Springtime at Hope Hall Read online

  Smiling encouragement, Jean dug into her folder again to draw out another photo, as Maggie and Kath disappeared through the foyer doors.

  “By the way, Maggie, I’ve been meaning to ask you. I’ve had a request to hold a wedding reception here on the last Saturday in February. Quite short notice, but I get the impression the wedding is a hurried affair.”

  “I wonder why?” smiled Maggie.

  “Well, actually, not the usual reason. Apparently, the groom is in the Army and is just about to be sent on a six-month tour of duty in Afghanistan. The couple have been engaged for quite a while, but hadn’t been able to afford the wedding their family wanted for them. But now he’s been called up they’ve decided to just bite the bullet and try to organize everything as cheaply and quickly as possible.”

  “A registry office job then?”

  “Well, no, they’re getting married across the road in St Mark’s, because the whole family have been going there since the bride and groom met at Sunday school when they were six years old.”

  “Oh, how lovely!”

  “I know. The members of the congregation have clubbed together to make the ceremony really special for them. They’ve sorted bell-ringers, flowers, and even the choir are rehearsing a new anthem to sing for them.”

  “And the reception will be here?”

  “Yes, but they’ve come up with the idea of making it a ‘bring and share’ reception. Everyone in the church is invited along to join with their family and friends – all they have to do is bring something for the buffet table.”

  “What a great idea! Do they need my help?”

  “Definitely. They’ve asked if they can come and talk to you sometime this week, just to sort out crockery, cutlery and glasses, table decorations, seating – you know, all the usual. If I text over her number, would you mind giving her a ring?”

  “Of course not. If there’s a large number coming, we might need to work out whether we can trust them enough to ask if we can borrow extra crockery and glasses from the Women’s Institute cupboard.” Kath whistled softly. “Oh, that’s a serious consideration.”

  “I’ll meet the family to talk over what sort of numbers they have in mind for the reception. If they need more chairs and equipment than we have ourselves, then I’ll ring the WI chairwoman and see if she’ll allow theirs to be rented out just for the day.”

  Kath shrugged her shoulders. “Rather you than me. That Barbara Longstone is formidable.”

  “Wish me luck then!” quipped Maggie as she disappeared back into her kitchen.

  It was just turning five when Maggie and her team finally finished clearing up the kitchen after the tea they always provided at the end of the afternoon for the members of both the Knit and Natter and the Down Memory Lane clubs. Many of them had transport home organized by Good Neighbours, and it was always a slow process to get everyone heading off in the right direction with the right driver.

  Ray would be along later that evening, probably around seven, to make sure the PA system and bar were set up in preparation for the line dancers, who would arrive in force around half past seven – but for the time being, knowing the hall was empty, Maggie pulled the front double doors shut behind her, and turned the large key in the lock.

  “Hello, Maggie.”

  He stepped out of the shadows to block her way as she walked through the small enclosed garden towards the pavement.

  “Dave! What are you doing here?”

  “I’ve been hoping to talk to you for a while now, and not managed it. I thought this would be a good place to find you.”

  “And you thought you could talk to me here without Steph insisting on being around to keep an eye on you.”

  “I saw her. Did she tell you?”

  “Of course she did. She was furious. She tried to tell me a bit about what was said, but I really don’t want to know. I can’t cope with it – not yet, perhaps not ever. Please just go away now. Don’t do this to me.”

  “I can’t, Maggie. I want to know how you are. I care about you.”

  Maggie’s laugh was hollow. “Huh! You care about me while you’re living with another woman? Don’t be ridiculous, Dave.”

  “Of course I care. We’ve known each other most of our lives. We had our Silver Wedding Anniversary—”

  “Oh, you remember? I’m surprised.”

  “I care – and I’m sorry. I am really sorry I’ve hurt you. I didn’t mean for all this to happen.”

  Maggie stared at him, this man she knew so well – at least, she thought she had. Her shoulders slumped and she leaned back against the door of the hall.

  “What do you want, Dave?”

