by Jean Ure
“I should certainly hope you won’t be totally uninspired!”
“But I don’t know how long she wants it to be! I don’t even have any music! I—”
“So find some,” snapped Mum “Heaven knows your dad has a large enough collection. And stop pulling the furniture to pieces!”
I said, “Sorry! But honestly I can’t see there’s any point in having a dance interlude.”
“Why not?” said Mum. “If that’s what Miss Lucas wants … It’s her show. And you are a dancer, so why not make use of you?”
“But Mum, she wants me to be a fairy!” I said.
“So? What’s wrong with that? I’ll have you know,” said Mum, “that the Lilac Fairy was one of my very first solo roles!”
I said, “That’s different. That’s in Sleeping Beauty. That’s a classic! This is just soppy.”
“It doesn’t have to be,” said Mum. “You’re the one doing the choreography; it’s up to you. You can’t have it both ways! You complain when you’re asked to do it yourself and you complain when Miss Lucas does it for you. All that fuss last year at having to do that pathetic little dance she’d made up!”
I said, “Yes, cos it was tacky. You said so.”
“Well, all right, it was. But Miss Lucas is not a professional dancer: you are. Or at least you’re aiming to be. I would expect you to do a bit better than Miss Lucas. This is an opportunity, Maddy! Make the most of it. You could start by finding some suitable music. That’s always your dad’s way in. Find the music and let it inspire you.”
I heaved a sigh. I had so wanted, this one time, to have a proper speaking part! Just to show what I could do. Everybody knew I could dance. I wanted to show them I could act as well!
“Music!” said Mum.
I said, “Yes. All right.”
I supposed it would have to be something slow and mournful. I would obviously have to waft about the stage looking pathetic, with lyrical arm movements and maybe the occasional arabesque. Nothing in the least bit exciting. Certainly no fouettés or pirouettes. Just boring adage. Slow, slow, slow. Exactly what I am least good at!
I went through Dad’s music collection and found some slow, sad music and waited for it to inspire me. But it didn’t! There are some dancers who are just naturally gifted at adage. They have beautiful lines and what Mum calls “poise and serenity”. Then there are others – like me – who shine at allegro. We leap, we spin, we turn, we dazzle. But how could a broken-down fairy do any of that?
And then, as I sat on the floor, brooding over the slow, sad music and waiting for inspiration, I remembered something Miss Lucas had said. She’d remember the old days, when she was young … She might even do a few steps, trying to recapture the magic of her youth.
Yesss! I sprang up, suddenly excited. That would be my way in! The fairy leaping and spinning, just as she had when she was young. Now I was inspired! All I had to do was find some music. Something fast and zingy. Of course it would only be a dream. An old, tired fairy wouldn’t really have the energy to perform fouettées and entrechats and grands jetés all over the place. But that was all right: she would be remembering. It would be a dream sequence. Dad had a dream sequence in one of his ballets; there wasn’t anything wrong with it. It wouldn’t be showing off. It wouldn’t be cheating. It would show the audience what the fairy had once been capable of. And, of course, to show them what I was capable of. Why not? I was the choreographer!
Now that I’d decided what to do I found myself fizzing with enthusiasm. I wondered if this was how Dad felt when he began working on a new ballet. It was exciting! Especially once I’d found the right music, all zippy and fast-moving, with sudden trumpet blasts and spiky rhythms. Mum was right: music was the starting point! My head was a whirl of steps and sequences; I just needed space to try them out.
I did consider asking Mum if I could borrow one of her studios, but then I thought maybe that wasn’t such a good idea. Mum would always be looking in on me to see how I was getting on and to offer advice. I didn’t want that! This was going to be my choreography, done entirely by me. So then I had the much better idea of asking Miss Lucas if I could use the gym.
She was delighted. I knew she would be!
“Maddy,” she said, “I’m so happy that you’re doing this! By all means use the gym. Do you want it before school or after?”
I said that it would have to be before cos of after-school lessons with Mum.
