Bellydancing and Beyond Box set

Chapter 4

Chapter Four

Sheryl left the Community Centre, drove into the main street of Lochgilphead and parked by the Spar. On the passenger seat was a pamphlet Nefertiti had given to her along with everyone else in the class. On the front was a picture of a huge woman dressed in an amazing costume, with the heading:

BELLYDANCING GOES LARGE

Inside was an article about Kelly, the huge woman in the amazing costume.

OUTSIZE KELLY OUTCLASSES THE REST

Being a size 20 doesn’t stop our Kelly from pulling in the crowd!

Some of the class members took offence. Sheryl felt inspired.

She pictured herself dressed in Kelly’s amazing costume. She pictured herself dancing in front of someone sexy like Johnston. She decided to make herself a costume.

Beatrice began to go through the returns pile, underneath lay Steven’s notebook, as it fell to the floor, Frances picked it up.

HOW THE WEST WAS WON

BY

STEVEN PIPER

Was written on the front. Frances opened it and the two women, after a small amount of protesting by Beatrice, began to read.

Sheryl was the type of woman hard to forget; a gun-slinging barmaid who made the West a safer place. She held no prisoners. With a tiny pistol strapped to her succulent thigh, and a smile that would melt the proverbial, Sheryl was the DOG’S BOLLOCKS.

Beatrice turned the page....

He took one look at her flowing hair and ample bosom and decided one look was not enough. Lust stirred in his loins. Sheryl was everything he dreamed of and more. She even pulled the perfect pint!

Beatrice looked at Frances, ‘I had no idea. I just assumed he looked at all women that way.’

Sheryl worked the bar like a pro. ‘Keep ‘em coming,’ he yelled as he eyed her voluptuous hips. She turned; caught his eye…she knew what he was thinking. ‘Skull your whisky, Porter,’ she said ‘it’s your last!’

Little did she know that Porter was already on her side!

Steven wandered past the desk and picked up the mail. Beatrice slid his notebook under the shelf, ‘Alright then?’ she said, with a small cough.

Frances flashed a smile. ‘Hi Stevie,’ she said sweetly.

Sheryl left the main street with a decent pair of scissors for sewing, a handful of cotton reels and a bag of old jewellery from the Bosnia shop. She jumped in the car and drove to the library; maybe they would have some sort of book about belly dancing there. She parked by the ramp and walked into the library, then she remembered it was Friday, fish and chips night.

Every Friday night over a fish supper, Beatrice went over her list of jobs that needed doing around the house. Sometimes, Sheryl wondered if she could ever look at a piece of battered cod again without thinking of drainpipes and handy foam. But tonight was going to be different. Tonight over her fish supper, Sheryl intended to plan her costume.

Without looking at her mother, she walked past the reception desk. Steven looked up.

‘Can I help?’ he asked.

Sheryl said nothing; she knew where the Middle Eastern section was. She pulled out a couple of volumes of Turkish Embrace, a small book called Eastern Rhythms, and then with the agility of a yoga teacher, she sat on the floor to read.

Beatrice watched her daughter and wondered which charity shop she had got her outfit from.

Steven watched and wondered about offering to help.

The first time he had met Sheryl, she was pushing Beatrice up the library ramp, the chair battery was flat and she was getting the blame. She pushed like a powerhouse with a face he reckoned hadn’t smiled, let alone laughed in weeks. From that moment on, he dreamt of making her smile.

Sheryl walked back to the counter and plonked her books on top of the list. This weekend, she was going to do something nice for a change.

Steven studied the books. ‘Sheryl’s a belly dancer,’ Frances told him. He opened Turkish Embrace Volume One and came face to face with a photograph of large pregnant woman circling her bare bump under the sun.

Beatrice pulled the list out and slid it over the woman’s bump. Sheryl looked at the list and saw her weekend stretched out before her, and the costume she was hoping to make become just another dream.

‘I’m busy this weekend,’ she said in a low voice.

Without a word, Beatrice stamped an elderly woman’s Patricia Cornwall (in large print).

‘I have plans of my own!’

