(This story is set in Yorkshire in the 1950s)
He were from round ‘ere, you know, that Troy Hunter. Course, back then he were plain old Arnold Grimshaw. That were before he went to London and got into the theatre, and then he went off to America where he got into the movies. Now he’s an international star of the Silver Screen and neither hide nor hair of him seen around here for years. Then his gran got sick. Suddenly there were rumours all over. Have you heard? Troy Hunter’s in town. No-one had actually seen him, mind. But everyone knew someone who had seen him or seen his car or talked to his granny’s neighbour. The whole town was electrified, and there was a feeling in the air like everyone was holding their breath, waiting for summat. Or someone. Well, it were Saturday night and of course all the young folks in the town were at the Palais, tripping the light fantastic. It were easy to see that the girls had taken even more care with their hair and make-up than usual and there were more best frocks on show than you’d get at a wedding. Still, I don’t know if anyone really believed as he’d turn up. I mean, an international movie star, always going to parties with the rich and famous, what’d he find to amuse himself at a small-town dance like ours? Mind you, he did have a reputation as being a bit of a one for the ladies. Not that there were anyone in Lambsdale to rival any of them Hollywood beauties, ‘cept maybe Maisie Mapplethorpe, but hers were real beauty, nothing like that peroxide and eyeliner stuff that passes for beauty in the movies. Any road up, it were along of 11 o’clock and the evening in full swing when the door creaks open and who steps in but his lord high and mighty himself, Troy Hunter. Well, the whole room came to a standstill; even the band stopped playing. It’s like when someone uses a freeze ray in one of them sci-fi movies. Everyone in the room stood rooted to the spot, just gawping at him, like they’d never seen an international movie star in the flesh before, which they hadn’t, leastways, not since he’d become an international movie star. And I’ll tell you for nothing, when plain old Arnold Grimshaw walked into a room nobody batted an eyelid. But he was looking a lot different now. Older of course and more physical, if you know what I mean – beefier. He’d allus been a skinny young lad, looked like a stiff breeze’d knock him down, not enough Yorkshire puds I’d say, but now he looked like he could knock down anyone in the room. And tanned of course – it looked real but you can’t tell these days. And his hair, which’d always been mouse brown however you tried to dress it up, were shining gold now. Well, he stood in the doorway grinning smugly (unnaturally white teeth, if you ask me) as he looked around at the kerfuffle he was causing. Then he walked slowly into the room and sort of did one of them royal waves at the band to let them know to go on playing, so they did. Everyone was still gawping at him but as he strolled through the hall all the girls were straightening themselves up and patting their hair and putting on their biggest smiles for him, all of them hoping he’d ask them to dance. But he just walked slowly, looking ‘em all up and down as if he were in a cattle market, having a good look round before making his choice. Then he stopped, right dead in front of where Maisie Mapplethorpe were sitting as usual, like a beautiful wallflower, among all the chaperones. Smiling his most charming smile he held out his hand and said, “May I have this dance?” Maisie smiled politely and said, “I’m sorry, but I couldn’t possibly.” His smile froze. He obviously weren’t used to lasses turning him down. But then he must’ve thought that she was just overwhelmed by his fame so he said, “It’s okay, you don’t have to be shy. I’m just a person you know,” and he laughed like he’d just said summat really funny. But Maisie weren’t laughing and she didn’t look a bit shy. She just shook her head and said, “I’m sorry, but it’s really quite impossible.” There were a flash of anger in his face but he smoothed it away quickly, his mouth reforming the ready smile, which didn’t reach his eyes this time. People had started to giggle and there were a few snickers. He obviously weren’t used to being laughed at, or maybe he’d been laughed at too much when he were a young ‘un, before he were surrounded by kiss-ups and flatterers. Anyways, he leaned forward and grabbed Maisie’s hand. “Come on,” he said insistently, trying to pull her to her feet but she just toppled straight off her chair and lay at his feet in a heap of flouncy petticoats. He looked absolutely horrified. Several people had rushed to help Maisie straight away. Annie Underwood were one, she and Maisie were great mates and, once she’d checked Maisie were alright, she glowered angrily up at Troy Hunter. “She can’t walk!” she snapped at him. “What part of ‘impossible’ don’t you understand you great twasock?” There were lots