‘The Royal Ballet School?’
The way Mrs French said it, Nicola was pleased to note, she made it sound as if Rose were asking to have tea with the Queen. She couldn’t have made it clearer that in her opinion Rose didn’t stand a chance. A warm glow of satisfaction slowly spread itself through Nicola’s body. So much for Rose. Maybe she wasn’t so wonderful, after all.
‘It’s an extremely difficult place to get into, you know.’
‘I know,’ said Rose. She sounded complacent: if anyone could get in there, she should be able to.
‘Did you know that out of every four hundred applicants only about thirty are chosen? And at least ten of those will be boys?’
Rose made a little pouting motion with her lips.
‘She has been dancing a long time,’ said Mrs Bruce. ‘Ever since she was four years old. She’s had a lot of experience.’
‘Ah, but it’s not just a question of experience, Mrs Bruce –’
‘You need gold medals.’ Nicola couldn’t help it: she had to say it. ‘You need gold medals, don’t you?’
‘Well, no, as a matter of fact, you don’t! You not only don’t need gold medals, you don’t even need to have done a step of ballet in your life. In fact, sometimes they prefer it if people haven’t because it means they won’t have been able to develop any bad habits.’
‘I’m sure Rose hasn’t developed any bad habits,’ said Mrs Bruce.
‘Well, no, it’s quite possible that she hasn’t. I’m just pointing out that a totally inexperienced girl stands every bit as much chance of getting in as one who’s been doing it since she was a baby . . . Nicola, for example.’ Mrs French paused. ‘She’d stand just as much chance as Rose.’
Rose didn’t like that. Nicola could see that she didn’t. Mrs Bruce, quite plainly, didn’t believe it.
‘Surely,’ she said, ‘there has to be natural talent?’
‘Oh, yes! Yes, that’s the very thing they’re looking for – that plus the right physique. Lots of girls are turned down simply because they don’t meet the physical requirements. It doesn’t mean they can’t still go on to be dancers. There’s no reason on earth why Rose shouldn’t have a go, if she wants. I’m just warning her not to be disappointed, that’s all.’
‘Perhaps if she were to take a few classes with you first –’
‘I’m afraid that wouldn’t be possible, Mrs Bruce. You see, I don’t teach full time – I only take a very few selected pupils. Usually girls who are already in the profession. I very very rarely work with the younger ones. Only in the most exceptional cases.’
Mrs Bruce bristled slightly: she was accustomed to think of Rose as being exceptional.
‘You know what I feel?’ said Mrs French. ‘I feel that Rose is far too much of an all-round performer to tie herself down to just one branch of show business. Especially ballet, which is so restricting. Where does she have classes at the moment?’
‘She goes to Madam Paula’s. It’s where she’s always gone.’
‘Then I think that’s exactly where she ought to keep on going. It’ll not only give her a good general grounding as a dancer, it’ll provide her with the opportunity to develop any other talents she may have, as well. Who knows? She might have potential as an actress, or a singer –’
‘Oh, she has.’ Mrs Bruce nodded. ‘Madam Paula’s already told us. In fact, she’s going up to London for an audition later this month. It’s for Little Women – The March Girls, they’re calling it. We’re hoping she might stand a chance as Amy.’
‘I’m sure she’d make a lovely Amy.’ Mrs French smiled. Rose smiled back, uncertainly. Nicola could tell that she was trying to make up her mind whether the thought of making a lovely Amy was sufficient compensation for not being considered exceptional enough to have classes with Mrs French.
‘Even if she doesn’t get one of the leads,’ said Mrs Bruce, ‘I keep telling her, there’s bound to be lots of other parts.’
‘Well, of course.’
‘I always think it’s worth trying. It’ll stand her in good stead later, when she’s doing it for real.’
‘Yes, indeed. I’m all for people having a go.’
There was a silence. Nicola looked down again at the pile of books. She didn’t know why, but she had the feeling Mrs French wasn’t really very interested in Rose. It was odd, because people usually were. You’d have thought, being a dancer, that Mrs French would be.
‘Anyway –’ Mrs Bruce cleared her throat. ‘The thing we really came about was this part that Rose is doing for you. Nicola said something about you wanting her to take over. I told her, it’s ridiculous, at this late stage. She must have got it wrong.’
