Dancing Shoes

by Noel Streatfeild

  Mrs. Wintle, in the bitterness of her disappointment, had to blame somebody, so she turned on Mrs. Storm. It had been deliberate deceit coaching Rachel behind her back, making an actress of her without saying a word to anyone. What did Mrs. Storm think she, Mrs. Wintle, looked like in Mr. Bing’s eyes? Already he was asking why he had to find Rachel by accident when she knew he was looking for a dark child who could act. Why had not Rachel been brought to him in the first place as a possible? Why had nobody remembered that her father was a film star and that his daughter might have inherited his talent?

  Mrs. Storm knew that had Mrs. Wintle known that Rachel could act, she would never have let her near the film studio while there was a chance of Dulcie getting the contract. But she did not say so. “Poor woman,” she thought, “she has deserved a knock, but now that she’s got it I can’t help feeling sorry for her.”

  For some days after her contract was signed Rachel’s mind was in such a whirl she could not think clearly. Each afternoon, as soon as she finished lessons, a studio car fetched her, and a chaperone chosen by the studio took her to have her frocks for the film fitted and to be photographed. One afternoon she was taken to meet the important people who ran the film company that was making Flotsam.

  “I can’t believe it’s me,” she told Uncle Tom. “I know just how odd Alice felt in Alice in Wonderland. You can’t think how queer it is to be the last scraping in the bottom of the barrel one minute and Vera in Flotsam the next.”

  But at last it was Sunday, with no lessons and no visit to the studio, so Rachel had time to think. Lying in bed on Sunday night, looking at the hump which she knew to be Hilary asleep, she felt as if all the day’s thinking had come to a point like a newly sharpened pencil.

  “I am going to make a lot of money. I can’t have it to spend now, but Uncle Tom would arrange that I could borrow some of it. Hilary needn’t wait until I’m fifteen, she could start training now, right away. But will she? How can I make her see that she ought to?”

  Having a question turning over and over in your mind is not the best way to go to sleep. The clock struck ten, then eleven, then twelve. “Perhaps,” thought Rachel, “if I moved about a bit I’d get sleepy.” Very quietly, so as not to wake Hilary, she got out of bed and went over to the window. Gently she pulled back the curtains and looked out.

  There was an almost full moon, and by its light the dreary street looked nearly romantic. The shabby houses opposite were black majestic shadows, which the squeezed-together shops seemed to look up to admiringly. A black cat streaked up the road, and it was watching him that made Rachel strain sideways so that she lost her balance. To save herself she caught at the edge of the dressing table and sent everything flying with a clatter onto the floor.

  Hilary sat up in bed yawning. “What on earth are you doing? It must be the middle of the night.”

  Rachel apologized and explained.

  Hilary got out of bed and rummaged in one of the dressing table drawers. “Perhaps something to eat will make you sleepy. I’ve got two chocolates left from that box I was given after the last performance of Rose-Colored Glasses.” She found the chocolates and joined Rachel at the window. “Would you like a violet on the top of yours or a walnut?”

  Rachel took the walnut. “It was thinking that was keeping me awake.”

  “What about?” asked Hilary indistinctly because of her mouth being full.

  “You, I mean…”

  “Don’t tell me,” said Hilary. “I was wondering when that was coming. Now that you’re going to earn a lot of money you want me to try and get into The Royal Ballet School.”

  “Will you?” Rachel asked.

  “I won’t go near the place. First, because if I was auditioned they wouldn’t take me, and secondly, because I don’t want to.”

  “But don’t you remember Mummie saying about your lessons with Madame Raine: ‘That’s one thing we shall never give up…‘?”

  “ ‘Rachel and I are expecting to be kept in luxury by our star ballerina,’ ” Hilary added. “Of course I remember. But she only thought I ought to dance because my mother did. She wouldn’t really have cared if I didn’t. I knew your film contract would make you think about my dancing, so I asked Uncle Tom.”

  “What did he say?”

  “He said he remembered your mother, and his guess was that if she were here she would want us to do the things we do best.”

  It was difficult to let her dream for Hilary go, but Rachel could feel she was going to. “I wish I knew that was true.”