‘Plans, what plans?’ said Beatrice, thumping her stamp even harder on a Steven King. ‘Since when did you have plans at the weekend?’

Sheryl turned to Steven with a pink face. ‘Last weekend, she had me unblocking the downstairs loo. She read out the instructions, while I was up to my armpits!’

Steven watched Sheryl with ever-increasing respect, Belly dancing and plumbing. He sighed.

‘As I said before,’ said Beatrice, ‘it’s best to keep busy when you’re alone!’ She pushed the novels towards the elderly woman, who had no intention of moving. ‘It’s not easy being the wrong side of thirty-five and dumped.’

‘I told you,’ said Sheryl. ‘I have things to do.’ She caught the eye of the elderly woman, who looked like she didn’t believe her either. Six months of living with a mother who had selective hearing and a permanent “Yeah right,” look on her face had left Sheryl feeling that most folk doubted her. She watched her mother reverse her chair into its familiar dent, while Steven expertly moved his feet. Her mother was not going to give up.

Steven felt for Sheryl, he had spent the last year skirting Beatrice’s vicious tongue, and was intimate with embarrassment.

‘Sheryl, I know better than you what you need!’ Beatrice snapped.

Frances turned to Steven, ‘you any good at DIY? Sheryl could use a hand.’

Steven thought about Sheryl holding a ladder while he mended something in a manly fashion.

‘I told you I have other plans,’ said Sheryl.

‘Yes, yes, like getting pissed with Mr.…’

‘I’ll do it for you!’

The two women looked at the small frame of Steven. Sheryl wondered if he could lift a ladder.

‘I’ll do it, I often help my landlady,’ he lied, mentally going through his friends for anyone who knew the least bit about drainpipes, plastering or any sort of joiner work.

‘You any good at leaks?’ Beatrice stared at Steven.

‘Oh definitely, leaks are just my thing. Yes, I’m big on leaks, lethal, in fact!’

Sheryl stood in the middle of her room looking for a clear space on the floor. She put nothing away. She didn’t notice the empty plates with leftovers smeared across them until she stood on one, or the pile of dirty clothes until she ran out. She happily watched the dust settle on everything in clumps, and slept in a crumpled bed; with Sam, and any peculiar smell that either of them chose to make. Sometimes, she was even happy in her room.

When Sheryl had lived in Martin’s flat, she was a woman ready and waiting for her lover. A lover who liked things clean, and even as his visits dwindled and the s*x evaporated, she still lived, waiting, in a state of sterile agitation.

Until recently, the walls in her room had been a pasty green, with the odd damp patch breaking the monotony. But that was before Sheryl discovered wrestling, and more importantly, Johnston.

She hadn’t always liked wrestling; in fact, when she first moved in with her mother, she hated it.

But after a few drinks late at night, wrestling grew on Sheryl. She found herself lingering after helping her mother to bed. In the silence, they watched, and Sheryl grew to appreciate the finer points of a hard black body with more muscles than a seabed.

She tuned Mr. Rugby’s television to wrestling on Sky, just so she could watch the highlights while swerving the Hoover across the floor. Mr. Rugby didn’t mind, he liked having Sheryl about the place. She didn’t nag him when he put a bottle of whisky on the shopping list. She didn’t tut when he took one in the afternoon, and she pretended not to notice when he hadn’t shaved for a week, or forgotten to put his teeth in. Sometimes, she even joined him in a dram.

Every week, she trotted down to the local newsagents for a copy of the ‘Ultimate Wrestling’ Magazine (claiming it was for her mother). She bought every back issue with an article on Johnston.

She painted her walls dark blue, then covered them with pictures of Johnston.

There was Johnston in jeans.

Johnston standing with a towel wrapped around his hips and sweat rolling down his smooth skin; looking mean.

Johnston with his arm wrapped around his pint-sized mum, both wearing a Tee shirt with the slogan, “JOHNSTON KING OF THE RING” splashed across it.

And Johnston flying across the ring with red trousers stretched across his thighs so tight, she could almost see the hairs on his legs.

