The Freedom of the Flamenco The power of dance

Milly had to get lost before she could find herself, and in the flamenco she found courage she never knew she had

Am I wearing Aunt Lucy’s watch? It hasn’t worked since she died,” came a thin voice from the seat behind Milly. “Have we had today’s quiz paper yet?” came another. “Anyone want a mint?” said a jolly one. Milly sighed and looked out of the window of the coach. This was the very last place she wanted to be.

When she’d won the holiday for two to Spain in her work’s raffle everyone else told her it was exactly what she needed. Especially as it had been swiftly followed by her redundancy notice. The bank’s high street branch was closing. More people were banking online. Face to face customer service was a thing of the past apparently. A bit like her.

Milly had started at the bank when she was twenty. She’d loved it there. After having children she’d gone part time, slowly working her way back up to full time as they got older. The money had helped, even allowing them a holiday in west Wales every year. They never went abroad. Her husband George didn’t like abroad. Too hot.

So when she won this coach holiday for two, her older sister Rose was delighted to accompany her. George thought it would be fun. It wasn’t. She was the youngest person on the coach by far, but she felt as old as the oldest; like she’d been tossed onto the scrap heap of life.

She’d tried for other jobs. She’d even had interviews with people half her age! When did it happen? How had she suddenly become fifty and useless?

“I hope someone starts a sing-song soon. I love a sing-song!” Milly heard from the back seats. “And me,” Rose joined in happily. Milly sighed again and sank deeper into her seat.

She stared at the twisty mountain road as they headed from the coast where the big b soulless hotel was, up to the town in i the Spanish hills.

“Come on Milly, cheer up. Stop being b such a stick in the mud,” her sister s nudged her hard in the ribs and tutted t when she didn’t respond. “I’m going g to join the fun crowd at the back,” b said Rose and stood up and swayed s her way down the bus, to Greg the tour guide’s tutting and cheers from the backseat.

Milly pulled out her phone and re-read the message from George.

Once she’d been made redundant George had wanted to put the house on the market. With the children gone, they could downsize, he told her.

Let go of her home and everything she stood for, more like. She liked being a stick in the mud.

She was happy with her world. She didn’t want change or adventure. She just wanted life to go back to how it was.

But now… someone had put an offer in on the house. A nice couple with a young family.

When George had suggested they put

Milly didn’t want CHANGE; she wanted life BACK to how it WAS

the house on the market, she hadn’t really thought about moving. She’d just enjoyed having a good sort out, going through old photographs, bags of dressing up in the attic, reliving the memories. But now, someone wanted to buy her home! There was no way they could accept, despite the generous offer. She wasn’t ready.

The sun was really hot as the coach pulled up and the party spilt out onto the pavement. Milly pushed her straw hat firmly onto her head.

“Right everybody,” said Greg, holding up a clipboard. “Let’s try and stay together. If you do get lost for any reason, meet back here at four. No later.”

“Come on, if we’re quick we can be first to the loos,” Rose said and shot off in their direction.

Feel free to look around the church,” Greg waved when everyone had regrouped. “And there is the small train for those who’d like to take the tour.” “Come on,” said Rose, grabbing Milly. “You go, I’ll wait here,” Milly replied. “You’re such a wet blanket! I’m going with the others. You sit at the front of the bus on the way back if you want. I’m going to enjoy myself at the back. See you at dinner!” As the little train made off, Milly peeked her head into the big church and looked up at the ornate ceiling but, as another large party arrived, she moved away and followed the shade of the side streets heading up from the square. “Don’t go too far, you’ll lose the group,” she heard one of the more elderly members of her party call out, sitting in the shade, eating a mint. But Milly needed to lose the group. She was fed up of feeling herded. She needed to break away for a bit. She wandered up through the cool back streets, past white washed walls and red geraniums in pots, small shops selling brightly-coloured tableware, and saw a red patterned scarf she thought she’d buy for her daughter. She paid for it and tucked it in her bag and carried on up through the old town, the streets getting narrower and steeper.

It was the stamp,stamp that intrigued her at first. The higher she went, the closer she got to the sound. There was a small café, with a couple of tables outside. From here she could see right down the hill, over the whitewashed town, towards the sea. She could even hear the toot-tooting of the little train.

She looked back at the café. The coloured braids of the insect curtain flew up in the gentle warm breeze. It looked cool inside. There was an occasional shout and clap from inside, music too.

Milly suddenly felt apprehensive and turned to go back to join the others. But a sudden gust of wind picked up her straw hat from her head and it bounced across the road to the doorway of the little café.

Milly chased after the hat and heard the stamping, right there in front of her as if it was hammering on her heart. She stood slowly, caught in the braids, and as she untangled herself she let her eyes adjust to the small, dark room.

There was a counter in the corner and the air smelt of roasted coffee beans. In a small clearing in the middle of the room were two women, flowers in their hair, scarves tied around their waists. They were dancing, stamping and clapping and somehow telling a story of love, loss and pain. Beside them was a man sitting on a box, playing it like a drum and singing. Another played guitar, while onlookers clapped amazing rhythms.