  Hilary skipped across the room and got back into bed. “Stop worrying. Of course it’s true. Think of all the mothers there must be fussing over their children tonight…”

  “You mean Aunt Cora’s fussing over Dulcie? In a way I feel mean about her.”

  “Don’t,” said Hilary. “Dulcie’s not an acting person, and she wouldn’t have been good as Vera. But she’ll have that glittering future Mr. Al Purk talks about. Your Aunt Cora has always said she would see Dulcie’s name in big electric lights, and I bet she will. They may not be as big as yours but she’ll be a star, you’ll see.”

  “I’d much rather know you would be one.”

  Hilary wriggled cozily down into bed. “You’ll never see that. I daresay I’ll have to do some more dancing parts, like the robin, and I might dance for a bit in a chorus when I’m grown up, but I won’t do it for long.”

  “What will you do instead?”

  “I’m going to marry young and have lots and lots of children. I can see me with them.”

  “I can’t see you liking looking after lots of children.”

  “I shan’t have to,” said Hilary in a very sure voice. “Pursey will come and live with me and look after them.”

  Rachel dropped her dream. She had done all she could. Hilary could not be turned into a ballerina.

  “It seems a waste of talent,” she said regretfully.

  Hilary tucked her blankets firmly around herself. “Waste nothing. What’s nicer than babies? Now stop fussing and go to sleep. As orphans go we aren’t doing too badly.”

  CHAPTER 6

  The Academy

  Neither Hannah nor Sorrel thought that shorts were at all suitable wear for London. London was a place for best clothes and even for gloves. What was more, shorts for a girl who was nearly thirteen seemed definitely wrong to Sorrel anywhere on the street. But Alice was firm and so it was in their school cotton blouses and gray flannel shorts that Sorrel and Holly dressed. Mark had on his school gray flannel suit and his school tie and turn-over stockings with the school colors.

  With Hannah escorting them, they went to the Academy by subway, or underground, getting in at Knightsbridge and getting out at Russell Square. It made a good beginning to the day because of the escalator at Knightsbridge. None of them had ever been on a moving staircase before and they thought it too thrilling for words. Hannah loathed the escalator. She stood at the top putting out a foot and pulling it back, afraid to get on; and she only got on after Sorrel started dragging her on one side and Mark the other.

  The Academy was three large houses joined inside by passages. To Sorrel’s disgust, across the front had been written in large gold letters, “Children’s Academy of Dancing and Stage Training.” Why couldn’t it just be the Academy? Why did they have to shout out that “Children”?

  Grandmother had made an appointment for them to see Madame Fidolia at eleven o’clock. Hannah had been so afraid they would be late that it was only a quarter to eleven when they arrived, so they were shown into a waiting room. Hannah sat down in the corner farthest from the door. The three newcomers walked around looking at the photographs on the walls. Suddenly Sorrel called Mark over to look at a picture of the prettiest girl she had ever seen. The girl was dressed as Alice in Wonderland except that instead of Alice’s shoes she wore black ballet shoes and was standin
g on her pointes. Across this picture was written, “With much love to dear Madame. Pauline.”

  “I call that a lovely little handwriting,” said Sorrel.

  Holly climbed onto the bench to see better. “There’s a picture of that girl over here,” she said, dragging at Sorrel to make her come and look, “only she’s dressed as a boy.”

  When Holly wanted you to look at something, she kept on bothering till you did, so Sorrel and Mark came and looked. It was an enormous group, almost all of children. In the middle was the same girl who was Alice in Wonderland, only her hair was turned underneath to look like a boy’s. She was dressed in knickers and a coat that seemed to be made of satin, and holding her hand was a little dark girl dressed as Red Riding Hood.

  “Now I wonder what pantomime that is,” said Mark. “Look, there’s a cat! Do you think it’s Puss in Boots?”

  “It couldn’t be,” Holly objected. “That cat hasn’t got boots on.”

  “And anyway there’s a dog too,” Sorrel pointed out. “You couldn’t have a dog in Puss in Boots.”

  Mark dashed across to Hannah. He was so excited his words fell over each other. “Do you suppose you could earn money as an actor being a cat or a dog?”

