Hester's Story

by Adle Geras

  ‘And you, my child, you have the gift,’ she said to Estelle, more than once. ‘It moves the heart when the audience can feel your emotion. When you are Giselle, I can have your madness and your love in my heart, here!’ She would beat on her chest with a fist, and then open her hand and move it through the air, like a perfect white butterfly.

  She didn’t mean the real Giselle. A thirteen-year-old girl in a ballet class couldn’t possibly dance the whole ballet on her own. Still, Madame Olga had devised two small solos for her pupil, set to Adolphe Adam’s music. She’d told Estelle the story of the ballet in great detail, so that she knew who she was supposed to be and what she was meant to be feeling. In one dance she was filled with joy as she declared her love for Loys, and in the second she had to lose her mind after discovering that her true love was not who he claimed to be. Estelle had no experience of ‘madness’ or ‘love’, but she did feel everything deeply. She’d read about these emotions in books, seen them depicted on the screen, and she could imagine and copy the sweetness of first love, then the pain, the confusion, the anguish which she heard in every note of the music. Madame Olga had taught her the technique, the knowledge necessary for each individual step, but Estelle seemed to know by instinct how to use her body to give physical expression to the very strongest of feelings.

  *

  Piers Cranley was sitting at the far end of the studio on one of Madame Olga’s best chairs. He was wearing a coat over his shoulders because the room was so cold. Estelle was so nervous she could hardly breathe, but as she approached him, she saw that he was rather small and red-faced and was smiling at her in quite a friendly manner. She relaxed a little as Madame Olga took her by the hand and led her right up to where he was sitting.

  ‘This is Estelle Prévert, Piers darling,’ she said. Then she turned to her pupil and whispered, ‘Curtsey, child. A beautiful révérence, just as I have shown you.’

  Estelle was wearing her practice dress and shivering in the cold but she obeyed, bending down low in front of the figure who sat with the light behind him so that it was difficult to see the expression on his face.

  ‘Lovely, lovely,’ he said. ‘Come closer, child. And don’t be frightened. I’ve come all this way because Olga has written to tell me you’re the real thing. Are you?’

  Estelle looked at him and wondered whether to be modest. Whether to say something like ‘I hope so’, or ‘I don’t know’ but thought in the end that it would be better to be honest. She said simply ‘Yes,’ and looked straight into Piers’ eyes. He had a kind expression. She wanted to say ‘I am the real thing’, but didn’t quite dare to.

  ‘If you came to dance in my company, you’d have to change your name, you know. We already have a principal dancer called Estelle. Two would be un embarras de richesses … do you understand French? Well, of course you do. How stupid of me to forget.’

  ‘I don’t mind,’ Estelle said, and immediately felt a lifting of the heart. How wonderful, she thought, to be able to choose a new name, to begin again, as though you were being reborn. Also, film stars had screen names different from the ones they were born with. It struck her that she was much more likely to be famous with a name other than the one she’d had for years and years.

  ‘Hester,’ Madame Olga declared, as though she’d made up her mind and the name was a foregone conclusion; as though there could be no other in the world. ‘It is very like Estelle. Perhaps it is an English version of the name.’

  Estelle tried out the name in her head. Hester. She liked it at once. It was as though someone had given her a new dress to try on, and she was happy to find that it fitted to perfection. She nodded.

  ‘We must change the surname too,’ Madame Olga continued. ‘Both names must be the same. Prévert is “green field” in French, so we have the same in English. Field …’ She frowned and placed the fingers of each hand on her temples, as if deep in thought. ‘Fielding,’ she said at last. ‘Hester Fielding. Yes. That will be perfect for the lights, for the programmes. For everyone to say. Now, Hester Fielding, please dance as I have shown you for Mr Cranley.’

  ‘Yes,’ Estelle said, feeling like Hester, trying to be like her name. Piers Cranley was leaning forward in his chair as though eager to see what she was going to do. ‘I’m going to dance a solo Madame Olga has arranged for me, to music from Giselle.’

  ‘I see you’re already wearing a gold chain round your neck. You know the story, don’t you? How important the chain is in the ballet?’