They all had their appeal, but her new poster was her favourite, and was heading for the precious place of the ceiling. It was full length, and gave an impressive display of Johnston’s dark muscular chest, and long hair. Now she would be able lay in her bed and stare to her hearts content at Johnston, and that tiny tattoo around his n****e.

She scrambled across the bedroom clutter, balanced herself with one foot on a cupboard and another on her bed head, and pinned the poster to the ceiling.

Beatrice, on the other hand, was downstairs preparing for another game of rugby on TV. She wheeled herself back and forth from the kitchen to the sitting room, carrying nuts and beer and getting in the way of Steven, who was busy assembling his DIY equipment.

Years ago, she had been a successful sportswoman propelling her tiny body into feats of acrobatics, still talked about in some sporting circles. She had been a champion in many amateur clubs, and had a cupboard full of trophies hidden away, which she couldn't bare to look at.

Beatrice switched on the TV and wondered how long it would be before Sheryl would start that awful racket she called music.

Sheryl looked in the mirror and shimmied, first her stomach, and then her breasts. It seemed odd after all these years of covering up her body, she was now shaking and swirling it about the place. She pulled her top off and took another swig of wine, then turned her music up.

After assembling and reassembling his tools for an hour, Steven decided it was time to go mend what he had promised to mend. Lindsey had come around for a “how are you” visit with her mother. But after watching Steven’s fumblings with the ladder, she decided watching him would be better value. She stood at the bottom of the ladder and handed Steven a chisel.

‘What kind of noise is that?’ asked Steven, checking the ladder was firmly planted on the grass.

‘THAT’S Sheryl’s belly dancing music,’ said Lindsey.

‘Oh,’ said Steven as he stood poised at the bottom of the ladder, he rattled it a bit then looked up, it wasn’t that high. He turned the chisel in his hand. ‘Maybe I need something sharper,’ he said, trying to appear knowledgeable. He fingered the blunt edges, trying to remember all he had looked up the night before about windowsills and handy foam.

‘You don’t know what you are doing, do you?’ said Lindsey.

‘What makes you say that?’ Steven replied as casually as possible, while staring up the ladder.

‘Cause you’re at the wrong window,’ she said.

Sheryl wrapped a scarf around her hips; and waited for the right beat. She circled her hips, varying the size, all the time watching in the mirror. She had developed a fixation for her belly and was beginning to grow a fondness for the pink flesh, as it rolled to the music.

Sheryl circled her pelvis to the rhythm of the music, and then broke into a shimmy, her favourite move.

Sheryl took to shimmying like other people took to drink; she never knew when to stop. She shimmied in the shower, when vacuuming Mr. Rugby’s home, even when standing over a fry pan for her mother. Sheryl could shimmy every part of her body. She shimmied her breasts while driving, her hips while ironing Mr. Rugby’s clothes, her bum while cleaning the floor; she just loved the feel of shimmying.

Mr. Rugby spent all his spare time hunting out creased clothes. His main aim in life was to keep the ironing basket full; and his floor dirty; watching Sheryl shimmy was better than Carol Vorderman on Countdown.

Sheryl stood in front of her mirror, marvelling at the obedience of her muscles. She rolled her hips to the melody and flexed her stomach in and out like perfect waves. For once, she was in tune with her body.

Steven looked up at Sheryl’s window; the hypnotic beat of drums blasted from the closed curtains. He grabbed the bottom of the ladder and shook it a little. He took a few steps.

Frances had decided to visit Beatrice as she always did on a Saturday afternoon. She arrived with a poster in one hand, a cigarette in the other and a “just passing, thought you could do with cheering up” look on her face. She slid the poster onto Beatrice’s knee, collapsed into her usual chair and inhaled the last of her cigarette. ‘You’ll have seen this then?’ she coughed. Beatrice read the poster.

Wrestling comes to Oban

Lock up your daughters

lock up your sons

Cause the battle of epic proportion has

only JUST BEGUN

Johnston, STEEL ICE AND many more

will battle it out

for the king of celts extravaganza

‘I heard Nefertiti’s been asked to belly dance at it,’ said Frances.

‘No.’

