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Heel Lead
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Chapter 1
The Dance Class
Two, three, cha-cha-cha. The music chirruped gaily, pumping out the familiar notes of an old pop song.
‘Ouch! For God’s sake, you clumsy idiot.’ Stuart had trodden on his wife’s toe again – the third time that evening already – and she was laying into him big time. Caroline winced in sympathy. Poor Stuart, she felt sorry for him. Angela could be a right harpy at times and was no elegant swan on the dance floor herself. And while it painfully true that her feet were often subjected to Stuart’s abuse, to be fair it wasn’t always his fault. Angela needed to more more quickly… Caroline shook her head. Angela and Stuart loved their dance classes, they had told her so often; it just never seemed like it with all the conflict it created between them. If only Angela would replace those open-toed sandals with a closed-in shoe, her feet wouldn’t suffer half as much from Stuart’s mis-steps. But she had pointedly ignored Caroline’s frequent suggestion that she do so, claiming she didn’t like the full shoe, and eventually Caroline had given up trying.
Angela! Caroline had tried hard to like her, really she had. But, to be blunt, the woman really wasn’t very likeable. She was sharp-tongued, critical, and quick to take offence, and her physical appearance matched her character. Although she wasn’t old, only in her late thirties, her severe hairstyle – always pulled back into a tight bun – and a permanently cheerless expression made her look considerably older. Caroline tried her best not to judge; she had heard rumours of a tragedy in Angela’s past that the woman had been unable to move on from, and in an unguarded moment, Stuart had hinted at it too, a haunted look momentarily darkening his features. What the tragedy had been remained a mystery.
Stuart bore the brunt of his wife’s constant ill-humour with endless tolerance, letting the verbal blows fall, rarely retaliating, and then only with the gentlest of reproaches. He was popular with the rest of the class, friendly and approachable with a smile for everyone in his warm eyes, and yet… In their depths drifted the unmistakeable shadow of an enduring sadness. Who knows what really lies beneath the faces and facades of anyone, even those we think we know, Caroline pondered as she watched them across the room. Angela’s complaining had fallen into a grumpy silence, though she was still looking daggers at her husband and limping exaggeratedly.
The other couples were still cha-cha-ing around the room – four tonight, even less than usual. While at first sight, they seemed an unlikely bunch to be Ballroom dancing, after years of teaching, Caroline had learned not to judge by appearances. Take Trash and his wife Donna for instance. Of course, Trash wasn’t his real name, but Reginald, the one given on his birth certificate, really didn’t suit the huge bulk of a man and he had been known as Trash for as long as he could remember. When they had first registered for her class, he had sworn Caroline to secrecy to never reveal his true identity.
Of all the couples that came along to her class, Trash and Donna were perhaps the most incongruous and unlikely. Built like – to put it politely – the proverbial brick outhouse, Trash was a biker to his bones. Unruly sandy hair, now fading to the colour of washed-out nicotine and decidedly thin on top, reached below his shoulders, and had been pulled back into a rough ponytail for class. His face sported a beard of the same colour and length. He invariably wore tatty, faded blue jeans and an equally well-worn black T-shirt with the slogan ‘Ride or Die’ emblazoned across the front, the blood-dripping words entwined around a garish image of a scarlet skull from whose eye sockets heavily-fanged snakes stretched to breaking point over his impressive belly.
His wife, Donna, barely reached his shoulder. Her dyed raven black hair was chopped short, revealing heavily studded earlobes, and matching studs graced her eyebrows, nose and top lip. Caroline had never seen her in anything other than unrelieved black, usually jeans, T-shirt and a hefty leather belt. She was pretty, a little plump with curves that any woman would envy, and in all the right places.
The last bars of the Cha cha faded. Next came a Waltz. Caroline revised the latest steps she had taught them and started the music, returning to her study of Trash and Donna. She smiled as she watched them. They were probably the best dancers in the class. Despite his size, Trash was unexpectedly light-footed, and he floated across the floor, his huge bulk seemingly weightless as he guided Donna with a gentle but firm touch. Both of them felt, rather than heard, the music and its rhythm, and lost themselves in its magic; it was the secret ingredient essential to becoming a really good dancer that they both naturally possessed. Caroline had lost count of the times that technically good pupils of hers had failed to progress simply because they had been unable to get out of their heads and dance with their hearts. And of course, she thought with a touch of unwelcome envy, as she watched the couple glide around the room’s perimeter into a graceful Whisk, Wing and Telemark, Trash and Donna adored each other. The connection between them created sparks that was wonderful to watch and forged an almost telepathic bond as they danced.
