The Moon Spun Round (26 page)

A
RE YOU SERIOUS
? Do we really have to do this?’ Sally calls out to Abbie, who is leading the four of them in single file along a narrow pavement.

‘Yes, we do. It’s a village tradition. Every New Year’s Eve as long as anyone can remember.’

‘But it sounds absolutely awful.’

‘Yes, it is. That’s the whole point.’

‘You used to think it was the social event of the year.’ George is behind Abbie and in front of Sally. ‘That’s where we did some of our best courting.’

‘Yes, but that was nearly twenty-five years ago.’

‘This is real time-warp stuff.’ Naomi is bringing up the rear.

‘So, you always go as well, Naomi?’

‘Wouldn’t miss it for anything.’

As the night is fresh and dry and the village only ten minutes away, they have decided to walk so they can have a few more drinks to wash down the copious amount of wine they’ve already consumed, without worrying about driving home.

Sally had decided that it really was about time that she returned Abbie and George’s hospitality, and she was surprised but very pleased when they accepted her invitation to dinner on New Year’s Eve. George naturally insisted on bringing a couple of excellent bottles, and Naomi, who was also invited, turned up with a bottle of something homemade that tasted rather sweet but turned out to be not far off pure alcohol. Sally had some difficulty serving the dessert. Then, before she had a chance to ask if anyone would like coffee, Abbie flourished
four tickets and announced that they were all going to a disco.

The music can be heard from quite a way off. With midnight little more than an hour away, there seem to be a lot of other people about.

‘Anyone else going we know?’ asks Sally.

‘Everybody turns up there eventually. Whoops!’ Naomi slips off the pavement, grabbing the back of Sally’s coat. They both dissolve into fits of giggles.

George stops to wait for them. The car park is full and overflowing onto the road, doors wide open with people wandering outside for air or a surreptitious smoke.

‘Oh my God, I don’t believe it,’ says Abbie. ‘He’s actually playing “Viva Espana”.’

‘What you fail to appreciate,’ says George, ‘is that all Jeff’s discs are collector’s items.’

‘Museum pieces, you mean.’ Naomi goes off into more giggles. ‘He certainly hasn’t bought anything new this side of the millennium.’

‘Jeff
is
a museum piece.’ Abbie takes Naomi’s hand and tugs her towards the entrance. ‘In fact he’s the original Medallion Man.’

‘Are your boys here, Abbie?’ asks Sally.

‘You must be joking. No, this is strictly grab-a-granny night. Anyone under the age of twenty-five left the village hours ago. They’ll all be clubbing it in Newmarket or Cambridge. The good thing about this do is that the music’s loud but not ear-splitting, we know the songs off by heart, and we’re all old enough to make fools of ourselves without caring what anyone else thinks.’

As the four of them stumble into the hall, no one seems interested in their tickets, and George spots a table that is just being vacated. The women take off their coats, using them to claim ownership of the chairs, while George goes off to find them some beers. By the time he returns, Sally and Naomi are up dancing and Abbie is talking to Ruth.

‘…got here about half an hour ago.’ Ruth raises her voice to be heard above the noise. ‘Fran’s here somewhere, too—with Edward, would you believe. Last sort of do you’d expect to see him at. Probably come to save us all from a den of vice and corruption. Hello, George.’

‘What’s this about vice and corruption? Am I missing out on something? Evening, Jack. Fancy a beer?’

Pink Floyd are putting another brick in the wall, so any attempt at conversation has to be at full volume. The centre of the room is a mass of heaving bodies and undulating limbs. Green and red lights flash around the walls and ceiling, turning faces into carnival masks. Women have kicked off their high heels and men discarded their coats and ties, white shirts turned lurid by the ultraviolet.
Dance movements, remembered from decades ago, are initiated then imitated around the room. A fat man in a waistcoat is doing a bad imitation of Mick Jagger. His wife, her skirt far too short for her bony knees, shrieks with laughter, as if she hasn’t seen him do this a thousand times before.

This yearly rite of passage is presided over by Jeff, high priest of the turntable. A one-time John Travolta look-alike, he wears his shirt open to the waist to reveal a medallion almost large enough to cover his middle-aged spread. As he grinds his hips, insisting that ‘we don’t need no education’, his surfer-wave of gelled hair has slewed sideways and is threatening to slip off his balding head.

‘Bizarre, isn’t it?’ Ruth shouts at Abbie.

‘What’s bizarre?’

‘All this. Looks like something from Dante’s “Inferno”. Perhaps Edward has a point.’