  “Well, I just want to sort things out, get everything on a more reasonable footing.”

  Maggie pulled her collar up against the cold January wind. “Reasonable? What’s reason got to do with this?”

  “I can’t turn the clock back, Mags. It’s happened. I’ve put a bomb under our family, and I know it, but we need to sort out where we go from here.”

  “Do we?” Maggie’s tone was sarcastic.

  He hesitated for a moment, uncertain how to continue.

  “We’ve got to sort out the divorce.”

  She felt the world spin around her, her fingers fumbling to grab the firmness of the hall’s brick wall to stop her knees from buckling beneath her.

  “I’m not the sort of person who gets divorced, Dave. You know me – I’m the loyal, loving type.”

  “Yes, you are – and I’m sorry it’s come to this, Mags, but I need a divorce.”

  “Why? What’s the hurry?”

  Dave looked at her for several seconds before answering. “Mandy’s pregnant.”

  Her head swam, her knees buckled, and from somewhere near she could hear a low wail, as if an animal was in pain. At the end of a long tunnel, she heard him calling her name, felt his hands on her arms as her mind tried to make sense of what she’d just heard. His face was directly in front of hers, this face that was as familiar as her own, saying words that ripped her heart into tiny, wretched pieces. Suddenly she was filled with superhuman strength as she pulled back both her arms before pushing out with every muscle in her body. He fell backwards, narrowly avoiding being speared on the low, spiky, metal fence as he tumbled.

  She didn’t look at him. She never wanted to look at him again. She staggered out onto the pavement and ran, ran, ran as far away from him as she possibly could.

  Della never gave a performance without being certain her makeup was perfect. Today, her eyelashes were black and glossy, if a little unnaturally thick and long. The Christian Dior foundation, bought from duty free on her last cruise, gave her skin a flawless finish on which the curves and dips in her cheeks were accentuated with pale highlights here and dark peach-coloured contouring there. Her lips were a rich shade of coral, shaped by a carefully drawn line from a dusky brown lip liner. She’d skilfully scooped up her long dark chestnut hair into a glorious crown on top of her head, carefully pinned into position so that the blonde highlights shone through the darker strands and fell down in tendrils around her face. She’d chosen her clothes carefully: soft grey tracksuit bottoms teamed with a beautifully cut sweatshirt on which the designer labels were clearly displayed. The look was casual. The effect was elegant. She was ready for her public.

  She knew all eyes were on her as she walked into the hall and up the steps to the stage for her first day of lessons. She was aware that the administrator, Kath, looked up from the conversation she was having with one of the drivers who’d brought elderly pupils along for the start of armchair exercise. She heard the buzz of chatter halt as she made her entrance. She caught sight of her pianist, Ronnie Andrews, giving her a wink as she took her place centre stage in front of the class. Good old Ronnie. He’d been the pianist at her mother’s dancing school from the time she’d first started lessons there at the age of three. Ronnie was old now, probably more than fifty, but he was a professional. When he was younger, he’d worked fo
r a while as the musical director of summer end-of-pier shows and pantomimes. He understood the business. He understood that the show must go on – and this was her show.

  She took in the scene in front of her. Chairs had been spaced out in rows across the hall, stretching back until seating was in place for twenty pupils. Some of the chairs in the back two rows were already filled, while other potential participants sat or stood along the sides of the hall waiting for instruction.

  Lights, camera, action! Della’s face lit up with an electric smile as she beamed at them.

  “Hello, everyone! Welcome! Are you all ready for some fun today?”

  An embarrassed wave of laughter and chatter rippled through the room.

  “Now, don’t be shy! We will have a great time together, but most of all we will be gently stretching our bodies and getting fit.”

  Expressions around the hall changed from laughter to trepidation.

  “Take a seat, all of you! You’ll see best if you sit at the front, and I promise I don’t bite.”

  After a moment’s hesitation, it was Betty who moved first, closely followed by Flora and Doris as they chose their seats in the second row from the front. Others followed, some quite sprightly as they walked, some plainly struggling with stiffness in their hips, knees and various other joints.

