(A tale by Keith Errington)

Being an island with limited resources and somewhat lacking in technology, there were few entertainment options available to the long-suffering islanders of Hopeless, Maine. Apart from drinking in the pub, watching the sea, and spying on the neighbours, the main entertainment was organised by the community. There were many events, festivals and revels on offer throughout the year, from the inane Snipeworm Watch Week, as an example, to the erudite, such as The Philosophy of Near-death Experiences, held on the first Tuesday of the month. Most of these were barely attended and often short-lived. However, there was a very popular type of diversion that had been running for years and was always well-attended by residents. These were the monthly Dance & Social evenings.

Clem Soulby had been living on the island for many years, having been shipwrecked here back in his teens. He had always been a lonely man, kept himself to himself and was, therefore, somewhat lacking in interpersonal skills. He was, however, reasonably good at business, trading in this and that, buying at a keen price and selling on at a profit. He was known as the ‘Go-to Man,’ if you wanted something, especially something unusual, then Clem could probably get it for you… for a price. Thus, he provided himself with a comfortable income, lived in a good-sized house and wanted for very little in terms of practical needs. However, he had reached that point in his life where his heart was unfulfilled. He had started to yearn for companionship, and as they say in the small ads, maybe more.

He had concluded that the only way forward was to attend a Dance and Social, something he had never contemplated before. In fact, the very thought filled him with dread. He felt he could probably handle the social side of the evenings, but he was heavily handicapped in the other element: dance. He could not dance, never learned, never even tried. He knew it would be quite a challenge. He often tripped over his own shoelaces just crossing the street. But just recently, his eye had been caught by a small card on the town notice board:

FERNANDO, Dance Teacher to the Stars.
Learn from the Terpsichorean Master.
No previous experience necessary.
Reasonable rates.

Clem decided to go visit this Fernando and establish just how reasonable his rates were. But first, he needed to look up a certain word in the dictionary.

Clem had a meeting with the maestro, and they agreed on costs and a ten-week programme of instruction.

“By the end of my tuition, you will dance like a butterfly on ice skates – Perfetto!” Fernando declared.

Fernando rented a small hall in the quiet corner of town. He was said to be Spanish by some, others reckoned Italian, and a few thought he might be Swiss. Franky, it was difficult to tell as his accent wavered wildly, and words came from his lips in a variety of different, slightly mangled ways. He was flamboyant and fierce, certainly a force to be reckoned with. He always carried a cane, which he would stamp on the floor with great gusto when emphasising something important or when chiding a pupil. Occasionally he would use it to point out a recalcitrant limb which had not moved in the correct manner, punctuating his forceful admonishments by poking the offending member.

Clem knuckled down and did his best. Fernando would chide him with helpful comments such as “Pah, you move like a badly wounded moth!” or “You are not the graceful matador, but more like the bull with intestinal trouble!” or “You walk like a three-legged, drunken armadillo!” At one point after Clem had fallen over his own feet, Fernando uncharacteristically muttered, “Blimey, this one’s got two left plates on his pins,” before recovering and saying slightly louder, “You are definitely improving señor, your falling to the floor is more graceful this week”.

Despite his trips and his falls, Clem steadily improved, and by the end of the ten weeks, he felt like he was ready. Fernando agreed, or rather, he felt that no amount of further money could recompense him for the anguish of coaching his toughest-ever pupil to a higher level.

But Clem could actually dance. Fernando’s methodical instruction had paid off. The first week, he had concentrated on Clem’s arms, starting with the left side and moving on to the right the following week. Legs were next, and eventually, they put the whole thing together, and Clem glided back and forth and around and around the dance floor.

They said their goodbyes, and Clem set off home. He was so pleased with himself. Finally, he could go to the dance, not make a spectacle of himself, and maybe, just maybe, garner some romantic interest. His loneliness was about to end.

He found himself humming the tune they had used for practice. He thought about the dancing method; left arm, right arm, left leg, right leg, and found himself dancing down the street. Filled with joy, he started singing the song:

You put your left arm in, your left arm out,
In, out, in, out, you shake it all about,
You do the hokey cokey and you turn around
And that’s what it’s all about!