  Estelle – Hester – nodded. She wouldn’t think of herself by her old name ever again. She was Hester Fielding, now and always.

  Madame Olga wound the gramophone and put the record on; the spot where Hester was standing dissolved around her and she was in a village square, dancing, waiting for the harvest feast to begin.

  When the music took over, the person she was in her real life became someone else, although she didn’t forget who she was or what she was doing. The routines of the dance were complicated and you had to keep the pattern and sequence of the steps in your head and remember what came next and be always aware of what you looked like, what shapes you were creating with your body. You had to be in control, but alongside this, or under it, or wound up with it, was the sensation of being somehow filled with someone else’s feelings, hopes, desires, longings. Part of her was transformed into this other person and suffered and loved with her, but she never quite lost a sense of herself; the physical self that was making the movements possible.

  When she finished dancing, she looked at Piers Cranley. He was silent for a moment, then he said, ‘Olga, my dear, you were right about this as you are about everything. The child is a dancer.’ He got up from the chair and came over to Hester, and took her hand. ‘Olga must speak to your guardian at once. Will she see her this afternoon, do you think? It’s very important that you begin to train seriously as soon as possible.’

  *

  Madame Olga asked permission to speak to Auntie Rhoda and Uncle Bob and came to tea the day after Piers Cranley’s visit. Even though Madame had lived just outside the village for years, Auntie Rhoda still thought of her as a foreigner and had barely exchanged a single word with her, as far as Hester was aware. Madame Olga hardly ever bought anything in the village shop. Her provisions were delivered in a van that came all the way from Keighley, so she never really met any of the locals.

  Auntie Rhoda made shortbread specially, and laid the best traycloth on the tray. Uncle Bob lit a fire in the front room and Hester was instructed to dust every surface. She didn’t mind. She pretended she was Cinderella and danced from one piece of furniture to another.

  Madame Olga either didn’t realise how strange she looked sitting on the sofa in the front room of the Wellicks’ house, or else she didn’t care. She had on the black dress she sometimes wore for class, but acknowledged the importance of the occasion by wearing her best shoes and wrapping a scarlet chiffon scarf around her neck. She laid her gloves over the arm of the sofa and put her handbag on the floor next to her.

  When Auntie Rhoda poured out her tea, Madame Olga took the cup from her and began to speak charmingly, smiling at every word her hostess said even though all she’d managed so far were platitudes like, I don’t know when this cold snap will come to an end. It does make life so difficult and I hope you like shortbread.

  Paula wasn’t there. She was spending the afternoon at Marjorie’s house and Hester was grateful for that. Uncle Bob looked very uncomfortable standing with his back to the fire, holding his cup and saucer in his hand. Madame Olga didn’t waste time. As soon as she’d sipped a little tea and eaten her shortbread in a few dainty bites, she began.

  ‘My dear Mr and Mrs Wellick,’ she said and she sounded not like herself at all, Hester thought, but like someone dictating the beginning of a letter. ‘I come to speak of Hester’s future.’

  ‘Who is Hester?’ Auntie Rhoda asked and Madame Olga smiled.

  ‘She has not told you? I will explain everything. Hester �
��’ Madame Olga pointed dramatically across the room. ‘She was Estelle, but she is now Hester.’

  Auntie Rhoda looked as though someone were about to attack her from an unexpected quarter: tense, and ready to spring to her own defence if necessary. ‘Why is she now Hester? I don’t understand, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Hester Fielding. This will be excellent stage name.’

  ‘Why would Estelle need a stage name?’ Auntie Rhoda asked.

  ‘She did not tell you? She is going to be a ballerina. I hope she will become world famous.’

  Auntie Rhoda looked bemused. ‘Well, I know she’s been having lessons with you, but isn’t she a little young to be thinking of—’

  Madame Olga waved her hand in the air and interrupted.

  ‘Never, never too young. I am friendly with Piers Cranley, who is manager of the Charleroi Ballet Company. You have heard of it?’

  It was clear that Auntie Rhoda had never heard of the Charleroi. Madame Olga went on.