more snickers and a few guffaws and Troy Hunter went as red as a beetroot. “I, I’m sorry,” he stammered. “Yeah? Tell it to the marines,” snapped Annie, who had a tongue on her at the best of times and she were right angry now. “You’re just a spoilt brat, coming in here acting like you own the place and you’re better than us and then getting into a tantrum just ‘cause you can’t get what you want. Tchah!” and she turned away from him in disgust. He were still standing there, all unsure and looking like a balloon what’d been popped, when Gracie Biggleswade grabbed him by the arm. “I’ll dance with you,” she said, all breathless and excited. Trust her. Well, it obviously weren’t what he wanted to do but I reckon he thought he’d offended everyone enough, so he danced with Gracie and managed to smile and be charming and talk about nothing, but I noticed how he kept looking over at Maisie with a thoughtful look on his face. After a while he asked Gracie, “Why can’t she walk? What’s wrong with her?” Gracie shrugged. “Accident or summat, not sure.” When Troy finished dancing with Gracie he made his apologies and left. There were some disappointed sighs from some of the lasses but a lot more relieved ones. Maisie Mapplethorpe were dead popular and what Troy Hunter had done were unforgivable. “Huh, good riddance,” snorted Annie. “Catch me going to one of his movies again. I always thought he were overrated anyway.” Which weren’t exactly true as she had three pictures of him on her bedroom wall, not to mention eight cigarette cards. Well, the next anyone heard was that he was back in America. And that’s that, we all thought. Our one and only visit from an international movie star. It were a bit depressing but, ah well, real life’s real and the movies ain’t and that’s all there is to it. We all thought we’d heard the last of it, but we were wrong. It were about a week later that a big black car was seen outside Maisie Mapplethorpe’s house. It were the real posh type with a chauffeur and all. It was there for a few hours and then Maisie was seen being lifted into it along with a suitcase and then it drove off. Well, the whole town was agog. We all thought Maisie had done a flit, but then word got out. Maisie had gone off to see some big London doctor who was going to see if he could do summat about Maisie’s legs. Well, of course, the town could talk about nothing else. Some people thought it were dead exciting and they had their fingers crossed for Maisie. “Imagine if he could get Maisie to walk,” they said, with shining faces. Others weren’t so hopeful. “It’s a shame,” they’d say, “getting the poor girl’s hopes up like that, when she’d got used to the idea of being a cripple for the rest of her life. It ain’t right.” They’d tut and shake their heads primly, and I couldn’t help but wonder if it were them that were used to the idea of Maisie being a cripple for life and they didn’t want things to change. But I know that were uncharitable of me. I reckon they really didn’t want her to get her hopes up for nowt. Nobody heard anything more of Maisie for quite some time. Her folks were keeping mum, which I can’t say I blame ‘em and it were a few months before Maisie came back. I don’t know how these things happen but somehow word had got ‘round that Maisie were coming back, even though her folks hadn’t told no-one, and there were quite a crowd outside her house when the big black car pulled up. The chauffeur chap got out first and went round to open up the boot. People were trying to push forward and peer into the car but some of Maisie’s big cousins were there and they managed to hold people back. Sometimes they pushed ‘em too, none too gently at that. Well, this chauffeur chap, he gets out Maisie’s suitcase and a pair of crutches. Then he goes round and opens Maisie’s door. It’s the first time we’ve seen her for months, but she looks well, not changed much. Well, she swings her legs out the door and the chauffeur, he hands her the crutches. Well, you could have heard a pin drop, I kid you not. A couple of people start forward to help Maisie out, but she waves them away. She leans on the chauffeur’s arm and pulls herself up on to her feet. Then she fits one of the crutches under one arm and the other one under the other arm. It looks like it’d be tricky but she does it easy, like she’s had lots of practice. Then, she takes her first step forward and the whole street explodes. Everyone’s cheering and clapping and crying and Maisie has this big grin on her face. Annie rushes forward to hug her and the number of people wanting to hug Maisie is so big that her cousins have to hold ‘em back or they’ll knock her right off her feet. Maisie’s dad shouts something and it takes him a few goes before everyone quiets down enough to hear him. “You can all come in for a cup of tea,” he shouts, “only give our Maisie space to get inside.” So everyone clears a path for her and her mam and dad walk on either side, giving