  Hannah was still breathless from the escalator. She spoke in a puffy sort of voice. “I should hope not indeed. Making fun of poor dumb creatures! They know it isn’t right to be made a show of even if we don’t.”

  Mark bounced back to Sorrel. “Do you think I could be a cat or a dog, or, best of all, a bear? If I could be a bear I wouldn’t mind a bit about going on the stage.”

  “But you’ve got to mind,” said Sorrel anxiously. “You know what I told you last night. It’s only till you’re eleven. Oh, Mark, you won’t get to liking it, will you? It will be simply frightful for Daddy when he comes back if he finds you aren’t going into the Navy.”

  Holly was still examining the picture. Sorrel and Mark knelt on the bench and had another look at it too. Suddenly they were startled to feel hands on their shoulders. They turned around and found themselves looking at an oldish lady.

  Madame Fidolia was, they thought, a queer-looking lady. She had hair that had once been black but now was mostly gray, parted in the middle and dragged very smoothly into a bun on the nape of her neck. She was wearing a black silk dress that looked as if it had come out of a history book, for it had a tight, stiff bodice and full skirts. Round her shoulders was a cerise shawl. She leaned on a tall black stick. But the oddest thing about her was the way she was finished off, as it were, for on her feet were pink ballet shoes, which are the last things you expect to see on the feet of an oldish lady. She gave a gesture with one hand which, without words, said clearly, “Stand up.” They all obeyed at once, sliding off the bench and standing in front of her. Her voice was deep with a slightly foreign accent.

  “How do you do? So you are the Warren children.”

  Mark’s head shot up. “No we’re not. Our name is Forbes.”

  Madame Fidolia looked at Mark with interest. “You don’t wish to be a Warren. Most children would envy you.”

  Sorrel was afraid Mark might be rude, so she answered for him. “Our father is a sailor. Our great-grandfather was an admiral, and Mark’s going to be one too. At least, we hope he is, but, of course, it’s not easy to be an admiral.”

  Madame Fidolia was looking at the picture behind them. “You three remind me of three pupils who came to me many years ago. This picture you were looking at was the first play in which they appeared. It was a special matinée of The Bluebird. You’ve read The Bluebird, I suppose?”

  Sorrel could tell from Madame Fidolia’s voice that they ought to have read it, so she answered apologetically, “I’m afraid we haven’t. It wasn’t in our grandfather’s house and we’ve lived there since the war.”

  Madame Fidolia laid a finger over the picture of the boy in the satin suit. “This is Pauline and this is Petrova.”

  Her fingers searched among the small children and came to a stop against a tiny girl with her head all over curls. Her voice warmed. “And this is Posy.”

  The Forbeses knelt up on the bench to look again at the picture.

  “Are they sisters?” Sorrel asked.

  Madame smiled. “Not exactly. Adopted sisters, brought up by a guardian. You’ve seen Pauline, I expect, lots of times. Pauline Fossil.”

  She said Pauline Fossil in exactly the same tone of voice as Alice had said “Didn’t you know Henry Warren was your uncle?” so Sorrel hurried to explain their ignorance.

  “I’m afraid we haven’t. We’ve spent our holidays in the vicarage and in vicarages you don’t see stage people much.”

  Hannah gave a snort. “Brought up very decently, they’ve been.”

  Madame Fidolia gave her a lovely smile and came across to her holding out her hand. “I’m sure they have. Mrs….?”

  “Miss Fothergill,” said Hannah firmly. “Looked after their grandfather, I did, and there’s nothing about vicarages anyone can teach me.”

  “But nobody calls her Miss Fothergill,” said Holly. “Everybody calls her Hannah.”

  Madame Fidolia was shaking Hannah’s hand. “And may I call you Hannah too? Now, if you’ll come with me, I’m going to take my new pupils to a classroom, for we must see what they can do.” She was leading the way out of the room when she thought of something and turned, facing Sorrel and Mark and Holly. “You will call me Madame, and when you first meet me in the morning and last thing at night, and before and after a class, or any time when we meet, you will make a deep curtsy and say ‘Madame.’ And you, Mark, lay one hand on your heart and bow.”

