‘I’ll set off at once,’ Brighton offered. ‘I can see it’s an urgent case.’
‘It’s a long way,’ the director said, doubtfully. ‘It’s right on the other side of the forest.’
‘That’s all right,’ said Brighton. ‘I have my trusty roller skates, and the road is tarred all the way. I’ll take my tape-recorder to keep me company, and I’ll get there in next to no time.’
‘That’s very fast,’ the director said in a respectful voice. ‘Oh, Brighton, I wish all my dancers were like you! Times are hard for the School of Dramatic Art. A lot of people are staying at home and watching car crashes on television. They don’t want art – they want danger, they want battle, murder and sudden death – and it’s becoming much harder to run the school at a profit. If all our dancers were as graceful as you there would be no problem at all, but as you know a lot of them are just a whisker on the fat side. They don’t do their exercises the way they should.’
Little did he realize that the other dancers were actually listening at the keyhole, and when they heard this critical remark they all began to sizzle with jealousy. You could hear them sizzling with it. ‘I’ll show him who’s fat and who isn’t,’ muttered a very spiteful dancer called Antoine. ‘Where are Brighton’s skates?’
Brighton’s skates were, in fact, in the cloakroom under the peg on which he hung his beret and his great billowing cape. It was but the work of a moment to loosen one or two vital grommets. The skates looked all right, but they were no longer as safe as skates ought to be.
‘There,’ said Antoine, laughing nastily. ‘They’ll hold together for a little bit, but once he gets into the forest they’ll collapse, and we’ll see how he gets on then, all alone with the wind and the wolves – and without wheels.’
The halls of the School of Dramatic Art rang with the jealous laughter of the other dancers as they slunk off in all directions. A minute later Brighton came in, suspecting nothing, put on his beret and his great billowing cape, strapped on his skates, and set off holding his tape-recorder to his ear.
Now, during the day, the wolves spent a long time snoozing and licking their paws clean in a clearing on top of the hill. From there they had a good view of the Hookywalker road. They could look out in all directions and even see as far as Hookywalker when the air was clear. It happened that their present king was a great thinker, and something was worrying him deeply.
‘I know we’re unpopular,’ sighed the King of the Wolves, ‘but what can I do about it? It’s the nature of things that wolves steal a few sheep here and there. It’s part of the great pattern of nature.’ Though this seemed reasonable he was frowning and brooding as he spoke. ‘Sometimes – I don’t know – I feel there must be more to life than just ravening around grabbing the odd sheep and howling at the moon.’
‘Look!’ cried the wolf who was on look-out duty. ‘Someone is coming down the great road from the city.’
‘How fast he’s going!’ said another wolf. ‘And whatever is it he is holding to his ear?’
‘Perhaps he has earache,’ suggested a female wolf in compassionate tones. None of the wolves had ever seen a tape-recorder before.
‘Now then, no feeling sorry for him,’ said the King of the Wolves. ‘You all know the drill. We get down to the edge of the road, and at the first chance we tear him to pieces. That’s all part of the great pattern of nature I was mentioning a moment ago.’
‘That’ll take his mind off his earache,’ said one of the wolves with a fierce, sarcastic snarl.
As the sun set majestically in the west, Brighton, his cloak billowing round him like a private storm cloud, reached the great forest. It was like entering another world, for a mysterious twilight reigned under the wide branches, a twilight without moon or stars. Tall, sombre pines looked down as if they feared the worst. But Brighton skated on, humming to himself. He was listening to the music of The Noble Savage and was waiting for one of the parts he liked best. Indeed, so busy was he humming and counting the beats that he did not notice a sudden wobble in his wheels. However, a moment after the wobble, his skates gave a terrible screech and he was pitched into the pine needles by the side of the road.
‘Horrakapotchkin!’ cried Brighton. ‘My poor skates!’ (It was typical of this dancer that his first thought was for others.) However, his second thought was of the forest and the wolves that might be lurking there. It occurred to him that they might be tired of merino sheep, and would fancy a change of diet.
‘Quick thought! Quick feet!’ he said, quoting an old dancing proverb. He rushed around collecting a pile of firewood and pine-cones, and then lit a good-sized fire there on the roadside. It was just as well he did, because when he looked up he saw the forest was alight with fiery red eyes. The wolves had arrived. They stole out of the forest and sat down on the edge of the firelight, staring at him very hard, all licking their lips in a meaningful way.
