Ruby tells him to fuck off only he doesn’t react. Then I notice a flesh-coloured hearing aid in his earhole.
‘Do you want a red card?’ mutters Davina.
‘If he puts his hand on my arse, I’ll batter him,’ says Ruby, screwing up her face.
Duncan leads me to the centre of the room where he bows and takes my right hand in his left and puts his other hand just above my waist, resting it there.
‘When I move my right foot forward, you move your left foot back,’ he says.
We start moving, shuffling rather than dancing because I’m staring at his feet, trying not to step on his loafers. I’m wearing my knock-off Doc Martens and I could snap his leg if I kicked him in the shins.
‘A bit quicker now,’ says Duncan.
He puts a little pressure on my wrist and I automatically turn, like he’s steering me. Next second, he lets go of my waist and I’m spinning under his arm. How did he do that?
‘You’re good at this,’ I say.
‘Been doing it a long time.’
He keeps looking over my shoulder and smiling. Next time I turn I see an old woman in a wheelchair, who has tears in her eyes.
‘Who’s that?’
‘My wife, June.’
‘Why don’t you dance with her?’
‘She can’t. Not any more.’ He waves to her. She waves back.
‘We used to go dancing all the time. Oh, she was a mover. That’s how we met – at the Barrowland Ballroom in Glasgow. It was a Saturday night. I’d downed a few pints of Tennent’s across the road to give myself the courage to ask someone to dance with me. The girls wore pretty dresses and seamed stockings. The bigger the hairdo the better back in those days. We guys had “moonie” haircuts or shaggy fringes. I wore this three-button mohair jacket and a shirt with a button-down collar. And my shoes were so brightly polished I was afraid girls would think I was trying to look up their skirts.’ He looks at me bashfully. ‘In Glasgow, even if you couldn’t afford to eat, you always wore the right clothes.’
Duncan could have been talking a foreign language, but I’m getting most of his story.
‘The boys stood against one wall and the girls against the other. In between was this no man’s land where you could perish if you asked the wrong lass to dance because it was a long, lonely walk back to our side.’
‘I’d seen June before, but had never plucked up the courage to ask her to dance. She was the prettiest girl in the place. Stunning. Still is, if you ask me.’
I glance at June and find it hard to imagine.
‘All of her friends were dancing, but June was on her own, leaning against the wall, one leg bent. She was looking at her make-up mirror and I said to myself, “It’s now or never.” So I crossed that floor and walked right up to her.
‘“Are ye dancin’?” I asked.
‘“Are ye askin’?” she replied.
‘“Aye, I’m askin’.”
‘“Aye, well, I’m dancin’.”
‘That’s when it happened.’
‘What did?’
‘We fell in love.’
I want to make a scoffing sound, but I don’t.
‘We danced all night and two months later I asked for her hand. That’s what you did in those days – you asked permission from the lass’s father before you proposed. He said it was OK, so I went to June and said, “Are ye for marrying me?”
‘“Are ye askin’?” she said.
‘“Aye, I’m askin’.”
‘“Aye, well, I’m acceptin’.”
‘We’ve been married fifty-eight years in September.’
The song has stopped playing. Duncan releases me and bows, putting one hand across his stomach and the other behind his back.
‘Come and meet June,’ he says. ‘She’ll like you.’
‘Why?’
‘You look a lot like she did when she was your age.’
He steps back and lets me go first. I approach the old woman in the wheelchair. She smiles and holds out her left hand, which feels like crumpled paper. She doesn’t let me go.
‘This is Evie,’ says Duncan. ‘I was telling her how much you love dancing.’
June doesn’t answer.
‘What’s wrong with her?’ I whisper.
‘She had a stroke last year. She’s paralysed down one side and can’t really talk. I understand her, but nobody else does.’
June turns my hand, as though reading my palm. She runs her fingers over my smooth skin until something distracts her. She is studying her own left hand. Tears fill her eyes.
‘Have I done something wrong?’
‘It’s not you,’ Duncan says. ‘She can’t find her engagement ring. We’ve looked everywhere.’
‘How did she lose it?’
‘That’s just it. She never takes it off.’
‘Maybe it slipped off.’
‘No, it’s all red and puffy. See?’
I look more closely at June’s finger. One of her tears fall on the back of my hand. I fight the urge to wipe it away.
‘I could help you look,’ I say.
The words come out of my mouth before I can stop them. Why am I volunteering? I look across the room at Nathan and Ruby and Davina, who have found a table set out with afternoon tea. They’re scoffing food like fat kids at a cake convention.
Next minute, I’m in the corridor, following Duncan as he wheels June back to her room. He talks to her like they’re having a conversation, but it’s all one-way.
‘Ever since June had her stroke, she’s been in the high dependency ward,’ he explains. ‘We used to share a room, but now she’s on her own.’
June’s room has a single bed, a wardrobe and a chest of drawers with nothing on the walls except a TV and an emergency panel.
I start checking the obvious places, crawling under the bed, collecting fluff on my sweatshirt. I shake her shoes and squeeze the pillows and run my fingers along the edge of the mattress where it meets the wall.
‘What did you do to get community service?’ Duncan asks.
‘This isn’t supposed to be a punishment,’ I say. ‘We’re giving something back.’
‘You must have done something.’
I called my social worker a fat fuckwit, but I’m not going to tell you that.
‘How long have you been in foster care?’ he asks.
‘Seven years.’
‘Where are your parents?’
‘Dead.’
‘Why didn’t someone adopt you?’
‘What is this – twenty questions?’
A member of staff appears in the doorway and demands to know what I’m doing. His name is Lyle and he has a face like a ball of pizza dough with olives for eyes and anchovies for eyebrows.
‘June lost her engagement ring,’ explains Duncan. ‘She never takes it off. Evie is helping us look for it.’
‘She shouldn’t be here,’ says Lyle.
‘She’s only trying to help,’ says Duncan.
‘I think it was stolen,’ I say. ‘Look at her finger. It’s bruised.’
‘Maybe you stole it,’ says Lyle, stepping into the room, blocking the doorway. He wants to make me scared. ‘Maybe that’s why you came here – to rob old people.’