Dancing Shoes

by Noel Streatfeild

  Mrs. Lennox had finished cleaning the spoons and forks. She packed the cleaning materials away. “What will it cost?” she asked the teacher.

  “Not a great deal. If Madame thinks Hilary worth training I will explain you can’t pay much. I’m sure she will understand.”

  Hilary was taken to a Madame Raine, a very good teacher of dancing. She agreed that Hilary seemed to have possibilities and said she would take her on approval for a year. The classes would be on Saturday mornings and in Hilary’s case would only cost two-and-six a lesson.

  Somehow Mrs. Lennox had found the weekly half-crowns, though it had meant going without something else. Rachel took Hilary to her classes, and listened to all that was said, and it was she who saw to it that Hilary worked.

  Just after Hilary’s ninth birthday Madame Raine asked to see Mrs. Lennox, so the next Saturday morning she got the shopping and the housework done early and went with the two little girls to Hilary’s dancing class.

  Madame Raine sent Hilary to change. She allowed Rachel to stay, so she heard what was said.

  “I believe Hilary to have talent. She is not, alas, a worker, but she cares for dancing more than she will admit. I would like this year to have her for half an hour each evening. Next year I shall, with your permission, take her for an audition to The Royal Ballet School. If they accept her I shall apply to the county for a scholarship for her, which would mean she would cost you almost nothing.”

  Mrs. Lennox looked worried. Somehow Hilary must have her classes. But where was the money coming from? “What will half an hour a day cost?”

  The dancing teacher looked at Mrs. Lennox’s shabby, much-cleaned and -mended coat, at her gloves, which had a last-year’s-put-away look, at her face, which had too many lines for a woman who she guessed was only a little over thirty, and at her hair, which was already turning gray. “Nothing at all. My reward will be that someday I may see Hilary dancing at Covent Garden and be able to say: ‘I gave that girl her first lessons.’ ”

  All that year and the beginning of the next year Hilary, with Rachel for company, went to her dancing class every afternoon after school. For half an hour she struggled with battements, frappés, and pliés at the barre, or with center practice with arm exercises. Each day the dancing mistress did not only see that Hilary understood what she was learning but that Rachel did too.

  “You can be a great help, Rachel,” Madame said. “You can make Hilary see why she has to work so hard and to understand that I am aiming at the very best for her.” She smiled so that what she said did not sound unkind. “Hilary might easily admire cartwheels and high kicks, you would never allow that, would you?”

  Rachel really had begun to grasp what was meant by “posture” and “line” and could see when a series of movements looked lovely, and when they did not, so she was able to say truthfully: “Never.”

  Two weeks before Hilary’s audition for The Royal Ballet School Mrs. Lennox fell down the stairs and was taken to a hospital. Because two little girls could not be alone in the house it was arranged that a Mrs. Arthur was to move in to look after them. Mrs. Arthur was very kind to Hilary and would have been kind to Rachel, only Rachel did not want anyone to be kind to her. The doctor who had taken Mrs. Lennox to the hospital was a sensible man, and he knew it was much better for Rachel to know something terrible was going to happen than to keep worrying that it might. So she knew, the very day her mother went to the hospital, that she was never coming back. But she was the only one who did. Neither Hilary nor Mrs. Arthur was told. Because she knew before it happened Rachel was able to get used to the idea, so much so that on the day two weeks later when her mother did die she had cried most of the tears she had in her. To protect herself from people talking about her mother, and being nice, she hid herself away behind a please-leave-me-alone face which looked sulky.

  Mrs. Arthur not only did not understand Rachel’s expression but was quite shocked by her. It was much easier for Mrs. Arthur to understand Hilary, who on hearing the news threw herself into her arms, crying as if she would never stop.

  The doctor called that afternoon and saw Rachel alone. He quite understood why she looked sulky and pulled her onto his knee and put his arm around her. “Your mother was conscious for a minute, and she sent you a message. You are to see that Hilary goes on with her dancing. By the way, do you know your Uncle Tom?”

  Rachel felt better with the doctor’s arm around her. She leaned against him. “Daddy’s brother. He’s an artist. His wife is called Aunt Cora.”

