A few nights later, Penny and Victoria joined the queue of eager, aspiring dancers at the community centre who were lining up at a table where bank manager Huw Bowen, who ran the bridge club evenings, was taking in money, checking names off a typed list, and handing out name tags.
“This is proving much more popular than I thought it would,” said Penny, looking around the room as she peeled off her HELLO! MY NAME IS PENNY badge and slapped it on her sweater.
“Too bad Gareth couldn’t make it, though,” Victoria replied. “There seems to be more women than men. But I guess there usually are at something like this.” After a moment she added, “And don’t forget, it’s just the first night, so people will be here out of curiosity and to see if they like it. Some of them won’t be back next week.”
“Gareth said pretty much the same thing. But he also said that he’d try to come to the second class, if there is a second class,” said Penny, glancing over Victoria’s shoulder and raising her hand. “Oh, look, there’s Thomas and Bronwyn. Let’s go over and join them.”
“Well, what do make of all this, then, Penny?” asked Bronwyn Evans with a vague hint of a mischievous smile.
“Not sure, yet,” Penny replied, “but Victoria and I were just saying there seems to be a pretty good turnout for a cold November night when it’s much easier to stay home.”
“I think some people feel the same way about going to church of a Sunday morning.” The Reverend Thomas Evans smiled. “Of course, I can hardly get Bronwyn to leave the house these days because she doesn’t like leaving wee Robbie home alone.”
“Well, he misses me,” Brownwyn said, referring to the cairn terrier the couple had found cowering in the churchyard a few months earlier. In their kind and loving home, the abused, frightened dog had become a loving, trusting pet.
She seemed about to say something else when a trim man who appeared to be in his fifties took the centre of the floor and clapped his hands. He was smartly dressed in a casual way, in an open-necked white shirt under a navy blue blazer, with a blue-and-white polka-dot handkerchief peeking cheerfully from the breast pocket. Improbably, he was lightly tanned and looked as if he had just spent a long weekend yachting in the south of France.
“Is that him?” Victoria whispered. “He looks a little young for Mrs. Lloyd.” Penny flashed her a knowing look and the two turned their attention back to the speaker.
“Now, ladies and gentlemen, if you’ll just gather round for a moment,” Harry began, “I’d like to explain a few things and then we’ll get started. We’re going to begin our dancing this evening by learning the fundamentals of that most graceful of dances, the waltz. This is the most classic and traditional of all the ballroom dances.”
A tiny murmur of anticipation rippled through the small group as they exchanged nervous glances.
“Here’s a bit of history for you. The waltz originated as a seventeenth-century Bavarian country folk dance before finding its way into European ballrooms in the early 1800s, and since then it’s been one of the most popular of our formal dances and, if I may say so, when done properly, the most beautiful.”
He gave Mrs. Lloyd a warm look, as if seeking reassurance, and then continued.
“Now watch closely. The basic movement is a three-step sequence that consists of a step forward or backward, a step to the side, and then a step to close the feet together.” Saunders demonstrated as he talked, holding an imaginary partner in his arms. “So let’s everybody try doing that, just on your own. You’ll partner up in a moment. So, all together, start off by stepping back on the right leg, then to the side, then together, then forward, side, together.”
He continued his demonstation as he spoke. “Don’t lift your feet too high. You are not prancing ponies. Glide! Glide! And again and again.”
He watched with apparent satisfaction as the group shuffled self-consciously about.
“Now,” he said, “take your partners, gentlemen placing your hands on the small of your partner’s back.” He turned to Mrs. Lloyd, held out his hand, and pulled her toward him.
“Don’t look at each other. Heads to the side, hands just so, and now let’s try doing your little box step.”
Giggling, Penny and Victoria were about to take each other as partners when Philip Wightman, the town undertaker, stepped forward. “May I have this dance?” he inquired in an old-fashioned way, holding out his hand to Victoria. She gave Penny a quick glance and then placed her hand in his. “I’ll be back for you next time, Penny,” said Philip.
Penny smiled at him and walked off to watch from the sidelines as the pairs took their first tentative steps.
“Good, good, very good. That’s it.” Harry and Mrs. Lloyd paused for a moment so he could observe the other couples. “Are we ready to try it with music?” He nodded at a teenager seated in the corner in front of a couple of large speakers and a hefty CD player. “And once we’ve mastered the basic steps, we’ll add in some turns and work on our movements. I want to see you sway, rise, and fall away smoothly in time to the music. Remember, this is an elegant, sophisticated dance. Your steps should be smooth and confident.
“Right then. Here we go.”
The opening strains of a Viennese waltz filled the room and the dancers took their first tentative steps. They moved awkwardly at first, many of them seeking reassurance by looking at their feet.
“Don’t look at your feet,” Harry called out. “They’re right where you left them!”
The dancers laughed and mumbled apologies as they stepped on their partners’ shoes or lurched backward when they should have glided smoothly and confidently to the side. Most of the people who had turned out had taken to the dance floor, Penny noted, although with the shortage of men, a couple of women were partnering each other.
As the music ended, the dancers applauded and inquiring eyes turned to Harry.
Holding a beaming Mrs. Lloyd by the hand, he asked if they were enjoying themselves, and in response, the little group applauded. Their enthusiasm seemed to encourage him, so he demonstrated a few more steps, and as the music started up again, the dancers set to work incorporating the additional steps into their routines.
Keeping an eye on the dancers, Penny wandered along the length of the hall to the end nearest the kitchen where a few chairs had been placed. She sat down and a few minutes later was joined by Glynnis Bowen, whose husband Huw organized most of the events in the community centre. At least a decade younger than her husband, the local bank manager, Glynnis was still attractive in a faded, what-might-have-been kind of way, and while she hadn’t exactly let herself go, she didn’t take the same care with herself as she had before she was married. At one time, Penny recalled, she had been a regular in the salon; now she booked a manicure only at Christmas, if that.
The two women greeted each other.
“I hear the new salon is coming along well,” Glynnis said, sliding onto the chair beside Penny. “I’ll be sure to make an appointment when you open. When will that be, do you think?”
“We’re aiming to have everything up and running in time for Christmas,” Penny replied. “Things have gone pretty well, all things considered. We’ve had some setbacks, that’s for sure.”
Glynnis nodded. “Penny, I’ve been thinking about asking you this for some time now. When I was younger, I used to really enjoy drawing and I wondered if I might come along with your sketching group sometime.”
“Yes, do.” Penny smiled at her. “We’d love to have you. We’re just an informal group, but we enjoy our day out together and you’d be most welcome to join us. Why don’t you give me your number and I’ll ring you. Not sure where we’re headed for next, but there’s no shortage of beauty spots in these parts. And our Christmas lunch is coming up soon. We’re going to a smart new restaurant in Conwy for that.”
A few years ago Penny and Alwynne Gwilt, who looked after the local museum, had started what they called the Stretch and Sketch Club. Members, mostly middle-aged women, got together once a month or so to ramble over the rolling green hills and through the leafy, wooded areas that surrounded the town. Some brought sketchbooks, others brought easels and paints. They usually had a destination in mind and would set up when they got there, drawing and sketching the natural beauty that lay before them. In spring, it might be wildflowers peeking through the hedgerows, in summer a flock of sheep grazing contentedly in the high pastures, or in winter the rugged handsomeness of Mount Snowdon, its snow-covered summit basking in celestial light.
A warm, friendly man transplanted from Yorkshire had recently joined them, taking stunning photographs, which he incorporated into an award-winning blog.
Penny sold her watercolours in local gift shops and during the high tourist season found it difficult to keep up with demand. She wondered, though, if that would change with the greater demands on her time of running the
