Chapter 3

"You done in here?" My dad pokes his head round the door of the room I'm working in.

"Just a few more minutes." I run the brush along the last section of skirting board. Painting and decorating might not be exciting, but it's a job, and better than working at a fast-food drive-through or something. I didn't get good enough grades to go on to further education, let alone university, though if I had, I would've been the first in my family to do so. We Richardsons are working-class stock, the backbone of Britain, my dad would say, and he's proud of that. We don't need fancy bits of paper to get by.

For as long as I can remember, at least since I discovered dancing, that was all I'd wanted to do when I grew up. But as much as we Richardsons don't get university degrees, we also don't work in the arts. I had a few blazing rows about that one with my dad. It wasn't all about him wanting to make sure I had a proper job. For him, it was about pride. He'd followed his father and grandfather into steelmaking, and then had to pick himself up after redundancy from the industry he'd thought he had a job in for life. He'd managed to forge himself a new future as a painter and decorator. I remember that he never had a prouder moment than when he added "and Son" to his business cards and the signwriting on his van. He'd created a legacy for me, and enjoyed thumbing his nose at an industry that had cast him out. That he worked hard meant he could also hold his head up high in the Working Men's Club, where he spent a lot of his spare time.

For me though, I still want to dance, but sometimes, we don't get to do everything we want, and so I content myself with going as often as I can.

I finish the last brush stroke and, picking up my stuff, I head out to the van. I don't mind the work. It isn't hard, and I can usually listen to music on my earbuds. But today I'm restless. I want the working day to be over so I can go see Darcy. To find out how he really feels. I've never been to the Nationals, even just to watch, as they're held in different cities every year. But this year they're being held here, in Sheffield, at the City Hall. For Darcy to not even be able to compete in his home city would be an even bigger blow. I'm looking forward to watching the big competition, the most prestigious of the dancing calendar, and not being able to see Darcy is a disappointment to me, too.

I take a quick shower to wash off the grime of the day, scrubbing at the paint splatters I invariably end up covered in. I lament my nail polish is already disappearing. Usually, I can't stand seeing it chipped and worn and would remove it completely, but today I have more pressing things on my mind. Same with my hair. It's super short at the sides—sometimes I shave it—but the top is long and I usually style it over my eyes. Today, though, I grab a beanie and shove it on. It'll have to do.

"Don't you want any tea, love?" my mum calls, as I clatter down the steep, narrow staircase and into the kitchen, pulling my coat on as I go.

"I'll grab something later." I lean down and press a kiss on her cheek before pulling open the back door. I see Mrs Smith, our neighbour on the other side of Gran, opening our back gate into the yard. No one uses their front door round here. The front door usually means official business, or trouble, as my dad calls it. Everyone uses the back door. We've no garden. Steelworkers, who these houses were built for, didn't have time to garden. The yard was for the privy. Ours has long since gone, with the introduction of indoor plumbing, and the brick building is used as a garden shed and the washing line. The wall between our yard and Gran's had been removed years ago, and my mum makes use of the larger space by filling it with flower pots. The daffodils have more or less finished, but the crocuses are just starting to show themselves. There's also a table and chairs—a metal bistro set that one of Dad's customers was throwing out to make way for a more modern wicker set. Dad painted it in bright colours, and it lends a cheery feel to the yard.

"Hi Mrs Smith." I call out to her from the top step. No doubt she's heading round for a brew and a gossip with my mum.

"Hello, young Nick." She'd started calling me "young Nick" when I would do odd jobs for her as a young boy—another way I could earn a bit towards paying for dance lessons. But I think she'll be calling me young Nick forever, even though I tower over her now. "You still dancing?"

"Yes Mrs Smith, I am." When I bounce down the steps, grab her hands, and twirl her around, she gives a girlish giggle. "Sorry, gotta dash. Mum's inside if you want her." I release her and turn towards Gran's house.

Mrs Smith giggles again and heads up our back steps, calling out, "Doreen, you'll never guess who I saw earlier." I laugh at the comfortable predictability of it. I quickly check that Gran has everything she needs until Mum or Dad come round later, and head down the road.

I let the steepness of the hill carry me down at a fast walk, to the bus stop on the main road at the bottom. I can drive, but I don't own a car. We only have Dad's work van and he doesn't often let me borrow it. I'm saving all my money to try to buy a house so I can move out. It's a bit crowded at my parents' with three adults in that space. I know that larger families did and still do occupy them, but it still seems like we all live on top of each other, and that's one of the reasons I spend so much time out of the house or at Gran's place. It's also another reason why I don't date. Not seriously, anyway. Not, bringing-a-guy-home type of seriousness. If I need to scratch an itch, I'll go out to a nightclub. Maybe hook up there or at his place, if he has one. Not that I've found anyone I would want to take home with me yet, but then I don't look either. Maybe when I save up enough money for a deposit and get my own place, I can think about it then. So, I manage without a car. We have a good bus service in the city anyway, so it's not too much of an issue, and the bus that runs along the bottom of our street takes me to the dance school, anyway. I can walk it, but it takes thirty minutes and I don't want the journey to be any longer than necessary. I'll most likely walk back later, though, if it's after the last bus has run.