‘According to Shifty, the Sports for Scotland Committee organised the whole thing, and you know who’s on THAT Committee.’

Beatrice stared out of the patio doors; Sheryl’s window was just above and Beatrice had a grand view of Steven fumbling with a ladder.

‘No?’

‘Chubby the butcher, and she has a thing for Nefertiti.’

‘That’s just cause she calls her darl, and Chubby is too stupid to realise she calls everyone darl,’ said Beatrice. She turned down the TV. Lindsey was now offering to help Steven.

‘Well, I heard different. According to Shifty, Imogene was in Chubby’s and made some remark about mutton, lamb and Nefertiti’s inability to fill a padded bra, and Nefertiti was standing right behind her.’

‘Oh?’

‘Apparently, she told Imogene where to shove her quill and Chubby has been in love ever since.’

Beatrice stared out onto the scruffy lawn. Who the hell was this Nefertiti?

Frances referred to her as ‘that game old bird’ ever since Nefertiti performed for the Old Folks Christmas dinner in the Stables. ‘She didn’t just dance,’ said Frances. ‘She came out of a cake, stripped off her seven veils and handed out free Turkish delights. She put the women off their plum pudding, and inspired the men to dance, one of the old boys had a turn and another pulled his hip out. And it was Nefertiti who did first aid; till the ambulance came.’

Rugby had other names for her, most of which he had read off the wall in the Argyll gents, Menopausal Lap Dancer being his favourite.

Beatrice just knew her as the ‘Is Sheryl there, Darl?’ voice on the end of the phone, and as the bony woman in the belly dancing poster on the Co-op notice board, who had obviously just been given a new set of dentures.

‘So it’s her I got to thank,’ said Beatrice.

‘What for?’

‘For Sheryl doing weird thing with her pelvis in her bedroom instead of mending the rowans for me.’

Sam was on the roof, looking down at the large jump and then he spied the ladder.

Steven was grimly hanging on to the sides of the ladder. He had managed to ease himself up and was level with Sheryl’s window. Her window was opened, but the curtains were closed. Steven didn’t see Sam; neither did Lindsey, who instead of holding the ladder was texting. For a moment, Steven hesitated then he took another step, the ladder wobbled, he gripped onto the window ledge and looked up to see Sam on the top rung of the ladder.

‘Bugger off,’ he whispered.

Sam, who had a fondness for softly-spoken men, moved down a rung.

‘Hiya,’ yelled Lindsey into her phone.

The curtains blew open and Steven caught a glimpse of Sheryl dancing.

Sheryl caught a glimpse of Steven’s face at the window. But it was just a face to her, and she quickly assumed it to be a burglar. She slammed the window shut as Steven’s soft voice was drowned out by the music.

Frances and Beatrice stared out on to the scruffy lawn; the ladder wobbled a little.

‘Lindsey?’ yelled Steven.

‘You know, Sheryl could do worse,’ said Frances. ‘He’s very clean and he’s under fifty.’

A few crumbs of plaster sprinkled to the ground, followed by heavier rubble.

‘And willing; how many would fumble up a ladder?’

Sheryl ran into the lounge mumbling something about a burglar, but stopped in her tracks as she recognised the ladder and the ginger blur that was now cascading down the ladder, accompanied by a feline scream.

‘Sam!’ she yelled.

Then with dignified silence, Steven tumbled past the window. With a dull thud, he landed in the nettle patch and let out a muffled ‘Bugger.’

Beatrice reversed her chair to the side cabinet. ‘Another dram?’ she said. Frances held out her empty glass. Sheryl ran outside.

Steven lay on the ground with nettles artistically arranged about his person, mumbling incoherently.

That morning, he had woken up feeling positive. He had visions of himself coming down the ladder looking like a bit of rough out of ‘Lady Chatterley’s lover’. A little bit of plaster dust, he thought wistfully, could do wonders for his s*x appeal. He had pictured himself mending the leak and walking into the kitchen with a few tools slung around his hips, looking like Sean Bean.

‘I’m alright, our Sheryl,’ he muttered as Sam jumped on his chest, then he closed his eyes.