The Downfall Of A Bellydancer

1. A Falling Star

Chapter One

A Falling Star

Never judge a dance by its audience.

The day I first heard the Egyptian drums I knew I had found my calling: to liberate women from a fear of their bodies and entertain the world. And it was Rodger who made it imaginable, it was he who understood, and he who called me, ‘Queen of the Clyde’, ‘Loch Fyne’s finest’, and finally his ‘Nefertiti’.

“No one dances like you,” he said, “and I intend to show the world.” Well, at least Argyll, and I believed him.

In the past Rodger had been my rock, the foundation of my artistic journey; a man who understood my talents and the need to express them. Who, back in the days when I first moved to Argyll, recognised that I was a performer of great status, and had star quality as he called it.

I was Mid Argyll’s only Middle Eastern dancer whose legendary shimmies and entrances were talked about days after a performance, who had been mentioned in the local paper more times than the traffic warden or the local councillor, and I loved it, because my whole body was made for performing.

And Rodger was always there for me, through all my performances – keeping the old folk quiet, stopping them from falling asleep and turning up the music when the crowd grew noisy. He would even defend me, in public, to people who were very vocal in their disapproval. Those who were often under the impression (and made it known) that belly dancing was stripping and way beyond the realms of a ‘menopausal housewife’.

“She’s no housewife,” he used to say. “We’re not even married.”

Between you and me, the Sisterhood owes much to Rodger and his ability to master any situation. He took care of all our staging and what he could do with a few solar power torches, and a mobile download was pure genius.

Which was why I found his building of a shed over my meditation space so disturbing; and Lumpy’s ‘drawbridge, slippers’ speech didn’t help either. I mean my Rodger has never owned a pair of slippers in his life, he prefers the feel the shag pile between his toes.

Lumpy, the all-seeing, all-knowing janitor, has manned the community centre, for as long as I have been in Lochgilphead, and is, to quote Mavis, part of the bricks and roughcast. What would he know about Rodger and his footwear? Just because he has his portrait hanging up on the Wall of Gratitude – that’s the foyer, to you and me – doesn’t make him any more than what he is: a janitor who has been there since time began, with a nickname of unknown origin.

God knows how long that photo has been there, hanging as Kay says, “like yesterday’s washing.” But there it hangs right beside Sheila, Lochgilphead’s first yoga teacher and vegetarian, who brought the humble turnip into the twentieth century, with a little cinnamon and introduced the WRI to ‘mindful’ baking.

That photo is a sad reminder of a young Lumpy flashing a full set of teeth, a poor man’s Elvis in overalls. I mean, I have loads of pictures of me when I was young, when I could spellbind more than just the old and infirm. But as I said to my Rodger: “Who would want a picture of their glory years hung on the Wall of Gratitude for members of the Young Farmers’ Association to smirk at?”

Time is never kind. Look at Lumpy… No longer the young man with a full head of hair, he now loiters about the entrance of the community centre with a haunted look. A skinny man who gave up smoking the day he gave up wearing his council overalls in protest about the council cuts, and no one noticed.

An hour after the ‘turncoat’ belly dancing class, I hadn’t moved. I was rooted to the kitchen stool staring at Puss’s untouched food wondering who would come home first, when Rodger stumbled through the door. He too had been at the Argyll, his newfound haunt. I told him about Lumpy’s ‘slipper philosophy’ and Rodger said little. In fact so engrossed was he in balancing a few cat biscuits on top of Puss’s mid-Atlantic cat food that I began to wonder if he had noticed me at all.

“Every week he stands there,” I said, “watching me squirm at the empty page of signatures for my class … right beside the two pages of names for the Zumba class.”

Rodger looked at me with a flat expression. “I am sure he doesn’t watch.”

“And I hadn’t even removed my coin belt let alone turned off Hossam Ramzy and there he was sweeping the floor like I had already left ... It’s hard not to take it to heart.”

“Swings and roundabouts,” said Rodger, “one day wobbling flesh will return, and you will be at the top of the pile.” Which I must admit had me wondering; Rodger could be, as Sheryl likes to put it, cryptic at times.

I wanted to say more, I wanted Rodger’s shoulder to lean on, his listening ear. I wanted to talk about the Gala day; and Rodger’s ideas for the sound system.

“I had found the best music ever,” I said: “Cheb Mami’s Meli Meli, and it’s perfect for a small group with solo dances.”

“What?”

“For the Gala day.”

He looked, tired and irritable; apparently building a shed can do that to a man, especially after a few at the Argyll.

“It just that I have this idea for bagpipes with canes...”

Rodger let out a sigh.

“And I’ll finish with that dance I did at the rugby union ‘do’ – you know how they loved it. Two canes and some tilts…”

“They were out of it,” he said, “drunk, and looking for more than a few tilts, we had to cut short the dance, remember?”

“No… Was it not a power cut?”

And then he looked at me. “There’s only three left in the class. Can you not take a hint?”

Hint? What the hell was he talking about?