  ‘It is based in London. Mr Cranley, he has money from his family and because of this, his company can put on many ballets and he can afford to hire the very best dancers. Hester is talented. She has a very great gift. Do you not know this? Mr Cranley has seen her dance in my house and he wants her to come to London to join Charleroi’s dancers. This will be wonderful training and a chance to dance on stage early, which will be good for her career in the future. All the dancers live in a hostel together. Mr Cranley sees to it that the girls’ education is not neglected. There are lessons with a special tutor for a few hours every day. There are about twelve young girls, I think, but Hester will be the youngest.’

  Madame Olga drew breath and fixed her dark eyes on Auntie Rhoda, looking hard at her, as though she were trying to hypnotise her. ‘This is an opportunity not to be missed,’ she went on. ‘With ballet, starting to dance on stage as young as fourteen is the very best thing. A great advantage always.’

  No one said a word for a long time, but Hester felt as though Madame Olga had taken a hand-grenade and thrown it into the room. She wished for a moment that the matter of her new name could have been introduced a little more gently. She could feel the power of the blast in Auntie Rhoda’s indrawn breath, in Uncle Bob’s sudden frown and the way he went over to the table to put his cup and saucer down before going to stand next to his wife. A look passed between the two of them.

  ‘This is very kind of you, I’m sure,’ Auntie Rhoda began, and Hester knew at once that she was going to refuse her permission. It was never going to happen. She bit hard on her lip to prevent herself from crying.

  ‘It doesn’t sound to me,’ Auntie Rhoda went on, ‘like a respectable life for a well-brought-up young lady. When all’s said and done, you’re telling me that Estelle’s going to display herself on a stage, wearing very little. She’s very young, Madame Olga, and while it’s kind of you to take an interest, I’m afraid I couldn’t give permission. Perhaps when she’s of age.’

  ‘That is too old to train for the ballet, Mrs Wellick. Too old. We must teach the body when it is young. Do you not understand?’ A note of anger had crept into Madame Olga’s voice.

  ‘I understand perfectly. But I still hold to my opinion. It’s not decent, and that’s all there is to it.’

  ‘It is most certainly not all there is to it. There is more to it, oh, very much more. I do not speak of a cheap music hall, Mrs Wellick,’ said Madame Olga, properly angry now. ‘I speak of Art. High Art. Great music. Skill like no other. Beauty. Perfection. How do you dare to stop this beauty?’

  ‘I don’t know about that,’ said Uncle Bob, unexpectedly adding his voice to the argument. ‘Beauty or no beauty, her legs’ll still be bare for every Tom, Dick and Harry to stare at, won’t they?’

  Madame Olga stood up.

  ‘Mrs Wellick, I will say this and then I will go. Hester will give me the address for her father. The Charleroi Company goes on tour to Paris very soon and Piers Cranley will go to see Monsieur Prévert.’ She took a small, leather-bound notebook from her handbag and pulled out a pencil. ‘This you cannot prevent. Hester, please tell me your father’s address in Paris. I will write to him.’

  Even though she felt despairing and angry, Hester spoke the words clearly and defiantly into the stifling air of the small room. She glared at Auntie Rhoda and Uncle Bob as Madame Olga carefully wrote down the address and put the notebook away in her handbag and smiled at the Wellicks in triumph.

  ‘Mr Cranley will persuade him, I am sure. And then I hope you will do everything to make it easy for Hester to move to London. I thank you for the hospitality and the delicious shortbread. Goodbye.’

  She came over to where Hester was sitting.

  ‘Do not lose heart, child,’ she said, putting a finger under Hester’s chin and lifting her head. She looked into her eyes and spoke quietly so that the Wellicks, who’d moved to the door, wouldn’t overhear what she was saying. ‘Do not please think all is over. This is not true. You have seen Mr Cranley. He likes to be obeyed. You will find out when you are dancing for him. He will speak to your father and all will be well. Leave everything to me. Trust me, I will do what is needed.’

  Madame Olga picked up her gloves and handbag and swept out of the room. The Wellicks escorted her to the front door and Hester was left alone in the parlour which, in spite of the fire, was dark and cold and just the right place to sit and rage at how things had turned out. In spite of Madame Olga’s optimistic words, it was hard not to feel as though there was nothing left to hope for in the world. She’d been foolish to imagine even for a second that she’d be leaving this house. She could taste something horrible in her mouth and she swallowed down the tears that were rising in her throat. She blinked. She wasn’t going to give them the satisfaction. They’d have liked nothing better than for her to weep and wail and carry on so that they could say well, what did we tell you? She’s nothing but a child, and not nearly old enough to go to London all by herself.

