had used it for clubs and classes, bingo nights and jumble sales, but when a new, modern church had been built on the other side of the village, complete with a smart new community centre, the number of people crossing its threshold had dwindled. That is, until Mimi D’Angelo had come along.

Initially, she’d hired the hall for two nights a week to start her dance school, after retiring from a career as a dancer at the grand old age of twenty-nine. While Elmhurst was only a small village, it was close to the much bigger town of Swanham, where the local kids went to secondary school, and news of Miss Mimi’s first-rate school began to spread by word of mouth. Very soon, scores of little girls (and the occasional little boy) had thronged to her lessons.

They didn’t seem to be put off by the fact that Miss Mimi, as she was always known, was as strict as she was flamboyant. Somehow, she’d always made each pupil feel as if they had untapped potential, and her great stories of her colourful professional life and sense of the dramatic made for interesting lessons, that was for sure.

By the early eighties, Miss Mimi’s school had taken over exclusive use of the hall and she’d finally become queen of her own terpsichorean kingdom. She’d put up posters and noticeboards, added permanent barres to the painted brick walls and put hanging baskets and flower pots outside the entrance to offset the glossy scarlet double doors.

I sat outside St Christopher’s Hall on a windy January Friday night, the engine of my Mini running. I could hardly believe it was still here, the place that had been the setting for the most important moments of my formative years: my greatest triumphs, in the form of shows and exam grades, my first job, helping Miss Mimi with the Babies class on Saturday mornings, and even my first soggy teenage kiss with Simon Lane after a Christmas disco.

I looked at the red doors. They weren’t so glossy now and the paint was peeling at the bottom. The flower pots were still there, but only the stalks of a few dry brown weeds poked over the tops. There was moss growing in the gutters and a couple of slates had come loose on the roof. St Christopher’s Hall was like the widow of a rich man down on her luck; her structure and proportions were still elegant, but she was looking a little ragged and worn around the edges.

Could I go back in there? Did I even want to?

I’d arrived early. A few more cars were pulling into the car park, but nobody got out. Probably parents waiting for kids who were in the class before adult tap. I could sneak away. Nobody would even know I’d been here. I readied my feet on the clutch and prepared to release the handbrake, but then I stopped. I owed it to Candy—and probably to myself—to at least try one class, didn’t I, even if my stomach was churning like a washing machine with a full load?

A crowd of long-legged girls with coats and boots on over their leotards and tights burst from the double doors and ran to different cars. Ah. So the previous class must end at seven forty-five, not eight. Miss Mimi had done that sometimes when it had been a long day of teaching, given herself little gaps in the timetable to just have a cup of tea and get off her feet. Although it probably wouldn’t be Miss Mimi teaching now, would it, even if the school bore her name? She’d probably passed the school on to one of her star pupils, someone who’d gone on to dance in West End shows or on cruise ships, but who was now getting older and wanted to settle down to a job with a fixed location and slightly more sociable hours.

My email enquiry about the class hadn’t even been answered by Miss Mimi, but by someone called Sherri, who had appalling grammar, didn’t know what capital letters were and replied to every email as if she was posting on Twitter.

I felt a twinge of sadness at the thought of not seeing my old teacher again, but it made the decision of whether to go in or not easier. I wouldn’t be letting anyone down. If I didn’t come back next week, no one would care. They probably wouldn’t even notice.

With that thought in my head, I reached for the door handle, grabbed my holdall and stepped into the chilly winter night. If I went inside before anyone else, I’d be able to get myself ready quietly at the back, and I’d be able to chat to the teacher a little first, let her know I was a complete tap virgin and ask if she could go easy on me.

The wind was really biting tonight, ruffling up my pixie cut and making my hair stand on end. I made a dash for the double doors and shoved them closed behind me.

A tsunami of nostalgia washed over me as I stood in the little vestibule that led to the main hall. I’d spent half my childhood and teenage years in this hall. It had become a home from home.

The old horsehair mat was there, still worn in places, and so was the cork noticeboard where Miss Mimi had always posted exam schedules and results, timetables and the allimportant uniform requirements, although now someone had obviously learned how to insert clip-art in Word, because instead of the photocopied notices of typed announcements or quick notes written in Miss Mimi’s elegant and looping handwriting, there were colour-printed A4 sheets, decorated with just about every dancing-related cartoon one could imagine.

I smiled as I looked around, especially when I saw the plaque on the ladies’ loo hadn’t changed. It was still a line drawing of an elegant fifties woman etched on dusky pink plastic, holding her large-brimmed hat as her ‘new look’ skirt swirled around her shapely calves. The men’s sign was equally as pleasing, featuring a man with Brylcreemed hair and a tweedy suit with turn-ups.

‘Hello, Audrey … Hello, Cary …’ I whispered. I’d christened them with those names at the age of eleven when my obsession with old black-and-white films had begun. ‘It’s lovely to see you again.’

I was still smiling absent-mindedly when I pushed my way through the second set of double doors into the hall.

Five (#ulink_3fc6220e-69f1-58ab-b0cb-f148fa88b265)

‘Philippa Hayes!’

I jumped at the use of my full name, the one I’d gone back to using after I’d stopped being Mrs Ed Elliot, and still wasn’t quite used to again. There were only two people in this world who had said that name in that same tone. The first had been my mother and the second was …

No. It couldn’t be? Could it?

A moment later an old lady started crossing the hall towards me. Actually, it would have been more accurate to say she swept across the room, arms outstretched, her outrageously long false eyelashes almost touching her drawn-on eyebrows as her eyes widened in surprise.

‘Miss Mimi?’ I croaked, as I was engulfed by a cloud of Chanel No.5.

‘Who else did you think would be here?’ she asked. ‘Gene Kelly?’

