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footing, but managed to steady myself and sit down with the bag. It crunched slightly as I manoeuvred it into a position where I could open it – Oh God, don’t say mother was hoarding family bags of crisps? Mum was particular about her food and though she didn’t eat much she overbought her favourites perhaps she’d once had a thing for crisps? I began to tug at the knotted plastic tied several times – whoever packed this bag wasn’t planning to open it again... or let anyone else open it either. Was this Mum’s ‘family treasure?’ I doubted that very much, but whatever was inside would at least be protected from all the dust now nestling in the folds of the black plastic. The more I tugged, the more hopeless it became. I decided to throw caution to the wind and rip open the damn thing. I tore at it, gasping as the plastic split open easily and the contents slowly burst into life. Like a beautiful sea urchin, the powder blue tulle frothed out as I gently teased it out of its black plastic grave and within seconds transformed back into my mother’s ballroom dress.
    My heart lurched; this was the one she was wearing the night it happened and I slowly and carefully brought the dress out of the bag. Gently wafting the layers of netting, breathing life into the frills as a handful of sequins fell to the floor, I gasped as my life rewound like an old cassette tape. There it was again, Mum’s familiar fragrance of bergamot, dry and floral still living in the heart of the dress, now coming back to life in my arms. Again I breathed in my mother’s perfume and was taken back to that night, the taste of happiness, the smell of Blue Grass, then nothing.
    I sat for a long time holding the fabric to me, as if I was holding my mum, the one I’d known as a little girl. The Mum who’d laughed and danced and took joy in simple things, the Mum who’d needed no excuse to put the record player on and sing along. But then there were the times she’d cry for days, followed by a visit from the doctor, Dad’s worried face, his wringing hands. Then sometimes Mum would go away for a while – as a kid I didn’t know how long, but it seemed like forever.
    One of my earliest memories is dancing with Mum to Elvis singing ‘The Wonder of You’. It was a fox trot and Dad said I was a natural, shouting ‘bravo’ and clapping loudly when we finished.
    Perhaps there was treasure here after all? I continued to tear at the bags, finding dress after dress, and as each one unfurled, another yesterday came to life and I was back in the moment. The black and scarlet satin Mum wore when they danced the Salsa at the North West Championships; a fringed dress in citrus shades she’d trotted around in when they danced the Charleston for a competition somewhere in Kent. Then I found bags containing all their trophies and medals. Holding the Latin American Dance Championships trophy from Sheffield 1976, I’d felt like an Oscar winner. I remember the clapping, the whistling, Mum’s flushed, happy face and how I’d clutched the huge trophy as the photographer from a local newspaper took pictures and Mum and Dad beamed. Then I smiled, remembering the best bit of that night – we ate chips out of paper on the way home in the car. I licked my lips at the memory as I opened another bag and discovered my favourite of Mum’s dresses. It was a delicious fondant pink and always reminded me of the thick, sugary icing on a birthday cake. I’d loved this pink dress as a child and remembered quite clearly it was the one she’d worn for the waltz for a competition in Birmingham. I carefully stroked the fondant pink satin bodice, which was tiny - I had never realised how slim Mum had been.
    I sat among the dresses for a while, running the soft satin and prickly tulle through my fingers and marvelled at the memories suspended in those frills and spangles.
    I held the pink fondant up against me and moved slowly around the attic in an attempt at the foxtrot.