Chapter 22
Chapter Twenty-Two
Rowan
The ceilidh is mayhem. I love it.
The wood-panelled hall in front of us is full to the brim with red-faced dancers, stamping and spinning as if their lives depend on it.
The band is on a raised stage to one side, while on the other, a bar is tucked away next to some long benches, carefully placed out of the way of the ruckus.
A small crowd of people watch with their drinks, and every now and then, a dancer spins out of the crowd, desperately downs some water, and then throws themselves back into the throng.
Our motley crew hesitates in the doorway.
None of us have packed anything appropriate, so we’re still in our hiking gear: Priya and Lila in sensible trousers and T-shirts; Ewan’s knobbly knees sticking out like golf balls under his Adidas shorts; Angus in his ubiquitous grey.
I’ve opted for purple: purple leggings with yellow splodges that make me feel like a cheetah, purple T-shirt with a violet on the back, shaped like an exclamation mark that reads: No wilting here.
I’ve left my Zesty cap at the hotel, and I feel naked without it.
“Still not too late to turn around,” Angus offers quietly.
A part of me wants to. It’s loud, and hot, and I feel a world away from being able to dance with such uninhibited glee.
The only time I go dancing is with Marnie and it is exclusively to cheesy pop nights where we know all the words and everyone on the floor is too drunk to notice what we’re doing anyway.
This? Steps to follow and someone on stage watching to make sure you’re doing it right? This fills me with dread.
But the glow of the hike lingers. Strong. Confident. Capable. If I want to keep feeling this way, I need to push myself. Even if is just to dance.
I shake my head. “And miss the fun? No chance.”
Priya is watching the band with shadowed eyes. “I wish I could do that,” she whispers, as the fiddler takes a step forward, raising their instrument high.
“One day, kiddo.” Lila tucks her under one arm and hugs her to her side. “As long as you keep practicing.” She kisses her on the forehead. “Come on then, Angus. What do we do?”
“Nothing for now.” He folds his broad arms. “When the song finishes, the caller” – he points to the man fronting the band, who is shouting out the steps – “will tell us what’s coming next, and organise the room to start. That’s when we join in.”
“What if we get it wrong?” Priya is staring at the wall of bodies with a spark of fear in her eyes.
“Then we laugh, and try again,” Lila says. “Like that woman there!”
Sure enough, a redhead wearing dungarees has turned left instead of right, colliding with a taller gentleman in a neat tweed suit. He catches her, and she screams with laughter, ricocheting off him and back into her circle without missing a beat.
“Don’t worry, lass,” Angus says. “Most people here are far too busy enjoying themselves to care about you. That’s what makes it fun.”
The song is slowing, coming to an end. The dancers’ feet halt, and a new crowd surges towards the bar, as others stand around, clutching their ribs or resting their hands on their knees.
“Next song’s starting. We’re up.” Lila pushes Priya into a line that is forming in front.
“Not me. I’ll be over there.” Ewan points towards the benches. “Come find me when you need a break.”
“What about you, Angus?” I ask. “Are you going to dance?”
He catches my eye. I don’t know what I expect: a short, sharp no? For him to walk away again without a word? The ice of this morning seems to have thawed, but I still don’t know where we stand. Or if we stand anywhere at all.
“Aye,” he says, surprising me. “I’ll dance.”
So when the band strikes up, I find myself next to Angus in the line.
And when the caller tells us to take our partner’s hand, it is his large, calloused palm I grab.
I have a second to savour the sensation, and off we go, spinning each other around, forming a daisy chain with the others in our group and running down the hall under another couple’s arching hands.
Another spin, a few more steps, and then running the other way, already starting to lose our breath, and without meaning to, laughter is hiccoughing in my throat and a smile threatening to break out on my face.
It is fun. Ridiculous, glorious fun. I don’t know the steps. Half the time I’m trying to spin the wrong way. I must have stepped on Angus’ feet at least fifty times.
