Lesson Six
Going into the Basement
It is wrong to be scared of the bogie man at my age, but nonetheless, I am petrified. I am 38 and I am scared of nothing but ghosts, and loss and weird combinations of those things. And maybe unexpected snakes, if I know I am going to see them, I am fine.
I can hear you say, so what, why am I telling you this?
I have something to confess. I don’t want to talk about it, but I need to get it out, or it will keep me stuck. Sorry to treat you as a therapist, but I know that you will still be on my side after. I don’t trust many people in that way.
We are converting our garage into a playroom for the children. But that leaves us with a displacement of sorts, the garage is cleared, ready, but we have far too much stuff that we don’t want to get rid of, in case we need it later.
What stuff? Travel cots, roof boxes, baby clothes, highchair, pushchair, car seats of various sizes, outdoor toys, tents. They all cost a lot of money, and I do not want to have to buy it all again…
So, I have to clear out things we don’t really need. I am up for all of that, but I don’t want to go down into the basement. I am scared of being alone down there! Last time, I was overcome by the most dreadful sense of doom, darkness and despair. I felt a huge anger being directed at me with my heart being crushed in my chest. It was several days before I could even feel safe in the house!
Don’t worry, you say. Just a panic attack.
So today I am fully prepared, with my torch, a jumper, collapsed boxes, bin bags and a thumping heart
I negotiate my way down the steps and at the bottom, I reach over to switch on the light. It doesn’t work. I toil back up the steps, to the circuit breakers and sort it. Light floods the basement and I feel invincible.
Braced, I walk across and take hold of a box of my school stuff. It means nothing, so I take out a couple of bits and ditch the remainder of the contents of the two boxes into rubbish sacks.
I manage to get through eight or nine boxes like that. And then I get to the first of my dancing memorabilia. Immediately, she is there, slim, long limbed and graceful. Her expression serene and her hair perfectly swept into a bun at the nape of her neck. I pull out the cassette recorder and the case of cassettes. Turning them on to play, I hum along and imagine the exercises that went with them, hands and arms waving in the air in time with the music. Next is a pile of photographs and certificates. Not needed on my journey – in the bin. In the next box is a leotard and a pair of pointe shoes. I slip them on, with my jumper on top. The music changes and I feel my heart lift as I follow the chain of steps that accompany them.
And suddenly there are three of us. Not just me and my younger self, but also Cathryn, with her exquisite arabesques and classical head positions. I am a little stunned that she is with me, but she seems quite at ease. I feel her touch, gentle on my shoulder as she picks up the steps and direction of movement. The years since we have danced together, slip away and we blend our styles to match, just as we had then, “ensemble means as one” I say through my breath and she smiles at me in her cat eyed, wide mouthed way, full of charm.
Together we dance entrechats, raises on one leg and then swoop, with our back leg straight and arms continuing the deep, dipping bow. Into turns, leaps and small stepping motions and then whipping our legs swiftly and crisply, turning on the spot in pirouettes, exciting and fast, turning and turning. And suddenly there is Olga, much younger than I remember her, toes no longer twisted and painful, but with all the grace that she would have had in her youth. Her arms are gentle, soft and filled the music in a sophisticated, smooth, beautiful extension of her hands and fingers. I have never seen her dance like this. She has always been a dancer in my imagination, but really an old lady, with misshapen feet. Now we match our steps, side by side, then in a line, smiling in joyous excitement at dancing with each other.
The music cassette snaps off, breaking the mood. I scoot across to change it and am surprised that the others have not stopped dancing. I watch them and feel surging up in me again, all of the angst and hurt that I felt when I had to stop running my dance school, and when I gave up my own dancing. Then I push into the small group and continue with my solo part. I put all of my sadness and pain into it, ending with a tearful flourish and bring the other dancers into the finale, as we all sink into our end positions.
I smile across at Olga, then Cathryn, then at my younger self holding their gazes and conveying the permanence of this memory. I mouth, ‘I remember’ and as one, they speak, “I remember”.
There is a silence at the end of the music. I realised that this time I had been accompanied by ghosts of love and such happiness. Although Cathryn? I did not know she had died.
I was feeling a huge sense of relief that the bad vibe I had before was no longer there. Perhaps we exorcised it?
Three days later, I got two cards, one to tell me that Olga had died, (of old age, at 93). And the other to tell me of Cathryn’s passing, (in a car accident, at the age of 37.)
But it didn’t stop them dancing.
