I know nothing about the Royal Academy. Of course I have heard of the Royal Academy for music and drama, but not for dance. I don’t know anyone who has studied there. I discover that the academy focuses on classical dance and related studies. There are no singing or acting classes. The academy only takes about thirty-five students a year from the hundreds who audition from all over the world, putting a student studying there in a prestigious position. The teachers are icons in their fields: former prima ballerinas, historians, the “who’s who” of the dance world, and the patron is Her Majesty, the Queen. But in my mind it all sounds very posh, and very unlike me.
Another problem is that I am only sixteen and you have to be seventeen to be a student at the academy. I have just taken my school General Certificate of Education or GCE O-level exams, and have two years until I am eighteen and can take my A-level exams. I wonder if I am to wait until I am seventeen to audition, or spend the next two years studying for my A-levels and then audition for the academy when I am eighteen. Paddy, Susan, and Mum tell me it is silly to wait another year until I am seventeen, that I should audition now, who knows what might happen? I am reluctant to agree to the audition. It seems like it will be a waste of time: they won’t accept someone like me, and, besides, I want to sing and act and not just dance. Why can’t I just audition for the arts school, which will take me now that I am sixteen?
The adults persist, telling me that anyone can get into the other schools but think of how special it would be if I was successful and accepted into the Royal Academy. Both Paddy and Susan tell me that I am the first pupil they have ever had that they thought could make it into the Royal Academy. And, I would be the first girl from my hometown to be accepted into this prestigious school. Feeling mentally browbeaten, I agree to go to London to audition.
The audition is on a Saturday. Dad drives Mum and me up to the school located in Battersea in London. I have received information about the audition, what I am to wear, and what the audition will entail. Mum comes into the academy with me while Dad wanders off in his car. Mum sits in the waiting room while I am shown the changing room and change into my pink tights, black leotard, and pink pointe shoes. I pay little attention to my surroundings, finding the whole environment intimidating and not a little austere. I would rather focus on what I have to do, the familiarity of taking a dance class, and put the unfamiliar aside. My hair is already tied up in a bun. I catch a glimpse of myself in the changing room mirror. I look the part, I tell myself, but can I dance the part?
The audition process begins with the first twenty of us, all girls, taking a ballet class in one of the main studios. The academy building is a converted warehouse, and its studios are large, airy, and light with sprung wooden floors that are a delight to dance on. The ballet class is taught by a Miss Vivienne. A panel of people sit behind a table at the front of the studio, studying our every move as we are taken through a barre, and then brought to the center of the studio for center work and across the floor work. They write notes and whisper to each other from time to time, but nothing is said to us directly. I know that the panel is made up of important balletomanes. I ignore them.
The exercises given to us are made up of familiar steps and movements, and I put every effort into executing the steps with my best technique, including my best posture, and with an element of performance. I point my feet as hard as I can. I lift my legs as high as my strength allows. I force my hips to turn out like they have never turned out before. And I smile. A relaxed, pleasant smile, exuding the appearance of effortless movement, which in actuality is the antithesis to the unnatural pushing and stretching occurring below my waistline. I find myself enjoying the audition because I am not nervous since I have no expectations and nothing to lose.
After we have completed the dance class, we are given a “Thank you” by Miss Vivienne and taken out of the studio. I have no idea how well I did in the dance portion of the audition. I am in automatic mode in this strange environment. I simply follow along with the other girls as I am told, and find myself sitting and waiting outside a trailer in the parking lot of the academy. One by one we are asked to go into the trailer where our physical attributes are evaluated.
I enter the trailer, where I am immediately weighed, my height taken, and then asked to lie down on an examination table. Also in the trailer is Miss Vivienne, a Miss Penny, and a doctor. The doctor lifts and twists my legs, testing my flexibility. Miss Vivienne hovers nearby, scrutinizing the doctor’s examination and my physical qualities. A measurement is given to Miss Penny, who writes it down on a notepad. My knees are bent and my leg twisted to the side to determine my turn-out. Again Miss Penny notes the angle of my knee and leg. I know I do not have a dancer’s body because my tendons are short, and every inch of flexibility I have developed over the years to allow me to lift my legs high in arabesques or penchés has taken a lot of work and stretching exercises, unlike those lucky dancers who are born with natural flexibility.
After the physical examination I am asked to sit on a chair, and I am interviewed by Miss Penny and Miss Vivienne. I am asked about my dance background and why I want to study at the academy. I give the appropriate answers.
“Why haven’t you auditioned for the Royal Ballet Company?” Miss Penny asks, referencing this other elite ballet school and training ground for the many prima ballerinas of the day.
“I never ever thought I was good enough!” My simple but true answer generates a look between the two women suggesting an appreciation of my honesty.
The day ends, and the audition is over except for the two hours of interrogation by my mum as we travel back home in the car from London to Portsmouth. “What did you do? How did it go? Were the other girls any good? What did they say to you?”
