Hester's Story

by Adle Geras

  ‘He and Virginia haven’t got the best marriage in the world,’ he told her. ‘They’re not terribly well suited, but they’ve been together for some years. And, of course, Adam doesn’t make all that much money, so he’s somewhat financially dependent on her. If it wasn’t for Virginia, they couldn’t possibly live the way they do. I think he’d be quite happy spending a lot more time in London, but Virginia loves Orchard House. I don’t think she’s slept more than a couple of nights in their flat, whereas he often uses it when he’s up here burrowing about in libraries. And it sounds a strange thing to say in the circumstances but Adam’s a very honourable person. Very loyal. Does that sound mad? Also, of course, he’s much older than you are.’

  ‘You’re as old as he is, aren’t you? You don’t seem all that much older than me.’

  ‘He’s actually two years older than I am. He’s twenty-nine. I’m not saying age matters necessarily but you know how people talk.’

  ‘You mustn’t say a word!’ She grabbed Edmund’s sleeve. ‘Not to a soul. Not to Piers, not to anyone in the company. Dinah’s the only person I’ve told. Above all, don’t tell Adam. I promised him I wouldn’t tell. I couldn’t help it, though. I needed to say something to someone. Please say you won’t breathe a word. Promise me.’

  ‘I promise,’ Edmund said. ‘But it’ll come out, you’ll see. Someone will cotton on in the end. In fact, I’m surprised they haven’t already. Adam is sure to confide in me eventually. Come along, now. It’s time for rehearsal. Are you feeling up to it?’

  ‘It’s the only thing I can do, the one thing that distracts me from everything else.’

  ‘Then come along, Red Riding Hood. I will make sure you get to the Royalty and don’t get waylaid by Big Bad Wolves.’

  Edmund tucked Hester’s arm under his as they made their way along the Bayswater Road. How lucky I am to have him as a friend, she thought. How kind he is. And maybe he was right. Maybe things would work out for the best. How could love such as she was feeling be anything but good?

  28 December 1986

  ‘And a step and bend and lean over a little … that’s it. And back and up … Silver, concentrate. You look as though you’re miles away.’

  ‘I’m not miles away, Hugo. I’m right in front of you.’

  ‘You know very well what I mean. Not concentrating. Now try that sequence again.’

  Silver’s mouth tightened, and she looked at him with evident incomprehension. She’s not used to being told she needs to try harder, Hugo thought. She’s been spoiled. Well, she’s met her match now. I’m not going to let her get away with being slack. He scrutinised her carefully as she moved. ‘Better. Could be more than just better, though. Could be spectacular. And will be, if I have anything to do with it. Okay, let’s move on. Nick, you come in now, please, just move towards Silver from upstage right … that’s it.’

  Nick Neary was excellent, which was a great relief. Silver needed to depend on him, and although the Lover wasn’t exactly the Angel’s partner in the conventional sense, the best pas de deux in the ballet were the two they had together, as they fought over the Princess.

  ‘Okay, Silver, you have to be magnetic and menacing at the same time. You’re going to win in the end, because Death always does, but Nick has to be serious competition. Nick, I want you to show the precariousness of love and all that.’

  ‘No problem, Hugo. Precariousness of Love is my middle name.’

  Hugo and Silver both laughed and Hugo said, ‘Okay. Just once more and then we’ll break for today.’

