She glanced at her watch. Her heart sank. Another fifty minutes to go. A steely grey sheet of clouds was being pulled across the sky, like a giant tarpaulin. Two by two the class shuffled into position, a look of grim resolve on their faces.
This was not a scenario Lucy had prepared for. ‘Okey-dokey!’ she said with forced gusto, feeling as if a small flame had kindled under her skin. ‘Ladies, raise both arms and, gents, reach behind and above her shoulders, like this.’
Intercepting several confused glances, she felt close to despair.
‘Not so rough, Matteo. This isn’t a self-defence class. Good, Martina. But maybe wear flat shoes next time? No, no swords involved, Giuseppe. You’re thinking of the Highland Fling.’
‘Madonna mia,’ muttered Martina, hopping from one foot to the other.
‘Right, let’s start moving and I promise you’ll soon warm up. First of all, we’ll walk through the steps…’ Lucy squeaked, hurtling towards the trestle table to rescue the speaker which had just blown over. She cleared her throat. ‘Then we’ll add the music. As long as you know your left from your right, you’ll be fine. Ready?Aaand… right foot forward, one, two, three, four. Turn. Backwards, one, two, three four. The lady turns under the man’s right arm. Ballroom hold. Step, hop, round. Forward, one two, three…’
The students plodded around shoulder to shoulder, like zombies, heads drooping, eyes boring into the ground.
Lucy flashed an unconvincing smile. ‘Good. Let’s try it with the music now.’
As she reached for her phone, her eyes were drawn to the mozzarella factory in the distance, where she could make out the white-coated figures of the cheesemakers huddled at a window, no doubt side-tracked by this curious spectacle. Could this crappy day get any crappier? She gingerly tapped the PLAY button and drew a wobbly breath. Accordion music swelled the chilly air.
Had she taken leave of her senses? Whatever could have possessed her to think that a group of sophisticated, professional adults would enjoy leaping around like loons in the freezing cold? They weren’t primary school kids; in fact some had kids of their own. What world was she living in? Brigadoon? She looked out at the ocean, swirling and churning. In that moment she decided that the best thing would be to scrap the ceilidh idea and save her last morsel of dignity. If she called the printers right away maybe they could cancel the flyers she’d ordered. But what about the bottles of Arran whisky and the haggis her dad had so kindly couriered over only yesterday, the yards of tartan bunting her mum had made, and not to mention all the hours of rehearsal Jamie and Clanadonia had invested in their online concert? How was she tobreak the news to Elena? And Stefano? He was so excited – though to be honest, Lucy was convinced his disappointment would quickly turn to relief once he realised he’d been expected to wear Jamie’s old school kilt.
‘Men in skirts?’ he’d said one day, dissolving into giggles as he studied Clanadonia’s website. ‘Ridicolo!’
Yes, there was no denying it; the ceilidh was a terrible idea, and for everyone’s sake, should be cancelled.
Lucy’s finger hovered over the STOP button on her phone.
But hang on a minute. What could she hear, slicing through the gusts of wind? Surely not? She turned around slowly and did a double-take.
The students were galloping and whirling in time to the music, hair flying, some tripping over their feet, twirling and birling in the wrong direction and careering into a dizzy spiral, drunk with laughter; the maddest, gayest ‘Gay Gordons’ she had ever witnessed.
The cheesemakers were now waving and banging on the factory windows. As the music came to an end, the class bowed and curtsied to their surprise audience, then came together in a spontaneous group hug.
‘Brilliant, guys!’ Lucy cried, punching the air, the wind snatching away her voice. ‘Technique needs a wee bit more work, but I’ll make Highland dancers out of you yet. First positions please…’
An hour later, with the light fading and the class now overrunning, she finally persuaded the students to move inside for a quick cup of coffee to warm up.
Matteo quickly slurped his macchiato and glanced at his Fitbit tracker.‘Fantastico!’
Lucy grinned. ‘See, I told you, you can burn more than four hundred calories an hour Scottish country dancing.’ The factory clock chimed four.
‘Gotta go,’ he said, throwing down his cup, ‘or I’ll be late for my shift,Ciao!’
‘Tomorrow we’ll have a go at learning “The Dashing White Sergeant”,’ Lucy announced, biting back a smile as she glimpsed Matteo through the window, skipping and hopping towards the factory. ‘It’s a wee bit more complicated and faster than today’s dance, but think of it as a workout.’
‘I don’t like to dance,’ piped up Giuseppe, pulling on his jacket. ‘Just ask my wife. But this, this is different. I enjoy very much.’
What better endorsement could she have wished for than this?
Maybe, just maybe, it was possible to bring Brigadoon to Naples after all.
Chapter Nineteen
25th January
‘Now’s the day, and now’s the hour’
‘Robert Bruce’s March to Bannockburn’
by Robert Burns
