‘So you see,’ said Jodie, ‘you couldn’t have done it without me.’
‘No,’ said Hannah, ‘I couldn’t.’ And at once they were friends again.
‘You coming back to my house?’ asked Jodie.
‘I’ll have to tell my mum,’ said Hannah.
They found her surrounded by other parents all saying how well Hannah had danced. ‘I couldn’t believe it . . .’ she was telling them, ‘I mean, she’s always been so shy. When she was little, she used to hide behind chairs . . .’
‘You’re going to have to do something about your mum,’ said Jodie.
‘Yes,’ said Hannah, looking very determined. ‘She’s just told that story for the very last time!’
Boys Don’t Do Ballet – Do They?
by Vivian French
‘WHOOPS!’ JENNY STAGGERED as she pulled herself round the edge of the kitchen table on pointe. It didn’t matter that she was really only balancing on the rubber edges of her school shoes. Inside her head she was pirouetting round and round a darkened stage with one silvery spotlight shining down on her gleaming dark hair . . .
‘Jenny!’ Jenny’s mum was standing in the kitchen doorway. ‘How many times do I have to tell you not to do that to your shoes? You’ll ruin them!’
Jenny gave her mum a guilty grin. ‘Sorry,’ she said, and hopped into first position.
‘Heels together . . . feet in a line. Look, Mum! Madam Anna says I have a wonderful turn out!’
‘Madam Anna also says that you’re still much too young to go on pointe,’ Mum said.
Jenny made a face. ‘I’m not much too young.’
‘H’mph.’ Mum opened a drawer and slung a handful of knives and forks on the table. ‘Here – dance about and lay for four for supper.’
‘Four? Who’s coming?’ Usually it was only Jenny and her mum.
Mum handed Jenny the salt and pepper. ‘Another ballet fan,’ she said. ‘I was hanging out the washing and I got talking to the new people next door. Mrs Davis told me that her youngest child – Christy, I think she said – really loves ballet. I said you went to Madam Anna’s classes, and it ended up with me asking them in for supper.’
‘How old is she?’ Jenny asked. ‘Has she done classes before? She could come with me. I’d look after her – I can show her all the positions. Madam Anna says I’m very good at looking after the little ones. I always tie their ribbons for them.’
‘I don’t think you’ll need to do that for Christy,’ Mum said. ‘He’s a boy.’
Jenny stared at her mum.
‘A boy? But boys don’t do ballet!’
‘Of course they do,’ Mum said. ‘What about Fritz in The Nutcracker? And Romeo? And –’
‘I didn’t mean that,’ Jenny said. ‘I meant, they don’t do ballet at Madam Anna’s. Well – only the very little boys, and they run about being silly.’
Mum began to laugh. ‘Jenny! How do you think male dancers ever got started? They went to classes, just like you!’
Jenny shook her head. ‘But I don’t want boys in our class. They’d spoil it. I know they would.’
Mum was about to say something else when there was a loud ring! at the front door.
‘There they are! Run and open the door, Jenny.’
‘Do I have to?’ Jenny asked.
‘Yes!’ said Mum. ‘And hurry up!’
Jenny walked as slowly as she dared to the front door. She could feel Mum hoping that she would be friendly and nice, but she didn’t want to be. She and her friends had been going to Madam Anna’s for almost as long as she could remember. They had secrets and whispered together and boasted about how Madam Anna said that they were her best class ever. A boy would just get in the way. He wouldn’t know what to do. He’d be silly, and rush around shouting, like the little boys. And – Jenny suddenly felt more cheerful – where would he change his clothes? The little boys hopped about in their vests and trunks, but there was nowhere for older boys . . . she was almost sure of it. As she opened the door she smiled a sorry-but-it’s-no-good smile.
‘Hello,’ she said to the neat little woman and the boy on the doorstep. ‘Do come in. I’m Jenny, but it won’t be any good Christy coming to my ballet class because we don’t have anywhere for boys to change their clothes.’ And she waved them inside.
Mrs Davis looked a little surprised as she walked down the hall into the kitchen. Christy stopped on the doormat. ‘It doesn’t matter about a place to change,’ he said cheerfully to Jenny. ‘I always went to class in my tights anyway. I only need to change my shoes. What level are you at? Are you on pointe yet?’