I laughed. Of course Miss Mimi was still here, still teaching! How could I ever have imagined otherwise?

‘Now,’ Miss Mimi said, looking me up and down, ‘let me take a look at you …’

I wasn’t sure I was ready for that, despite my current determination to reinvent myself. ‘I know … I’m a little on the cuddly side, but that’s why I’m here really—’

‘Nonsense!’ Miss Mimi said, cutting me off. ‘It’s just puppy fat, you always were prone to a little of that.’

Aw, it was lovely of her to say that but the truth was I had about as much puppy fat as the whole of Battersea Dogs’ Home. However, I didn’t correct her, because a) I was supposed to be embracing my curvaliciousness and b) I wasn’t sure she’d understand. For as long as I’d known Miss Mimi, she’d been a petite five foot two, with a perfect dancer’s physique. She wasn’t lanky like a fashion model but trim and toned and strong, even now, it seemed. I looked her up and down, taking my turn to study and observe.

No, nothing much had changed about Miss Mimi at all, except her hair was totally white and there were more wrinkles on her peaches-and-cream complexion. She wore pink seamed dance tights, those little heeled ballet shoes that only dance teachers ever wear, a hot-pink leg warmer over each ankle and a leotard with a crossover skirt that folded over like a tulip in front but dipped as low as the backs of her knees behind. The whole outfit was topped off with a silky kimono with bright, gypsy colours on a black background, edged with a long black fringe. Despite her age, I could imagine her throwing her wrap off, jumping on to the small stage at the end of the hall and showing the class how she’d high-kicked her way through two seasons in Paris and one in Las Vegas.

‘It’s so good to see you again,’ I said, smiling at her. I hadn’t realised how up in the air my life had felt, how it had seemed as if everything was shifting underneath my feet, until I’d come across something—someone—dear to me, who’d remained stubborn and rock-like against the rapids of change. And if there was anyone in this world who could do that, it was this woman.

‘Now, now, Philippa …’ Miss Mimi chided, but I could hear the affection in her tone. ‘You always were a bit of an emotional girl.’

I looked at her, surprised. Had I been?

I frowned, trying to think back to those days. I really couldn’t remember. And it seemed like a lifetime ago, anyway, almost as if that time had been lived by another person. During my marriage to Ed I hadn’t had the luxury of being the emotional one. One diva in the household was enough.

My role as his wife had been to stay calm, stay grounded, to keep things smooth and organised. So much so that I’d actually ended up working as Ed’s assistant, doing admin for him and the band. It wasn’t a job I’d ever planned on doing, but I’d enjoyed it. I’d been part PA, part PR person, part roadie. I’d liaised with venues about bookings, sweet-talked anyone Ed had cheesed off (which happened a lot) and generally did anything that needed to be done.

In my mind, I’d been part of the family business, like a wife doing accounts for her builder husband. The only thing I hadn’t anticipated was that the family—and the business—would move on quite happily without me, leaving me with skills that weren’t easily quantifiable in the job market. I’d discovered that when you turned up at an interview and announced your previous career was ‘rock musician’s dogsbody’, people didn’t really know what to do with you.

My current job was about as soul-destroying as they got. When I’d moved back I’d just got the first job I could find, filling shelves in a big supermarket on the outskirts of Swanham. They’d been looking for seasonal workers in the run-up to Christmas, and it served a need while I worked out what to do next.

Miss Mimi began to make her way over to a cassette player that was so old it could have auditioned for a part in Ashes to Ashes.

‘What happened to Peter?’ I asked. He’d been a shy little man who taught piano lessons at Pippa’s school and had accompanied most of Miss Mimi’s classes back in the nineties. My friend Nancy and I had always speculated about him being desperately in love with Miss Mimi, and we’d giggled uncontrollably when we’d seen his eyes following her as she taught, never needing to look at the piano keys. I didn’t want to think of an empty cold space at the piano stool. Or a new grave in the churchyard.

‘Oh, I let him off the adult classes,’ Miss Mimi said airily. ‘He likes to get home in time to watch Coronation Street on a Friday.’

‘Oh. Good.’ I breathed out a sigh of relief. ‘Miss Mimi?’

‘Yes?’

‘I was meaning to ask … Do you think I’ll be okay in this class? I mean, it is a beginners’ one, isn’t it? I haven’t done any tap before.’

‘My darling,’ Miss Mimi said, in that theatrical voice that I remembered and loved, ‘you will be absolutely fine. It’s not exactly a beginners’ class, more intermediate, but very beginner-friendly. You’ll do wonderfully with your dance background. It’s like speaking another language, you see? Once you’ve learned one, it’s easier to pick up another.’

The sound of a car door slamming outside made me jump. I looked nervously at the entrance. It had been okay when it had just been me and Miss Mimi, but now it became very real that Other People were coming. Other people who were going to see me dance. My stomach went cold and my hands began to shake.

I scuttled off to the back of the hall, where some chairs were laid out in a row and proceeded to busy myself taking off my layers and slowly putting on my tap shoes. I stayed at the back of the hall until the lesson began, hardly daring to look up to see who else was here. When I did, I caught a glimpse of an older lady, a few more women around my own age and two younger girls who looked as if they’d only just graduated from the under-eighteens classes.

I had planned to stay in the shadows at the back of the hall and slip into the last row once everyone had got going and my scheme was working well until I stood up and walked to where the group of five women were standing. I’d dashed to the dance store in Swanham that afternoon and bought the cheapest pair of tap shoes I could find. Apart from trying them on in the shop, it was the first time I’d actually worn them and certainly the first time I’d ever walked in them on a hard surface. The metal plates under the toes made moving in them feel odd, and they made a hell of a lot of noise. Everyone turned round to look at me.