  ‘Whatever are you doing in here, all by yourself in the dark?’ Paula had come back from Marjorie’s house.

  ‘Nothing. Just thinking.’

  ‘Mum said that the Russian lady at Wychwood told her some man wants you to go to London. Is he a white slaver?’

  ‘No, he’s the manager of a ballet company. Madame Olga wants me to train to be a ballet dancer in his company.’

  Paula burst out laughing. ‘Oh, honestly, Estelle, if you believe that you’ll believe anything! Company, indeed. You must know what he really has up his sleeve, don’t you? Whatever Madame Olga says. If you don’t, you’re more of a baby than I thought.’

  ‘He hasn’t got anything up his sleeve. He wants to train me. You wouldn’t know about that. Ballet doesn’t mean anything to you.’

  ‘You are so naïve! Honestly! Once he’s got you down there in that London, he’ll make you dance in one of those clubs. You know. Where people take off their clothes. He may even,’ Paula’s voice dropped and she winked dramatically, ‘put you on the streets.’

  ‘I’m not listening to you. You don’t know anything. He’s a friend of Madame Olga’s. He’s not a white slaver or whatever you called him. He’s a respectable gentleman.’

  Hester began leaving the room, but then a thought occurred to her. She turned round and shouted at Paula.

  ‘And don’t you dare ever call me Estelle ever again. I’m Hester now. Hester Fielding. So there.’

  Paula called something after her, but Hester had managed to slam the door shut behind her as she left the room. She stood in the hall, uncertain where to go. Auntie Rhoda was washing up in the kitchen. She longed to run upstairs and lie on the bed with her face buried in the pillow, but Paula was almost bound to come in and continue tormenting her. It was too cold to go into the garden or for a walk. She sat on the wooden settle in the hall and stared down at her hands, thinking I have to go. I have to leave this house and I will.

  *

  The freezing cold weather continued. Icy days and nights, one after t
he other, went on and on as though spring would never come. Hester’s mood reflected the chill outside. She remained in a state of anxiety mixed with gloom for weeks after Madame Olga’s visit to the Wellicks, alternating between short daydreams full of glorious possibility and days and days of complete hopelessness.

  She lived entirely for her visits to Madame Olga’s house. Now that the two of them were planning Hester’s future, there were afternoons when they went into the kitchen after class and discussed what would happen for hours. One day, out of the blue, Madame Olga said ‘Come with me, Hester dear. I wish to show you something.’

  Hester followed Madame Olga upstairs. In all the years she’d been coming for her lessons, all she’d ever seen of Wychwood House was the front hall, the studio and the kitchen. Now Madame led the way up the wide staircase and along a dark corridor and opened a door.

  ‘My bedroom,’ she announced. ‘No one has been up here to see this.’

  Hester looked around. The sage-green velvet curtains were drawn. It was late afternoon and dark outside. Madame Olga hadn’t been up here since before the ballet lesson, Hester knew, and this meant that they’d been drawn the whole day, as though she’d decided to do without natural light altogether.

  ‘Sit here,’ she said, and pointed to a small stool near the dressing-table. The scent of violets hung in the air.

  ‘I love that smell,’ Hester said. ‘My grandmother used to smell just like that.’

  ‘I am not yet like a grandmother, I hope,’ Madame Olga smiled. ‘Only fifty years old.’

  Hester couldn’t think what to say. She had never considered the matter of Madame Olga’s age. ‘You look beautiful,’ she said.

  ‘You are kind. Never have I been called beautiful before. But always I smell of violets. Now I want to show you this.’

  She went to a huge cupboard which reared up like a black cliff against one wall. Panels on each door were carved into a pattern of flowers and leaves, and the handles were made of shiny brass. The doors creaked as Madame Olga opened them and bent to take something from the shadowy darkness within. It was a small leather suitcase, which she put on the bed.