Jenny stared at him. He had a round face with bright red cheeks, and his eyes were very blue. He wasn’t exactly fat, but he certainly wasn’t thin, and he was only just as tall as she was. He didn’t look in the least like any of the pictures of famous dancers she had pinned up in her bedroom. They were thin, and pale, with bony noses and high cheekbones. Christy looked like – Jenny scratched her nose and thought about it. What did he look like? Then she realized. Christy looked just like an ordinary boy. And all the ordinary boys Jenny knew liked football, or roller blades, or messing about in the park. They didn’t ever do ballet.
Christy was staring now, but he was still smiling. ‘Don’t you speak?’ he asked Jenny.
‘When I want to,’ she said in her most hoity toity voice, and ran into the kitchen where Mrs Davis and Mum were sitting and chatting. Christy came after her, and sat himself down – without waiting to be asked.
‘Hi!’ he said to Mum, and he beamed his red-cheeked smile. Jenny scowled.
The supper party was not a success. At least, Jenny didn’t think so. Mum enjoyed herself, and Mrs Davis talked a great deal, and Christy ate a lot and answered all Mum’s questions about school and ballet . . . but Jenny just wanted them to go away. She put her head right down while she was eating, and afterwards she went to sit at the other end of the room from the others. She didn’t want to know that Christy was going to be in her class at school. She didn’t want to know that he had won a prize for dancing in a competition. And she definitely didn’t want to know that Mrs Davis had already spoken to Madam Anna and that Christy was going to come to her class the very next day.
‘That’s lovely,’ said Mum as Mrs Davis and Christy got ready to go. ‘Isn’t it, Jenny?’
Jenny made a snorting sort of noise.
‘Maybe we could share taking and collecting,’ said Mrs Davis, and Mum nodded. ‘I’d be delighted.’
After Mrs Davis and Christy had gone, Mum began to wash up. ‘Jenny,’ she said, ‘why were you so rude?’
Jenny wriggled. ‘I didn’t mean to be,’ she said.
‘Well,’ said Mum, ‘you were – very. Now, tomorrow Mrs Davis is taking you to ballet, and I want you to be very helpful and look after Christy. Just think how you would feel if you were going to a new class and didn’t know anyone.’
Jenny wriggled some more. ‘But what will my friends say?’
‘It doesn’t matter what they say,’ Mum said.
Jenny sighed. Obviously Mum didn’t understand at all.
Mrs Davis knocked on the door the next day at a quarter to four. For the first time in her life Jenny wasn’t looking forward to ballet class, and she wasn’t ready. Mum scooped up her leotard and pink tights and pushed them into her bag.
‘Come on, Jenny,’ she said, and she walked with Jenny to Mrs Davis’s car. Christy was already sitting in the back, wearing a stripy jumper and baggy green trousers. Jenny sniffed as she got in beside him.
‘I thought you said you always wore your tights to class,’ she said. ‘You can’t do ballet in baggy trousers. Madam Anna likes us all to be very neat and tidy.’
‘It’s OK,’ Christy said. ‘I’ve got tights on underneath.’ And he waved cheerfully to Jenny’s mum as they drove away.
It wasn’t a long drive to the church hall where Madam Anna held her classes, but it seemed very long indeed to Jenny. She looked out of the window all t
he way so that she didn’t have to talk to Christy. She invented conversations with her friends inside her head. ‘No, I know I came with him, but I couldn’t help it.’ ‘Poor Jenny – having to come with a boy!’ ‘A boy – isn’t it awful?’ ‘I expect Madam Anna will put him in the little ones’ class.’ ‘Boys never know what to do. Fancy your mum telling you to look after him!’ By the time Mrs Davis stopped the car Jenny was feeling very sorry for herself, and she was quite certain that all her friends would feel sorry for her too. She grabbed her bag and jumped out of the car, rushing to tell them. As she ran, her tights flopped out of her bag and tangled round her legs . . . and Jenny fell flat on her face.
‘Jenny?’
Jenny scrambled up, and stared. Madam Anna – Madam Anna! – was right in front of her.
Jenny dropped her bag and tried to make her greeting curtsy, but as she said, ‘Good evening, Madam Anna,’ she wobbled and slipped sideways. Her face burnt bright red as she stood up again.