“But if I could come in really early in the morning? Like half past seven maybe?”
“No problem,” said Miss Lucas. “There’s always someone around. I’ll arrange it with Mrs Betts. Just remember to sign in at the Office so we know you’re here.”
Mum was quite impressed when I told her I’d need to be leaving an hour earlier every morning. She even said she’d give me a lift.
“I don’t mind getting to the studio a bit earlier. It’ll give me a chance to catch up with myself.”
School was very strange and deserted so early in the morning, though Mrs Betts was there, and some of the teachers. I could also see a group of Year Twelves practising on the netball court and hear the tinkling of someone having a piano lesson in one of the music rooms. I was already wearing my leotard and tights under my coat, so I went straight up to the gym with my shoes and a couple of CDs I’d brought with me. One of them was my lovely zingy music, the other was a CD Mum had put together for workouts. My plan was to work out for fifteen minutes then spend the rest of the time getting the jumble of steps out of my brain and into my feet. I was itching to try them out!
And then, as I reached the gym, I stopped. What was going on in there? I could hear what sounded like someone moving about. Not loud enough to be an actual noise: more like the sliding of feet on the gym floor, followed by a soft thunk.
I opened the door, very gently, and peered through. What I saw was such a shock that I almost let the door go thudding shut again. A small figure, dressed like me in leotard and tights, was dancing in the centre of the gym. It was Caitlyn!
She seemed to be attempting pirouettes, though not very successfully. Not very successfully at all. I could see at once what the problem was: she was so busy concentrating on the position of her arms and legs that she was forgetting to find a spot to fix her eyes on. You can’t do turns without spotting! Surely whoever her teacher was must have told her?
“’Scuse me!”
I’d gone racing into the gym before I could stop myself. I could see, afterwards, that it would have been more diplomatic to stay outside and clear my throat or rattle the door handle, to give her some warning. But I was just so surprised!
Caitlyn spun around, startled, as I burst in.
“Are you trying to practise pirouettes?” I said.
“No!” Her face immediately turned crimson. “It was just … just something I …”
What? Something she what? She didn’t stay long enough to say. Just gave a little gasp and scuttled for the door.
“I’m sorry! I know I shouldn’t be here!”
“You can be here!” I cried. But too late: she was already on her way out.
In her rush I saw that she’d left her outdoor shoes behind. I snatched them up and ran after her.
“Caitlyn!” I called out, over the banisters. She paused, and glanced up. “Here!” I tossed the shoes down to her. “You don’t have to go,” I said.
For a moment she hesitated, but then violently shook her head and scurried on her way.
Slowly I went back into the gym. I put on Mum’s CD and dutifully did my fifteen minutes of workout, but my brain was now buzzing with so many unanswered questions that I found it almost impossible to concentrate. Why was Caitlyn practising pirouettes in the gym? Why hadn’t she been taught how to spot when doing turns? Why, after all, did she persist in saying she didn’t do ballet when she quite obviously did?
All the rest of the day she kept away from me. At breaktime she stuck closely with the other two new girls: the tall one, Astrid, a
nd the tiny one, Ava. I didn’t want to barge in and start questioning her in front of other people. I’d already embarrassed her once, bulldozing my way into the gym. But I was just dying to get to the bottom of the mystery!
It wasn’t till going-home time that I managed to get her on her own. I could see Mum waiting in the car outside the school gates, but I could also see Caitlyn just ahead of me. I raced after her.
“Hey, Caitlyn!”
She half turned. For a minute I thought she was going to take off, but reluctantly she waited for me.
“I don’t mean to be nosy,” I said, “but do tell me who your teacher is!”
“I don’t have one.” She said it almost desperately, like, Please, please, just go away and leave me alone!
I don’t enjoy upsetting people. In spite of what Mum says, I am not insensitive – and, in any case, Mum is a fine one to talk – but how could I give up? Now? After what I had seen in the gym?