Graham and Laura swept by, their faces shining, their eyes sparkling with the joy of movement. They were the oldest members of the group by some margin and had once been extremely good dancers – their skill was still clear to see – but the years were beginning to take their toll. Both now well into their seventies, they were no longer as agile as they had once been. Laura in particular suffered, her arthritic knees stiff and uncomfortable when she walked. Yet the moment she stepped onto the floor with her husband, the pain evaporated and she moved lightly and elegantly. It was a phenomenon Caroline had seen time and time again during her time as a teacher – the magic of dance defeating age.
She had a soft spot for Graham and Laura. They were absolute sweethearts and had become her good friends over the years they had been coming to her class. They had two sons and four grandsons, with another grandchild on the way, due in the autumn, and Graham couldn't hide his longing for a little granddaughter to spoil. They were both calm and even-tempered, which provided a welcome balance to Angela’s waspish outbursts and Mike’s frequent tendency to shove his size eleven firmly if unwittingly into his mouth. Natural diplomats, they could smooth tensions over without fuss, restoring peace. No longer wanting or needing to learn, they came now purely for the social aspect of the class and the pure pleasure of dancing.
‘Quickstep,’ Caroline called as she changed the CD track and the first notes of Putting on the Ritz echoed across the room. OK, so it was a bit old-fashioned, but she loved the classic tunes, and from their feedback it seemed her class did too.
‘Heel lead, Liam.’ Caroline raised her voice above the music. ‘Heel, toe, toe with the Quickstep. Always heel lead in Ballroom. Toes are for Latin.’ No matter how long a couple had been dancing, bad habits sneaked back in from time to time.
Issy and Liam: popular, eager to learn and, in their mid-twenties, very much the babies of the group. Issy had first dragged Liam along a couple of years previously, his gloomy face on that initial visit evidence that he had only come to please her. Two years later, he was as passionate about his dancing as she was. More so, if anything. It had been his idea that they attend her Salsa classes as well, and as a result, he had rapidly and skilfully mastered the technique of what this group called the ‘Latin wiggle’. It was a prowess that had quickly earned him the nickname of ‘Snake Hips Salter’ among its male members, who envied both his style and the youthful flexibility that made it all the easier for him. Issy and Liam were another couple who openly adored one another. They had become engaged the previous Christmas and had immediately asked Caroline to choreograph and coach their wedding dance, which was still more than eighteen months in the future. They brought with them a youthful energy and exuberance that lifted every class.
Two of the regular couples were absent – Louisa and Charles, and Mike and Jeannette – and there were another two or three couples who came when they could, which wasn’t often. How much longer could she keep the class running with such low numbers? The clock showed five to nine. The lesson was just about over for the evening. She put on their favourite Sequence dance and let her thoughts wander as she began to pack away.
Mike and Jeannette. They were down to earth and practical. Mike’s work as a farmer helped with that, she supposed. She liked them, even if Mike could be a right old grouch at times. When he was in one of his moods, everything and anything was the subject of his wrath, although she suspected much of it came more from habit than a real disgruntlement. Jeannette was a former nurse and the perfect foil for her husband's grumpiness, ignoring it until it got so severe that she would tell him in no uncertain terms to stop being such a misery and go muck out the pigs. She loved to know what was going on, so her work as the manageress of a local charity shop three days a week was the ideal occupation for her to hear all the gossip before anyone else. They weren’t the best of dancers; Jeannette’s timing was frequently a bit off and Caroline suspected Mike both danced and drove his tractors around the farm in the same way – accurate in his movements but markedly lacking in elegance and finesse. What they lacked in grace, however, they more than made up for in enjoyment and enthusiasm.
Then there were Louisa and Charles, who tended to keep themselves to themselves. Distant, Issy had once described them, and they were. More distant even than Angela, who at least made conversation on a day to day basis. Caroline knew that they had been married for over thirty years because she had been invited to their Pearl wedding celebration the previous summer, although she hadn't been able to attend. She had heard that Charles was a highly successful businessman, some sort of high-level mergers consultant based in Bristol, and was wealthy, very wealthy, by all accounts, while Louisa was a stay-at-home wife. Other than that, their life was a mystery. To all intents and purposes, they seemed the perfect couple, and yet… There was absolutely no connection between them any more. There had been, in a superficial way, up until a few months ago. No longer. Recently too, Caroline had detected a faint but definite whiff of alcohol on Louisa’s breath every so often. The woman was always immaculately dressed, hair and make-up perfect, and nothing in her actions ever suggested that she had been drinking; nevertheless, that hint was there. Perhaps life wasn't as rosy as they made it out to be.
The track came to an end. Class was over. To a rising hubbub of voices, they filed out into the lobby, leaving Caroline wondering how she could keep the class going.