  “Okay!” chirped Della, as she launched into a stylish pirouette that took her into exactly the right position in front of her own chair. The class members gasped with admiration. Della let out a tinkle of delighted laughter.

  “We’ll have all of you doing that before the term’s out. So, let’s sit down, feet facing front, straight and parallel, with your heels just an inch away from the legs of your chair. Backbones straight, shoulders down, chins up, bottoms pushed right back into your seat. Now, just follow me. Ronnie – music, Maestro, please!”

  The half-hour that followed went in a whirl of bends, twists, stretches, legs lifts, standing up, sitting down – and a long, slow “R-e-l-a-x” at the end of each set of exercises. Around the hall, Della could see deep concentration from some, desperate effort from others, occasional shocked disbelief at what they were being asked to do – and lots of giggling when things either went entertainingly wrong or simply weren’t achievable at all – yet! A couple at the back got up and walked out, but the rest stayed. The more they tried, the more they realized they could manage. The music was jaunty, the exercises were varied and constantly changing, and overall, as Della had promised, it was very good fun.

  At the end of that class, on a high from all they’d achieved, most people were happy when their chairs were moved to the side of the hall so that Dance Sing-along “for the old but bold” could begin. Ronnie struck up a medley of songs they all knew – swing numbers made famous by Frank Sinatra or Nat King Cole, with more modern favourites from Buddy Holly and The Beatles thrown in. And there were well-known Glenn Miller Band numbers they could la-la along to as they swayed and turned, sometimes on their own, but mostly holding hands with a partner – bosom to bosom, as no gentlemen had come along to the class at all. They waltzed, they marched, they did the conga, they bopped, boogied and bounced along to cha-cha-chas and rumbas. Nothing was too taxing. Nothing too fast or complicated. It was a half-hour of nostalgia that brought back memories of the dances they’d been to long ago and the music they loved. All that was missing was a glittery ball shining down from the middle of the hall.

  They finished up linking arms and kicking legs in a long chorus line as they bellowed out the words of “New York, New York” at the tops of their voices – and Della knew she had a hit on her hands.

  “Ida would have loved that,” enthused Betty, still getting her breath back.

  Doris chuckled. “Do you mean Ida was actually wrong about something?”

  “Let’s call in on her on the way home. Where’s Flora? Has she already gone?”

  “No, look! She’s over there talking to the pianist.”

  “Why? Does she know him?”

  “I’m not sure,” replied Doris, her eyes squinting in the hope of getting a clearer view of the pianist’s face. “I certainly don’t. Anyway, she’ll catch up. I need the loo. Coming?”

  The tap class that followed went just as well. Nineteen girls and one boy, ranging in age from five to their early teens, turned up. They were greeted by Della, who had transformed into a completely different look. She’d peeled off her tracksuit bottoms to reveal long, shapely legs clad in bright blue tights and sparkling silver tap shoes. She’d changed her top too, into a new one that, on the front, had a sequinned silhouette of a loose-limbed dancer with his trilby hat tipped at a stylish angle, and his feet obviously flying beneath him.

  Some of the class had their own tap shoes, others appeared to be wearing heeled school shoes, while a few had come just in trainers. And if some of the older dancers had been to tap classes before, they’d never come across anything quite like this. Della not only drew out rhythms from their feet, but from their voices and their hands too, as fingers clicked, mouths whistled, heels stamped and toes shuffle-ball-changed through a series of deceptively simple steps that had all the style of Ginger Rogers and Fred Astaire. Well, that’s how it felt, even if it wasn’t quite how it looked.

  As the class drew to a close with Ronnie playing the final triumphant notes of “Razzle Dazzle ’Em” from the musical Chicago, the dancers joined all those watching around the edges of the hall in a spontaneous round of applause. Della took a deep, theatrical bow, knowing that there would be even more tap students the following week.