  “That’s right. Mrs. Arthur telephoned your uncle this afternoon. Your Aunt Cora is coming here tomorrow. I think you are going to live with them.”

  Rachel shot off the doctor’s knee. “Without Hilary?” she asked.

  The doctor spoke in a quiet, don’t-get-in-a-fuss voice. “We hope Hilary is going to be taken by The Royal Ballet School. She will be a boarder then, you know.”

  “But where’s she to be until then, and where will she be during the holidays? I won’t go to Uncle Tom and Aunt Cora unless she comes too.”

  The doctor held out a hand, and Rachel, almost too miserable to walk, allowed herself to be drawn back into the shelter of his arm.

  “You have got to be brave, Rachel, and let other people make the best possible plans for you. But I’ll tell you something to cheer you up. Madame-whatever-her-name-is who teaches Hilary to dance is going to invite her to stay with her for the time being. And here is a scheme of mine: I have a big house, and I thought perhaps next holidays both you and Hilary could stay with me.”

  Rachel struggled to be sensible and to see that everybody was trying to be kind. But all she could see was herself going without Hilary to live with a strange uncle and aunt. Her head fell onto the doctor’s shoulder, and she cried and cried and cried.

  CHAPTER 3

  Mrs. Wintle Goes to Folkestone

  Mrs. Wintle was a busy woman and she had no wish to waste a day at Folkestone, but it was certain, she thought, that Tom would muddle things, so it would be quicker in the end to go herself. She caught an early train and during the journey planned Rachel’s future. She would arrange with Mrs. Arthur to stay on until a home had been found for Hilary, then she must pack Rachel’s clothes and bring her to London.

  Nobody knew what train Mrs. Wintle was catching, so when her taxi stopped at the gate no one was there to greet her. Hilary was in the garden supposedly hanging tea cloths on the line to dry, Rachel was making beds, and Mrs. Arthur was planning luncheon. Mrs. Arthur heard the taxi and went to the window.

  “Rachel,” she called up the stairs, “tidy yourself. Here’s your aunt.” Then she took off her apron and went to the front door.

  Hilary was cheerful by nature, but that morning she had gone into the garden feeling low. Suddenly a little puff of wind smelling of spring blew up her nose, and at once all the lowness left her and she felt her spirits shoot up in the air like a firework. Instead of hanging the wet tea cloths on the line to dry she took one in each hand and danced with them around the garden, pretending that she was a butterfly and they were her wings. It was the sort of dancing she called dancing but that Madame Raine had asked Rachel to see she did not do. It was, however, just the sort of dancing Mrs. Wintle called dancing. As it happened she saw Hilary doing it, for Mrs. Arthur led her into the sitting room which looked out onto the garden.

  “Good gracious me,” she said. “My niece dancing!”

  Mrs. Arthur went to the window. She did not know about the Wonders, so she thought Mrs. Wintle was surprised that there should be dancing at so sad a time. It never struck her that the note in the aunt’s voice was pleasure. She made clicking disapproving sounds. “That’s not your niece, that’s Hilary. A dear little girl, but I must say she has forgotten herself this morning.” She rapped on the window.

  Hilary stopped dancing, looked up, and saw two faces at the window. P
retending to feel ashamed, she went to the line and began hanging up the tea cloths. Inside she was not a bit ashamed but glad she had danced the wrong kind of dancing, for it made her feel better all over.

  Mrs. Wintle had learned not to show what she was feeling, for it was a help not to look as if she cared if managers booked her Little Wonders or some other teacher’s children for their shows. Now, as she talked to Mrs. Arthur about Rachel, there was no sign that she was thinking about Hilary. The child was pretty and had talent. She would, as soon as she was old enough for a license, make a splendid Little Wonder. But she had said she did not want her, that she was to be sent to a home. Would it be possible to go back on that? Then there was Dulcie to consider. She must not have a rival. But that was hardly likely; Dulcie was outstanding.

