The Beach Dancers’ Tale

by Ros Barber (Brighton)

We’re learning ballroom dancing. We practice at night, on the beach when the tide is out. Last Sunday night we were walking through Brunswick Square on the way to the sea. A girl was lying on a bench and a man was leaning over her. Something was wrong.

He wasn’t making much sense; he was off his head. She was completely out of it; totally unresponsive. He was frightened; said she’d injected herself, it wasn’t his fault. She was overdosing. George went through her bag. There was loads of stuff in there.

We put her in the recovery position. Neither of us had our mobiles. We flagged down a taxi driver and asked the driver to call it in. Just call in to base and ask them to ring an ambulance. He refused to get involved. I felt like smashing his windows.

We ran to a callbox. It’s been years since I used one. The man who was with her scarpered when the police and ambulance arrived, but then came back. Brave, I thought. It was ages before the police left. Hurry up and go, we thought. We longed to dance.

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What Ros Barber says about The Beach Dancers’ Tale:

Piers, who rents space for his motorbike in my garage, recently moved back to Brighton after many years living in far-flung places doing “rope access work”, suspended from very high places, and met up with his girlfriend of ten years ago, George. After only a matter of days, they decided to get engaged, and will be married next year. They rang on the doorbell one night while I was doing this project and I asked them for a Brighton story.