Brighton did not panic. Quietly, he rewound his tape-recorder to the very beginning, and then stood up coolly and began to do his exercises. A lesser dancer might have started off dancing straight away, but Brighton knew the greatest challenge of his life was ahead of him. He preferred to take things slowly and warm up properly in case he needed to do a few tricky steps before the night was out.
The wolves looked at each other uneasily. The king hesitated. There was something so tuneful about the music and so graceful about Brighton’s dancing that he would have liked to watch it for a bit longer, but he knew he was part of nature’s great plan, and must help his pack to tear Brighton to pieces. So he gave the order. ‘Charge!’
As one wolf the wolves ran towards Brighton, snarling and growling, but to their astonishment Brighton did not run away. No! He actually ran towards them and then, leaped up in the air – up, up and right over them – his cloak streaming out behind him. It had the words HOOKYWALKER SCHOOL OF DRAMATIC ART painted on it. The wolves were going so fast that they could not stop themselves until they were well down the road. Brighton, meanwhile, landed with a heroic gesture, wheeled around, and then went on with his exercises, watching the wolves narrowly.
Once again, the wolves charged, and once again Brighton leaped. This time he jumped even higher, and the wolves couldn’t help gasping in admiration, much as they hated missing out on any prey.
‘Right!’ cried the King of the Wolves. ‘Let’s run round him in ever-decreasing circles.’ (This was an old wolf trick.) ‘He’ll soon be too giddy to jump.’ However, being a wolf and not used to classical ballet, the King didn’t realize that a good dancer can spin on his toes without getting in the least bit giddy. Brighton spun until he was a mere blur and actually rose several inches in the air with the power of his rotation. It was the wolves who became giddy first; they stumbled over one another, ending up in a heap, with their red eyes all crossed. Finally, they struggled up with their tongues hanging out but they had to wait for their eyes to get uncrossed again.
Seeing they were disabled for the moment by the wonder of his dancing, Brighton now gave up mere jumps and spins and began demonstrating his astonishing technique. Used as he was to dancing for animals, there was still a real challenge about touching the hearts of wolves. Besides, he knew he couldn’t go on twirling and leaping high in the air all night. His very life depended on the quality of his dancing. He began with the first solo from The Noble Savage. Never in all his life, even at the School of Dramatic Art, had he been more graceful. First, he danced the loneliness of the Noble Savage, and the wolves (though they always travelled in a pack, and were never ever lonely) were so stirred that several of them pointed their noses into the air and howled in exact time to the music. It was most remarkable. Brighton now turned towards the wolves and began to express through dance his pleasure at seeing them. He made it very convincing. Some of the wolves began to wag their tails.
‘He’s really got something!’ said the King of the Wolves. ‘This is high-class stuff.’ Of course, he said it in wolf language, but Brighton was good at read
ing the signs and became more poetic than ever before.
‘Let me see,’ said the King of the Wolves, fascinated. ‘With a bit of practice I could manage an act like this myself. I always knew there was more to life than mere ravening. Come on! Let’s give it a go!’ The wolves began to point their paws and copy whatever movements Brighton made.
Seeing what they were about, Brighton began to encourage them by doing a very simple step and shouting instructions.
‘You put your left paw in, you put your left paw out . . .’
Of course, the wolves could not understand the words, but Brighton was very clever at mime and they caught on to the idea of things, dancing with great enthusiasm. Naturally, they were not as graceful as Brighton, but then they had not practised for years as he had. Brighton could not help but be proud of them as they began a slow progress down the road back to the city, away from the forest and the sheep on the other side. The moon rose higher in the sky, and still Brighton danced, and the entranced wolves followed him pointing their paws. It was very late at night when they entered the city once more. People going home from the cinema stared and shouted, and pointed (fingers not toes). A lot of them joined in, either dancing or making music on musical instruments – banjos, trombones, combs – or anything that happened to be lying around.
In the School of Dramatic Art, wicked Antoine was just about to dance the very part Brighton usually danced when the sound of the procession made him hesitate. The audience, full of curiosity, left the theatre. Outside was Brighton, swaying with weariness but still dancing, followed by twenty wolves, all dancing most beautifully by now, all in time and all very pleased with themselves, though, it must be admitted, all very hungry.