  He pressed the switch on the tape recorder and music filled the rehearsal room. Silver closed her eyes as she went into the short routine that she’d been learning this afternoon. Hugo could see that she still wasn’t giving it the one hundred percent effort that he expected of his dancers. Where had she been trained? She’d told him at the audition that she admired Hester Fielding more than anything; how could she say that and yet not be prepared to work her socks off? He knew that her relaxed attitude was that of the truly talented. She was so naturally good, so able to succeed with the minimum of effort, that she hadn’t ever had to put in the sweat that went with absolute perfection. Well, he thought, she won’t be able to get away with that for long. Not with me in charge. He watched her as she kept count of the steps, following the blocking out of the moves they’d just done, but she was holding something in reserve and she needed to give herself completely to the music. This tune, this theme, was Silver’s – the Angel’s variation on the dance that was at the centre of the whole ballet, the Sarabande itself: stately, dignified, passionate all at once. It was written for wailing saxophones and brass, and as Silver raised her arms above her head, Hugo knew he wouldn’t be satisfied till he could almost see feathers growing out of her skin and imagine that she had wings that might stretch out and carry her up and up as she took flight. She stood on point and lifted her right leg so high that it almost touched her ear. Nick was holding her. She was definitely one of the most gifted dancers Hugo had ever encountered and he would get her to fulfil her potential if it was the last thing he did. The audience had to believe she was capable of flight.

  ‘Bloody hell, Silver,’ said Nick, when they were finished and pulling on jumpers and leg warmers for the walk back to Wychwood House. ‘I’ve heard of high kicks but that’s amazing.’

  ‘I can only do that if I know you’re there, so thanks. I couldn’t do it without you.’

  ‘Thanks, both of you,’ said Hugo. ‘It’s going to be great.’

  ‘Got to run,’ said Nick, who had hurried to the door.

  ‘Right,’ said Hugo. ‘Silver, may I have a word?’

  ‘Yes, okay,’ said Silver. She had pushed her ballet shoes into her bag and was buttoning up her cardigan. She smiled up at Hugo. ‘I’m getting the hang of it, I think.’

  ‘Yes, you are, but I have to say, Silver, I don’t think your mind is entirely on the work. Am I right? Is there something worrying you?’

  Anger flared in her eyes.

  ‘You’re joking, aren’t you? Not entirely on my work? What are you saying? That I’m not up to scratch? No one else has ever complained about my dancing. I very nearly didn’t take this job, you know. Jacques Bodette is waiting for me. I hope I’m not going to start wishing I hadn’t agreed to dance with your company?’

  Hugo deliberately made his voice gentle: ‘Don’t be angry, Silver. I’m not attacking you. I just think that you’ve been getting away with less than your best.’

  ‘I don’t believe it! What on earth are you saying? Are you saying you’re sorry you offered me the part? I’m not staying here if I’m not wanted.’

  ‘Of course you’re wanted, Silver. Please don’t misunderstand me. What I think is that you’re much better than anyone realises. Even you. I think you have it in you to be someone really …’ Hugo paused to find the right word. ‘Really legendary. But it’s going to take phenomenal work.’

  ‘What the hell do you think I’ve been doing all morning?’ Silver looked as though she would happily throw her huge handbag at his head. She was keeping her temper, but only just.

  ‘It’s a waste of your energy to be angry, Silver. We’re on the same side. All I’m trying to do is make you see that up to now you haven’t even begun to reach the heights you’re capable of.’

  ‘And you’re the one who’s going to get me there, are you?’

  ‘That’s right. I am. I just need you to help me a little.’

  ‘You’re wrong, you know. Does anyone ever tell the great Hugo Carradine that he’s wrong? I bet they don’t. But you are. And I’ll prove it to you. Of course I’m ready for the work.’

  ‘Then I’ll see you at rehearsal tomorrow, Silver. You’re going to be wonderful.’

  He left the room, feeling her eyes on him, almost feeling the grimace that she was undoubtedly making behind his back. Let her pull faces, he thought, she’ll thank me in the end. She is going to be something that hasn’t been seen for a generation.
>
  *

  Who the bloody hell did Hugo Carradine think he was? Silver was so furious at what had just happened that, for at least thirty seconds, she was already packing in her mind – throwing her suitcase into the back of her car and getting away from this hellhole. Then she calmed down a little, and took a deep breath. No way. She was not going to give up this chance. Not for Hugo bloody Carradine and not for anything else either. She wasn’t going to let Hester Fielding get the story from her pet choreographer, not if she had anything to do with it. He’d put it about all over the place that Silver O’Connell couldn’t cut the mustard when it mattered, and before long those clacking tongues that made sure every single rumour or story found its way everywhere would have done the damage and her reputation would be ruined. She pulled her scarf round her neck and squared her shoulders. There was nothing for it but to put up with his nonsense as best she could. She couldn’t get over how different he was once he was in charge. Like a lot of men, really. Just give them some power and watch how they become tyrants. He’d been such a sweetie at the audition. So flattering too. You’re quite the most promising young dancer I’ve seen in years were his exact words. What had happened since then?

