Chapter 2

"Does it do something if you look at it?"

The words pull me out of my reverie, and I chuckle, putting down my phone which was clearly not going to do anything the longer I stared at it.

"Not that I know of," I reply to my gran. I sent the text to Darcy a while ago and now I'm worried as I haven't received a response. There's no point sending another. He'll respond when he sees it.

"I thought you were asleep." I turn to her. Her small frame is enveloped by a large, comfortable chair, her feet resting on a low footstool. I'm keeping her company this Sunday afternoon, or I was until she fell asleep. I'd usually be at the dance school on Sundays, but with everyone attending the competition, it's not open today. Mum was adamant that she didn't want any help making Sunday dinner and practically shooed me out of the kitchen with a broom. I certainly didn't want to go to the Working Men's Club with my dad, so I offered to keep an eye on Gran for a while.

"I was, and now I'm awake." I like how she states the obvious. "I reckon the dryness of my throat woke me up." She follows that with a small, wolfish grin. She may be old, but she's still feisty. I can take a hint as well as anyone, so I rise like the dutiful grandson I am, and head to the kitchen to put the kettle on.

With tea brewing in the pot, and a plate of biscuits nestled next to Gran's Sunday china, I carry the tray back into the front room. Gran has never been taken with "fancy speak," as she calls it, and doesn't use the words lounge or parlour. It's the front room, as opposed to the back room which is the kitchen. The house is a typical, stone-built two-up two-down terraced house, the likes of which paint the landscape of most industrial northern towns. Now serving as a disquieting reminder of the decline of the cotton mills, coal mining, and in my town's case, the steel industry. There are two rooms downstairs, and two bedrooms upstairs, with one reduced in size to make room for a bathroom, as the houses predate indoor plumbing. It follows the usual pattern and is a mirror image of my parents' house, situated next door.

"Thanks love. Ooh, blue today. It suits you." Gran smiles as she takes the china cup I offer.

"Thanks, Gran." She's referring to my nails. I like to have a splash of colour now and then. I'd paint them more often, but the paint remover I use at work acts as an effective nail-polish remover, so I don't usually bother. This weekend I'd given in to the urge.

"Now tell me what has you watching your phone and sighing." She directs her shrewd gaze at me.

"I wasn't sighing," I protest. I truly wasn't. I would have remembered if I were. Gran smirks and I ignore it.

"I just wanted to know how it went today. Darcy had a big competition to qualify for the Nationals. It's not like him to not get back to me."

"I'm sure everything is fine, dear. Why aren't you dancing today? You do competitions as well, don't you?"

"Not at this level, Gran. This is for the Nationals. I'm nowhere near good enough to go to them."

"I'm sure you are Nicholas." She gives me a knowing smile and I love her confidence in me. It's misplaced, of course. I'm an alright dancer, but I do it for the joy of it. I don't practise enough to be at the standard required for the top competitions. If I'd been born into that life, like Darcy, maybe it would be different. It was due to my gran that I dance at all, something I'll be eternally grateful to her for. I'd been asking for lessons for a long time, but had never been allowed.

"It's just a phase," and, "I can't understand why you want to waste your time on this stuff."

No, my parents didn't understand at all. How I loved the music, the movement, and the costumes. Gran had given me some money for my birthday when I was twelve years old and I'd asked for dance lessons. I'd been surprised that my parents had agreed, and I think they thought I would get it out of my system. But as soon as I'd had a taste, I wanted more.

I'd bugged them for more dance lessons after that, but the only answer I received was, "I'm not paying for dance lessons," or, "We don't have the money for those." It was true, my parents weren't well off. My father had had to find his own way after losing his job at the steelworks. He set himself up as a painter and decorator, while my mum was working part-time as a school dinner lady. Times were hard. I knew that, but I rarely asked for anything. In the end, I'd got myself a paper round to pay for my lessons. They'd allowed that, probably pleased that I was industrious enough to find my own way. My dad wasn't deliberately cruel, he just didn't understand what appeal it held for me. It was outside his experience. There is a part of me that wonders whether the money would have been found if I'd asked for football lessons. Football was something my dad understood—something he considered worthwhile.

