Shock Waves
by
Dorothy Spry
Chapter One: Amy
'Good dancers make good lovers,' he said as he twirled her around. Amy was
looking at her feet, watching her steps so she did not quite hear what he said.
'What did you say?' she asked him.
'I said that you are a good dancer.'
'You said something about lovers.'
'Good dancers make good lovers, ' he said. 'Don't look down. Look up to me.'
Wondering whether the word was “make” or “are” Amy smiled up at him. He was
very tall and all she could see in front of her was his blue and yellow neck
tie.
As they danced around the floor she wondered if there was a difference. Did
good dancers make good lovers? Or was it that good dancers are good at making
love? In the midst of her contemplation the waltz ended and the gentleman
politely took her back to her seat.
Sitting next to her was a grey-haired lady who said:
'You have a natural rhythm.'
'I'm a beginner.'
'You have the makings of a good dancer,'
'Thanks. Could I bring you a lemonade or a cup of tea?' 'Not for me but get
one for yourself. I'll keep your seat if you like.' 'Yes please. See you in a
minute.' Amy had joined the Weyton Dance Club only recently. The Club hired the
ballroom of the biggest hotel in the town where the older people got together
on Wednesdays in the afternoons – Tea Dances - from three till five. The
younger ones used the same venue twice a week in the evenings. Members learned
all kinds of dances and exams were taken for all styles of dance – the old
style ballroom and modern ballroom and the Latin American and Rock and Roll and
also the Salsa and the Meringue and the Bachata. Top results were Commended
and Highly Commended and there were various other levels.
The atmosphere created by banter and laughter was wonderful and young and old
integrated successfully. Some of the older folks attended in the evenings being
old hands at formal social dancing in most categories. After the evening Dance
Club time was over there was a disco which continued till midnight. The stage
was taken up by a live band if they could get one; in fact there was a growing
interest in local musicians to make up a dance band specialising in Latin
American music for tangos and rumbas and such things as Cha Cha Cha.
This evening, however, things were a bit different; the stage was totally empty.
She said thanks to the lady who had been keeping her seat and introduced
herself.
`I`m Amy.`
'You can call me Colette. They have promised us a surprise this evening.
`I wonder what it will be – a celebrity dance duo perhaps?`
There was, indeed, an air of expectancy in the crowd of youngsters and the
not-so-young in the hotel ballroom. Almost every dance was danced but right
now there was an unusual hush because every one was waiting for the promised
surprise.
A drummer strode onto the darkened empty stage; he was a boy from the local
school band and he was wearing his school blazer and standing to attention. At
a signal he gave a very competent drum roll and stared around him; obviously
even he was not aware of what was going to happen next. The stage lights went
up and someone rushed on carrying a chair which he set in the middle of the
stage. Then, after a dramatic pause, a tall young woman in a short black lace
dress and black high heel
shoes entered. She seated herself elegantly and arranged her long legs
parallel and diagonal. She had a hand-held cordless microphone and she began
to talk to the audience.
'Most of you know me but I will introduce myself. I am Lorna Birch.' With her
other free hand she released her hair from its pins at the back of her head.
Long flowing beautiful auburn hair cascaded around her shoulders.
'I am doing this for charity,' she continued as she swept her magnificent
eyes around the crowd. 'My chosen charity is our local hospice for their good
work making the last days of the patients as comfortable as possible. I will
walk among you soon with a collection box for any donations you would be so
kind as to make this evening or, of course, any money will be welcome after
this event is over.' A murmur went around; people were wondering if that was
the surprise. If it was, it was a bit of a let down.
Suddenly the murmur stopped as a drum roll came again and a burly man in a
white coat came from the audience and ran up the steps onto the platform. He
faced the audience, arms behind his back.
Lorna continued:
'Quite a number of you people will recognise my husband Robert the barber in
the High Street. Go to work Rob!'
Robert brandished his clippers and went to work instantly on Lorna's head
starting over her left ear and going back over the side of her head.
Lorna laughed into her microphone and said: 'This is my surprise folks!'
A shocked stillness reigned in the room as Robert began the right side of his
wife's head. Intake of breath all around and then silence as everybody watched
what was happening.
Then a cry went up.
'No! Not that' don't do that!'
It was one female voice that sounded gritty and harsh.
Other voices joined that one voice and soon everybody was shouting. Some were
laughing when they got over the first shock and some cried out exclaiming
'Lorna how can you do it?' Robert shuffled and kicked with his shoes the
glorious brilliance of his wife's auburn hair on the boards of the stage. It
was incredible that he could carry out such a performance, let alone be so
mindless of her crowning glory.
Somebody jumped up onto the stage and began to pick up the tresses, hugging
them to his chest. Lorna said calmly over the microphone.
'Okay. That's worth a lot of money for the charity isn't it? I think so.'
Robert finished off the job with a flourish by starting at the his wife's
forehead at a point above her nose and shaved her head totally, straight back
over the rest of her head. Now she was completely bald. The young man who had
gathered up all the curly golden-brown locks from the floor gazed around
waiting to be told what to do next. Robert took some from him and waved them
above his own shaved head.
Lorna announced:
'That hair will sell well and be used for hairpieces, some for people who have
had chemo.' The scene had been harshly shattering and that first protest came
from the lady who had been sitting next to Amy. But now Colette was nowhere to
be seen. She had vanished.
After the first clippings fell to the floor and Colette had made her outcry,
Amy thought that the range of reaction was very varied. The audience that
evening had received a dramatic bolt from the blue but, following the
dispassionate performance there was laughter and cheering. Nevertheless, Amy
sensed exasperation as well. One woman was telling others in that her
grand-daughter had lost all her hair.
'Not by chemotherapy though,' she said. 'They went on holiday abroad
and Jenny, that's my son's daughter, wanted to have her hair braided all over
her head. My daughter-in-law paid thirty pounds for a street hair dresser to
do it because Jenny wanted it done. Of course, the guilty party had
disappeared into thin air with the money. Our Jenny couldn't wait to get back
to school to show off her new hairstyle to her friends. But then her hair
started fall out of her head. The roots had been damaged by that cowboy
hairdresser so as to stop the growth of her hair altogether! So now Jenny is
bald like Lorna.' 'Perhaps Jenny's hair will grow again. Lorna's will.' Amy
suggested. 'Our local hairdresser says that if it does it will take a long
time. Her eyelashes and her eyebrows are growing so maybe there's hope.' Other
members, when they had recovered from the bolt from the blue, were eager to
give generously.
But where was Colette?