  “I wish really,” Mrs. Arthur was saying, “that Hilary was your niece…such a dear little girl and so talented. They hope she is going to The Royal Ballet School. I’m afraid Rachel is rather a hard little thing. You wouldn’t believe it but when I told her the sad news all she said was ‘Just fancy! I’ll go and have my bath now.’ ”

  “The Royal Ballet School,” thought Mrs. Wintle. “Not if I know it.” Out loud she said: “Curious. Perhaps she didn’t get on with her mother.”

  Mrs. Arthur was just going to say she was sure that was not true when the door opened and Rachel came in.

  That morning the children had worn one of their usual winter school outfits, pleated gray skirts and jerseys. Hilary’s jersey was pale blue, and Rachel’s was the color of blackberry juice. Mrs. Arthur, when she saw what Rachel was wearing, had nodded in a we-understand-each-other way at her and had said: “Very nice, dear. Most suitable.”

  Rachel had squirmed at Mrs. Arthur’s nod. “Suitable for what?” she said in a nearly rude voice.

  Mrs. Arthur was determined to be patient. “Mourning’s out of fashion, but there are times when we feel like wearing quiet colors, aren’t there, dear?”

  Rachel had not answered that. But, comb in hand, tidying up to meet her aunt, she had thought: “Suppose Aunt Cora thinks I’m wearing this for mourning? Suppose Aunt Cora talks about Mummie? I won’t bear it. I simply won’t.” In a second she had crossed the room and was rummaging in a drawer where her mother had put away last summer’s cotton frocks.

  Rachel had grown a lot since last September, when the frocks were put away. The one she chose to wear now had been on the skimpy side even then, and it was a glorious marigold color.

  Because of the marigold frock, and the extra sulky expression Rachel was wearing to keep her aunt from prying, Mrs. Wintle’s first impression of Rachel was a very unfortunate one. Obviously any child who came to live under her roof had to be considered as a Little Wonder of the future, and nothing could have looked less like a Wonder than Rachel at the moment.

  Being unhappy and having cried so much had taken all the color from Rachel’s cheeks and given her eyes the bulgy look of somebody getting over a cold. When her mother had been there to do it for her, Rachel’s hair was worn in plaits twisted around her head, which suited her very well. Now, because she could not manage the pinning up, the plaits stuck out at each side of her head, which was most unbecoming. Nor was that all. Being unhappy had taken away her appetite at the right times, and made her hungry at the wrong ones, so she was mostly eating bread and jam between meals. This had given her pimples—one large one on her chin, a little one on one cheek, and the beginning of another on her nose.

  So what Mrs. Wintle saw was an angular little girl of ten, with a white, spotty, scowling face, plaits jutting out on each side of her head, wearing a cotton frock which was much too tight and so short that it was inches above her knees.

  Mrs. Arthur prided herself on never losing her head. Now, though she was horrified and puzzled by Rachel’s appearance, her voice did not show it. “This is your Aunt Cora, dear. Come and give her a nice kiss.”

  Mrs. Wintle was not the kissing type. “Hullo, dear,” she said in a would-be friendly voice. “You know, I suppose, that you are coming to live with me.”

  Rachel did not like the look of her Aunt Cora and she was afraid she might cry, so she scowled more than ever to hold back her tears. “I knew I was coming to live with Daddy’s brother, Uncle Tom.”

  Mrs. Wintle nodded. “Quite right. But I don’t suppose you know what an exciting house it is you are coming to. I keep a sort of school.”

  Rachel was surprised, for she had not heard a school mentioned. “A school! I didn’t know that.”

  “But not an ordinary school. Did you ever hear of Mrs. Wintle’s Little Wonders?”

  Rachel licked her lips nervously. “No.”

  Mrs. Wintle never moved without advertisements of her Wonders. Now she opened her bag and passed Rachel a large shiny card. Printed on it was a photograph of twelve little girls. All were dressed alike in what Rachel and Hilary called little-girl frocks. They wore socks, shoes with ankle straps, and were all dancing on one leg while lifting the other almost as high as their heads. Underneath the photograph was written “Mrs. Wintle’s Little Wonders.” At the bottom of the card there was a photograph of three of the Wonders turning cartwheels.

  Rachel stared at the card, wondering what to say that would not be rude. High kicks! Cartwheels! What would Madame Raine think? She was spared answering, for at that moment Hilary came into the room.