I say hello to the couple of people also waiting for the bus, and they ask how I am and how my mum is, promising to call round soon. No doubt she'll be going to see them, too. The friends' network in our little suburb is very active.

Luckily, the bus is on time and we pile on. I sit, willing it to go faster, and ignore my knee jiggling in impatience. As soon as it stops at the right place, I erupt from it and walk as fast as I can up the road to the Franklin School of Dance.

The Franklins are dance, certainly in this corner of the city, and are well known throughout the whole county. Sheila and Arnold Franklin had been very successful dancers in their youth, and set up the school when they settled down to start a family. The building was erected in the seventies and is at one end of a small parade of shops. It has a couple of large dance studio rooms, a kitchen, toilets and showers, and a reception room with a small office off it. Upstairs is a large apartment that the Franklins—Sheila, Arnold, and Darcy—live in. Darcy's sister Claire, older than him by a couple of years, lives elsewhere in the city. She'd decided that she wasn't going to stay in the family business of dance, and went to work for a media and events company. The shops on the parade are a strange mix of convenience store, pizza place, hairdresser, and vape shop. The rest are empty or boarded up. It has certainly passed its heyday.

"Nick! Nick!" Sheila's wail greets me as I enter the reception room looking for Darcy and only finding his mum instead. "What are we going to do?"

"I don't know," I reply. "Where's Darcy?"

"In his room, sulking. Yes, go talk some sense into him. He says he won't dance at the Nationals even if we do find another partner for him. Tell him he must dance." I frown at her pushiness, but it's not really surprising. I head towards the door marked "Private," that leads upstairs. I close it behind me with Sheila's final remark following me though. "And tell him there's a class in ten minutes."

I track Darcy down in his room. He, too, is still living at home, part of the same generation for whom home ownership seems unattainable. He is sitting on his bed, knees drawn up, his bear—Bearlero—locked tightly in his arms. I bought it for him a few years ago for his birthday, laughingly telling him he could pretend it was me when I wasn't there. Trust Darcy to name him after a dance. That he went to it for comfort sends a warmth blooming in me. I don't take time to register it, and the feeling is doused by his dull eyes and slumped shoulders. He doesn't even look up as I enter, seemingly staring at a point on the wall opposite. I sit down on the bed next to him, shuffling back to lean against the wall. I put an arm round him and he leans into my side, still not looking at me, still no words. One reason why Darcy is my best friend, apart from our love of dance, is that he doesn't mind this closeness. I'm not sure most straight guys would be okay with their gay friend putting their arms round them and holding them close without thinking something of it. But Darcy has always accepted me for who I am, never questioned it, or my motives. He always seems just as comfortable hugging as I am, and it's never awkward.

He doesn't speak for a long moment, and I don't ask him anything, allowing him the comfort of being tucked into my side, processing his own thoughts.

At length he sighs. "I'm done with all this."

I'm sure he doesn't mean what he's saying. The Darcy I know would rather stop breathing than give up dancing. I squeeze him a little tighter.

"I mean, I just don't think I can go back out there again. I don't feel it anymore."

I look at him and he tilts his head towards me, dejection weighing down the corners of his mouth.

"Give it time. You'll find someone to dance with. It'll work out."

He gives a half-hearted shrug. "Now you sound like my mum."

I slap my hand to my chest. "You wound me, D." It raises a slight chuckle from him. I proceed, in the best imitation I can do of his mum's tinny tones. "Darcy Franklin, you get back out there and you dance, do you hear me?"

I see the faintest glimmer of a spark in his eyes, and he presses his lips together as if to suppress a giggle.

"Darcy, get down here now. You have a class." I feel him shudder as her real, steel-honed voice booms up the stairs.

"I could never do it that loudly," I say, and he huffs a small laugh. I take my arm from round his shoulders, scoot forwards on the bed, and then look back at him.

He tips his head back and bangs it against the wall. "Urgh. I really don't feel like doing this right now. Can't they just let me wallow in my misery a little longer?"

That he shows a bit more spirit pleases me, as that's more the Darcy I recognise.

"You know that if you don't appear in approximately thirty seconds, she'll be up here giving you ‘the speech,'" I say conspiratorially.

That finally gets me a smile—a small one, but I'll take it. Sheila's speeches are as legendary as they are awful, and always delivered at full volume.

He sighs resignedly and I hold out a hand.

"Come on, I'll help you." I would help anyway. I always do if I'm around. I learned early on that if I stayed around and helped in the classes, I'd get extra dance practice time. Over the years, I've learned both male and female parts, as there were never enough partners to go around and being able to do both helps. I'm almost as much of a fixture at the dance school as the sign above the door. He takes my proffered hand and I pull him up before we head downstairs to stave off his mum coming to find him in person.