Feeling he should make his presence known, Tim rapped on the window.
‘Can you tell me how to get to the Arcadia Ballroom? I’m meeting someone there.’
The man in the gatehouse looked up from the paper, but his face was still in shadow. Silently, and, Tim thought, rather contemptuously, he pointed to a large, white rectangular building only two hundred yards away. Along the windowless wall facing them, under festoons of dull red fairy lights, had been painted in huge lettering the words: ARCADIA BALLROOM.
Tim entered the camp and walked along the asphalt path that wound between lawns and joylessly elaborate formal flower beds in the direction of the ballroom. It was disappointing not to hear sounds of music or human activity. Nobody seemed to be about. Tim thought he saw someone going into the ballroom, but that was all. Apprehension now took the place of all other feelings; but Tim went on because he had a stubborn streak: he had made a promise.
Outside the Ballroom there were several posters on the walls in glazed frames, but they advertised events — concerts, variety shows, talent nights — from the previous year. However, the place was not shut, and Tim could see light of a sort coming from within. He entered a foyer, lit — just about — but deserted. Facing him was a pair of swing doors through which he entered the ballroom. The doors must have been very well oiled because they made no sound when he opened them, and did not even bang behind him.
The ballroom seemed much vaster on the inside than it had looked from without. Moreover, it was not decorated, as Tim had expected, with severe Art Deco elegance but in an ornate mock eighteenth century Fairground Rococo style. The walls and ceilings were slathered with plaster mouldings in the form of cartouches, caryatids, composite pilasters, and swags of fruit in low relief; at regular intervals along each side globes of electric light were held up by gilded plaster cherubs. From the high ceiling, on which was painted an indecipherable scene of celestial roistering, hung a huge glitter ball which turned and scintillated silently. All of the many lights were on, but none shone brightly. The place was lit with an unwelcoming even glow, the colour of parchment.
At the opposite end of the hall was a raised stage on which was ranged a set of music stands flanked by two vast loudspeakers in the shape of gilded trumpets. Just in front of the stage on the parquet flooring stood the solitary figure of a woman in a black silk evening dress. It was Sheilah. Tim could barely see her face except when she dragged on her cigarette. The glow of it when she did so appeared to be the brightest thing in the ballroom.
She threw the cigarette onto the parquet where it lay smouldering, unextinguished, and advanced towards him. Somewhere in the centre of the room, under the revolving glitter ball, they met.
‘You kept your promise,’ said Sheilah. ‘You came.’
‘Of course.’
‘Owen didn’t. He promised to come last year, but he didn’t show up.’
‘Owen is Owen,’ said Tim, feeling suddenly very superior to his tormentor. Sheilah seemed amused. There was a silence. Tim said: ‘There don’t seem to be many people about.’
Sheilah’s smile was suddenly replaced by a look of sadness. ‘I shouldn’t have brought you here,’ she said. ‘Come on. Let’s get out, before they start.’
Just then one of the loud speakers made a noise like a hoarse cough and began to emit a thin, tinny stream of music. Neither the instruments nor the tune they played were recognisable, but the rhythm, the bones of this rotting carcass of sound, was that of a waltz.
‘It’s started,’ said Sheilah. ‘We’ll have to stay.’
‘Why?’
But Tim knew why. The ballroom was filling rapidly with dark figures who began to dance as soon as they appeared. Very soon they had surrounded Tim and Sheilah in a dense and perpetually moving crowd, each couple spinning on its own axis as
‘Can you tell me how to get to the Arcadia Ballroom? I’m meeting someone there.’
The man in the gatehouse looked up from the paper, but his face was still in shadow. Silently, and, Tim thought, rather contemptuously, he pointed to a large, white rectangular building only two hundred yards away. Along the windowless wall facing them, under festoons of dull red fairy lights, had been painted in huge lettering the words: ARCADIA BALLROOM.
Tim entered the camp and walked along the asphalt path that wound between lawns and joylessly elaborate formal flower beds in the direction of the ballroom. It was disappointing not to hear sounds of music or human activity. Nobody seemed to be about. Tim thought he saw someone going into the ballroom, but that was all. Apprehension now took the place of all other feelings; but Tim went on because he had a stubborn streak: he had made a promise.
Outside the Ballroom there were several posters on the walls in glazed frames, but they advertised events — concerts, variety shows, talent nights — from the previous year. However, the place was not shut, and Tim could see light of a sort coming from within. He entered a foyer, lit — just about — but deserted. Facing him was a pair of swing doors through which he entered the ballroom. The doors must have been very well oiled because they made no sound when he opened them, and did not even bang behind him.
The ballroom seemed much vaster on the inside than it had looked from without. Moreover, it was not decorated, as Tim had expected, with severe Art Deco elegance but in an ornate mock eighteenth century Fairground Rococo style. The walls and ceilings were slathered with plaster mouldings in the form of cartouches, caryatids, composite pilasters, and swags of fruit in low relief; at regular intervals along each side globes of electric light were held up by gilded plaster cherubs. From the high ceiling, on which was painted an indecipherable scene of celestial roistering, hung a huge glitter ball which turned and scintillated silently. All of the many lights were on, but none shone brightly. The place was lit with an unwelcoming even glow, the colour of parchment.
At the opposite end of the hall was a raised stage on which was ranged a set of music stands flanked by two vast loudspeakers in the shape of gilded trumpets. Just in front of the stage on the parquet flooring stood the solitary figure of a woman in a black silk evening dress. It was Sheilah. Tim could barely see her face except when she dragged on her cigarette. The glow of it when she did so appeared to be the brightest thing in the ballroom.
She threw the cigarette onto the parquet where it lay smouldering, unextinguished, and advanced towards him. Somewhere in the centre of the room, under the revolving glitter ball, they met.
‘You kept your promise,’ said Sheilah. ‘You came.’
‘Of course.’
‘Owen didn’t. He promised to come last year, but he didn’t show up.’
‘Owen is Owen,’ said Tim, feeling suddenly very superior to his tormentor. Sheilah seemed amused. There was a silence. Tim said: ‘There don’t seem to be many people about.’
Sheilah’s smile was suddenly replaced by a look of sadness. ‘I shouldn’t have brought you here,’ she said. ‘Come on. Let’s get out, before they start.’
Just then one of the loud speakers made a noise like a hoarse cough and began to emit a thin, tinny stream of music. Neither the instruments nor the tune they played were recognisable, but the rhythm, the bones of this rotting carcass of sound, was that of a waltz.
‘It’s started,’ said Sheilah. ‘We’ll have to stay.’
‘Why?’
But Tim knew why. The ballroom was filling rapidly with dark figures who began to dance as soon as they appeared. Very soon they had surrounded Tim and Sheilah in a dense and perpetually moving crowd, each couple spinning on its own axis as
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