dance of
desire
on the hillside above Loch Crearan overlooking Loch Linnihe
and the Isles of Eriska and Mull is an old house sheltered
by trees, the drive winds lazily up the hill, and in spring
is wrapped in sheets of snowdrops.
there was an old tennis court surrounded by ancient
rhododendrons which hid generations of rotting tennis
balls, and frequented by wild cats ...at the edge of the
loch an old dinghy was tied to a crumbling jetty...seals
would follow as I rowed, whiskers twitching... a family of
otters lived in the next bay...
electricity was produced by a moody, smelly, and very
ancient dynamo. my Father would disappear into the greasy
room and after many splutters and false starts, and some
very bad language... he would reappear with his eyes
streaming from sulphur cartridges, mopping his blackened
face with oily rags...
heavily mantled fireplaces threw out a fragrant warmth from
wood we had collected, until the thought of tea and scones
became too strong to ignore! ...in the kitchen a huge shiny
black range throbbed under a blackened, simmering kettle
...in the evenings the room was warm with comfort, we would
sit around and listen to the radio, read, paint or write,
my mother mended, and ironed with an old flatiron...
and then one day there was a buzz of excitement and talk of
'The Ball'... and my introduction to society ...a dress had
to be found...it had to be white.....and we were still
restricted by post-war shortages.. a college friend came to
the rescue with a beautiful dress of heavy white crepe,
embriodered in silver...
in a cloud of white, with white roses in my hair, and
silver shoes,the girl in the mirror was a shock, I was used
to my collection of ragged old sweaters, and thick brown
stockings... I went slowly down the wide stairs, leaving
the wild, hill roaming tomboy staring from the mirror.
my Mother looked glowingly beautiful, graceful and
elegant... and my Father, suddenly a stranger, dashingly
imposing..the Local Taxi was waiting...Neilly had spent the
whole day polishing every inch of his beloved limousine, a
white rose was tied to the bonnet...
... as we purred through the iron gates of Barcaldine
Castle I heard the sound of pipes, the gravel crunched
richly as we pulled up in front of the arched
doors...someone came to help me from the car, I was
shaking, and cold.
I found myself in a soaring stone hall, stags heads looked
down at me with glittery eyes, portraits stared
disdainfully from guilded frames... spiral stairs worn down
by generations of feet curled up a turret, through the
slitted windows I could see the summer moon reflected in
the loch... music drifted enticingly..suddenly I felt
better...
ancient brass lamps spread comfort over tattered banners
which threw shadows over the stone walls. round the dance
floor sat parents and chaperones, the music wound its
spell... kilts swirled past...in my hand I held a little
blue and silver card, with a dainty pencil on a ribbon, and
a list of dances, waitng for partners...introductions
followed, and soon my card was filled...
I found myself swung into the intoxication of music and
movement which held a dangerous invitation... the evening
suddenly became shiveringly exciting! the supper dance
brought me a tall slim, fair haired and blue eyed, athletic
looking God...the rest of the night passed in a blur of
exhilaration, while the band rested, we danced to the
pipes, the lights whirled past, and tartans wove a rich
kaleidescope of colour...
and then...it was time to go...I fell onto the familiar
seat of the limousine, the flowers in my hair were loose
and flopped uncomfortably...my feet suddenly hated my
shoes...I felt strangely detached, and I was close to
tears. our front door seemed small and shabby, the house I
thought I loved, was dark and chilly...taking off the cloud
of white and silver I looked in the mirror, and there I
was...but something had changed...
for the next few weeks, I wandered the hills, or sat under
a pine tree overlooking my beloved loch, and dreamt..
music, the swing of reels, the pipes, heady cocktail of
colours, and... the dizzy delight of the arms of a blue
eyed God...!
that night, I had, in a few short hours learnt
the agony of newly awakened desire...
pim claridge