Lament

by Stewart, Lynsey M.

  ‘I look forward to seeing you again, Mr Blayren,’ I replied as I crossed my feet in full ballet pose and bowed before him. I resisted the urge to smirk. ‘Always such a pleasure.’

  ‘Your class is waiting,’ he said, a hard edge to his voice. Pushing his buttons was going to be interesting because it seemed to be something I could do easily.

  ‘Step one in how to teach a dance class, be in class to teach.’ I couldn’t resist going back at him with a sarcastic reply. I knew it was only because I’d seen under his sharp notches and witnessed the softer, vulnerable Alexander as he played cello at the Barbican. If I hadn’t, it was quite possible that he would have terrified me. But he didn’t. He only intrigued.

  ‘Off you go,’ he said, shooing with his hands and following as I backed towards the door.

  ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘I’m watching, Miss Bevan. I’d like to see the evidence of your teaching skills for myself.’

  ‘No,’ I replied sharply. ‘Absolutely not! This is my first class.’

  ‘I thought you had a wealth of experience?’

  ‘My first class here,’ I gasped in a mixture of shock and delirium.

  ‘They’re still waiting,’ he replied, nodding to the door.

  I pushed back my shoulders as he followed behind me, positioning himself on a bench at the back of the classroom, a steely look making him appear even sterner.

  ‘You’re frightening the children,’ I whisper-shouted.

  He laughed, like he’d lost himself for a second, before clearing his throat. ‘Students, as Miss Bevan is your new dance teacher, you’d like to see her in action first, isn’t that right?’ A loud chorus of yes bellowed around the room. He sat back, his head against the mirror as he crossed his legs. One word could describe his pose. Cocksure.

  ‘I can’t believe you,’ I said, shaking my head.

  ‘Dance for me,’ he replied, a small smile tugging at his lips.

  ‘Why should I?’ I replied, arching my eyebrow.

  ‘You’ve seen me play, Miss Bevan, it’s time I saw you dance. Indulge me,’ he said, tipping his head to the side. ‘Please.’

  I gasped out a small breath, unsure why I liked the prospect of dancing just for him so much. Did I want to prove my worth, gain his acceptance? Or was this something different entirely? Something more? Intrigue? Arousal? Why was I enjoying this so much? The students of my class fell away into background noise as I imagined his eyes on my body. I didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of showing him how affected I was, so I went over to the sound system and chose some music.

  ‘Ladies, copy my pose, please.’

  I nailed a plié. Hardly taxing, but I’d planned to start my class with the five basic ballet steps to get a feel for the students’ talents and didn’t plan on changing my lesson structure just because I wanted to dance for him. Just for him.

  The piece from Romeo and Juliet started to play. Act one. Madrigal. A lighter composition. Thank goodness.

  Closing my eyes, I arched my arms behind my head and let the music take me away. Precision and grace were fundamental to ballet, intricate flowing patterns through your arms, your feet, and body created an expression through movement. A retelling of a story alongside the music. I was lost and free-falling, letting the piece guide me, and as the music became faster, more stirring, I followed the pace, letting the orchestra guide my actions.

  A quieter interlude brought me back into the room, finishing with a twirl on pointe, a bow to my cheering audience. As I looked up, expecting to meet his stormy eyes, I watched, my disappointment raging as Alexander stood…and left the room.

  ‘Warm up, class,’ I said as I followed, catching him in the corridor just before he left. ‘Leaving so soon?’ I was gasping now, a potent mix of adrenaline and arousal that I didn’t know what to do with. Alexander nodded curtly, his eyes lingering on my hand against my chest as I tried to calm my breathing. ‘Did I pass your stringent test?’ He dropped his eyes to the floor, unable to keep the contact. I’d never felt a moment so deeply. Was he embarrassed? Angry? Or was he offering his appreciation? A silence stretched between us, doubling in size and weight, and I feared I wouldn’t be able to take another breath unless he answered me. ‘Say something.’