  Fifteen minutes of changeover time later, Della appeared in yet another guise. The blue tights remained, but the sparkling tap shoes had been swapped for feather-light dance trainers. Gone was the tap-dancer top, and instead she was wearing a loose-fitting grungy top, which hung off one shoulder and seemed to have tears of differing lengths strategically ripped into various corners of it. The look of her pupils had changed dramatically too. It was as if they’d just walked in from hanging out on a street corner in clothes that ranged from torn jeans and well-worn tops to studded trousers and designer-look-alike leather jackets that may well have been bought specially for the occasion.

  Ronnie, the pianist, had gone too, his contribution no longer required. Della set up her music system and blasted out hip-hop and dubstep, to which the dancers could pop, lock and break.

  Not bothering with any formal welcome, Della grabbed the mic, stood centre stage, and simply called out, “Let’s see what you’ve got!” In every corner of the hall, dancers sprang into action, spinning, flipping and jerking their bodies like zombies and robots.

  And this is going to work too, thought Della, as she surveyed the scene. She’d known all along that it would. After all, she was a professional.

  ***

  The minute she got home, Flora picked up the phone.

  “Pauline Owen,” answered the formal voice at the other end of the line.

  “Pauline!” squeaked Flora, shrill with excitement. “I’ve found him! I’ve found the pianist we need. His name is Ronnie Andrews, and he says he’ll help us. I’ve got his number… he’ll be just perfect.”

  “Can you come here right now?” said Pauline, the enthusiasm in her voice matching Flora’s own. “I’ll ring him straight away, and then get on to the administrator at Hope Hall to make us a booking. Flora, I do believe the Can’t Sing Singers are on their way!”

  When the front door bell rang, Ray opened up to find Shirley standing on the doorstep, grinning widely.

  “Hi, Ray. I brought homemade chicken soup for Sara, along with some of those soft bread rolls that she seems to be able to manage. And there’s a beef stew here for you. I made dumplings. I know you like them.”

  “Shirley, that’s really kind, but you don’t need to do all this.”

  “I know. That’s what you keep saying. But I also know you’d do the same for me, if our places were reversed. How’s Sara? What did the nurse say this morning?”

 
; Ray lowered his voice as he led Shirley through to the kitchen. “She said Sara is fading just a little bit more every day. I can see it. She’s so tired, and there’s no colour in her face. She knows she’s going. We can both tell, although we don’t mention it. We never give it a name.”

  “Of course not – but my nan always used to say that where there’s life, there’s hope, so it’s a mistake to assume the worst just because it looks that way.”

  “It is that way, Shirley,” was Ray’s gentle reply.

  Shirley nodded, then squeezed his arm. “Right, I’ll put this stew in the oven to warm up for you, but Sara’s soup can be ready in no time. Is she awake?”

  “She was a minute ago.”

  “Good. I’ll take these daffodils up to her and say hello. And then I’ll run the vacuum over.”

  “Honestly, Shirley, I can do that.”

  “Yes, I know, and probably much better than me, but I’m still going to do it anyway, because I know how you’ll worry if you don’t get chance to do it after all.”

  Ray knew when he was beaten. His head tilted as he looked back at her. “You’re a good girl, Shirley Wells – a new friend, but a really wonderful one. Thank you.”

  “You’re not so bad yourself. Now, where’s that teapot?”

  The storm that had raged all night, with its high winds whistling around the houses and fat raindrops thumping against roofs and windows, was still stubbornly sitting over the town that morning. Carol held her breath as she put the key in the ignition of the car, letting out a huge sigh of relief as it sparked into life. Thank goodness. She just hoped it would keep going. This wasn’t the day to be stranded on the roadside anywhere.

  Phil had set off early that morning, on his way to a big conference a couple of hours’ drive along the coast in Brighton. He had been quite chatty over breakfast about how much he was looking forward to the whole-day event. There would be quite a few potential clients there and, in his business, networking was everything. The managing director of his own company was going to be with their team too, so this would be a good opportunity for Phil to impress with his own business acumen and sharp new ideas. He yelled goodbye to Carol and Little Joe, humming to himself as he climbed into his car and hit the road.