The house phone cuts shrilly through the quiet—three rings, my mum's signal. Time to fetch my dad from the club. Sunday dinner is nearly ready. She's just next door and could've just hollered, but that wasn't my mum's way.

"I've just got to go to the club. I'll be back soon with your dinner," I say to Gran, rising. She could come round to ours to eat her dinner, but she isn't as mobile as she used to be and finds the steps down from the house too much of a trial. That's the problem with living on a steep hill. Accessibility wasn't a consideration when the houses were built. It'll only be a matter of time before she needs to move somewhere better suited for her needs, like a bungalow, but she's trying to be independent and won't be rushed into it, nor do I want her to be anywhere else but next door.

I give her shoulder a squeeze, then pick up the tray of teacups and take it through to the kitchen before heading out. A cold wind whips round, and I pull my jacket tighter to me. The weak spring sunshine is unable to counter the chill. I look across the valley at the woodland and hills beyond as I head down the road to the club, already knowing my dad will complain about the walk back up.

It's quite a bit later when my phone finally buzzes in my pocket. I'm washing up after dinner when I feel the vibration. I dry my hands and head upstairs to my room. My stomach churns as I take out my phone to view the message. I don't know why I feel this way. Darcy and I message each other often, almost every day. It's what best friends do. And there are often long gaps between messages if we're busy, so I have no idea why this one seems so important, or why I've been in a state of nervous tension all day. It doesn't make any sense. I put it down to the fact that the competition is important to Darcy, and as his best friend, I'm always pleased for him when he does well. I want him to do well. I'd sent off some supportive messages to him this morning, before the competition. But still, to wait this long after something so huge is unusual. It isn't like him to be silent, and the knot of worry that's been sitting in my stomach all afternoon is now throwing itself around, like a washing machine on an intensive spin cycle.

Darcy: We came second, we got through to the Nationals.

Nick: That's fantastic D, I said you could do it.

Tomorrow we can celebrate.

Darcy: . . .

I watch as the three dots dance on my screen, disappearing and reappearing, bouncing up and down, creating their own form of torture. I don't know if Darcy is typing and erasing, or if it's a really long message. I stare at the screen. Gran is right, it doesn't make any difference, but that doesn't mean I'm not willing the message to appear. In the end, it's a simple message.

Darcy: I can't go to the Nationals.

I explode up off the bed in surprise, cursing loudly and shooting off a message that echoes what I just shouted.

Nick: WTF!!!

An icy hand of uneasiness traces its finger down my spine. Has something happened? Is this why it took him so long to answer? It's amazing, the horrendous scenarios a brain can conjure up in the briefest slivers of time. Within seconds, I've imagined the worst, and given in to some fantastical notion that there's been some sort of accident on the drive back up, resulting in Darcy never being able to dance again. That he's lost all his family. I try to control the shakes that my hands have taken on and send a text back. My fingers don't work and I have to delete several letters before I manage to type a coherent message.

Nick: What happened? Are you ok? Is everyone ok? Tell me you're ok?

Darcy: I'm fine, we're all ok

My heart rate returns to something close to normal, but it takes a moment for me to draw a steady breath. I'm not willing at the moment to examine why my brain went for the worst-case scenario and I still need to know the details, so I reply quickly.

Nick: Phew, you had me worried there D. Then what's up?

Darcy: Julia got a job. She's going away before the Nationals

I take a moment to breathe and compose myself, letting the overwhelming sense of relief seep through me. After what I'd conjured up, this seems a trivial thing, but I know the blow to Darcy will be deep. We've talked about it enough. I remember how, when he talks about it, his eyes light up with a brilliance that shows the green of his irises, like polished sea glass. I dismiss the image, confused why my best friend's eyes are something that lingers with me.

Nick: That sucks, man! Can you find someone else?

Darcy: Maybe, I guess

I hate the tone of his text. His quiet resignation. But that's Darcy. He'll be hurting inside, but he always puts on a brave face. Sometimes I wish he'd let his feelings out, but I wonder if he's just spent too long hiding them. His mum has outbursts enough for the both of them. I can just imagine what the journey back would have been like for him. We text for a little longer. He doesn't seem hopeful that he can find anyone else, and I don't blame him. Great dancing partners don't grow on trees. I'm looking forward to seeing him tomorrow so I can see how he's really doing.