  ‘You come alive when you dance,’ he replied softly. His eyes landed on my feet before lifting to my waist, my upper body and finally my face. I couldn’t explain why the hard look and chance glances felt like a soft caress across my body. The same glance that left a trail of sparks and tingles where I imagined I’d like his fingertips to be. I pressed my fingers to my neck, still surprising myself when I no longer felt the long strands of hair there. His eyes flicked to my hand, curved around the contours of my jawbone underneath my ear. The sensitive spot. One of the places I liked to be kissed. Why was I thinking this way?

  My shoulders jumped as the door slammed behind him, taking my senses with him.

  Music affected me. Always had. But why was I starting to feel the same way about Alexander Blayren?

  I walked back to the dance room where countless sets of eyes were pressed on me.

  I didn’t have time to think about his comment, couldn’t calm my thoughts to understand his reaction.

  ‘Shall we have a more appropriate introduction?’ I said, taking a deep breath. ‘Welcome, class. My name is Miss Bevan and I will be your new dance teacher.’

  Elise was leaning against the barre, a finger in her mouth. Nerves radiating. I caught her eyes and waved her over. ‘I’m so glad you’re here. We can have our first day together. I’m sure a friendly face will make both of us feel less nervous.’

  ‘My belly feels wiggly.’

  ‘Mine too.’ I smiled. ‘Can I ask you a question? You need to give me an answer that’s right for you. No one else, OK?’

  ‘I’ll try.’

  ‘What would you like to be known as at On Pointe, Eli or Elise?’

  She smiled brightly. ‘Eli,’ she replied. ‘My mum used to call me Eli.’

  My stomach dropped. The noise of the room turning into a mumbled echo.

  I nodded softly as I started to understand, held onto the barre to pull myself up and hold my body steady.

  Her words started repeating back at me in an upsetting loop.

  My mum used to call me Eli.

  Images flashed of her kissing the letter and posting it at the Grieving Tree. Those images were joined by a clear replay of Alexander informing me that Nadia wasn’t Eli’s mother.

  Suddenly, it all made terrible sense.

  ‘Have you lost your mummy?’ I whispered, clutching my chest, needing to hold onto my heartbeat.

  ‘She died.’ She nodded. ‘I hate cancer.’

  Alexander, I knew you were hurting. I just knew.

  ‘I’m so sorry, sweetheart,’ I replied, stroking my hand down her face. ‘I lost my mummy too. And my sister. I know how hard it is.’

  ‘You did?’ she asked, her brown eyes widening.

  ‘Do you know what helped me feel better?’ I said, crouching down. The more experienced members of the class were stretching out at the barre, the newer students following their lead. ‘Dancing. I loved it. It made me feel so free. Free from feeling sad. Free from crying. Free from missing them.’

  ‘I want to learn how to dance,’ Eli replied, holding onto my hands.

  ‘Miss Bevan? Can we start now?’ an older student asked from the front of the class.

  ‘Are you ready?’ I looked down at Eli. She nodded and joined the rest of the students at the barre. ‘Listen to my instructions and feel the music.’

  I took a deep breath, pushed my shoulders back. ‘Class of 2019. Shall we begin?’

  A feeling of empowerment settled through me as fifteen students snapped into first position. Heels together. Toes out.

  It was the first time I let myself believe that I had a unique opportunity to change lives in a magical, meaningful way. I ran my gaze down the line-up of fifteen beautiful girls, each on
e with their own personality, temperament and story to tell. I moved down the line, adjusting arms, moving legs, wondering about all of them. As I took in their poised poses, I hoped their lives would be touched by dance outside the classroom, as equally as it could be from within it.

  6

  Alex

  ‘Nadia, could you collect Elise from her dance class later?’ I found her working at the table in the living room, stretched over a stack of papers in concentration. I hated to disturb her, but I couldn’t go back to On Pointe. I needed time to process the feelings she evoked in me, the ones I didn’t recognise anymore.

  Elise had talked constantly about the dance teacher ‘Nat’ whom she found at the Grieving Tree. I didn’t let myself believe that it could be the same beautiful woman I’d met at the train station. The woman who danced out her feelings. A woman who had loved and lost. Her story, the intimate details of grief, I wasn’t sure of, but watching her dance, seeing her get taken away – I couldn’t deny that it had a supreme effect on me. Her dancing was an outpouring of grief. A way for her to make peace with the chaos in her head. Her face slipped into a serenity I didn’t recognise, hadn’t seen in my world for years. A transcendence from the darkness into a sheet of light so dazzling – it brought me to my knees.

