The Dancer of Belfast

‘Shall we head home then?’ she asks. It’s only 10pm.

It’s my first night in this city, and like getting a first glimpse of a mysterious teenage crush, it has already enthralled me. I had many expectations of Belfast but so far it has rebelled against them all. It’s like finding out that the tough kid in school actually has a passion for romantic poetry and amateur dramatics. I’m desperate to find out more, to corner the city and interrogate it.

But now we’re going home early because Rhiannon is still hungover from her night at the student bar. Inside I’m disappointed, but of course I go quietly, never having been the type for protest in my own name.

We shiver as we walk the cobbled streets, Rhiannon expertly leading the way. The citrus-zing of guitars swirls with honey-coloured whiskey vocals, spilling out of the pubs to taunt me. As we turn a corner, a brassy tune croons towards us on the air.

This road is strange; narrower and older than the surrounding streets, and lined with pubs set in buildings that must have once been outhouses or stables. They are mostly windowless with modest entrances and lumpy porridge walls. I imagine their patrons are hiding, hunkering down until danger passes. A string of bulbs zigzags overhead, giving the street a stage set glow.

Hit the road Jack, don’t you come back no more no more no more no more....

A few more steps and the source of the music becomes apparent. Two buskers stand in front of a shuttered shop: a floppy-haired lad cradling a guitar, the other holding a trumpet with a bulbous device inserted into its bell which explains its wheezing tone. Rhiannon starts humming along.

“Shall I go get us one last drink? A little nightcap? We can sit here on the bench and listen…” I venture.

She nods distractedly, still humming, so I fetch two ciders and settle down next to her on one of the wooden pews that flank the street.

---

In front of the buskers dances a young man. He wears a utility jacket and turned up jeans with Dr Martens peeking from below. His skinhead haircut and pebble smooth face give him the appearance of a new hipster-age Buddha. The liquid in his glass tankard swills this way and that, as his legs skew outwards, hips swivel and feet hitch onto alternate tiptoes as if hoicked up by marionette strings. His expression is serene, features softened by the golden spotlight. As the buskers run through their repertoire, my eyes remain fixed on the Dancer.

I have never seen anyone who so looks like they belong in their own body. The way he dances – in his own world of smoky basement jazz bars peopled with artists, poets and revolutionaries – says he’s not seeking admiration or attention. I beam at him, enraptured.

Now here you go again, you say/ You want your freedom/ Well who am I to keep you down...

Next to me, I feel Rhiannon’s excitement radiate from her. Named in honour of a Fleetwood Mac song, she’s been a lifelong fan. I pretend not to notice, not scare her into hiding by revealing how much I love to hear her sing. Her voice fills with bells and spring flowers, rugged seascapes and hidden coves. It’s more than a voice– it’s a biography; a tale of struggle and striving and small joys.

“Shall we get another drink?” Rhiannon asks as her song ends. I nod and she walks off, leaving me alone.

A couple begin something akin to a nonchalant tango, if such a thing is possible. Gradually others join in, moving from side to side. I sit alone, smiling enviously at them and picturing that I’m waltzing and pivoting with them...

And then the Dancer turns to me abruptly, as if hearing my dreams. He extends his hand but I hurriedly shake my head and shrivel back into the bench.

“It’s okay...I can’t dance...” I mumble.

His face remains untroubled, like the glassy sea at daybreak. His hand is still extended. I attempt a few more protestations before realising they will ultimately be futile.

I rise to my feet, suddenly feeling conscious of my heels that put me at least a foot taller than him. He takes both of my hands in his and holds them. He continues his swivelling movements, pulling my hands this way and that as we shuffle backwards and forwards. It’s awkward. We must look like a broken locomotive, our arms like connecting rods dragged along by the wheels. The Dancer is on his own track, chugging along at his own pace, while I’m a runaway at risk of jumping the rails.

I look ridiculous I’m too tall I’m a giant I don’t glide like everyone else! What is Rhiannon going to think this is wrong I have a boyfriend this is not my kind of dancing why is he dancing with me–

Oh I like this song…

So don’t become some background noise/ A backdrop for the boys and girls…

I tune in to the melody, finally looking up and allowing my shoulders to drop down.

And I start to dance.

I make a conscious effort to move my body in the way I want to. I try not to care how it looks or what others think – because in truth nobody is really looking.

The song ends and he lets me retreat as the crowd claps its palms in the direction of the buskers. By now, somewhere around 1am, the street is filled with bodies dancing. Old, young, students, tourists, middle-aged Ulster men - dancing, singing, watching.

---

Two days later, I stare out of the little porthole at the jewel-green countryside, as the other passengers settle in around me.

I feel guilty,thinking of my boyfriend. I can’t tell him I danced with another guy, that will sound wrong. He won’t get it, won’t understand why I’m telling him or the thought I’m trying to form.

Rhiannon’s words on our way home float back to me “Omg he was so checking you out all night! And you kept smiling at him, you little flirt!”

But somehow, it didn’t feel like a romantic encounter. Maybe I’m overestimating this stranger, but I allow myself to imagine that he saw me – my longings, my thoughts, my spirit – more clearly than my partner ever had. He wasn’t showing off or flirting. He was showing me myself.

As I look back now and recall the sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach as the plane touched down on the runway in London, the Fleetwood Mac song drifts back into my head:

Now here you go again, you say/ You want your freedom/ Well who am I to keep you down...

It would take me another couple of suffocating years to realise, but freedom is what I wanted all

along – to dance and to fly. In that city, which was building itself a new identity out of the rubble of its past, I saw the first glimpse of my future and who I could be.

Only now do I truly stand next to the Dancer – twisting, swaying, beaming – for me.

---

x

All images my own