DRESS

Some days his feet furious; some days soundless. The boots’ surprising shine; the fast/slow click of their unexpected heel. Through the streets, left and right, boot and heel. Between the high-rise and low terrace, clack, clack. Boot and heel; leather upper, leather sole.

Those are some lovely boots, you got there – Handmade, love – They look it, too – Uncle’s a cobbler, does ’em in his spare time. Last forever, boots as good as these – You’ll walk a lot of miles in them, ye will – Yes, love – Can’t dance in ‘em though, can ye? – No, love, different shoes for dancing. Winkles for dancing – Ye a dandy, so you are. – I just like the best, love – And that’s why you like me? – Might be, love. Might be.

Through the streets, left and right, boot and heel. A hunch in his shoulder, pinch at the nape. The same raincoat, in all weathers; one of three suits. This day, the steel grey; three-button, easy drop, turn-up in the trousers. The elasticated sides of the boots once just visible; now, with age, him losing length in the leg, the cuffs covering. This suit he chalked himself, cut himself, stitched himself. Lasting. Suits like that. Lasting. He wears one every day. This day, every day.

Ye make me feel dowdy in your suits. Ye so sharp and what have I got? Rags, so they are, rags – You look beautiful in that frock – It’s rags. All of them rags. They look at you, not me. Look at ye suits and pity my dress – They do no such, love.

Every day, click the lock and walk. Click the lock and walk the half mile. A straight road. Through the streets, left and right, boot and heel. Between the high-rise and low terrace, clack, clack. A straight road from home to destination. Sometimes hands in pockets, sometimes hands behind his back, a slow whistle on his lips. He looks at the walkway, the brick and asphalt. Boot and heel, boot and heel. People pass him by. He passes them by. Passes chicken shops. Passes betting shops. Passes off licences. Passes by.

I only let ye cause you bought me my dress – I know, love – I would have done anyway, but not so soon – I know, but it looks good on you, good off you too – Never had anything like it. Makes me feel like a queen, ye know. Like a Gypsy princess – One day you’ll have a wardrobe full of ’em – And we’ll dance every night, yes? – Every night, love.

A strip of stores and there he stops. Push open the door. The drycleaner is a man on the phone. Always on the phone, forever on the phone. The drycleaner turns to the rack on his left. A red dress in plastic sheath. Ruffles and sequins. He places it on the counter and puts out a hand. Crossed palm with a note. They do not talk. He talks on the phone. He picks up the dress and holds it by the hanger. He leaves the shop and is on the street, between high rise and low terrace, a dress blowing in the wind, held by a crook of finger.

For luck, love – But always that dress? – Ye bought it for me – I bought you lots of dresses, you’ve bought yourself – I know, but this was the first I ever had, first of my own – But you have others – You mean less – I mean that you don’t – It makes me feel like a Gypsy princess – It’s just – Just what? – Never mind, wear the dress – Ye couldn’t tell me not to.

People pass by and some look at the dress, the almost companion. Some have seen him many times before, others not at all. Under the plastic, the dress writhes in the wind. Between the high-rise and low terrace, clack, clack. Boot and heel; leather upper, leather sole. The dress in hand. He takes the stairs, up to the flat. The door gives heavy, the hallway with its smell of her. There is the suitcase, already packed. Bedwear mostly, things in which to sleep, a box with a mug she won’t be able to use, a glass likewise.

It’s just a setback, we’ll be – No. I tell ye, shush ye, we know, love – It’s nothing, we all get, as we get older, we – shush ye, ye know as well as I. You can put it away, the dress, the shoes too – you can’t be giving up now, Doll – I can give up whenever I want, my love. And it don’t matter if I do or not. There’ll be no more dancing – There’s always dancing, Doll – Keep your dreaming head on, Harry.

The dress goes into the empty closet. He likes the clinging static of the plastic around the fabric. How he has held that dress, how he has held her wearing that dress. She makes a noise, kittenish the tumble from her, a dribble, and yet he turns. She is sitting on the edge of the bed, neck craned. She does not look at him. Looks around as though she does not quite yet remember where she is. There are boxes on the floor. There are spaces on the walls where rectangular things once were. Pictures. Paintings. There are many more. On every counter top, on every dressing table, photographs, mementos.

He picks up a picture of the two of them, oh that evening. At the dancehall, in their youth, and the way he sweat so much from the dancing and the way her make-up held despite the heat and he holds the picture in his hands and smiles and holds it up to her.

‘This one, yes?’ he says and he’s away and talking of the past as he puts it in the tea-chest. A picture next of her mother, a pink cloud, a candy-floss monster woman, and then the kids, the two of them, so pink and young, the older so much older. With rolled pieces of paper, with little kids of their own, with golden drinks beside candlelit foreign bars. He places them all in the boxes; she says nothing, does not acknowledge the photos. The frames. The last thing a statuette, two dancers on the top. He does not cry. He holds it like they have won it again, and she does not flicker. Just stays on the edge of the bed, eyes for the window.

It’s a beautiful place – … – Don’t you think? – … – they can look after. Better than me, doctors and nurses and all that. And there’s always somewhere – … – Talk to me, girl – … – Tell me, Doll – … – Tell me this is the right thing – … – Tell me.

On her bedside is a distillery of pills, a little industrial complex. Beyond them, her husband in his youth. She picks up the photograph and the pills crash to the floor. She holds him in her hands and he comes to sit next to her. She puts her hands on his lap. He brushes her hair. He brushes her hair the way he used to before they danced.

The boxes are full, the room, their room is empty. One thing he has kept for himself is on her dressing table. The picture he could not part with. It is of them dancing and he takes the boxes from the room to the hall. At the last one she stands and heads towards the closet.

He uses the telephone in the hallway, the taxi to take them. A life in three boxes, one suitcase. There are pictures on the wall too. Some missing again. More children, more dresses, more history. He feels the weight of it, heavier than the boxes, so much heavier.

When the call is done he replaces the receiver. The car will be there, quickly, without thought or reverence. And then she is there. In her red dress, smiling. She puts out her hand. He takes it. They waltz in the hallway. Waltz and they wait for the taxi to take them to the dancehall. The dancehall, yes. To dance.