‘She hasn’t got it wrong, Mrs Bruce. I did ask her if she’d like to, but only because we have something else in mind for Rose – we do definitely still want Rose. Did Nicola not tell you?’
‘Yes!’ Nicola’s head jerked up, indignantly. ‘I did tell her! I told her you wanted Rose for the youngest sister.’
‘That’s right,’ Mrs French nodded. ‘We decided that what we’d like was a Good Little Girl to go with the Good Little Boy – Rose struck us as being the very person. As you say, it is rather late to be changing things round, but Nicola already seemed to know most of the Bad Little Girl’s part, and I have every confidence in Rose being able to pick things up just as quickly as if she were a pro – which, indeed, she practically is! Certainly she will be if she gets into the West End.’
Mrs Bruce looked round, doubtfully, at Rose.
‘The only thing is, she seems to think it’s not a proper part.’
‘Oh, but it is! I assure you . . . we’re writing it in specially.’
Rose, burying her head in her mother’s shoulder, made some utterance that only Mrs Bruce could hear. Mrs Bruce patted her hand, consolingly.
‘I’m sure Mrs French will do what she can. You must remember, though . . . it’s not always the largest parts that are the best parts. Not by any manner of means. Isn’t that so?’ She appealed to Mrs French, who said, ‘Any professional will tell you, Rose . . . a part’s what you make it.’
‘Not if it’s not a real one.’ The words came out, muffled, from Rose’s buried head. ‘Not if it’s just a pretend one.’
‘But it’s not a pretend one! Mrs French has already told you . . . she’s writing it in specially.’
‘I don’t want it! I want the other one – the one I had before!’
Mrs Bruce looked up; half apologetic, half accusing.
‘It is very upsetting for a child, to have something that’s been given her suddenly taken away.’
‘Yes, I do realize that, Mrs Bruce. That’s why I’ve made sure she’s being offered something else.’
‘I don’t want something else!’
‘Not even if it’s something that’s far better suited to you? Just think! No more horrible mice!’
‘She’s worked very hard at that mouse,’ said Mrs Bruce.
‘Yes,’ Mrs French sighed. ‘We really do appreciate all the work she’s put in. That’s why we don’t want to lose her. But you do know, don’t you, Rose –’ leaving her perch on the arm of the chair, Mrs French sank down, gracefully, on to her heels beside the still sniffling Rose ‘– you do know that if you’re going to go into the profession you’ll have to be prepared to take some pretty hard knocks? It won’t do you any good just sitting down and crying – you have to learn to take the rough with the smooth. Things don’t always work out just the way we’d like them to. Suppose, for instance, you were offered the part of Amy, and then suddenly the director decided that the girl playing Beth would be better as Amy, and that you’d be better as Beth –’
‘I wouldn’t mind playing Beth! Beth’s a real part.’
‘But so is the Youngest Sister . . . I promise you! You’ll have plenty of things to do.’
‘I don’t want to play the Youngest Sister! I want to be the Bad Little Girl!’
Mrs French sat back on her heels. Mrs Bruc
e looked at her, challengingly, as if to say, ‘Well? And what now?’ Rose just sat there, weeping. Nicola regarded her sister with contempt. All this fuss over a mere part.
‘Dear oh dear!’ Mrs French shook her head. ‘The last thing I wanted to do was cause any unhappiness. I’d hoped I’d managed to find a satisfactory solution . . . now what do we do? I can’t very well ask Nicola to play the Youngest Sister, can I?’
There was a silence, broken only by Rose’s snuffles. Nicola could guess what she was thinking. She was thinking that as far as she was concerned there wasn’t any reason why Nicola should be asked to play anything at all. Mrs Bruce was probably thinking exactly the same thing.
‘I suppose –’ Mrs French spoke pleadingly to Rose ‘– I suppose you couldn’t possibly think of the production as a whole? How much better it would be if we had a really bad Bad Little Girl and a really good Good Little Sister?’
Rose buttoned her lip.
