ABSTRACT
He never knew how it started, the dancing business. But then, like so many supposed childhood memories, it only seems half real at a distance. How many were really his own memories and how many were things she had told him so often that he thought he remembered them? But this must be a real one in some way because he could see the dance itself, and she had never told him about that, just that he danced for the ladies. It was a strange little affair: hop skips in a circle, arms outstretched like an ungainly bird trying to take off; then hands above the head, palms together, and twirl and twirl and twirl until dizzy; then a dreamy swinging lurch in a circle in the other direction. A bizarre kind of bird dance to be sure. Perhaps he had been inspired by watching the plovers on the moors, with their pathetic attempts to feign wing injury, to lead him away from their nests. But surely that came later, when he was older? Dancing for the biscuit-counter ladies started when he was about two years old. But he would have already been to the moors by then. Not alone. They would have been with him. Alone came later. But wherever it came from, the dance was a hit. The Woolworth Ladies applauded and cooed, and gave him gingersnaps and biscuits with cream-filled centers: little luxuries that were way beyond the penny bag of broken arrowroots they came to get. He always saved the luxuries and gave them to her after they left Woolworth’s, and then they shared them. At least that’s what she told him. He was such a thoughtful toddler. Again in retrospect he wondered. A normal toddler would surely have scoffed the lot at the first chance. Two-year-olds are not known for delayed gratification on this scale. But then, was he a normal toddler?