  But why?

  ‘Yes, of course,’ Nadia replied as she looked up, ‘but while you’re here, I need you to sign this.’ She stood from her chair and held up a paper and a pen.

  ‘Can it wait?’

  ‘No, we’re on a tight deadline,’ she replied, following alongside me as I scrawled my signature on the move. ‘Why the rush?’

  ‘I’m going to play.’ I needed to. Needed to let out the rush of emotion that had built at the bottom of my spine and was now climbing every column of my vertebrae.

  ‘I believe your daughter would understand the idea of transference. The ability to express thoughts and feelings through dance.’

  The words she spoke tonight were circling around my head, interspersed with images I was trying to ignore of her dancing. Could Elise really benefit on a deeper level from dance classes? Could it be an outlet for her grief? She had shown an interest in music from an early age, would stop crying when we sang to her as a baby, would bang toy instruments before she could walk. She asked if she could attend ballet classes after watching a children’s version of Swan Lake. She picked it up purely on sight, mimicking the moves, mastering a plié with ease and enjoyment. Could this really help her make sense of her feelings? Heal her? Give her something to look forward to, an enjoyment of life without fear of upsetting her grieving father?

  I wanted that for her more than I wanted my next breath.

  ‘Nadia, have you heard of transference?’ I asked as we reached my office. My cello was leaning against the wall. I pressed my fingers to it, trying to level myself. Calm the tension through my bones.

  ‘Transference? In what context?’

  ‘The transference of thoughts and feelings through…something…music…or dance.’

  ‘It makes sense,’ she replied, shrugging. ‘Why?’

  ‘The dance teacher mentioned it tonight. She said it could be something Elise would benefit from.’

  She folded her arms. ‘Come to think of it, she mentioned something similar yesterday.’

  ‘What did she say?’

  ‘She said dancing helped her make sense of her feelings.’ She shrugged. ‘Wanted to give advice on how we could help Elise cope with her grief.’

  I rubbed my hands over my face, remembering conversations, trying to tie down my natural defense mechanism of going from cold water to bubbling point in mere seconds when it came to my daughter and what people thought was best for her. Natasha Bevan had offered an unwanted mixture of parenting advice and a touch of bereavement counselling all tied up in the delight of watching her theories in action as she danced. The woman was infuriatingly intriguing. A roller coaster of turbulence in my world, knocking me over, tipping me on my side. I was in a battle of blind rage that the woman had dared to offer me unsolicited bereavement advice, but in unabashed awe at her ability to channel her grief through an art form so exquisite she enraptured the cynical man who sat before her.

  ‘Do you think it could help?’ I asked, picking up the bow and taking a deep breath.

  ‘I don’t know,’ Nadia replied. ‘She’s wanted to go to a ballet class for so long. If she happens to get something else from it, well, isn’t that a good thing?’

  ‘We’ll see,’ I mumbled, sitting down with the cello against my chest, breathing in and breathing out to feel the pressure of the wood on my body. The first notes played out without my knowledge. My hands were doing the work. My head was light, and for the first time in what seemed like forever, I didn’t concentrate on the perfection of the piece, I let my thoughts take over, a transcendence of my own feelings because I wanted to feel the benefits, just as Natasha had.

  A recognition cascaded over me. Had I been using transference through my music? I knew I could channel my grief through my cello, play it out, have it hanging across my bent shoulders. But to overcome the power of grief, let it out so openly, a healing therapy through dance or music – that was real power.

  ‘Daddy, are you in there?’

  Elise’s voice came from the door, thrusting me back into reality.

  How long have I been sitting here? How much time has passed by?

  ‘Elise? Hold on.’ I put the cello back against the wall, looking at the clock. Nadia must have brought Elise home. I stretched out my hand, the ache smarting before swinging the door open, careful to close it behind me. She bounced forward, all bright smiles and magic wonder. ‘Did you enjoy your lesson?’