“Are you really saying you don’t have classes?” I stared at her, exasperated. Why was she still denying it? Could it be that she was embarrassed cos of everyone knowing that my mum was one of the best teachers around, while hers quite obviously wasn’t much good? Wasn’t any good, on the evidence of those pirouettes!
“Well, you don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to,” I said, “but I wish you’d stop pretending you don’t do ballet when anybody can see that you do!”
As I said that, I thought I saw her eyes light up, but still she didn’t say anything.
“Thing is,” I said, “whoever’s taught you pirouettes hasn’t done it at all well. Didn’t they tell you about spotting?”
“I know about spotting!” The words burst out of her. “I just can’t seem to do it.”
“It’s easy,” I said. “Honestly! Once you’ve been shown … it just takes a bit of practice. I could teach you!”
She bit her lip.
“I bet I could get you doing pirouettes in no time,” I said.
I could see that she was tempted.
“Do you want to check first with your teacher?” I was being generous. I didn’t reckon Caitlyn’s teacher, whoever she was, deserved to be consulted. “P’raps if you tell her who I am – not meaning to boast,” I said hurriedly, “but I do know what I’m doing! I’ve been having lessons with Mum since I was four years old. If we met up in the gym really early, like really early, like seven o’clock, maybe, cos we’d have to warm up first, then afterwards I have to work on something for Miss Lucas, but before that we could do pirouettes. I just need some time for Miss Lucas’s stuff. It’s for her Christmas show. She wants me to make up a dance interlude for her! You could always stay and help me if you wanted? Like telling me what you think, and everything? That would be really helpful!”
I wasn’t actually sure that it would be, though it’s true I do enjoy having an audience. But mostly I wanted to encourage her. Make her feel welcome. She was obviously still uncertain.
“If you don’t come,” I said, “it’s going to haunt me … you trying to do pirouettes and getting it all wrong. It hurts when you see someone who should be good at something being taught all wrong! Please, please, please let me show you how to do it properly!”
“All right.” She suddenly sounded excited. “If you think it’s really OK?”
“Why shouldn’t it be?”
“Well … me being in the gym. Won’t they mind?”
“Not if you’re with me,” I said. “I’ve got special permission. But don’t worry, I’ll ask Miss Lucas! I’ll tell her you’re helping. All we have to do is sign in every morning so they know we’re here.”
Out of the corner of my eye I could see that Liv had appeared and was coming over.
“OK,” I said. “Deal?”
Caitlyn nodded. “Deal!”
“I’ll see you tomorrow. Don’t be late!”
I still hadn’t solved the mystery but I was getting closer. I didn’t particularly want Liv charging in and ruining everything. She and Jordan had developed a real hate thing about Caitlyn.
“What are you doing?” Liv demanded, as I turned in again through the gates. “Why were you talking to that horrible, rude girl and why are you going back into school?”
“I need to find Miss Lucas,” I said. “And Caitlyn’s not actually rude and horrible.”
“Could’ve fooled me,” said Liv. “What d’you want Miss Lucas for?”
Like it was any business of hers! But when you’re friends with someone, when you’ve been friends for just about as long as you can remember, they seem to think they have a right to know every last detail of your life. I couldn’t blame Liv; she didn’t mean to pry. But I certainly wasn’t going to explain about Caitlyn and the disastrous pirouettes! That would be like a betrayal.
I said, “I just have to check it’s OK for me to come in early and use the gym. I need it to work on my choreography.”
“Oh, the dance you’re doing for the Christmas show! Can me and Jordan come and watch?”
“Not while I’m still working on it,” I said. “I can’t bear anyone to be around while I’m just trying things out.”
Miss Lucas was more than happy for Caitlyn to join me for my early-morning sessions, though I could see she was a bit surprised.
“I didn’t realise we had another little dancer, though come to think of it she certainly looks as if she could be one. I wonder if I ought to make up a little bit of dancing for her and one or two of the others? Perhaps at the end … just something simple. What do you think?”
I said, “I think it might be better if everybody came on and sang a carol maybe?”
