‘Dorothy Brightmore. That was her maiden name, anyway.’
‘Yes, of course. An unusual name, at least. That might help.’
‘Will it?’
‘Well, it’s definitely better than Smith or Jones.’
I see what she means. She’s taking this seriously, and I appreciate it. There’s a smell of ammonia and I see she’s spraying the windows.
‘You don’t have to clean,’ I say.
She stops what she’s doing and turns, cloth in hand. Laughs heartily. ‘Well, I have to do something, don’t I?’
I hope she doesn’t leave smears.
‘Have you heard of Facebook?’ she asks.
I roll my eyes. Has anyone not heard of Facebook? ‘I’m eighty-six, I’m not dead.’
She laughs. ‘We could start there.’ She takes out her telephone and sits down on the end of the sofa closest to my armchair. ‘Let’s see, Dorothy Brightmore.’
I look over her shoulder. There are three results, and none of them have proper photos. Two have that blue and white silhouette you have before you upload one, and one has a cartoon dog. I watch Julie click into each one in turn. The first is in America, and she turns to look at me. I shake my head, and she swiftly dismisses it. The second is in Scotland, and she’s listed a school in Edinburgh. I shake my head. And the third, with the cartoon dog photo, doesn’t list a location. Julie scrolls through the profile a bit until she comes to a photo of a man and a woman of around fifty, arm in arm. I study it.
‘No,’ I say.
‘I know that’s not her – wrong age – but it could be a picture of her daughter or something.’
‘True. Keep going down.’
There are a few more photos, always the same woman.
‘No. Try Dot,’ I say. ‘Try Dot Brightmore.’
She does, and there are no results. Then she opens up Twitter.
‘I don’t use this,’ she says.
I watch her fiddle around a bit, but the end result is the same.
‘I can’t imagine her being on Twitter,’ I say.
‘Can you imagine her being anywhere?’
It’s a strange question, but I take it at face value. How do I imagine Dot now? Can I see her as an old woman, her beautiful face lined and her hair grey? Do I see her stooped and sagging? No. The truth is, I just see the girl she was. My brain won’t age her. And where do I imagine her? London, because that’s where she went initially? I know that people move, that she could be anywhere, but London’s the place to start, surely?
‘London,’ I say. ‘I feel like she’s in London.’
It’s Julie’s turn to roll her eyes. ‘Great. Needle in haystack comes to mind.’
‘Tell me more about this dancing class,’ I say.
Patricia looks happy, as predicted, when Julie and I walk in. She’s quite a bit older than Julie, edging towards seventy, I bet. And she’s beautiful. Sleek grey hair cut in a sharp bob, enormous blue eyes and legs up to her armpits. There are only a handful of people, plus Julie and me. I go up to the front.
‘Patricia,’ I say. ‘I’m Mabel. I’m not too steady on my feet but I’d like to give this a good go.’
‘Call me Patty,’ she says. Her voice is a drawl.
‘I won’t, if it’s all the same to you.’
She looks taken aback, but she recovers herself quickly. ‘Mabel, it’s lovely to have you. Right, everyone. It’s nice to have enough people to say everyone! Let’s get warmed up.’
She has us rolling our shoulders and going up and down on the balls of our feet. Tells me to take things steady, to just stop and watch if there’s anything I don’t feel up to doing. And it feels strange because since she put the music on, the years have dropped away, and I feel like a girl again. I can imagine being spun across this room, my feet light and quick.
When she pairs us up, I’m with Julie. It’s strange to be so close to her, touching. We’re the same sort of height so when I look forward I’m looking directly into her eyes, and it’s oddly intimate.
‘I’ll try my best not to step on your toes,’ she whispers.
‘I’ll do the same,’ I say. ‘It’s a long time since I danced.’
But then she puts the music on, and it’s ‘Unforgettable’， that voice as deep and smooth as plain chocolate, and we’re doing it, listening to Patricia’s instructions, moving a little awkwardly and quite slowly, but moving all the same. As one. It’s like magic. The years, gone. This hall, this music. It’s like a time machine.
When the song ends, Julie looks concerned. ‘What is it?’
I put a hand to my cheek and feel the tears. ‘Oh,’ I say. ‘It’s nothing. I’m fine.’
The hour goes in a flash. At one point, I dance with Patricia to ‘Que Sera Sera’ and something about her expertise and her strong grip gives me the confidence to dance the way I used to, or as close as I can get on these old legs. When it’s over, I feel both energised and exhausted. From the movement and the emotion. I thank Patricia and she tells me to come back any time, says it’s been a real pleasure.
‘Coffee?’ she asks.
Julie looks at me. ‘Would you like to go for a coffee, or would you like to get home?’
I’m surprised to find I don’t want the evening to end. ‘Coffee,’ I say. ‘Or, rather, tea.’
Patricia laughs. ‘You can drink whatever you like, Mabel.’
Julie insists on paying for the drinks and Patricia and I find a table. I’m hoping she won’t go for one with high stools, so I’m relieved when she opts for a low table with big, squashy armchairs. The whole place smells of freshly brewed coffee, and there are framed abstract prints on the walls. Arthur would have said it was trying too hard, and I probably would have agreed with him. He liked an old-fashioned café with checked tablecloths. But I look around, taking it all in, and I decide I like it.
‘So, tell me about yourself,’ Patricia says, smiling.
I’ve always disliked that question. What is there to say? I glance over at the counter, but Julie’s still queuing.
‘I’m eighty-six,’ I say. ‘Recently widowed…’
‘Oh, I’m so sorry.’
‘It’s all right, we had a good run.’
She nods, and I realise she expects me to go on. But what does she want to know?
‘Do you live in Broughton?’ she asks.
‘Yes.’
‘Have you always?’
‘Yes.’
People didn’t move about the way they do now, when I was younger. You stayed put unless you had a good reason to go elsewhere. A job, or a person, I suppose. That way, you had the people who loved you around if you needed them.
‘Why did you come here, from America?’ I ask.
She looks surprised at the question. ‘I have to say, people often ask me when, but they rarely ask me why. Let’s see, I was working as a model and I got to travel all over the world and I fell in love with London. There was something magical about the place.’
‘A model, you say?’
‘Yes. I did all sorts. Some advertising campaigns, some catwalk.’