‘Jenny dear,’ Madam Anna said, ‘a ballerina does not arrive anywhere in a scrabble and a dash. Now, pick up your tights, and go inside and wash your hands and face.’
Jenny grabbed her bag and her tights and hurried through the door. Her eyes were stinging with angry tears, and her hands and knees were hurting too. It was all that horrible boy’s fault, she told herself. She had never fallen over before. It had to be his fault. And she stamped into the changing room and flung herself down on a bench.
‘Jenny! Jenny! Guess what! Guess!’ Daisy and Sarah and Edna and all her other friends were jumping up and down in excitement. ‘Guess what! There’s a famous ballerina coming today to see Madam Anna! And guess what else! Her little boy is coming to join our class! Unless he’s too good, of course, and then he’ll go up to the seniors. But a real ballerina! She danced with the Royal Ballet, and she was Swanhilda in Coppélia and Madam Anna says she was an absol-ute rave!’
Jenny didn’t move. She sat on the bench and said nothing at all. The other girls fussed and twittered round her, straightening their tights and smoothing their hair, but Jenny sat still – and thought.
It must be Mrs Davis! Mrs Davis – Christy’s mum – was a real ballerina! And she, Jenny – Madam Anna’s star dancer – had been rude to her! Had run away from her car! Had been horrid to Christy! Jenny felt as if a whirlwind was rushing about in her head. How would she ever look at Madam Anna again? Oh – if only she could turn time back . . .
‘Jenny! Jenny! Why aren’t you getting ready?’ Daisy was peering at her.
‘Your face is dirty,’ Edna said. ‘What have you been doing?’
‘I fell over,’ Jenny said. ‘I fell over on my way in.’ She didn’t say she had been running away from the famous ballerina, but she felt her face grow hot as she thought about it. She got up and went to wash her hands.
‘Did you see Madam Anna?’ Sarah asked. ‘She’s waiting outside – this ballerina must be very special!’
‘What do you think her boy will be like?’ Edna did a pirouette.
‘I expect he’ll want to dance with me,’ Daisy said, and she smiled at herself in the mirror. Daisy was very pretty, and she was always popular with the boys at school.
‘No, he won’t,’ said Sarah. ‘He’ll want to dance with Jenny. She’s much the best dancer.’
‘He’ll have to take turns,’ said Edna. ‘Or it won’t be fair.’
‘Maybe now one boy’s come, lots of others will too,’ said Gillie.
‘Maybe,’ Daisy said, still gazing at herself in the mirror, ‘maybe we’ll do lifts!’
‘WOW!’ breathed Edna and Sarah and Gillie.
Jenny, slowly pulling on her tights, felt worse and worse. It sounded as if all the other girls liked the idea of Christy joining the class . . . as if they wanted boys to join in. She wriggled into her leotard, and put on her satin slippers.
‘You’re being very quiet,’ Edna told Jenny as she tied her ribbons. ‘What’s the matter?’
‘Nothing,’ Jenny said. She was just smoothing her hair when Madam Anna put her head round the door.
‘Girls? Girls – come and meet Tara Talliori, formerly prima ballerina of the Royal Ballet. And you must welcome her son, already a dedicated dancer. Now, remember – your very best curtsies, if you please.’
Daisy and Sarah and Edna and the other girls squeaked and giggled their way out into the hall. Jenny took a deep breath, and followed them . . .
Madam Anna was standing on the platform at the end of the hall. Beside her was Mrs Davis, and beside Mrs Davis was Christy, neatly dressed in a white T-shirt, black tights and ballet shoes. To Jenny’s amazement she saw that Christy was blushing – a deep fiery red creeping up over his face. He looked very uncomfortable indeed, and Jenny found herself feeling sorry for him.
‘It must be horrible being up there in front of everybody,’ she thought, and as she felt more and more sorry for Christy she wished even more that she had been nicer to him.
‘Girls,’ Madam Anna said, ‘we are very lucky this evening. Tara Talliori is going to lead us in our greeting curtsy, and then she will take the class – just for today. I hope you will all be most polite and do exactly as she tells you.’ She turned and smiled at Tara Talliori, and Tara Talliori nodded back.
‘Perhaps Christy could join the other students?’ Tara – or Mrs Davis – asked, and Christy jumped down from the platform so quickly that Jenny was certain he had been longing and longing to get away. He hurried down the hall and came to stand next to Jenny, but he didn’t look at her.
