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Short Stories from Wing's Authors.
Dancing In The Dark by Keith Slater My second year of University began with the first
glimmerings of Romance. A divine apparition called Yvonne had invited me to a
term-opening party at her Hall of Residence. Seven thirty, she’d said it
was due to start. By seven ten I was pedalling my ancient, rusty bicycle
up the hill leading to the place, sweating profusely. I had to make it
with enough time to get a quick wash before I met Yvonne. I still found it hard to believe that she’d even
noticed me in French class the previous year, let alone singled me out
for an invitation. A goddess, that’s how I saw her, and she’d graciously
condescended to extend to me, a mere mortal, the favour of being her
partner at the event of the year. And, moreover, there was the prospect
of being provided with an abundance of food. As an impoverished first-year Chemistry student, I
hadn’t been able to move in her circles. She was in Social Science, and
it was mere chance that had put us in the same French class, her as a
part of her core programme and me because I needed a language before I
could graduate as a Science major.
Now I wasn’t at all sure what Social Science students did. Nobody really
knew in those far-off days, before the Social Sciences had split into so
many different factions. I would often notice her, at a table full of
earnest coffee-drinking, long-haired intellectuals, when I dropped into
the Student Union before my first class in the morning. She had an
ethereal, other-worldly look about her that lifted her above the common
herd around the table. Her hair was that dark auburn that goes with
mystery in a woman, and her complexion was flawless.
At noon, when my lectures had finished, the group would still be there,
engaged in weighty discussion. All that had changed was the table, now
littered with empty cups as a symbol of all the erudition that had been
poured out in the three hours since I’d seen her. I never dared to
address her, either on these occasions or in the French classes. She was
out of my league. A poor student with no income worth mentioning
couldn’t compete with the swarm of men, expensively dressed and dripping
with the symbols of wealth, who hovered constantly about her.
But now that had all changed. I was the favoured one tonight. The
honesty shining through my entire being had finally brought the reward I
deserved. She’d had enough of these shallow sycophants and gone for the
strong, silent type.
I skidded to a halt in front of the Hall of Residence where the event
was to take place. Pushing my bicycle into an obscure recess at the side
of the front portal, I peered cautiously into the entrance hall. Nobody
in sight. Good. Time to get myself cooled off with a handful of water
splashed over my face in the men’s room before I had to go into the
Great Hall.
It didn’t take me long to wash off the grime and sweat. I’d smeared
cycle oil on the legs of my flannels, and rubbed ineffectually at the
greasy lines with toilet paper. I only made things worse, spreading the
stain without reducing its stark blackness against the white of my
trousers. White flannels and a University blazer were the alternative to
dinner suit and black tie, for students who, like me, couldn’t afford
the cost of renting formal wear.
One final sweep of the comb through my unruly hair, uncut for almost
four months, and I was ready to face the world. I sauntered across to
the Great Hall and walked confidently through the double doors.
“I’m here at the invitation of Miss Yvonne Parrish,” I announced to the
major-domo who advanced majestically.
He looked down his nose at me.
“I see, sir,” he said. I’d never met anyone who could sneer politely
before.
I looked around the room. Not another pair of white trousers in sight.
Mine was the only summer formal wear.
A lot of money’s gone into the
rental tailors’ pockets, I thought.
Then she appeared. Her auburn hair, elegantly arranged in a flawless
sweep that descended from her high forehead, touched her shoulders
before flicking upwards at the ends. It shimmered and undulated gently
as she came toward me, her entire being and demeanour as ethereal as
always. Her face was exquisitely heart-shaped with little dimples that
creased and rippled along her pale cheeks as she smiled. It could bring
a lump to the throat of any red-blooded male within fifty yards. Her
neck, long and slender, was as graceful as a porcelain sculpture. On it,
her head always reminded me of a beautiful deer, slowly turning this way
and that to see what was happening.
What was usually happening was a throng of male students gasping with
excitement. Tonight was no different. She moved smoothly toward me, but
then I saw that she was about to pass by without noticing me.
“Yvonne,” I said, “I’m here.”
She stopped and glanced at me.
“Oh?”
“Malcolm,” I blurted. “Your partner for tonight.”