I honestly did think it would be better than “a little bit of dancing” made up by Miss Lucas. She’s a very sweet person, but the only steps she really knows are skipping and hopping and doing little twirls. Fortunately she liked the idea of a carol. It would round things off, she said. It would also give her the chance to include lots of people who wouldn’t otherwise get to take part.
“I do like to open things up for as many as I can. Thank you for that suggestion, Maddy! It’s all coming together, isn’t it?”
By the time I got back to the gates, Mum was fretting and fuming. She’s a very impatient kind of person.
“Maddy,” she said, “where on earth have you been? I have a class starting in twenty minutes! You have a class starting in twenty minutes. What made you go rushing off like that?”
“Sorry,” I said. “I forgot something. Mum, did you see that girl I was talking to?”
“What girl? I saw you with Livi.”
“No, the one I was talking to before I went rushing off.”
I was hoping Mum would say, Oh, yes! The little dark-haired one who looks like a dancer. Even Miss Lucas had recognised that Caitlyn looked like a dancer. But not Mum! Mum just said, vaguely, that she hadn’t really noticed.
“Why, anyway?” she said. “Who is she?”
“She’s the one I was telling you about … the one who says she doesn’t do ballet but I now know that she obviously does.”
“Oh, that one,” said Mum, nosing the car out on to the main road. And then, before I could explain how I knew, “Will you just look at all that traffic! What in heaven’s name is the hold-up?”
I sighed. It really is very difficult to get Mum’s attention. She just sat there, fretting and fuming, and blaming me cos we were going to be late.
“It is so unprofessional! And what about those ports de bras?” She turned, accusingly, to look at me. “Have you done anything about them?”
I said, “Yes, I’ve been practising.”
“There’d better be some improvement. They were an absolute disgrace! There’s no point having twinkly feet if your arms are like sausages.”
Well, at least I had something. Twinkly feet! I could work on my arm movements, but there’s not so much you can do about feet. They either twinkle or they don’t. I wondered if Caitlyn’s would twinkle. I had this feeling she would be more of an adage per
son, with a beautiful line and a perfect arabesque – unless her rotten teacher had let her down as badly over that as she had with pirouettes. I really hoped she hadn’t! It would be such a waste of talent. Mum says there’s no greater crime than waste of talent, and it’s a well-known fact that bad habits are extremely difficult to put right. A poor teacher in your early years can be fatal. It can totally ruin someone.
I was a bit worried as I raced up the stairs to the gym next morning. Suppose Caitlyn had already been ruined? I might be raising her hopes for nothing, cos what would be the point of teaching her how to do pirouettes properly if everything else was wrong?
She was there, waiting for me, and I could see at once that she was anxious.
“It’s all right,” I said, sliding Mum’s CD into the CD player. “We’re just going to start with a bit of a warm-up … just a few pliés and battements, same as usual.”
She nodded, nervously. I was quite nervous myself, even though I am not at all a nervous sort of person. Too confident for my own good is what Mum says.
I felt like Mum that morning. I found myself watching Caitlyn with hawk-like eyes, ready to pounce on the least little thing. Relax those shoulders! Straighten that back! Watch those ankles!
I was determined to be ruthless, just like Mum. I know it can be painful; I’ve seen Mum reduce people to floods of tears. Not me, cos I am made of sterner stuff. But for people who aren’t too sure of themselves it can actually destroy them. Mum says this just goes to show they don’t have what it takes. She is probably right, but I felt that I’d bullied Caitlyn into letting me see what she could do and I would really hate destroying her.
Thank goodness I didn’t have to! Her shoulders were relaxed; her back was straight, her tummy flat, her bottom well tucked in. Best of all, her ankles didn’t show any tendency to roll. She seemed to have perfect turn-out. Always a good sign!
I said, “Right.” Very brisk, just like Mum. “Before I let you try any actual turns, I’m going to show you some exercises for focus. Eye focus. OK?”
She nodded, eagerly.