Two, three, cha-cha-cha. The music chirruped gaily, pumping out the familiar notes of an old pop song.
‘Ouch! For God’s sake, you clumsy idiot.’ Stuart had trodden on his wife’s toe again – the third time that evening already – and she was laying into him big time. Caroline winced in sympathy. Poor Stuart, she felt sorry for him. Angela could be a right harpy at times and was no elegant swan on the dance floor herself. And while it painfully true that her feet were often subjected to Stuart’s abuse, to be fair it wasn’t always his fault. Angela needed to more more quickly… Caroline shook her head. Angela and Stuart loved their dance classes, they had told her so often; it just never seemed like it with all the conflict it created between them. If only Angela would replace those open-toed sandals with a closed-in shoe, her feet wouldn’t suffer half as much from Stuart’s mis-steps. But she had pointedly ignored Caroline’s frequent suggestion that she do so, claiming she didn’t like the full shoe, and eventually Caroline had given up trying.
Angela! Caroline had tried hard to like her, really she had. But, to be blunt, the woman really wasn’t very likeable. She was sharp-tongued, critical, and quick to take offence, and her physical appearance matched her character. Although she wasn’t old, only in her late thirties, her severe hairstyle – always pulled back into a tight bun – and a permanently cheerless expression made her look considerably older. Caroline tried her best not to judge; she had heard rumours of a tragedy in Angela’s past that the woman had been unable to move on from, and in an unguarded moment, Stuart had hinted at it too, a haunted look momentarily darkening his features. What the tragedy had been remained a mystery.
Stuart bore the brunt of his wife’s constant ill-humour with endless tolerance, letting the verbal blows fall, rarely retaliating, and then only with the gentlest of reproaches. He was popular with the rest of the class, friendly and approachable with a smile for everyone in his warm eyes, and yet… In their depths drifted the unmistakeable shadow of an enduring sadness. Who knows what really lies beneath the faces and facades of anyone, even those we think we know, Caroline pondered as she watched them across the room. Angela’s complaining had fallen into a grumpy silence, though she was still looking daggers at her husband and limping exaggeratedly.
The other couples were still cha-cha-ing around the room – four tonight, even less than usual. While at first sight, they seemed an unlikely bunch to be Ballroom dancing, after years of teaching, Caroline had learned not to judge by appearances. Take Trash and his wife Donna for instance. Of course, Trash wasn’t his real name, but Reginald, the one given on his birth certificate, really didn’t suit the huge bulk of a man and he had been known as Trash for as long as he could remember. When they had first registered for her class, he had sworn Caroline to secrecy to never reveal his true identity.
Of all the couples that came along to her class, Trash and Donna were perhaps the most incongruous and unlikely. Built like – to put it politely – the proverbial brick outhouse, Trash was a biker to his bones. Unruly sandy hair, now fading to the colour of washed-out nicotine and decidedly thin on top, reached below his shoulders, and had been pulled back into a rough ponytail for class. His face sported a beard of the same colour and length. He invariably wore tatty, faded blue jeans and an equally well-worn black T-shirt with the slogan ‘Ride or Die’ emblazoned across the front, the blood-dripping words entwined around a garish image of a scarlet skull from whose eye sockets heavily-fanged snakes stretched to breaking point over his impressive belly.
His wife, Donna, barely reached his shoulder. Her dyed raven black hair was chopped short, revealing heavily studded earlobes, and matching studs graced her eyebrows, nose and top lip. Caroline had never seen her in anything other than unrelieved black, usually jeans, T-shirt and a hefty leather belt. She was pretty, a little plump with curves that any woman would envy, and in all the right places.
The last bars of the Cha cha faded. Next came a Waltz. Caroline revised the latest steps she had taught them and started the music, returning to her study of Trash and Donna. She smiled as she watched them. They were probably the best dancers in the class. Despite his size, Trash was unexpectedly light-footed, and he floated across the floor, his huge bulk seemingly weightless as he guided Donna with a gentle but firm touch. Both of them felt, rather than heard, the music and its rhythm, and lost themselves in its magic; it was the secret ingredient essential to becoming a really good dancer that they both naturally possessed. Caroline had lost count of the times that technically good pupils of hers had failed to progress simply because they had been unable to get out of their heads and dance with their hearts. And of course, she thought with a touch of unwelcome envy, as she watched the couple glide around the room’s perimeter into a graceful Whisk, Wing and Telemark, Trash and Donna adored each other. The connection between them created sparks that was wonderful to watch and forged an almost telepathic bond as they danced.
