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 closed the basement door behind her and dragged her wheelie bag back up the concrete steps. She followed the zigzag of turns in reverse and retraced her steps to Finsbury Park tube station. As she neared the entrance, a crowd of commuters with misery splattered across their faces came pouring towards her.
‘Has something happened?’ she asked a woman in a camouflage parka and bright orange boots.
The woman sighed. ‘There’s a security alert at Victoria. The entire line’s been closed. Don’t even bother trying to get on the Piccadilly Line… the platform’s rammed. It’s total chaos down there.’
Ariel’s heart sank. ‘Are there any buses? I have to get to King’s Cross.’
‘Sure, if you’re willing to spend the rest of the day getting pushed around in a queue with everyone else here.’ She flicked her eyes to Ariel’s wheelie bag. ‘It’ll be a bun fight to get on them, though, especially with that. Personally, I’m calling it quits and going home.’
Ariel looked up and down the length of Seven Sisters Road. If taxis ever drove along it, they weren’t doing so today.
She checked the time on her phone. If she didn’t get to King’s Cross in the next thirty minutes, she wouldn’t have a snowball’s chance in hell of catching her train.
She stared back at the entrance to the tube station. ‘Sod it,’ she said, to anyone who cared to listen. ‘I’m going in.’
Tightening