  As she walked back along the outdoor path, Silver tried hard to admire the garden, which was more like a park than the garden of a private house. It must take an awful lot of work to keep a place like this looking good. The wind was bitter and she put her head down to avoid the worst of it. She tried to think of the last time anyone had criticised her and couldn’t. Ever since she’d started dancing, there had been nothing but praise from every single person she came across. Silver looked up and saw the clouds dark over the moors and, for a split second, she allowed herself to consider whether what Hugo said could have any truth in it. Impossible. Didn’t she always try with one hundred percent of her energy and intelligence? A tiny voice, somewhere so deep in her mind that she hardly heard it, was saying, you’ve always been able to do it with no effort. No one’s noticed till now, that’s all but Silver paid it no attention and turned her mind, deliberately, to other things.

  Sod Hugo. He’ll soon see what he’s got in me, she told herself. Everyone said she was the best. How come all of them were wrong and he was right? The opposite was probably true. And in any case, it was too late for him to find a substitute, so he’d never actually get rid of her. He was as stuck with her as she was with him. It wasn’t any wonder he was saddled with a prima ballerina who was past it. And not only past it, but really cruel too. That remark at lunchtime to her kid about the bread roll when Alison was far from skinny was just plain unkind. It showed that Hugo had very poor judgement if he was in love with a creature like her. Other dancers probably steered well clear of him. Even as she was thinking this, Silver knew it was nonsense, but she allowed herself to be comforted by the thought that he wasn’t nearly as famous as Jacques Bodette, who thought she was incomparable. He’s forever saying it, and I believe him, Silver thought. Why shouldn’t I?

  *

  I’m safe, Alison thought. Mum’s there in the theatre, going over something with Hugo, and she’ll be there till suppertime and I can go wherever I want. She was walking along the path without looking where she was going, and she’d been out for ages and ages. She wondered at first whether to be worried or upset by the fact that not a single person in the whole world, right now this minute, knew where she was. No one, she thought, gives a shit about me, and that’s the truth. I could go and drown myself in that river and I bet Mum wouldn’t even miss class the next day. I bet she’d even be pleased. Well, I’m not going to give her the satisfaction of having her photograph taken weeping and wailing over my grave. She’s not worth getting all steamed up about.

  This was a sentiment that Alison had persuaded herself of over many years. She couldn’t remember exactly when it was, but about two or three years ago she’d come to certain conclusions. The main one was that she had to look after herself because no one else would if she didn’t. She’d made all sorts of plans and her head was usually buzzing with dreams, like her favourite at the moment – of herself getting on a plane and taking off to go and find her father in America. She had his address. She wrote to him from time to time. The last letter had been just before Christmas, and now as she remembered it Alison blushed a little. It had been nothing but moaning from beginning to end: moaning about Claudia, moaning about having to go to Wychwood for over ten days, moaning about school, and on and on. Thinking about it, she could imagine her father sighing and tearing it up and putting it into the wastepaper basket. They called it the trash in America which made it sound even more rubbishy.

  I haven’t forgiven her for that remark at lunchtime. She thinks I forget all about the things she says a second or two after she says them, but just because she’s a butterfly brain it doesn’t mean that I am. I remember every single nasty remark she’s ever made, and I wish I could tell her so. There ought to be a button I could press and then they’d all spool out, as though they were on a tape, recorded forever in my memory. I could say them to her one after another. That’d make her sit up. Maybe I will one day, too.