Graham and Laura swept by, their faces shining, their eyes sparkling with the joy of movement. They were the oldest members of the group by some margin and had once been extremely good dancers – their skill was still clear to see – but the years were beginning to take their toll. Both now well into their seventies, they were no longer as agile as they had once been. Laura in particular suffered, her arthritic knees stiff and uncomfortable when she walked. Yet the moment she stepped onto the floor with her husband, the pain evaporated and she moved lightly and elegantly. It was a phenomenon Caroline had seen time and time again during her time as a teacher – the magic of dance defeating age.
She had a soft spot for Graham and Laura. They were absolute sweethearts and had become her good friends over the years they had been coming to her class. They had two sons and four grandsons, with another grandchild on the way, due in the autumn, and Graham couldn't hide his longing for a little granddaughter to spoil. They were both calm and even-tempered, which provided a welcome balance to Angela’s waspish outbursts and Mike’s frequent tendency to shove his size eleven firmly if unwittingly into his mouth. Natural diplomats, they could smooth tensions over without fuss, restoring peace. No longer wanting or needing to learn, they came now purely for the social aspect of the class and the pure pleasure of dancing.
‘Quickstep,’ Caroline called as she changed the CD track and the first notes of Putting on the Ritz echoed across the room. OK, so it was a bit old-fashioned, but she loved the classic tunes, and from their feedback it seemed her class did too.
‘Heel lead, Liam.’ Caroline raised her voice above the music. ‘Heel, toe, toe with the Quickstep. Always heel lead in Ballroom. Toes are for Latin.’ No matter how long a couple had been dancing, bad habits sneaked back in from time to time.
Issy and Liam: popular, eager to learn and, in their mid-twenties, very much the babies of the group. Issy had first dragged Liam along a couple of years previously, his gloomy face on that initial visit evidence that he had only come to please her. Two years later, he was as passionate about his dancing as she was. More so, if anything. It had been his idea that they attend her Salsa classes as well, and as a result, he had rapidly and skilfully mastered the technique of what this group called the ‘Latin wiggle’. It was a prowess that had quickly earned him the nickname of ‘Snake Hips Salter’ among its male members, who envied both his style and the youthful flexibility that made it all the easier for him. Issy and Liam were another couple who openly adored one another. They had become engaged the previous Christmas and had immediately asked Caroline to choreograph and coach their wedding dance, which was still more than eighteen months in the future. They brought with them a youthful energy and exuberance that lifted every class.
Two of the regular couples were absent – Louisa and Charles, and Mike and Jeannette – and there were another two or three couples who came when they could, which wasn’t often. How much longer could she keep the class running with such low numbers? The clock showed five to nine. The lesson was just about over for the evening. She put on their favourite Sequence dance and let her thoughts wander as she began to pack away.
Mike and Jeannette. They were down to earth and practical. Mike’s work as a farmer helped with that, she supposed. She liked them, even if Mike could be a right old grouch at times. When he was in one of his moods, everything and anything was the subject of his wrath, although she suspected much of it came more from habit than a real disgruntlement. Jeannette was a former nurse and the perfect foil for her husband's grumpiness, ignoring it until it got so severe that she would tell him in no uncertain terms to stop being such a misery and go muck out the pigs. She loved to know what was going on, so her work as the manageress of a local charity shop three days a week was the ideal occupation for her to hear all the gossip before anyone else. They weren’t the best of dancers; Jeannette’s timing was frequently a bit off and Caroline suspected Mike both danced and drove his tractors around the farm in the same way – accurate in his movements but markedly lacking in elegance and finesse. What they lacked in grace, however, they more than made up for in enjoyment and enthusiasm.
Then there were Louisa and Charles, who tended to keep themselves to themselves. Distant, Issy had once described them, and they were. More distant even than Angela, who at least made conversation on a day to day basis. Caroline knew that they had been married for over thirty years because she had been invited to their Pearl wedding celebration the previous summer, although she hadn't been able to attend. She had heard that Charles was a highly successful businessman, some sort of high-level mergers consultant based in Bristol, and was wealthy, very wealthy, by all accounts, while Louisa was a stay-at-home wife. Other than that, their life was a mystery. To all intents and purposes, they seemed the perfect couple, and yet… There was absolutely no connection between them any more. There had been, in a superficial way, up until a few months ago. No longer. Recently too, Caroline had detected a faint but definite whiff of alcohol on Louisa’s breath every so often. The woman was always immaculately dressed, hair and make-up perfect, and nothing in her actions ever suggested that she had been drinking; nevertheless, that hint was there. Perhaps life wasn't as rosy as they made it out to be.
The track came to an end. Class was over. To a rising hubbub of voices, they filed out into the lobby, leaving Caroline wondering how she could keep the class going.
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