Sheryl's Last Stand

Chapter Three

Beatrice looked at her cards, leant back in her chair and savoured her dram. George was all that was left, and he looked smug. Beatrice aimed her smile at him. She was as familiar with his weather-beaten face as she was with the moves in wrestling, and she knew what was coming next. Beating George was going to be the highlight of the night, and she intended to enjoy every moment.

Francis lit another cigarette. Why did she come? Poker was not her game; she preferred whist nights, but as there was only the three of them tonight from the 'aces high' card club, she was outvoted. She let out a small trail of smoke and thought about the following day. Beatrice would be in The Stables by lunchtime, crashing her wheelchair through the tables as the school children queued by the take away counter. Her usual ploy was to barge to the front of the queue and insist on paying for her 99p tea and cake offer with the winnings. Francis thought about taking the day off. Watching Beatrice count out coppers with a queue behind her was as painful as listening to her Uncle Rugby after he had spent an afternoon exploring his malt collection.

'Play your hand, George,' said Beatrice, draining her glass.

George met her stare.

'I'll raise you!' he said, pushing forward a 2p.

She pushed forward her coin and another, 'I'll see you!'

'Where's Sheryl?' asked Francis, 'Upstairs; or still at Rugby's?'

'She is at her belly dancing class!' said Beatrice.

'Ballet dancing?' said George. 'Isn't she a bit old for that tutu, dying swan stuff?'

'BELLY DANCING!' snapped Beatrice. 'You know, of Arabia!'

George looked blank.

'Sequins, bras, dance of the seven veils?'

'Belly dancing?' laughed Francis. 'I read about that; a dance for fat women. Apparently, they all go over to Egypt and pick up Arabs for sex.'

'How much you had to drink, Francis?'

'It's true, I saw it in the Record.'

Beatrice said nothing; as far as she was concerned, anyone who read The Record like the bible wasn't worth arguing with. Instead, she turned her attention to George; his immaculate moustache was twitching.

'What you smirking at, then?'

George smiled, he had vague memories of exotic dancing during the war, and for a moment he was transported back to those days when he looked pretty good in a uniform. 'Belly dancing, I see, it is a woman's kind of thing; getting over the break-up, what?'

Beatrice pushed another coin into the centre. 'I'll raise you!'

****

Sheryl stood at the back of her class, numbly thinking about Martin and his pulling power. She twirled her hips and followed the elastic flow of her teacher.

'Knees together, Sheryl, this aint no LAP DANCING class.'

Sheryl sighed. Nefertiti was a pain in the preverbal. She was a skinny woman, the wrong side of fifty-five, which no amount of black eyeliner and good dentures could disguise. She called herself Nefertiti, others in the class called her 'Naff-arse-tetity' or 'the naff one'.

When Sheryl had started the classes, the teacher was a sturdy 25-year-old Greek called Ardennes, and Nefertiti (who was simply known as Janice back then) was just another pupil in the front row.

Ardennes attracted so many members that the class was moved from the small-carpeted playroom in the community centre, to the badminton court. He had a fondness for Lycra, worn tight, with a black sequined scarf tied in a LARGE knot over his groin, making pelvic tilts the high point of the evening.