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It closes with a gentle bang, and we both jump.
‘Canteen,’ I say. ‘Nate’s with him.’
‘How long have you been on your own?’ Mam asks, making her way to the edge of the bed, her voice cracking more with each step forward.
‘Not long,’ I say. ‘Any news on the ambulance? It was supposed to be here ages ago.’
My mother shakes her head and flops into the chair next to Nana’s bed. ‘These things always run late, don’t they?’
I shrug, disappointed. I’m still holding out hope that my mother will change her mind and agree to the detour by the orchard. But I know the later it gets, the colder it becomes and the less likely it is to happen.
‘Time for another chapter?’ Mam says, picking up Nana’s manuscript from the bedside table.
I nod. ‘You read,’ I suggest. ‘I think Nana would love to hear your voice.’
My mother clears her throat with a gentle cough and moves over to one side of her chair. She pats the open space she’s created at the other side with her hand and looks at me longingly.
I stand and make my way across the room. My legs are wobbly and a little numb from sitting awkwardly for so long. I squeeze into the gap beside my mother. There isn’t room for two grown women to fit comfortably in the single chair, but we huddle together nonetheless, just as we did when I was a little girl, and my mother begins.
‘Chapter Ten. The Dance…’
THIRTY-FOUR
ANNIE
I’ve heard the expressionbutterflies in your tummymany times. I’ve even experienced it on occasion. These are no butterflies flapping about inside me today. These are cattle, stomping their hooves as a whole herd charges from one side of my body all the way across to the other and back again.
Moments ago, my fingers trembled as I buttoned the white petal collar on the dress Sketch bought me, and even now, standing and waiting by the front door, my hands still shake, and I don’t quite believe this is happening. I’m going to a dance. A real dance. Not one I will read about in a book and close my eyes and try to pretend I’m there. This is real. This is happening. It’s all because of Sketch. There will be music and people and happiness. So much happiness I feel as if I might burst.
I practised my dance steps all week. Bridget looked as though she wanted to strangle me when I stepped on her toes, but she played it icy cool each time we started over. It was obvious initially that we were uncomfortable in each other’s company. Especially when Sketch had to leave us alone as he attended to some farm work. But once I got over my initial lack of confidence, I found myself really learning to dance. Within a couple of days, we actually found ourselves laughing.
Bridget and I would never be friends, I knew that. We didn’t have much in common. I loved to read, and she loved to tease people who did. I was soft spoken and feminine. She was loud and tomboyish. I had long straight chestnut hair. Her short blonde curls bounced around her face like a haystack on the back of a trailer. The only thing we had in common was Sketch. And we both seemed prepared to put our love for him before our dislike of each other.
‘You’re not wearing those, are you?’ Bridget said yesterday as she pointed at my shoes and snorted back a loud gargle of disapproval.
‘I don’t have any others,’ I retaliated, standing tall but feeling tiny inside.
Bridget rolled her eyes. ‘Oh, for pity’s sake, you can’t wear those old things. You’ll embarrass us all.’
I hate that Bridget is right. The hole in my shoe is worse than ever. The pebble stones all around the Talbot farmhouse have been hard on the soles.
‘You look about the same size as I am,’ she said with a sigh. ‘You can borrow a pair of mine. I have brown ones with a heel. They’ll do.’
‘Thank you,’ I said, swallowing my pride. ‘I’ll take good care of them and return them straight after the dance, of course.’
Bridget shrugged. ‘Right, back to it. One… two… three… step… two… three.’
We danced until our feet hurt, and by the time Sketch dropped me home last evening, the steps were drilled into my head.
I look down at Bridget’s shoes on my feet. They’re soft and warm, and I’ve never worn anything so comfortable and pretty before. I close my eyes and practise my steps one last time, counting silently in my head as my feet tap out the rhythm on the spot.
‘You look lovely, Annie,’ my mother says, appearing at my shoulder.
She’s wearing the same worn-out cardigan and long pleated skirt as always, but she looks younger and more beautiful than usual. I think she’s as excited about the dance as I am.
‘I hope that boy didn’t expect anything in return for that lovely dress, Annie.’ My mother tries to sound concerned, but her bright smile contradicts her tone, and I suspect she’s growing to like Sketch very much. She’s not blind or stupid; she can see how happy Sketch makes me.
‘Actually,’ I say, ‘he did.’