  Hilary, with her cheeks pink from dancing in the garden, made as good an impression as Rachel had made a bad one.

  “This is Hilary,” said Mrs. Arthur. “Hilary, this is Rachel’s Aunt Cora.”

  Hilary did not wait to find out if Rachel’s Aunt Cora was a kissing sort of person. She ran to her and flung her arms around her neck. “How do you do?”

  Mrs. Wintle not only kissed Hilary but put an arm round her. What a delightful child, she thought, just the type to make a Wonder. “So you’ve been learning to dance. I watched you from the window.”

  Hilary did not want to discuss her dance with the tea cloths in front of Rachel, so she spoke in a hurry. “Yes, Madame Raine teaches me. She’s taking me to The Royal Ballet School. If they say they’ll teach me she is going to see if I can have a county scholarship.”

  Mrs. Wintle smiled, a smile that even Mrs. Arthur, who was not given to imagining things, thought a rather snap-you-up smile. “It won’t be necessary for you to go to The Royal Ballet School. I have a dancing school and I will teach you. It will be much nicer for you and Rachel to live in the same house, won’t it?”

  Before Hilary had taken in what had been said Rachel, her eyes alive with horror, and two red spots of color flaring on her cheekbones, had sprung forward as though to hit her aunt. Her words came out in a spit. “Hilary’s not going to live with you. I won’t have it.”

  Mrs. Arthur, who knew how much the children loved each other, gaped at Rachel. Aunt Cora, because she trained so many Wonders, thought that she understood. She looked meaningly at Mrs. Arthur. “I’m afraid there’s a green-eyed monster here.” She held Hilary more closely to her. “You’d like to be one of my Little Wonders, wouldn’t you, dear? And I shall like to have you to train. I shall like having Rachel too when she has learned not to be jealous.”

  CHAPTER 4

  The Move

  Mrs. Wintle, having decided that she wanted Hilary as a future Wonder, had acted quickly. She had called on the solicitor who was looking after Rachel’s mother’s will and told him she was willing to take both children. She would take them back to London that evening.

  The solicitor was most relieved. “A dancing school! How wonderful! There is a wish expressed in the late Mrs. Lennox’s will that Hilary shall be trained as a dancer. We were planning to have this carried out, but it might not have been possible, for there will be very little money even when everything is sold.”

  “My husband and I do not want any money,” said Mrs. Wintle grandly. “The c
hildren I train start earning when they are twelve. In any case, supporting them will be our duty.”

  The solicitor could hardly believe his ears. He and the doctor had been worrying a lot about Rachel and Hilary, and suddenly every anxiety seemed blown away. The two children need not be separated, and Hilary would continue her dancing training. Everything just as Mrs. Lennox had wished. “I can’t tell you what a relief your news is to me.”

  Mrs. Wintle got up. “That’s settled then. You have our address. The children will leave with me this evening. What there is not time to pack can be sent after them.”

  The solicitor also got up. He took one of Mrs. Wintle’s hands in both of his. “You are very generous. I hope both children grow up to be a credit to you.”

  Mrs. Wintle thought of Rachel and hoped very much that his wish would come true, but she doubted it. “Thank you. My husband will of course be here for the funeral. If there is anything further you want to discuss you can talk to him.”

  The solicitor opened the door. “Quite. But I’m sure there won’t be. I could not imagine a happier arrangement for the two little girls.”

  In London Dulcie was waiting anxiously for her mother to come home. She had been annoyed that she had gone away for the day without telling her where she was going. Because she was feeling black-doggish she had tried to annoy those who taught her. Most of the Little Wonders went to the local schools, but Dulcie had a governess. She was a Mrs. Storm, who had given up teaching in schools when she married, as she needed time for shopping and household chores before she started work. This fitted in well with Dulcie’s day, for her mother taught her dancing from nine to ten each morning, so lessons did not begin until half-past ten. In spite of the hours fitting so well, Mrs. Storm daily decided to give up the job.

  “It’s not worth it,” she told her husband. “I would rather shop in my lunch hour. I’ve taught tiresome children before, but at least they’ve been surrounded by nice children. You can’t think what it’s like having nothing but one tiresome child to teach.”