her their encouragement, with Annie right behind. Of course, Maisie’s mam and dad had been down to London and seen Maisie walking on her crutches before, so they’re not surprised and they’re not crying, though I’ll bet there were tears enough the first time they saw her walk. Well, the house is that full that people are standing around in the hall and the kitchen as well as the parlour, where Maisie is of course, and even the garden. And there aren’t enough cups to go around so as soon as someone finishes their cuppa the cup is rinsed and used for the next person and the kettle is constantly on the boil. After a bit though, Maisie gets tired and her mam shoos out everyone except close friends and family but nobody minds because they can’t wait to get home and tell everyone else all about it. It don’t take long ‘til everyone’s used to seeing Maisie getting around on her crutches. Every day she walks round her garden, building up her strength and soon she’s walking down to the shops and back. Everyone’s talking about what a miracle it is and how good it is to see poor old Maisie out and about like that. As for Maisie, well, you’d have thought she’d won a medal for running a mile, she was as pleased as ever could be. And, just when you’d think it can’t get any better, Maisie walks into the grocers, not on her crutches but with a walking stick and a big grin on her face. Seems she’d been practising secretly at home so as to surprise everybody. Well after that her walking got straighter and stronger until, about two years after she’d first gone away, she walked into the Palais on a Saturday night all by herself, no stick, no crutches, nothing. Every lad in the place wanted to dance with her and, watching her whirl around the floor with that glow on her face made you feel, well, I’m not much of a one for the soppy stuff but I reckon, if anyone in that room had troubles of their own they were forgotten while they watched Maisie Mapplethorpe dance for the first time. Two dances were it for her though, then she had to sit down again in her old place and rest. But that had been enough for her. Now she could sit and watch the others enjoying themselves, not as an onlooker who knew she could never join in the fun but as one of them, just sitting out and having a rest but able to join in again when she wanted to. It’s funny how quickly you get used to things. Two years earlier no-one ever thought we’d see Maisie walk. When we did it was like the biggest miracle in the world - it made you feel like anything was possible. But soon we were as used to seeing Maisie walking around as we were to seeing the rain fall or the sun rise in the sky. Life went on. Day passed day and every Saturday saw all the young folks in the Palais. We were all there that Saturday when the door opened and, for the second time, Troy Hunter walked in. Well this time everyone went crazy. They were clapping and cheering, whistling and stamping their feet. To his credit he did go red and look a bit uncomfortable. People rushed up to shake his hand and slap him on the back and he couldn’t help grinning. His smile looked more natural this time and I thought I could see a glimpse of that old Arnold Grimshaw. It were a few minutes before he could tear himself away and walk over to where Maisie were sitting. She were as red as a beetroot and were looking at the floor, but when she saw those expensive shiny shoes in front of her, she looked up. Troy smiled, his nice genuine smile, and held out his hand. “May I?” he asked, and this time Maisie didn’t say a word, she just took his hand and stood up and the whole room watched her and Troy Hunter whirl around the floor. It were the last dance of the night and, as you know, the lad who dances with a lass for the last dance has the right to walk her home. So Maisie set off for home on the arm of Troy Hunter. They must have walked awfully slowly. It’s only a five-minute walk to Maisie’s house from the Palais but although they left the hall at midnight they didn’t get there till after half past. “I thought you couldn’t stand him,” teased Annie the next day. Maisie blushed again. “Well, I couldn’t very well say no,” she retorted, “it were a pretty cheap price to pay for being able to walk again.” But as for Troy Hunter, well, I reckon that were the most expensive dance he’d ever had.
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The idea for this story came to me in Perth in 2011. A religious sect was predicting the end of the world and the papers were full of it for some reason. We were waiting for the bus back to our caravan park and a bus arrived going to Wattle Grove. We’d never been to Wattle Grove and we thought about getting on that bus, just for the heck of it, seeing that the world was about to end. We’ve still never been to Wattle Grove.
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AuthorFiona Lohrbaecher is a Tasmanian author and playwright. ArchivesCategories |