“Malcolm?” Her voice was as soft as thistledown, as sweet as a wind
chime, I thought, not for the first time. The image of a deer about to
spring into the air came again to me as the pent-up energy of her
divinity focused her gaze on me.
“Yes.”
“Oh, yes. Malcolm,” she said hesitantly.
“You ... invited me to be your ... partner,” I blurted out. “At the
dance. Tonight.” The words didn’t seem to want to come out straight. “My partner?” “Yes.” “But my partner is... Oh, wait a minute, now I
remember! Come with me.” She turned smoothly and headed across the dance floor
in a graceful glide. I scraped after her. I should have worn my other
shoes, the ones without nails in the soles. Except they were soled in
leather that slipped off the bicycle pedals and one of them had a hole
in it. We finally reached a group of people that parted as if
by magic when she arrived. “This is... what did you say your name was?” “Malcolm.” “Yes, that’s right. Malcolm.” I took pride in the fact that I knew my own name. It
would count in my favour with this beautiful, intelligent woman, I was
sure. A few muttered greetings. Some sidelong glances at my
clothing. “Where’s Marcia?” asked Yvonne. “Over there. She’s just coming back,” said a lanky
youth with a spotty face and a superior tone. I looked in the direction he indicated. There was a mountain of flesh quivering towards us. It
was dressed in a white marquee, with large cotton bobbles hanging by
strings all around its hem. I recognised her vaguely. I’d seen her from time to
time, usually alone but occasionally in the crowd that invariably
surrounded Yvonne. “Marcia, here’s your partner,” Yvonne called sweetly.
“Malcolm, let me introduce you to Marcia.” Before I could protest, a flabby hand, wet with
perspiration, clutched mine loosely. “How do you do?” she croaked hoarsely. Her voice was pure carrion crow. I saw myself as road
kill, except that nobody else seemed to be fighting over me. “Hello,” I muttered, “I’m so glad you could come,” she rasped. “Good
dancer?” I’d been taught to dance by Mary, my determined
cousin, in our early teenage years. It was acceptable in our circle for
a thirteen-year-old girl to dance in public with a relative, so she
could hone her skills without anybody making sly comments about her
trying to pick up a boy. “Well ... I think so,” I answered now. I wasn’t at all sure I wanted to dance with this
woman, or whether my small frame would survive the experience of heaving
her around a dance floor. “Good. Let’s find out, shall we?” she said. I was clutched in a bear-hug grip and steered on to
the floor. Breathing was difficult, especially with my nose thrust into
a bosom so enormous that even my peripheral vision was blocked. She must
have been a foot taller than me. Every so often, when my ears were
released from the grip of the two enveloping masses, I could hear the
strains of “Dancing In The Dark” in a kind of discontinuous staccato. Very apt, I thought wryly. I felt as if I were wrestling with a wild elephant.
Every step, especially at the corners where we changed direction, was an
adventure. I was in fear of imminent crushing every time her foot
stomped, setting in motion a vibration that began at the floor and ended
with oscillating flesh pounding my ears. The dance ended after an eternity. There was a break
for refreshments. “May I bring you a drink?” I asked, having discreetly
noticed that people were getting them without having to pay. “A large gin. And not too much tonic,” she answered.
“Oh, and bring a plate of sandwiches. I get famished when I’m dancing.
All the exercise, you know.” It was the shock of unaccustomed effort, I thought,
but managed to keep the smile fastened on my face. “Of course. Back in a few minutes. Just need to pay a
visit first” I headed for the men’s room and looked in the mirror,
seeking signs of bruising about the cheeks and a narrowing of my
features from crushed facial bones. There wasn’t much visible yet, but
there would be by the time I escaped from this night’s horrors. Eventually, I reluctantly decided I couldn’t stay out
of the way any longer. I grabbed a tray with the biggest plate of
sandwiches I could find and added three gins for good measure. The more
she had to eat and drink, I reasoned, the longer it would take her and
the longer I would be spared from more torture. I took an orange juice
for myself. I needed to keep my head about me. “Those gins are small,” she greeted me. “I wanted a
big one. And who’s the third one for?” “Oh, they’re all yours,” I answered airily. “They
didn’t have any bigger ones, so I thought I’d get you three. Save me
having to go back for a refill.” “What about you?” she asked, eyeing up the size of the
drinks speculatively. “The orange juice is for me “ “Is that all you’re having to drink?” Inspiration came. “Yes. To be honest, I’m not feeling a hundred per cent
tonight.” “Why, what’s wrong?” “I’m not sure. I keep feeling a bit ... clammy.
