4. The Favour
894 Words
Chapter Four
The Favour
Dancing leads to many things, and not always an applause.
I was offered a job after a particularly impressive performance for an elderly couple. When I say impressive performance, it had little to do with dancing and more to do with cutting things short…a talent that has taken years to perfect.
A few days after I found out about Rodger’s sale of the century, I was attempting to put a tenner of fuel into the car at Tesco’s. I was grimly watching the dial when I heard “Nefertiti?” shouted across the tarmac with annoying urgency.
Mid tapping of the last drizzle, Jessie pulled at my arm.
A local fond of curry, wine, and gossip, Jessie had heard about my dancing. Her father was at the Argyll’s old folk’s do – years ago, where I had belly danced. Apparently he remembered little of it, apart from my name and how I looked as much like an Egyptian queen as a Scotch pie.
According to Jessie, he was on mood tablets at the time which, with just a whiff of whisky, could induce a coma, confusion, and/or both. He apparently woke with a bad taste in his mouth and everyone talking about Bingo (Shifty’s dog) attacking Nefertiti’s bra. A Turkish delight had hit him between the eyes, and before he had a chance to swear, another landed in his whisky. He left complaining bitterly about the inappropriate tossing of sweets, insisting that they appeared “from every crevice imaginable” and some he didn’t know existed. Naturally the local paper made a meal of it, neglecting, of course, the mood tablets.
“It’s a shame he missed you,” she said. “He’s a big fan of all things ‘Eastern-ie.’”
“You could have fooled me,” I said with a robust tap of the nozzle.
Jessie laughed. “Still talks about the Turkish delights.”
“There were no crevices involved,” I said, snapping the petrol cap shut.
“My father wouldn’t know a crevice if it jumped up and bit his lip,” said Jessie.
Which had me confused.
I went inside. Jessie, uninvited, tagged along. She followed me to the veg section.
“It’s just that my father isn’t in the greatest of health,” said Jessie. “In fact, the chances of him seeing Christmas is as slim as those leeks over there.”
I looked at a leek that any Welshman would’ve laughed at and immediately felt sorry for him.
“Mum’s desperate,” said Jessie. “She wants to give a send-off like no other.”
“Send-off?” I said.
“I mean a party. He turns ninety-six and we’ve planned a curry.”
“At the Taj?” I said, a little surprised.
“His love of naans goes back to his merchant navy years. And I’ve heard their naans are to die for.”
“I thought it was the pakoras,” I muttered, wondering if the leeks would last the night.
“He’s just mad about Egypt,” said Jessie. She touched my arm. “Then, when I saw you, it just sort of clicked…”
“Clicked?” I said.
“Can you do a dance for him – tomorrow?” said Jessie.
“At the Taj? That place is smaller than a portable loo.”
“Not the Taj; Ban Duic in Inveraray. It is the sweetest place.”
“I see,” I muttered. “Well tomorrow is kind of short notice.”
I picked up a leek and was just about to branch into the subject of a fee when Jessie’s mother – or “the wife,” as Jessie’s father called her – approached with a “dare you to say no” strut.
“His time is limited,” the wife said, “and he always wanted to go back somewhere desert-ie.”
“Egypt, Mother, it’s Egypt,” said Jessie.
“And you’re the nearest he’ll ever get…” said the wife.
I continued to listen as they told me how much their dad “loved all things Middle Eastern but could hardly cough without passing out, let alone enjoy a shimmy.”
I had no choice. I was cornered between the veg section and the cold meats. They were going nowhere until I said yes.
“Just do your best,” muttered Jessie.
“But keep the Turkish delights out, and your stomach covered,” said the wife. “He’s got a dodgy heart…”
“Mum!” said Jessie.
“…can’t remember the last time he saw a stomach,” muttered the wife.
Jessie pushed an invitation card into my basket and began to steer her mother away.
“He falls asleep at the drop of anything,” snapped Jessie. “A middle-aged stomach is not going to rouse him.”
After they left, Mavis, who was loitering in the freezer section, came up and began to give me the low-down. She called “the wife” as tough as Chubby the butcher’s steak…
“Married into wealth,” said Mavis, “then hid it from everyone – the kids, the taxman, even slept with the VAT man to keep hold of it…”
“Aye right,” I said.
“She is a woman you better not say no to,” said Mavis. “And they pay well, tipped Lumpy big-time when he helped with a blocked drain.”
I turned the invitation card over in my hand and wondered who made invitations for a curry.
“It’s hardly an offer,” I said, “and they never mentioned money.”
“That’s the rich for you,” muttered Mavis, who went on about Lumpy’s blocked drains and tipping all the way home. In fact, she went on about it so many times I was beginning to think she was on commission.
“Mavis,” I said, “why do you care so much?”
“I could come along,” she said. “It’s been ages since we have done anything together.”
I stared at the card. Why did she really want me to dance there? But before I had a chance to ask, she was out of the car and flicking my kettle on.
- Writer