  None of them dared look at each other, because they all wanted to giggle and obviously Madame was not the sort of person in front of whom you giggled.

  “Now let me see you do it,” said Madame firmly. She looked at Sorrel. “You start.”

  Sorrel and Holly had learned dancing at Ferntree School, but curtsying had not been part of it. Sorrel, crimson in the face and feeling that this performance was not at all suitable for a girl who was nearly thirteen, did the best she could. She bent both knees a little and muttered “Madame” while she did it. Madame Fidolia shook her head. She gave Mark her stick.

  “You hold this. I’ve had a little trouble with rheumatism in my knees but I can still show you.” She moved one foot sideways, put the other leg behind it, held out her skirts and swept the most beautiful curtsy down to the ground, saying politely, “Madame.” Then she stood up, took her stick back from Mark and nodded at Sorrel. “Now, my dear, try again.”

  Shorts are the most idiotic things to curtsy in, but Sorrel was quick and did her very best. Madame seemed quite pleased. Then she looked at Holly. “Now you.”

  Holly had been charmed by the way Madame’s skirts billowed around her and it was no trouble at all to pretend that she had skirts too. So instead of holding out her shorts as Sorrel had done, she lifted her hands as if she were holding up silk, and swept down to the floor.

  “Madame,” she said politely, and then added as she got up, “I’m wearing pale blue with little stars all over it.”

  Madame laughed. “I could see you were wearing something very grand. Now, Mark.”

  Sorrel prayed inside her, “Oh, please God, don’t let Mark argue.”

  But Mark, oddly enough, did not seem even to mind being made to bow. He swept a really grand bow when he said “Madame.” The only thing he did not do very well was saying her name. He spoke it in a low, deep growl. Madame’s eyes twinkled. She took Mark’s chin in her hand.

  “And what did you have on when you bowed to me?” Mark wriggled, but she smiled down at him, holding him firmly. “Tell me.”

  Mark looked cross for a moment and then something in Madame Fidolia’s face made him feel friendly.

  “I was wearing a bearskin. I was a bear in the An
tarctic who’d traveled miles to call on the queen there.”

  Hannah was thoroughly ashamed. “Really, Mark, what a way to talk!”

  But Madame did not seem to mind at all. She took Mark’s hand in hers. “And a very nice thing to be,” she said cheerfully. “We’ll lead the way, shall we?”

  In a long room, a lot of small girls and boys were doing dancing exercises. A tall ugly girl with a clever, interesting face was teaching them. As the door opened this girl and all the children stopped work and bowed or curtsied, saying “Madame.” Madame beckoned to the girl, saying to Sorrel as she did so: “This is Winifred, who teaches dancing. We’re very short of teachers now but we’re allowed to have Winifred because she teaches lessons as well.” She turned to Winifred. “This is the Warren family.” She smiled at Mark. “Their name is really Forbes and Mark, at any rate, wants to be called Forbes. This is Sorrel, this is Holly, and this is Mark. You might try them out and see what they know. But I imagine, with their tradition, acting is more in their line.” She turned to the rest of the class. “Sit, children.” The children, without a word, ran to the side of the room and sat cross-legged on the floor.

  There was a piano at the far end of the room on which a fat woman in a red blouse had been playing. Winifred went over to her. “You might play that Baby Polka, Mrs. Blondin.”

  She came back to the middle of the room. The piano struck up a gay little polka and she began to dance. It was only one, two, three, hop, but she did it so well that it seemed a quite important kind of dancing. As she danced she held out her hand to Mark and Holly. “Come on, children, you do it too.” And she beckoned to Sorrel with her head.

  Sorrel felt the most awful fool. She could not forget the eyes of all the children sitting cross-legged on the floor, watching her. What must they think she looked like! Prancing about in her shorts. She was so conscious of the eyes that she danced worse than she need have done, and twice she fell over her feet.

  Mark put on his proudest face and folded his hands behind his back while he danced. He did not pick up his feet very much but slithered from one step to the other. And Sorrel, watching him out of the corner of her eye, could see that he was not minding dancing because he was not a boy dancing in a room full of children, but a bear skating in the Antarctic.