Nothing serious, I expect, but you never know with these bugs going
round, do you?” She settled down to fill the void in her digestive
system. I couldn’t honestly see many signs of malnutrition, but the
speed at which she ate convinced me that it was only my medical
inexpertise that prevented me from recognising the chronic case of
near-starvation in front of me. After half an hour, she’d finished. She belched
politely into her hand, wiped her mouth with the back of a clenched fist
and stood up. “Right. Let’s get a bit more exercise, shall we?” she
said briskly. “Get rid of some of the calories we’ve added.” A haunting vision of calories staggering across the
room with me enfolded in them struck me. “I think I’d better...hang on for a while,” I said in
what I hoped was a weak voice. I’m...you know.” “Aha! Good job you didn’t fill up with booze, or I’d
have said you were pissed,” she bellowed with a hearty laugh. “I’ll bet
half the people here think you are anyway. Look, get over to the
washroom again and try to...you know, get rid of it.” I accepted the advice gratefully. Ten minutes’ respite
was a welcome boon. “How’s the old tummy now?” she asked when I finally
had to go back. “Not too brilliant. I’m...perspiring a bit more than I
ought to, I think.” “Too bloody hot in here.” I seized the excuse. “Yes. Yes, it is.” “Let’s go out into the garden, eh? That’s what you
really want, isn’t it, eh” Too late I saw the trap I’d sprung. “No, really. I think I’d better...” “Nonsense, you randy little bugger. Don’t think I
haven’t cottoned on to your game. Bringing me three gins and pretending
you’re not well. There’s not a bloody thing wrong with you. Look at you.
Not a bead of sweat anywhere in sight.” “But I... " “Come on. Let’s get it over with. We can sneak up to
my room. Nobody’s going to miss us for fifteen minutes while you have
your way with me.” She seized me in a grip that would have been
comfortably at home on a pneumatic drill and dragged me across the room.
I tripped over a microphone cable that caught in the nails of my shoes
and fell flat on my face.
It must have been my lucky night. My nose slammed into
the wooden dance floor and burst. My blood spattered all over the place. People rushed
to my help. I contrived to get separated from Marcia. As I moved quickly towards the double doors en route
to the men’s room haven, Yvonne glided across to me. “Are you all right, ...erm?”
“Balcub,” I said down my nose. “Yes, that’s it. Malcolm. Did you fall? What a pity.
You were having such a good time.” My feelings vented themselves in sudden fury. “I’d have had a dab sight better bloody tibe if I’d
beed your partner, like I was supposed to be!” She was shocked. The frightened deer vanished, to be
replaced by a different animal altogether, one with a big, slack mouth
that slobbered. Yvonne the camel, I thought. Or perhaps something more
exotic, like a llama. Definitely not a deer. “But...you couldn’t possibly have thought... Look at
you! No dinner suit. Big...boots. A cravat instead of a black tie. And
you’ve got...oil all over your trousers.” I didn’t say a word. I looked at her for perhaps ten
seconds, the scales falling from my eyes with a roar that filled my
head. I turned away, brushed off all offers of help, and
strode out of the front door. It was too bad that I had to miss all that
lovely food, still waiting to be eaten throughout the rest of the
evening. Poor students don’t often get a free feast. But there are some prices that are too high for
anything, no matter how tempting the reward. As I hopped on to my bicycle and began the long ride
home, blood pouring down into my mouth and spilling on to my white
flannels, I knew a peace that nothing could shake, the peace of one who
has escaped a dread fate by noble sacrifice. The price, a gnawing hunger that gradually got worse
as I travelled further away from my nemesis, was one that I decided I
would gladly pay. I could always ask my landlady to spare me a piece of
bread and some cheese.
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