  ‘I loved it!’ she replied, grabbing my face in her hands. ‘Did you see Nat dance, Daddy?’

  ‘Yes.’ I saw.

  ‘I want to dance just like her! She’s lost her mummy too. She dances to make her feelings less…jumbly.’

  I saw.

  ‘She told you she’s lost her mummy?’

  That’s why she dances so beautifully.

  ‘Her mummy and her sister.’

  Christ, a double loss. A double heap of feelings to make sense of.

  ‘That’s very sad,’ I murmured.

  How long had I been playing? An hour? Two?

  ‘Daddy!’ Elise cried out. I immediately turned to her, crouching down on parental instinct, watching as she frantically touched the top of her head. ‘My crown! Oh, no! I’ve lost my crown!’

  ‘Don’t worry. We can get another one,’ I replied, my bones suddenly weary.

  ‘Where is it, Daddy?’

  ‘I would guess that you’ve lost it in class.’

  ‘What’s wrong?’ Nadia peered through from the kitchen and Elise ran to her, wrapping her arms around her waist.

  ‘My crown, Aunty Nads!’

  ‘Could you go back to On Pointe and see if they’ve found it?’ Nadia asked.

  ‘No! Absolutely not.’ I can’t go back there.

  ‘Daddy,’ Elise cried, poking her tear-streaked face from Nadia’s hip. That face. Melted me every time.

  ‘Can you go?’ I asked Nadia hopefully.

  ‘I can’t. I’m getting the train, remember? The meeting I’m attending on your behalf is tomorrow morning. We agreed I’d stay the night in London.’

  ‘Yes, sorry. I forgot,’ I said, sighing, knowing that I had no other option. ‘I’ll go back.’

  ‘Thank you, Daddy!’

  ‘Maggie’s around. She can make your supper, but it’s bedtime when I get back, OK?’

  The thought of going back there, of seeing Natasha was unnerving. A temptation I couldn’t process. She was dancing in my mind. Twirling through my thoughts and I couldn’t pin down why. Was it because she seemed to get grief? Did she have it under control rather than grief controlling her? I wanted that for Elise. I wanted her to be open and expressive, not cold and reserved like me. This woman could give her the skills to make sense of her feelings, a
gift so precious, so much more valuable than bereavement counselling or years of therapy could ever be.

  Natasha Bevan.

  Was she sinner or saint?

  Don’t let your mind go there.

  I shook my head, tried to loosen the thoughts so they would creep away. Could she become a burning ember in the fire of temptation? One so hot she couldn’t be held in my hands comfortably, spiking a tampered desire that I wouldn’t know what to do with because it had been so long?

  Aside from my physical attraction to her, she was compelling and curious, refreshing even.

  Reviving.

  Christ, I wasn’t in control of my actions, could feel the constraints of myself I’d held together tightly start to unfurl. I needed to keep my distance, throw out the cold barbs of my words, pull up the drawbridge and lock the heavy doors.

  Yes, I could admire her.

  But only from a distance.

  7

  Nat

  ‘Tell me about Elise,’ my grandmother said as I started putting away my things after class.

  ‘She wants to be known as Eli,’ I replied, wrapping the ribbons to secure my ballet shoes together.

  ‘Ah. But her father prefers her to be known as Elise.’

  I turned to her. ‘Did you hear our conversation?’

  ‘I was in the office, Nat, I couldn’t help but hear.’

  ‘How long were you listening?’

  ‘Not long…enough to hear you defend yourself.’ She smiled. ‘Enough to know you’re calling her by the wrong name.’

  ‘No, Grandma. That’s the thing. Eli prefers her shortened name. Her mother called her Eli. It’s important that we honour that.’

  I heard the slow thuds of her walking stick across the wooden floor.

  ‘Sit down, sweetheart. I think we need to talk.’ She pointed her stick in the direction of the table in the corner and I pulled two chairs out from underneath. She dropped down, the wood creaking loudly, and blew out a heavy breath. ‘Little Eli has lost her mum?’ I nodded. ‘And you invited her to join On Pointe?’