Silly Old Fool

A ROMANTIC SHORT STORY BY KIM GRAVELL

Things had changed lately, but not the way I felt about Veronica…

Last night, my wife danced with a stranger while I sat alone and forgotten, watching from the shadows.

Envy curled in my gut as Veronica laughed up at the tall young man holding her in his arms.

She laughed again, her long hair flicking around her face as her dark-haired Adonis spun her out into a dipping turn before snagging her back against him with an expert hand.

Her diamond and amethyst earrings – the ones I had bought her last year for our 45th wedding anniversary – caught the light of the multicoloured bulbs strung across the town square.

But they didn’t shine as brightly as her eyes, as the strong arms held her briefly and then twirled her away.

She seemed to be having the time of her life.

I pushed my chair back a little deeper into the shadows, not wanting to be noticed, although I doubted Veronica would look for me.

She was having so much fun. Fun that I could no longer give her.

Dance had been a constant thread running through our lives.

We had met in the ballroom of Pontins holiday park at Camber Sands 48 years ago.

I had been working there for the summer while she had been on holiday with a group of friends – the first holiday she had been on without her parents.

It was long before “Strictly” had even been thought of, but we fell in love over our shared passion for all styles of dance.

When we found out that we both came from the same northern town, it had seemed like fate must have brought us together. And together we stayed.

We spent our honeymoon in Buenos Aires, learning to tango beneath the stars of the Southern Cross.

Between work commitments and raising two beautiful children we danced around the world.

We sashayed in the jazz clubs of New Orleans, where the cigar smoke and music entwined as closely as the dancers, and waltzed in cafés along the banks of the Seine.

We even swayed under the Northern Lights in Reykjavík, although we both laughingly agreed that Björk’s was not the easiest music to dance to.

But last year it all went wrong. Last year, our music stopped.

We were coming back from Greece when it happened.

I’d had a headache when we boarded the plane at Preveza, but it had been easy to blame that on the ouzo I had drunk the night before.

We’d had dinner at Eleni and Georgios’s taverna and they had been full of the news of their son Yiannis’s engagement.

Many toasts were drunk, and by the time we landed at Gatwick my head was pounding.

I collapsed in the baggage hall. The doctors said I nearly died.

Perhaps it might have been better if I had.

In the square, the dance ended and a new partner claimed Veronica as the band slid into another tune.

Just as I had expected, she didn’t look my way, didn’t spare me a thought.

It wasn’t that I wanted to curtail her enjoyment, but still it hurt to be so easily forgotten.

A waitress was circulating with drinks.

At least she noticed me, but when she came over I saw she only had bottles of beer and glasses of wine on her tray.

With the medication I’m on, I’m not allowed alcohol.

I shook my head.

Her dark brows pinched together at my abruptness.

I would have liked a soft drink, some orange juice, perhaps, but I couldn’t remember the right words.

As I tried to find them, she took my silence as dismissal and turned away.

She would probably tell her colleagues to avoid the rude old man sitting on the edge of the square. No wonder he was on his own.

I was in hospital for months after the stroke.

Months in which I struggled to relearn the basic stuff of life, working around the lingering weakness in my right side.

Veronica was there for me throughout, but I hated how she had gone from being my wife to being my carer.

Everyone pitched in: our children – Andrew and Natasha – our friends, our neighbours.

They were all so supportive. And that was the problem.

I felt I was drowning under a wave of kindness, and that left me feeling in turns bitter and then guilty.

I couldn’t talk about my feelings.

Although I tried not to withdraw, even when I did engage I seemed to get it wrong.

Like the time I overheard Veronica talking to Natasha.

“I’m thinking of getting my hair cut short. Like Judi Dench.”

“Are you sure, Mum? Dad likes it long.”

My wife sighed.

I don’t think he’d notice. Silly old fool –

I didn’t listen any further.

Later, though, when she was brushing her hair before bed, she caught my eye in the mirror.

“I wondered about having my hair cut.”

“If that’s what you want.” I tried to sound supportive without giving away that I’d heard her earlier conversation. “You could have it like Judi Dench.”

She paused.

“Do you think it would suit me?”

No, I didn’t, and I couldn’t bring myself to lie.

“It’s your hair.”

I knew I should have put it better, but it was too late.

I pretended I hadn’t seen the hurt in her eyes and turned over.

Lying there, feigning sleep, I waited a long time for her to come to bed.