I respond to Mum’s questions with as much patience as my tired mind and body allow. Then finally in a moment of quiet I think to myself that I am glad I did the audition. It was an interesting experience, but I honestly cannot see myself studying at the school. It will be two or three months before the academy makes its selection. I put the audition to the back of my mind.
Early summer comes, and with it madness, as events occur in such a swift sequence they cause me to panic because life-changing decisions have to be made, and made soon. First, I am told by my dance teachers that they received a call from the Bush Davies school to ask if I was applying for the school this year because they would like to have me there. Apparently I am well known to the staff of the school from my years of competitions and exams, oftentimes before adjudicators who teach at Bush Davies. I am delighted with the news. I want to go to the Bush Davies school. It is the epitome of my years of dreams of singing and dancing, and acting.
Paddy and Susan advise that before I make a decision, I wait for the results from the academy. I agree but with no expectation that the Royal Academy will accept me. I am too young and, in my mind, not good enough. Within days I receive a letter from the Royal Academy. I have been accepted into the school for the next term, even though I am only sixteen, and will be one of the youngest students ever to be accepted. The one proviso is that I earn six O-levels. Shortly thereafter I receive my GCE results. I have earned six O-levels.
Suddenly and amazingly my future has great options, and I have a dilemma. Should I attend the school of my dreams, so I can learn to sing, and dance, and act like I have always wanted to do, or should I attend the prestigious Royal Academy?
I am persuaded by the adults in my life to attend the Royal Academy, their urgings enforced by the argument that a position at the Royal Academy is unique and something that should never be turned down. I do not feel exuberant at the prospect. Quite the opposite. I feel as if a high hurdle has been placed before me with everyone expecting me to leap over the hurdle with ease. Only I know how daunting it is to face that seemingly impossible hurdle head-on, and I know that if I fail, it will be me, not anyone else, who is going to be humiliated.
With some misgivings I agree to accept the position at
the academy. But I admit that the day I went to the grammar school and told Mrs. Dudgeon, the headmistress, that I will not be studying for my A-levels because I have been accepted to the Royal Academy gave me a feeling of pride. Seeing the look of surprise on her face, and the faces of other teachers and my friends when I told them where I was going to study, helped me better recognize the importance of this unique and prestigious opportunity I have been given.
And here I am, walking along the historic streets of London, kicking orange-hued leaves as I make my way to the prestigious Royal Academy.
I settle into my new life studying at the Royal Academy quite quickly, although having dance classes two or three times a day versus the once a day I am used to requires me to develop more stamina than I have. The days seem overly long during the first weeks as the extreme physicality of the day leaves me exhausted. But I persevere; the other girls, my new friends, are having the same issues, and we motive each other to get through the days.
I find my dancing is on par with that of the other students in my class, who are all girls. Similarly, my agile mind adjusts to my new studies of physiology, anthropology, and psychology along with music, ballet, character and modern dance, and Labanotation, a shorthand notation for dance moves. We are being trained not only on dance and performance, but also how to teach. Hence the classes to help us understand the human body, the mentality of a dancer, how to help those we might teach with disabilities or attributes that make dancing physically difficult. We also have many teaching classes, where we learn syllabi, and how to convey dance exercises or choreography to others. While I still hope to dance professionally once my three years at the academy is over, I see the advantage in taking the teaching classes to give myself options in the years to come.
One of the first things I learn at the academy is the plan for our three years. The first year, we will be pulled apart, our dancing and technique will be criticized, we will find we are doing nothing right, and every flaw that we have in our dancing will be highlighted again and again. The second year, we will be put back together again; our dancing and technique will be exactly as the Royal Academy requires. We will have learned our flaws and be ready to embrace the “proper” technique. During our third year, once we have mastered the required technique of the Royal Academy, we will be allowed to develop our own style and performance quality.
The classes during the first weeks are tough. All I hear is: “You!”—no one has yet learned my name—“Your back is too arched. More turn-out on your right foot. Your foot is sickled. Your arm is too bent. Your arm is too straight. Your weight should be more forward over your big toe. Your weight is too far forward. Your derriere is sticking out. Your posture has collapse. Your body is too stiff.” I remind myself this all comes with the territory of becoming a better dancer. I try not to take the constant criticism personally but simply to tune out any harshness in the comments and do as I am told. It is difficult. I am putting two hundred percent into my work. I am trying to make the physical adjustments to my posture and technique shouted at me again and again and again. I am exhausted and my body is sore, yet for all my efforts I do not appear to be making any progress. The criticism keeps on coming.
