I Hope You Dance by Beth Moran Read Free Book Online

called U3A. The University of the Third Age. “He’s gone to university?”
    She continued kneading, pummelling the bread so hard I thought the counter would crack. I flicked through the leaflet. TheU3A was an organization for retired people who wanted to “keep learning, develop new skills and broaden their interests”. It seemed to be about older people getting together and having some fun. I approved.
    â€œWhich class is he doing?”
    Mum snorted. “Which isn’t he doing? I don’t know. It started with photography. Then Italian. Architecture. Theatre. Whatever.”
    â€œWhy don’t you go along with him?”
    â€œ Go along with him ? Because I am far too busy. I am not ready to while away my days at a geriatric singles club indulging my hobbies when there are people in this town needing my help. It is a pointless little group. Why would I want to learn Italian?” She started punching the dough with rapid jabs, one fist after the other.
    â€œYou might go to Italy.”
    â€œThen I’ll get a CD out of the library. Not join some club.” Pummelling complete, she pulled the stretchy dough off the work surface, squished it into a ball and slammed it back down again with such force I almost felt sorry for it.
    I didn’t point out that my mum’s entire career, the business she had given her life to, the hours spent sewing sequins, perfecting turns, pinning hair in buns, could very easily be described in a similar way. Mum knew life needed art, and beauty, and a chance for human beings to connect via a common goal. That learning a new skill, particularly with others, fed our souls.
    I suspected the truth was more complicated. She didn’t want to feel old and useless. She chose to fill up the hole of retirement by making herself needed , and was sulking that Dad preferred a different dance.

Chapter Four
    Sunday, Maggie stayed in bed while my parents went to church. At least they still did something together. I thought about cooking Sunday dinner. Then decided even thinking about it was enough of a step forward for one week, so continued lying on the sofa staring at the ceiling until they came home.
    Maggie had met Pop only twice before – at Lydia’s wedding, when she was six, and Fraser’s funeral, when I don’t think they even spoke. While we lived in Liverpool, Mum came to see us once a year, during the dance school breaks. Dad had been catching up on paperwork, in the middle of decorating, attending urgent meetings – making rubbish excuses for every single one of those visits. I had no idea how to nurture a relationship between a man who had built a wall that high and the child who believed he disapproved of her very existence.
    Of course, my mother had been scheming about it for weeks.
    After a very late lunch of garlic chicken, roast potatoes, parsnips, sweet potato mash, caramelized baby carrots, minted peas, roasted leeks, two varieties of homemade stuffing, chipolata sausages, cauliflower cheese, cabbage and French beans picked that morning, cranberry sauce and gravy, Mum folded her napkin and announced that Maggie and Pop would be washing up, seeing as I had helped cook the dinner. This wasn’t quite a lie. Once Mum got back from church and the house began to fill with cooking smells I did find the energy to mash the sweet potato.
    â€œWhat?” Maggie looked disgusted. Translate: scared.
    â€œGrand Prix is on,” Dad added, confused.
    â€œ Gilbert! ” Mum said with such piercing intensity Dad jolted in his seat.
    â€œI can watch the highlights later,” he muttered, getting the point.
    He stacked up the empty plates and disappeared into the kitchen. Maggie slunk in after him.
    Mum and I sat in silence for a moment, listening to the clink of crockery and the scraping of plates.
    â€œYou’ve just made them both feel really awkward,” I said.
    Mum began folding the napkins into quarters. She kept