‘No.’ Mrs French pulled a rueful face. ‘I suppose not. I should have stuck to my guns right at the beginning – it’s my own fault. I just didn’t want to cause any ructions in the family. Now it looks as though I’ve caused one anyway.’ With an air of somewhat weary resignation, she rose to her feet. ‘I honestly don’t know what to say, Mrs Bruce. I’ve offered Rose another part; what more can I do? I can only repeat that we should be extremely sorry to lose her – and that the part is a real part, if she cares to make it one. It’s entirely up to her. If she’s as professional as I think she is . . .’
There was a silence, while everybody looked at Rose, and Rose looked at the carpet.
‘I’ll tell you what.’ Mrs French crossed to the door. ‘I’ll go and make us all a cup of coffee, while Rose sits here and has a think. I’m sure when she’s done so she’ll realize that things aren’t anywhere near as bad as they seem. It’s simply a question of changing one part for another. Nothing so very catastrophic.’ She held open the door, looking at Nicola as she did so. ‘Coming?’
Nicola jumped up, gladly: she was only too pleased to escape. She followed Mrs French down a passage and into a large, Aladdin’s cave of a kitchen, with stone flags on the floor and a sink the size of a bath tub, with two of the most enormous taps she had ever seen. In the middle of the flags stood a wooden table about ninety feet long – well, say fifty feet long – at any rate, a great deal longer than the table in Mrs Bruce’s kitchen. This table wouldn’t even fit into Mrs Bruce’s kitchen. Mrs French pressed a switch attached to something which looked like a large Thermos flask.
‘Tell me –’ she began unhooking mugs from a row of hooks on the wall ‘– does Rose always get whatever she wants?’
‘Yes,’ said Nicola. ‘Usually.’
‘What about you? Do you?’
‘Well –’ She considered the question, trying to be fair. ‘Sometimes.’
‘Haven’t you ever wanted to learn dancing, as Rose does?’
Nicola frowned, and ran a finger along the edge of the table. Once, ages ago – ages and ages ago – she had thought that perhaps she might. She had mentioned it one Christmas, when her grandparents had been there. Her grandfather, teasing, had said, ‘What! A great lanky beanpole like you?’ Her grandmother, trying to be kind, had told her to ‘Come on, then! Show us what you can do’; but when she had, they had all laughed at her. Rose had laughed louder than anyone. Mr Bruce, afterwards, feeling sorry for her, had pulled her on to his knee for a cuddle and said, ‘She might not be any good at waving her legs in the air, but she makes a smashing centre-forward – don’t you, me old Nickers?’ She’d given up the idea of dancing classes after that. Dancing was stupid, anyhow. She’d far rather play football.
‘No?’ Mrs French was looking at her. Nicola hunched a shoulder. ‘What made them send Rose for lessons?’
‘Don’t remember. ‘Spect they thought she’d be good at it.’
‘And they didn’t think you would be?’
‘S’pose not.’
‘Do you think you would be?’
‘Don’t know.’
‘Well, let’s have a try,’ said Mrs French. She suddenly left her coffee mugs and advanced upon Nicola round the table. ‘How old are you?’
‘Eleven,’ said Nicola.
‘Eleven and how much?’
‘Eleven and two months.’
‘Right. So let’s see what you’re like on flexibility . . . if I support you, how far back can you bend?’
Nicola didn’t need support – she could bend as far back as anyone wanted her to. She could go right over and touch the floor. But that wasn’t dancing, that was gymnastics. She was quite good at gymnastics. She could turn somersaults and do the splits and walk on her hands, and all sorts of things.
‘What about frog’s legs?’ said Mrs French. ‘Stretch out on the – no, wait! It’ll be cold. Lie on this –’ she snatched a coat off a peg and spread it out. ‘Lie on your back, as flat as you can . . . that’s it. Now, put the soles of your feet together and bend your legs outwards as far as they’ll go, making sure your knees are touching the floor . . . that’s not bad at all! Quite a lot of natural turn out. What are your feet like?’
‘Just feet,’ said Nicola, bewildered. Even Rose didn’t have special sort of feet. At least, she didn’t think she had. She was sure her mother would have mentioned it if she had.
Mrs French laughed.
‘Don’t look so worried. I’m not looking for extra toes – though if the first three did happen by any chance to be more or less the same length, it would be a distinct advantage. Makes pointe work far easier. Let’s have a look. Come on! Up on the table and get your socks off . . . mm, well, two the same length. Good high arches. Any trouble with your ankles?’