My one respite from the academy is the girls’ hostel I return to at night. It is in Earls Court, a nicer part of London, but the hostel, once the home of a wealthy family, now houses seventy girls. Some of us are students; others are working. There are five of us Royal Academy girls sharing one small room. Our five beds take up almost all of the space in the room, but sharing a room keeps the cost down. We are from different parts of the country, and our parents are from different walks of life. Sharon is from Liverpool and the daughter of a single mum. Anne, Lynn, and Elizabeth are from working-class families like mine. Regardless, at this moment in time we have the same lives and share the same rituals. Every night before we turn off the lights in our room, we have to make sure important possessions are stored away or at least off the floor so the mice that come into the room during the night do not chew or poop on something important.
“Is that James?” Anne points to a gray flash running across the floor from under the wardrobe to under my bed. We have named the mice.
“It might be.” I kneel on the floor to look under the bed. “It is hard to tell James and Jasper apart.” I see a shadow in the corner with two beady eyes cheekily twinkling at me. “I think it’s James.” Attending the Royal Academy might seem prestigious, but it comes with living in cramped quarters shared with mice.
Meals at the hostel are challenging. The hostel has two tiny kitchens, each with one stove, to serve the seventy residents. There are no refrigerators. I have a grant from Portsmouth City Council which gives me six pounds a week for my expenses, which include my bus fare to and from the academy—located across the Thames River in Battersea—and money for food and anything I need for my studies at the academy. I believe my parents are supposed to add money for my support, but they do not. They think the council gives me enough to live on, but it is difficult to attend a prestigious school without sufficient funds to obtain the tools I need to maximize my studies.
I find that a can of soup, if watered down, can last a couple of days. That with a loaf of bread will provide three of my evening meals for the week. By lunchtime, and after hours of dance classes, I am hungry. My lunch is usually a can of soda. It fills me up, and gives me enough sugar and caffeine energy to survive the rest of the day without it costing an arm and a leg.
None of us girls have cars so we make our own way in our own time to classes. My bus fare is almost two pounds for the five days, so to save money I start getting up early, and I walk to the academy in the morning and back to the hostel at night. It is about an hour and a half each way, but it is not that much longer than the bus, which can take just as long as it meanders through the busy London traffic.
It is my morning walks to college that give me some semblance of sanity. These moments allow me to visit my thoughts and evaluate my life. I am used to walking, and I like these short moments alone away from my four chatty but nice roommates, and away from the constant oversight of the academy faculty. My route takes me from Earls Court through Kensington, and through areas with big fancy houses and communal parks.
I walk partway along the trendy area of the Kings Road and then turn south to walk over the Battersea Bridge, the four chimneys of the Battersea Power Station reaching high into the sky on my left side. On mornings when the fog is at its thickest, walking across the bridge is eerie. I see only three or four feet in front of me. I see the pavement disappearing into the fog. It is like I am walking into nowhere. The bridge railing on my right side separates me from a gray misty nothingness. Only the images in my mind of what is beyond the fog allow me to continue on in comfort.
The first class of the day is always a ballet class. I am already warm from my lengthy walk and use the exercises to prepare me for the day ahead. Classes are taught by the premier educators of the topic: former prima ballerinas, professors of history, medical doctors. Costume making is taught by a woman who is head of the BBC’s costume department. My education is the best. I don’t appreciate it. All I know is that I can only buy one pair of pointe shoes a term. I won’t have money for a new pair until I get my grant installment for next term. Pointe shoes always go soft within weeks of wearing them every day for ballet classes. Most of the term I am left struggling to dance as perfectly as I can on soft shoes. I don’t have access to a sewing machine outside of school, and my efforts at making a handmade tutu and character skirt as part of my costume class are sadly deficient.
I realize that the money my parents have put into my dance career over the years must have seemed like a fortune to them. My parents didn’t make a lot of money, but somehow they always came up with the money for class fees, competition entrance fees, exam fees, the pianist fees, or the many tutus and other costumes I needed. They were told they needed to pay for this, or buy that, and they did. As a child I hadn’t appreciated
what they did for me. I hadn’t considered what it took to make sure that the money was always there. I just accepted it all, no questions asked. I appreciate it now as I learn the importance of money and recognizing that it doesn’t always go very far. Part of me wishes that Mum and Dad were still taking care of me, that I hadn’t been in such a hurry to grow up and leave home.
It is Friday night. Dad is driving me home to Portsmouth. Most weekends I don’t go home because I don’t have the train fare. Now and again, if Dad is at home, not away at sea, he might drive up to London on Friday night to pick me up for the weekend, then drive me back on Sunday night.
Dad opens the conversation. “I’m sorry, love, but I have sad news.”
I turn to look at Dad. “Oh no! What happened?”
“We had to have Schickrys put down yesterday.”
“What? Oh no! Why?” I feel as though my heart has stopped beating at the news. My lovely Schickrys is gone. “What happened to him?”
“I took Schickrys to the vet a few days ago because he kept throwing up his food. The vet discovered he had stomach cancer, and it was the humane thing to have him put down.” Dad gave me a moment to digest the news. “I didn’t want to tell you before. I didn’t want to upset your studies, and I thought it better to tell you in person.”
Our Grand Finale Page 9