Jenny swallowed. There was an uncomfortable feeling in her throat. She had ignored him all the way to ballet class; was he going to do the same to her now?
‘Are we ready?’ Madam Anna called out, and she held out her arms. Tara Talliori did the same, and all the girls copied her. Christy put his hands on his waist.
‘One, two, three – and down,’ said Madam Anna . . . and down they all sank – all except Christy. Christy bowed a low deep bow, and he bowed straight at Jenny . . . and winked at her . . . and wobbled . . . and fell over.
As he scrambled up both he and Jenny began to laugh. Even when Madam Anna frowned at them they couldn’t stop, and Daisy and Edna and Sarah and all the other girls began to laugh too . . . Tara Talliori laughed the loudest of all. Even Madam Anna seemed to be smiling.
As the noise died down Tara Talliori walked over to the piano. ‘Do you mind if I play?’ she asked, and before the pianist could answer, she began to play a wild and toe-tapping polka.
‘Take your partners!’ she called out. ‘Let’s begin with a warm-up! Remember your posture – and listen to the music!’
There was a moment’s complete silence. No class of Madam Anna’s had ever begun with a polka . . . Then Edna and Sarah grabbed each other’s hands and began to hop and skip in circles.
Jenny hesitated, and then looked sideways at Christy. He was looking at her, and he took her hand as if it were the most ordinary thing in the world. As they jumped and hopped round the room, it was as if they had always been friends. Jenny smiled to herself. Maybe boys doing ballet wasn’t such a bad thing after all . . .
And when she and Christy bounced past Madam Anna, and Madam Anna clapped her hands, Jenny was sure of it.
The Hookywalker Dancers
by Margaret Mahy
IN THE HEART of the great city of Hookywalker was the School of Dramatic Art. It was full of all sorts of actors and singers and wonderful clowns, but the most famous of them all was the great dancer, Brighton.
Brighton could leap like an antelope and spin like a top. He was as slender as a needle. In fact, when he danced you almost expected little stitches to follow him across the stage. Every day he did his exercises at the barre to music played on his tape-recorder.
‘One and a plié and a stretch, two-three, and port de bras and back to first!’ he counted. He exercised so gracefully that, outside the School of Dramatic Art, pedlars rented ladders so that lovers of the dance could climb up an
d look through the window at Brighton practising.
Of course, life being what it is, many other dancers were often jealous of him. I’m afraid that most of them ate too much and were rather fat, whereas Brighton had an elegant figure. They pulled his chair away from under him when he sat down, or tried to trip him up in the middle of his dancing, but Brighton was so graceful he simply made falling down look like an exciting new part of the dance, and the people standing on ladders clapped and cheered and banged happily on the windows.
Although he was such a graceful dancer, Brighton was not conceited. He led a simple life. For instance, he didn’t own a car, travelling everywhere on roller skates, his tape-recorder clasped to his ear. Not only this, he did voluntary work for the Society for Bringing Happiness to Dumb Beasts. At the weekends he would put on special performances for pets and farm animals. Savage dogs became quiet as lambs after watching Brighton dance, and nervous sheep grew wool thicker than ever before. Farmers from outlying districts would ring up the School of Dramatic Art and ask if they could hire Brighton to dance to their cows, and many a parrot, temporarily off its seed, was brought back to full appetite by seeing Brighton dance the famous solo called The Noble Savage in the Lonely Wood.
Brighton had a way of kicking his legs up that suggested deep sorrow, and his demi-pliés regularly brought tears to the eyes of the parrots, after which they tucked into their seed quite ravenously.
One day, the director of the School for Dramatic Art called Brighton to his office.
‘Brighton,’ he said, ‘I have an urgent request here from a farmer who needs help with a flock of very nervous sheep. He is in despair!’
‘Glad to help!’ said Brighton in his graceful fashion. ‘What seems to be the trouble?’
‘Wolves – that’s what the trouble is!’ cried the director. ‘He lives on the other side of the big forest, and a pack of twenty wolves comes out of the forest early every evening and tries to devour some of his prize merinos. It’s disturbing the sheep very badly. They get nervous twitches, and their wool is falling out from shock.’
Darcey Bussell Favourite Ballet Stories Page 7