None of it matters. All that matters is the lively beat, and the joy on everyone’s faces, and the feeling of doing something together as one.
And Angus, whose dark eyes never leave mine, whose hand is a steady, guiding force, whose small smile changes the whole of his face, so he glows as though he is lit from within.
I want him. Like I have never wanted anyone before.
I want his stoic silence, and his stubborn determination, and his calm pragmatism, but most of all I want the way he looks tonight, with his hair curling around his face, and his eyes sparkling with quiet joy, and a weight lifted from his shoulders I hadn’t even realised he was carrying.
On the next turn, we come together again, our hands pressed palm to palm as we run down a corridor made of the other dancer’s arms. We pause at the end, and I stare up at him, flush-faced, sweaty and out of breath. His mouth opens as if he has something to say.
And then, with a shriek of the fiddle, the music stops dead.
Murmurs fill the hall. I crane towards the stage: the fiddler has collapsed and the other band members have gathered around them in consternation. The redhead in dungarees runs out of the crowd and whispers in the caller’s ear. He groans.
“I’m sorry, lads and lasses,” he says into the microphone.
“We should be back with you shortly, although looks we’ll be down on strings.
Music will be a wee bit different for the rest of the night, unless someone wants to volunteer to take Carrick’s place.
” He laughs, as if at the absurdity of his own suggestion, and turns back to the band.
“Priya!” Ewan limps over on his crutches. “Did you hear that?”
“Ewan, no.” I know what he’s going to suggest.
“Hear me out, yeah?” He winces as he gets down on one knee, so he’s face-to-face with Priya. “You want to be up there, don’t you? I can see it in your face.”
“Yes.”
“I’ve heard you playing the last few nights, and you’re good, Priya.
Someday you’re going to play on stages across the world, but if you don’t start now, that someday is going to keep getting further away.
Don’t miss your chance because you’re scared.
” He takes her hands in his. “I know your mum says the audition will be different, but it won’t be that different. It might be worse.”
“Ewan!” Lila shoots at him.
“What? I’m trying to tell her the truth!
That’s the truth! You think she’s going to do better in front of some old bats who are waiting for her to fail?
At least here, everyone is rooting for you to do well, and no one will remember if you don’t.
Think about how much fun everyone is having.
Don’t you want to be the one to give them that? ”
“Want me to hit him with a menu again?” Angus offers.
“He’s not wrong,” I say, surprising myself.
“I know more than I should about not doing things because you’re scared.
It hasn’t worked out so well for me. Priya, if you don’t want to, no one’s going to make you.
But if you want to be brave, and get up there, and have some fun, we’re all behind you. Okay?”
She stares at me for a moment, her eyes wide. “Will you come with me?” she asks at last.
“Of course.” We slip through the waiting crowd to the stage. “Priya can play,” I say to the caller.
He cocks his head. “The little girl?”
“She’s a wunderkind.” I laugh when Priya groans. “Give her a chance?”
He stares at us for a second, then shrugs. “Can’t be worse than a narcoleptic fiddler who doesn’t disclose their fucking condition – sorry.” He looks at Priya. “You’re, what, eight?”
“Ten.”
The caller grabs the fiddle from where it has fallen. “Ever played one of these before?”
She shakes her head.
“But you’re a violinist?”
Priya nods.
He shrugs. “Good enough. Can you sight read?”
This time Priya nods vigorously.
“Come on up. Keep it lively – that’s all these fuckers want – and don’t worry too much. Half of them are drunk anyway. Got it?”
Priya clambers on to the stage, and hesitates when the caller hands her the fiddle. Her hands are shaking. Wisps of hair fall into her face. I can see her starting to fold.
The crowd is restless, milling around with no music to dance to. There are a dozen curious eyes on her, on us. I can feel the pinpricks of them digging into my spine. My palms are sweating in sympathy for Priya, and even as I have the thought, I can feel my own knees shake.
But I want to be brave. To be a new version of myself. And if the little girl can do it, so can I.
“Fuck it,” I swear – and clamber up beside her.