The man behind the counter beckoned to Milly and slowly she stepped forward, heart beating, as if she was entering another world.

As she watched she felt the story of love and longing and she thought of home and the old age that beckoned if they moved to the bungalow George had seen.

What else was there? Her life would be over, her job as mother and carer gone. Downsizing, people called it. But she was only just fifty. Just because the bank thought she was surplus to requirements, was she ready to slip into old age?

As the women danced, Milly somehow felt connected to them, sharing their own stories and the scars they’d accumulated on the way, and Milly felt her own scars, red and raw. Tears sprung to her eyes as they danced, throwing up their hands, defying life to bring them down, standing tall in the face of adversity. www.myweekly.co.uk

When the song finished, Milly clapped and then she turned to leave, feeling she’d witnessed something special.

“No, wait,” said one of the women. “Join us. Be brave.” She took Milly’s hand and drew her into the room. I’m scared, Milly thought.

An older woman stood as the music started again. She had a flower in her hair, to match the one in the vases on the tables, a shawl around her shoulders and gold jewellery on every finger. Milly only wore her wedding ring. The older woman smiled at her and there was nothing about her that said she was old. She danced and clapped and the other women called, “Olé!”

The woman who had brought Milly in instructed her to hold her skirt and then to step, step, stamp, stamp.

“Hold your head high,” she instructed. “And show the world you are a woman,” she said. The woman spotted the scarf on top of Milly’s bag on the table. “May I?” Milly nodded. She encouraged Milly to take off her light, cotton cardigan and in its place wrapped the scarf around her shoulders.

“You must shake off your shyness. Be proud,” she said, and then picked a flower from one of the vases and slid it through Milly’s hair. “Follow what’s in your heart. Don’t be scared.”

They danced on. Milly watched, followed and felt the hole the redundancy had left inside her filling

“Flamenco tells the story of the Romani people in Spain, forced into the hills. It’s about the fire, in here,” the woman pointed to her stomach. “It’s about pride and passion for loved ones and strength for journeys that will follow.”

Milly thought about George, how happy and lucky they’d been, and about the children and the hole they’d left behind at home, but how much she loved them. And her job at the bank, how it would feel strange for her life not to be defined by her working week.

She felt like she was finding her wings and learning to fly, as she danced and clapped and stamped.

Then finally Milly looked down at her watch. It was nearly four!

“I have to go! Gracias!” she said, thanking the women for the wonderful time and, like Cinderella, fled down the cobbled streets, as if something in her had changed, finally arriving back in the square full of tourists to see her coach pulling away and off down the road.

She pulled out her phone and rang her sister. It went straight to answer phone. No one had noticed she wasn’t on the bus; no one had noticed her at all. At some point, Greg would do a head count and then they’d realise.

Her scarf dropped from her shoulders, but she didn’t pull it tight around her, she liked the feel of the sun on her skin. She touched the flower in her hair, reminding her from where she’d just come. She lifted her head as the women in the café had shown her. She wouldn’t put her cardigan back on, she liked the scarf. There was nothing she could do but wait…

She walked to the closest bar and sat down, ordered a large glass of white wine, some tapas, and asked for the wifi code from the smiling waiter.

She held her face to the sun, like it was revitalising her, remembering the dance.

Bebrave, she told herself. TellGeorge exactlyhowyou’refeeling. She wrote it out on her phone, re-read it and then sent it and waited for his reply, holding the phone to her lips, feeling more alive than she had in a long time.

What did it matter if they were going to be living in a bungalow or a box for that matter? It was how you felt inside that mattered. Being brave had made her feel alive this afternoon, very alive indeed! Life was definitely going to be for living from now on!

Milly sat back and sipped her wine. It was time to move on. It wasn’t downsizing, it was just adjusting, the next stage in their lives. One where they could afford to live a little, now that she’d told him to accept the offer, because really, as she’d realised as she danced in the café, the memories that you hold dear are in your heart and always there, not in the walls of a house.

As she finished her glass of wine and the little plates of delicious morsels, she watched the bus coming back up the mountain road towards her.

She stood up and walked towards the bus. The doors opened with a ptshhhhh and Milly stepped aboard.

“Where have you been?” Rose scolded and the others all looked very grump as Rose held her head high and walked down the aisle to the back of the bus.

“Learning how to live again,” Milly said, touching the flower in her hair, the scarf draped around her shoulders.

The grumpy faces turned to open mouths, and this time everyone noticed her because she had found the fire in her belly again; a passion for living.

“I’ve told George to accept the offer on the house. We’re selling up. Moving on. I’m going back to college, to find a new skill… oh, and I’ve taken up flamenco,” she said to Rose’s open-mouthed face.

“Now then, come on, who’s got the mints? And what about that sing-song?” Milly asked as the bus pulled away in the setting Spanish sun.

Be BRAVE, she told herself, tell him exactly how you’re FEELING