Nicola shook her head. This was all very strange. She was sure Madam Paula had never made Rose sit on a table and take her socks off.
The door opened and the curly black head that belonged to Mr French peered round. At the sight of Nicola, bare-footed amongst the coffee mugs, he groaned and said, ‘Why is it one can never get away from feet in this house?’
‘Because feet are important.’ Mrs French handed Nicola her socks back. ‘I’m glad to say that Nicola’s passed the test with flying colours.’
‘Bully for Nicola . . . can I scrounge a coffee?’
‘Oh, God, I forgot about it!’ Mrs French flew back across the room to the Thermos flask. ‘Nicola, I didn’t ask you . . . do you drink coffee, or would you rather have milk?’
‘Rose has milk,’ said Nicola.
‘How about you?’
‘I don’t mind what I have.’
‘Spoken bravely,’ said Mr French.
They went back to the front room to find Rose still red-faced and tearful but at least no longer weeping.
‘I’ve been telling her,’ said Mrs Bruce. ‘She’s still got her audition to look forward to. She might well get something from that.’
‘Indeed she might,’ said Mrs French. ‘And then think how grand she’d be . . . we’d have to count ourselves lucky if she even passed the time of day with us!’
Rose puckered her lips, to indicate that she knew very well she was only being humoured. She didn’t join in any of the conversation which followed, but kept her head bent over her mug of warm milk, not even looking up when Nicola, rather shyly, asked Mrs French what it had been like to be a soloist with the Royal Ballet. Mrs French shook her head.
‘I’m afraid I was only a very minor soloist . . . I never aspired to the Lilac Fairy or Queen of the Wilis, or anything like that. Peasant pas-de-deux from Giselle was about as far as I ever got. I wasn’t really the right physical type. My thighs were always too fat, and my knees were too knobbly.’
‘I can hardly believe that,’ protested Mrs Bruce.
‘Oh, I promise you, it’s quite true . . . they may not look particularly fat or knobbly just at this moment, but put them under a tutu and you’d soon see what I mean! One really needs legs like Nicola’s – nice and long and straight.’
Nicola had never given much thought to her legs. She knew that they were long, because her mother always said she would make a good wading bird, and sometimes she’d heard people describe her as gangling. She hadn’t known that they were nice and long – or that they were straight. She glanced at them, now, surreptitiously, as they hung down over the edge of the chair. They just looked like ordinary legs to her. Her mother also glanced at them, not quite so surreptitiously.
‘Nicola’s legs are too thin,’ she said. ‘Make her look like a crane.’
‘Well, it’s better than looking like a female hammer thrower . . . female hammer throwers don’t get anywhere; not in ballet. Cranes sometimes do.’
Mrs Bruce didn’t say anything to that. There was a pause, then she leaned forward to place her mug back on the tray.
‘Come along, you two. It’s time we were off.’ She took Rose’s half-empty mug away from her. ‘We’ve imposed on Mrs French quite long enough.’
‘You haven’t imposed at all,’ said Mrs French. ‘I’m glad that you came. I just hope we see both Nicola and Rose at our next rehearsal – oh, and by the way, you may be getting a call from our wardrobe mistress some time during the week. She wants to come round and measure up for costumes. I gave her your number. I hope that was all right?’
‘Of course. Though whether they’ll both – well! We shall have to see. Nicola, if you’re taking that book, you make sure you look after it.’
They walked back up the road in silence, Mrs Bruce in the lead, Nicola, clutching her book and thinking about her legs (nice and long . . . and straight) a few paces behind, and Rose, who usually skipped and hopped and danced about, morosely dragging her feet in the rear. As they reached the house, Mrs Bruce, holding the gate, said, ‘Well?’ It seemed to be directed at Nicola. It couldn’t really be directed at anyone else – Rose was still trailing, several yards behind. Nicola looked at her mother, warily.
‘What?’
‘You’re determined not to let Rose have her part back again?’
‘It’s not her part.’ Jealously, she hugged Theatre Street to her chest. Mrs French had lent it to her, just as she’d given the part of the Bad Little Girl to her. ‘It’s my part.’
Darcey Bussell Favourite Ballet Stories Page 4