  There was a light shining out of the downstairs window of a small house just ahead of her. She hadn’t seen it before. She must have walked right past the theatre without knowing it and be at the back of it. Yes, that was right. Alison turned and saw the outline of the Arcadia, darker even than the nearly black sky.

  The house or cottage or whatever it was looked a bit like Hansel and Gretel’s house made of gingerbread and sugar and sweets, she thought. The house in the middle of the forest. She shivered a little and then said, half aloud, ‘This isn’t a forest, and Hansel and Gretel is a fairytale. Grow up, will you?’

  She was just about to turn round and walk back the way she’d come, when the door of the fairytale cottage opened and she could see someone silhouetted against the light.

  ‘Alison? Is that you?’

  ‘Oh, Ruby! Yes, it’s me. I didn’t recognise you at first. I thought … never mind. I don’t know how I got down here. I was just walking about.’

  ‘Well, now that you’re here, you can come in for a cup of tea with me, and then we’ll go up to the house together.’

  ‘Thank you. Is this where you live?’

  ‘That’s right. Me and George. You met him at lunchtime. He’s still in the theatre, but he’ll be by for his tea. Come along in. You must be cold out there.’

  Alison found that a verse from her father’s book was repeating itself in her head:

  Here is a doll

  dreaming of walking

  down the path to another house.

  She dreams of a party

  and drinking tea

  and all the friends

  she has gone to see.

  She followed Ruby into the house and closed the front door behind her.

  ‘I’ll go and fetch the tea things. You sit down here, Alison, and make yourself comfortable.’

  She left the sitting room then, and Alison could hear cup and saucer noises from the kitchen, which was down a small corridor. As she looked around the room, she noticed that in this cottage too, there was no sign of Christmas anywhere. It had struck her as strange when they arrived last night there wasn’t a single card or decoration anywhere in Wychwood House, and no sign of a tree either. Hester must have got rid of everything on Boxing Day, which was most peculiar. And here in Ruby’s cottage it was the same. She wondered whether she could ask about it and decided she probably couldn’t. She went over to the mantelpiece to look at the photos that were lined up there. One or two of them were of Hester. You could see that it was her, even though she was young, because she was dressed in ballet clothes and hadn’t changed all that much, really. The picture Alison liked best showed five children sitting on a bench in a park, or perhaps it was a big garden. The eldest girl had a kind of beret on, and she looked about fourteen. She wasn’t smiling, but all the others in the photo were. Two of the littler children were boys and t
wo were girls. The baby girl was sweet as anything, like a doll, and she had a bit of hair caught up in a ribbon. When she heard Ruby coming in with the tray, Alison turned round.

  ‘I love this picture. Is it of your children?’

  ‘No,’ Ruby answered, putting the tea things down on a table between the sofa and the armchairs on the other side of the fire. ‘That’s me and my brothers and sisters. I’m the eldest.’

  ‘You’re lucky.’ Alison took the cup of tea Ruby handed her and bit into a buttered scone. ‘I wish I wasn’t an only child.’

  ‘I used to wish I was,’ Ruby smiled. ‘Then I was ashamed of myself at once of course, but still, I couldn’t help it. I always felt I was the one who had to look after them, be responsible for them. Too much for a young girl I suppose it was, looking back. I didn’t think so at the time. I thought it was my duty, that’s all.’

  She set her cup down on the table and took out a piece of canvas from a basket lying beside the fire. ‘You don’t mind if I do my tapestry?’

  ‘No, it’s lovely. I like the colours. Is it a picture of anything?’

  ‘Well, I don’t have a printed pattern, if that’s what you mean. I just seem to know what I want to do next.’

  Alison noticed, as Ruby spoke, that there were cushions with tapestry covers on every chair; there was a firescreen pushed up against the wall which Ruby must have made as well.

  ‘You do it jolly quickly,’ she said.

  Ruby smiled. ‘Years of practice in dressing rooms here and there. I used to do it to keep myself busy while I was waiting to do a change of costume, or when a dress rehearsal went on into the night. They do that quite often.’