‘Oh, cheer up Ruth—it’s a laugh. You still feeling a bit down?’

‘I know. Sorry. Probably the time of year. Been busy at the shop. I’ve been thinking I might take a holiday.’

‘You certainly look tired. A break might do you good.’

Sally seems to be dancing with several people at once, while Naomi, although surrounded by other bodies, dances with no one but Naomi. She is sleek in skintight pants and a skimpy top, her eyes closed, hair flowing like silk in the wind. A slick of sweat glazes her neck and shoulders as she moves with a sensuous grace, her body taking unashamed pleasure in its own freedom. Naturally, heads turn to watch her, but she’s unaware of anything but the rhythm in her bones and the wine in her blood.

Suddenly the music stops and the dancers shuffle back to the sides of the room. Sally and Naomi come in search of George’s promised beers. ‘They’d run out of glasses. Can you manage with a bottle?’

‘No problem.’ Naomi takes a long swig. ‘That’s not old vinegar-face over there, is it? Shall I go over and wind him up?’

‘Don’t you dare. Sit down and behave yourself,’ says Ruth.

‘Spoilsport.’ But Naomi does sit down, leaning back in the chair and running the chilled bottle down the side of her neck. She is suddenly still, looking intently across the tables at the other end of the room.

Sally turns to discover what has caught Naomi’s attention and sees Claire standing next to Ayden. They’re talking to another couple; Ayden unaware of being watched, but Claire is looking their way. Sally waves discreetly, a barely visible curve of her fingers. Claire responds with a shake of her head, then turns her back. With Naomi full of drink, light-headed from dancing and looking for mischief, the situation is potentially explosive.

‘Hello there. Sally, isn’t it?’ Someone is standing beside her. ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you.’

‘No, sorry, it’s me. I was miles away. Brian McPherson—have I got that right? You’re the vet, aren’t you? We met at the stables.’

‘That’s me.’ The music starts up again, this time an Abba classic. ‘Do you want to dance?’

‘Sure, why not.’ Sally forces her attention away from Claire and Ayden and they move to join the dancers.

‘Come on, you too.’ Abbie pulls George by the sleeve and they almost tumble into the crowd.

Naomi’s gaze is still intent on the other end of the room. Claire looks glamorous, in a tight-fitting black dress with long sleeves and a short skirt, and high-heeled ankle-strap shoes. She’s trying to pay attention to whatever Ayden is saying, but occasionally she allows her head to turn slightly in Naomi’s direction.

Naomi places her bottle on the table and rises to her feet, threading her way along the edge of the dance crowd as she heads towards Claire. Suddenly an arm slips around her waist.

‘Not now, sweetie.’ Fran firmly turns her back the way she came. ‘Whatever you had in mind, this isn’t the time or place.’ Keeping a tight grip on Naomi, Fran escorts her back to her chair, and with a strong hand on her shoulder forces her to sit down. Fran is none too steady on her own feet, and when Jack pulls a chair up for her she flops down onto it. She keeps a tight hold on Naomi’s hand. ‘Think we’ve both had a little too much festive spirit, eh? Hello, Ruth.’

Abba finishes and makes way for Elton John, a slow tune this time. Ruth and Jack get up to dance. George, panting from exertion, looks grateful and pulls Abbie close to him. Brian, still a relative stranger, takes Sally’s hand and places a tentative arm around her waist. Ayden is now deep in conversation with an older man. Claire stands to one side, watching the dancers. Naomi watches Claire.

When the song is over and people are returning to their tables, Jeff reminds them that the old year is fading fast.

‘Can’t do this like I used to.’ George is still out of breath, despite their slow sashay through ‘Yellow Brick Road’.

‘Nonsense, my love. You’re still the virile young man I married. Just takes you longer to get up to speed, that’s all. Hello, Fran. Surprised to see you here.’

‘You and me both. Some idea of Edward’s about going out to meet the community in its natural environment.’

‘God, makes us sound like a troop of baboons.’

‘That’s probably how he sees the rest of the human race.’

‘Evening, Fran.’ George reaches for a fresh bottle. ‘Fancy a beer?’ He uncaps another one for her.

‘Thanks, you’re a pal.’ The music starts up again and she whispers to Abbie, ‘Who’s that Sally’s dancing with?’

‘New vet, Brian McPherson. Oh, dear, I hope he keeps away from George. Christ, I think I’m beginning to feel my age, too.’ Abbie gulps down a long drink. ‘That’s better. Nice to see Ruth and Jack up dancing. She’s certainly not been herself lately. I’m more than a bit worried about her.’