I decided I should leave.

I hadn’t wanted to come – not to Greece and not to the wedding, but Veronica had insisted.

We had promised Eleni and Georgios. Besides, the holiday would do us all good, she said.

So there I was, sitting on my own, while everyone else had fun.

Andrew and Natasha were somewhere in the crowd with their Greek friends, and Veronica was nowhere to be seen.

I glared at my weak leg. Surely I could walk to the taxi rank to get a ride back to the hotel.

No-one would miss me.

But as I braced myself to get to my feet, the haunting notes of a single bouzouki slid across the square.

It was achingly beautiful, and despite myself I stopped.

The crowd had melted back, leaving a solitary dancer in the centre of the square.

It was Yiannis.

As the music curled around him, he started to dance, dipping and twisting, pouring himself into the graceful turns of a slow sirtaki.

He had shed his suit jacket and, in his dark trousers and plain white shirt, arms spread and head held high, he looked athletic and vital, yet heartbreakingly alone.

And then he wasn’t.

Another dancer – his brother, Dimitris – joined him.

Without breaking step, the two linked arms across each other’s shoulders, supporting one another as the dance unfolded.

Then another young man stepped up, then another, and suddenly men and women were flooding forward.

The mood of the music changed, mercurial as a god’s favour, and the line of dancers transformed into a whirling circle.

They spun round and around, the music getting faster and faster.

Veronica was there among them, Andrew on one side of her, a stranger on the other.

Her feet barely touched the ground as they held her between them, flashing through the final bars of the dance. Lifting her. Carrying her.

The circle broke apart, the dancers laughing and panting as they applauded the band and each other.

I could only drink in the boisterous energy vicariously, wishing I could have been part of it.

Then Veronica was there in front of me, face flushed and breathing hard.

“That was such fun.”

The crackle of the microphone spared me having to respond.

“My family, my friends.” Georgios’s voice swelled with pleasure. “In a few minutes we’ll have the last dance – make sure you have your money ready to pin on the bride and groom.”

“We take credit cards, too!” Yiannis shouted and everyone laughed.

“But first I’d like to mention someone here tonight; my good friend, Martin.”

I felt my face redden as he continued.

“I wasn’t sure he would be able to come, but he has and I’m delighted he’s here.

“It was his forty-sixth wedding anniversary this year. He and his wife didn’t get to celebrate at the time, but I hope they’ll take this dance together.”

The band struck up a slow melody, bouzouki and mandolin twining around each other.

Veronica looked at me, a wealth of longing in her eyes.

“I can’t,” I protested. “Not with this leg.”

I knocked my knuckles against the brace hidden beneath my suit trousers, but she held out her hands regardless.

Natasha and Andrew appeared on either side, helping me to my feet.

What if I fall?

“We’re not going to let you,” Andrew replied.

“Lean on us, Dad,” Natasha added. “We’ve got you. You don’t have to do this alone.”

Veronica stopped on the edge of the dance floor and waited.

“Dance with her, Dad,” Natasha whispered as she and Andrew propelled me towards their mother. “You need this, both of you.”

The pair of them stepped back and I found myself standing awkwardly in front of my wife.

I put my hands on her shoulders, steadying myself.

“What will people think?”

But even as I spoke, I felt my body starting to sway to the music.

Veronica’s arms circled me.

“They’re probably thinking ‘Look at that silly old fool’.”

I tensed at the words, but she continued.

“Dancing with the man she loves.”

For the first time in far too long I let myself hear the love in her voice.

“And if they are, they should be hoping they have the same thing that we do, if they’re lucky enough to get to our age.”

She leaned her cheek against my chest.

“I’ve missed this so much,” she said. “Not the dancing – although it is lovely to dance – but the closeness.

“I’ve tried not to say anything, because I know you’ve had so many things to deal with, but I’ve missed being held by you.”

“I’ve missed it, too,” I said.

Then, very softly, I added my confession.

I didn’t think you wanted me to hold you any more.

Veronica turned her head and looked up at me, her eyes wide.

“Oh, Martin, don’t ever think that. I’ll always want you to hold me.” She smiled. “Now who’s being a silly old fool?”

“I suppose I am.”

My hands slipped down from her shoulders to her back and I pulled her closer, holding her tightly against me the way we had always danced.

I rested my cheek on the top of her head and everything slipped back into its rightful place.

Together, we moved to the music, two silly old fools dancing under the stars.

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