Dancing in a Distant Place - Hardcover

Isla Dewar was born in Edinburgh. Her novels have been warmly acclaimed in the United Kingdom. She lives in Fife with her husband, a cartoonist; they have two sons.

The Missie

A crowded bar in Glasgow, a shiny place, chrome and glass and very noisy, a constant thrum and babble, conversations and laughter. Too noisy for Iris, really, though she loves the city, the movement, the bustle. It's raining outside, a thin soaking drizzle, streaming endlessly. Cars hiss past on the road. She watches the world through the window, slightly steamed, and glowing reflections. She can see herself, though tries not to. Her face always surprises her these days. How did that happen to it? Not the lines and wrinkles, she knows how they got there. Time and worry have done that. Like they have to all the familiar faces round the table tonight. No, it's the slightly mournful look that seeps into her eyes, a deepening sadness. She remembers times past, and always, always she thinks, I could have done better. She is hard on herself. All her life she has found it difficult to forgive herself her mistakes, or thinks, when considering a past situation or problem, that she could have done more, pushed herself further.

'Bloody weather,' she says. Everyone agrees.

But there is something lovely about the rain. Especially when you are looking at it from the warmth inside. Rivers of water run down the pane, lights gleam, reflected in pools on the pavement. An alluring glimmer.

A chill November night. Iris sits with her friends, and her daughter, Sophy. She drinks champagne, though she claims she does not like it. 'It's fizzy. And proper drink isn't fizzy.' She laughs. Her laughter is a song, loud, rhythmic. Her face wreathes into mirth. Tonight she wears a purple silk ankle-length skirt, a matching purple shirt, black velvet jacket. Round her neck, to cover time's cruelties, a pink silk scarf. In her small crowd, all well dressed butmore sombrely, she sticks out. In fact, she sticks out in the whole room. Eyes wander over to her. And it isn't just the clothes, it's the face -- small, lively -- and the extravagant, easy laughter. Iris loves that. Basks in those sidelong furtive stares.

They have come to the theatre. It was originally only going to be Iris and Chas, but then Sophy and her husband asked to come along. Then the Vernons, Stella and John, who she has known for more years than she likes to think she's known anybody. And Morag who she's known for longer even than the Vernons. But that doesn't matter because she has always known Morag. Only Scott is missing. He is an anthropologist based in Toronto.

Isn't it often the way? Iris thinks, looking round the table. It starts with just the two of you, then, turn around, blink your eyes, and there's a crowd. She notices a young man watching her, and smiles openly at him. She can do that now, she is old enough for it not to matter. This smile is just a smile. There is no secret sexual inference in it. No playing, no other meaning than a friendly upturn of the lips.

A drink first. A meal after the play. Then home. Iris will sleep with her head on Chas's shoulder. There are of course many, many more friends, but these, tonight, are her special people. She is seventy-four. Doesn't look it. Her face is smooth, just a few wrinkles round her eyes, and lips. 'But,' she says, 'I've earned those wrinkles. They're mine. Battle scars from a life of work and angst.' Her hair, once fair, the colour of corn stubble, is grey, but still with unruly curls that sneak across her cheeks. She notices the bottle has been moved.

'Oh, look at that. You put it out of my reach. You don't want me to drink too much and embarrass you.'

'Iris,' says Chas, 'you always embarrass us. You don't need drink to be embarrassing.'

She grins.

They have been together for over thirty years, not married. Iris won't marry, though Chas has asked her often. 'I'm not doing that again. Once is enough.'

She reaches for the bottle, refills her glass. 'Just a drop.'

Chas makes a face.

'You're cramping my style,' she says to him.

'I have never cramped your style. You were messy and loud-mouthed when I met you, and you're still messy and loud-mouthed.'

'You tell her,' says Sophy. 'I don't know how you put up with her.'

'He's madly in love with me,' says Iris. 'You have to admit he's got terrible taste in women.' And laughs.

'Laughing at your own jokes,' says Chas.

'Well, they're funnier than yours.'

'That's true. I'll give you that.' He loves her.

Not that she doesn't love him back. The sight of him across a crowded room, that beloved face, still moves her. Sometimes, even yet, when she sees him coming towards her she feels herself melt. He always made her smile, like she had done all those years ago when he'd turned up at her door with a basket piled high with vegetables. Over a hundred miles he'd driven with them, and all he said was, 'I brought your veg. I said I would. It was our deal.'

That was what had done it. He was someone who always kept their word. At the time, she'd needed that. Though, at the time, love was the last thing she'd been thinking of.

'Love,' she'd said to Morag. 'Don't want it. Don't need it.'

Morag had said, 'Oh, yeah?'

But love was a kind of sickness. It ruined your judgment. It made you vulnerable, fearful lest you weren't loved back. It made you worry that something might happen to the loved one. It hurt. No, she'd decided, she wasn't up for any of that.

'Love,' Iris said, 'I think the world would be an easier place if we didn't have any of it.'

'I think I'm hearing someone who is scared to commit,' said Morag. Thinking, She's fallen for Chas.

'Love,' said Iris, 'gets in the way of things. It stops you thinking. It makes you nervous. It halts you in your tracks, disrupts the flow of things. You're always on edge. What if the one you love goes away from you one way or another? No, I think the whole universe would tick along fine if everybody in the world just liked each other.'

She had thought she would settle for liking Chas a lot. But liking was not enough for Iris. She needed love, and how could she not love Chas? He fixed things. Everything. Not just blocked sinks, leaking roofs, errant vacuums, but people, situations. With a look, a smile, just by putting his hand on someone's arm, or saying something that stilled the room. Something shocking, but not insulting. There would be a moment's quiet as his words sank in, then the outrageousness of what he'd said would make them smile. And everything would be all right.

The young man across the room is still staring. He looks at Iris quizzically. He smiles. She tries to place him. The face is familiar, but only vaguely. But, for sure, he will be one of hers.

He comes over, stands before her. He wears jeans, suede boots that were probably very expensive, Iris doesn't know. She has long lost touch with such things. His jersey is soft, grey and expensive too, she thinks. His glasses are small, wire-framed, chic.

'Remember me?' he asks.

Iris considers him. He's lovely. She'll flirt. At her age she can flirt with anybody and get away with it. 'Give me a minute,' she says.

'Colin,' he tells her, leaning down slightly.

'Colin!' says Iris. 'My God, Colin!'

The whole group responds in the same way. 'Colin!' they say.

It hovers on Iris's lips to remind him that he used to be small and fat, and wore lumpen woolly jumpers his gran knitted for him. But she decides against it. No, she won't say that. Besides, looking at this man, she knows he has left that small, tubby, insecure boy far behind him. Some people you meet still have the disturbed, misunderstood child they were inside them, waiting to come out weeping and tell the world their woes. But Colin seems...