The Refreshment Hatch

Gethin saved me the first dance on Sunday. He did it without asking anyone else to wait, simply coming across the room when he saw me and holding out his hand.

I went to him with my coat still on.

“You may want to remove that,” he said.

“I was being spontaneous.”

“It’s very becoming. Also quite warm.”

I laughed, took it off and left it on the chair he had chosen beside his own. My bag went on the floor. I had begun to enjoy the small confidence of finding space already made for me.

We danced twice before we sat. He followed me for the second tune, deliberately leaving the first choice to my hand, and I thought of his crooked napkin. I liked all the things he was willing to be less than expert at with me.

At the interval I went to the refreshment hatch for water. He was there with Red Shoes, the man arranging the music and the woman who had taken the first turn at the door. They were discussing where to have their usual Wednesday tea.

“Blue chairs,” the music man said. “The other place puts everything in a jar.”

“Half past six?” Red Shoes asked.

Gethin nodded, then saw me. “You know Coralia.”

“We’ve danced,” she said. “Very efficiently.”

“I can do inefficiently,” I told her. “I need the right recording.”

Gethin smiled at me. Our private trumpet joke could remain private; I enjoyed not having to explain why it pleased him.

The door volunteer offered me a biscuit. I took one and asked whether she had had a chance to dance yet.

“Three. I’m having a rest. It’s my own fault. I keep choosing the quick ones.”

We talked about the floor, which was smoother after the caretaker’s new polish, and the temperature, which pleased nobody in exactly the same way. These were the conversations of any dance room. I had started to relax into them when the music man looked at my empty cup.

“Careful what you tell her. She’s scouting for Friday. Next thing we’ll have an inspection report.”

He grinned. It was not a particularly sharp joke. Perhaps that was why it was so easy for the others to receive it as one.

The door volunteer laughed. Red Shoes made a small face, difficult to read.

Gethin said, “Only on the cups. She’s already found them wanting.”

He smiled at me, inviting me into the deflection.

I looked at him. I could see the moment he expected me to supply the next line: something dry, something that reassured everybody I was not the kind of woman who minded. I was good at that. He knew I was.

“I came to dance,” I said.

“Of course you did,” the music man replied. “We’re only pulling your leg.”

He moved away to change the track. The door volunteer went to refill the biscuit tray. Nothing had happened which required anyone to remain and discuss it. That was part of what made it work.

Gethin touched my elbow.

“Another?”

I moved my arm, enough that his hand fell away.

“Not just now.”

His face altered. “All right.”

I took the cup to the bin and sat beside Red Shoes. She asked whether I wanted to join the next partner exchange. I said yes.

I did not leave the room I had paid to enter. I danced with her, then with a man who counted under his breath, the same man I had asked on my first visit. He was more at ease tonight. I was glad for him, and annoyed that I could still be glad while I was hurt.

Once I caught Gethin looking towards me. I looked back. I did not want him guessing for the rest of the evening, so when the tune finished I went to him.

“I want to talk about that,” I said. “Somewhere quiet, before we go home.”

“The remark?”

“Your answer to it.”

He nodded. “Whenever you want.”

I wanted ten minutes in which I did not have to hold my face correctly. I went to the cloakroom, drank some water and came back for my coat.

· · ·Scene break

We walked to the side of the hall where a bench faced the small paved garden. People were still arriving and leaving through the main doors. Here we could talk without asking an entire room to participate.

Gethin sat beside me, leaving space.

“I thought I was making it harmless,” he said.

“For whom?”

He looked at the garden. “I didn’t want to turn it into a scene.”

“I didn’t ask for a scene. I wanted not to be the joke.”

“He says things like that to everyone.”

“Does that make it better?”

“No. I mean he doesn’t really think you’re spying.”

I folded my hands together because I wanted to wave them and did not trust myself to remain precise if I began.

“I know he doesn’t think I have a notebook concealed in my stockings. I’m telling you what it felt like to stand there while you laughed.”

“I wasn’t laughing at you.”

“You gave him a better line.”

He was silent.

I could still feel Thursday in the way I looked at him: the man who had left the lamp on, who had heard me ask for a pause and given it without losing his own desire. It did not vanish because he had disappointed me. It made the disappointment particular. He knew something of how much it cost me to stop being everybody’s competent answer, and in front of his friends he had handed me that job again.

“You made it my responsibility to show I could take it,” I said. “If I laughed, I was welcome. If I didn’t, I was proving whatever they already thought about Friday.”

“They don’t all think the same thing.”

“Neither do we. You’ve never found that difficult to forget about us.”

He drew breath to answer, then did not.

A leaf scraped across the paving. Through an open window came the rhythm of the next dance. We could have been inside, his hand warm at my back, the argument still available for postponement. I wanted that badly enough to feel angry all over again.

“You could have said I was there with you,” I told him. “Or just that I wasn’t there to report on anybody. You didn’t need to make a speech.”

“I thought mentioning the cups would remind you we could laugh about it.”

“I can laugh with you about the cups. That isn’t the same as standing beside you while somebody makes my friends a reason to distrust me.”

He rubbed a hand over his face.

“You’re right about what I said.”

The sentence arrived a little too neatly. I looked at him until he added the rest.

“I’m still trying to explain what I meant.”

“I know.”

“Because I don’t want you to think—“

“I don’t think you’re secretly cruel. I think you wanted an easy minute with your friends more than you wanted to risk an awkward one with me.”

He winced.

I had hurt him. I did not enjoy it. I also did not take it back.

“I wasn’t weighing it up,” he said.

“That’s part of it. I’m asking you to notice.”

He sat forward, elbows on his knees. I could see a loose thread at the back of his collar. I knew how it would feel to smooth it away. Wanting to care for him was not the same as having nothing more to say.

“We were going to your place,” he said.

“I know.”

“Do you still want to?”

I had bought bread and the kind of cheese he liked. I had imagined a second night, less shy than the first, and a morning in my own kitchen with him. The thought of putting the food away alone made my throat tighten.

“Not tonight.”

He nodded once.

“I’m disappointed,” I added. “About losing the evening as well as the rest.”

“So am I.”

“I don’t want to sit opposite you and make it pleasant while I’m still angry.”

“You don’t have to.”

We were quiet. Then he asked whether I wanted a few days.

“Yes. Until Wednesday. We can speak after you’ve seen your friends, if you still go for tea. I don’t want messages asking whether I’ve stopped minding.”

“I won’t do that.”

“And don’t cancel your friends to show me I matter more. That isn’t what I’m asking.”

He turned towards me.

“What are you asking?”

“That when I’m there, I’m allowed to be there. Without earning it by letting you all enjoy a joke about where I belong.”

He looked down. “I can hear that.”

“I hope you can.”

I stood, and he stood with me. Neither of us reached for the other.

“Would you like me to walk you to the stop?”

I nearly said yes. It would have allowed us a familiar ending, perhaps a kiss that meant we were still ourselves. But I had asked for space, and I needed to take it honestly.

“I’ll go on my own.”

“All right. Wednesday.”

“Wednesday.”

I walked round the hall and down the road. He did not follow or call after me. That was the right thing, and it hurt anyway.

At home I put the cheese in the refrigerator and cut one piece of bread. Then I cut another because being unhappy had not made me less hungry.

The anniversary ticket was beside my keys. I left it there. I had not decided that the relationship was over, and I would not make the card announce a decision I had not made.

I sat down at the table. On Thursday I had asked him to leave a lamp on so I could see his face. Tonight I wanted him to look as steadily at the part of himself that had answered for all of us at the refreshment hatch.