‘Oh,’ cried the director of the School of Dramatic Art, rushing out to kiss Brighton on both cheeks. ‘What talent! What style! This will save the School of Dramatic Art from extinction.’
‘Send out for a supply of sausages,’ panted Brighton, ‘and write into the wolves’ contracts that they will have not only sausages of the best quality, but that their names will appear in lights on top of the theatre. After all, if they are dancing here every night, they won’t be able to chase and worry sheep, will they?’
After this, there was peace for a long time, both in the city and out on the farms (where the sheep grew very fat and woolly). The School of Dramatic Art did wonderfully well. People came from miles around to see Brighton and his dancing wolves, and, of course – just as he had predicted – after dancing until late at night, the wolves were too weary to go out ravening sheep. Everyone was delighted (except for the jealous dancers who just sulked and sizzled). Antoine, in particular, had such bad attacks of jealousy that it ruined his digestion and made his stomach rumble loudly, which forced him to abandon ballet altogether. However, Brighton, the wolves, the farmers, the director, and many other people, lived happily ever after in Hookywalker, that great city which people sometimes see looming out of the mist on the fringe of many fairy stories.
A Dream of Sadler’s Wells
by Lorna Hill
When Veronica’s father dies, suddenly she is uprooted from her life in London and the ballet classes she loves so much. But she makes a new friend called Sebastian and against all odds continues to practise. Then, at last, she is given the chance to audition for Sadler’s Wells ballet school in London . . .
A WEEK AFTER Lady Blantosh’s Bring and Buy Sale, Aunt June got a typewritten letter from the secretary of the Sadler’s Wells School of Ballet saying that my audition was to be on the following Friday. It appeared that Madame had called to see Miss Martin in Newcastle on her way back to London, and between them they had fixed things up.
My thoughts were in a positive whirl, and by the time Thursday came, I was so excited I could neither eat nor sleep. Aunt June had booked a first-class sleeper for me from Newcastle to King’s Cross, and I was to be put in special care of the sleeping-car attendant, who in his turn was to get me a porter at the other end of my journey. The porter would get me a taxi, and I was to go straight to Mrs Crapper and stay there until it was time for my audition at twelve o’clock. My ticket had already been bought and was reposing in the little drawer of my dressing-table. Perkins was to take me to the station in the car to catch the night train, which went at ten thirty-five. It was all very simple.
All very simple . . . How is it that it’s always the simple things that turn out to be the most difficult, whereas, when you see breakers ahead, the sea is sure to turn out to be as calm as a millpond?
The Thursday morning dawned grey and misty. Aunt June was going to visit friends at Horchester, ten miles away. She took Perkins with her because of the mist, and promised she’d be back by nine o’clock at the latest so that there’d be plenty of time for Perkins to take me to the station. I was to be all ready to go, she said.
For the umpteenth time I checked over my dancing things – pink tights, black tunic, jock-belt, a pair of blocked and a pair of unblocked canvas practice shoes, a pair of my whitest socks, hairband, hairnet, not to mention plenty of hairgrips. I had washed the tights to make them fit without a wrinkle, as well as for cleanliness, and I’d ironed out the tunic, although I knew I should have to do it again at the other end. It wouldn’t be exactly creaseless after it had spent the night in my suitcase! For the umpteenth time I tested the ribbons on my ballet shoes to make sure they were secure, and felt the blocks of my pointe shoes to see that they were hard enough. Lastly, I put into the case unimportant things like my nightie, toothbrush and my brush and comb – just in case I forgot them in the excitement of departure.
Then, on the top of everything, I carefully placed a small parcel wrapped in tissue paper. My mascot! Madame’s shoes. Yes, they’d come back from the cleaners that very morning, and they were as good as new. At least, they were quite clean, though Messrs Britelite and Sons carefully explained in a polite little note they’d enclosed in the package that they weren’t responsible for the worn patches. No, indeed – Covent Garden was responsible for them!
Well, after all this, there was nothing to do but wait as patiently as I could for Aunt June to return.
And all the time the mist grew thicker and thicker . . .
‘I say,’ Caroline said, as we came in from the stables at seven o’clock to wash our hands for supper, ‘this mist is awful, isn’t it? That’s the worst of living on the edge of the moors; it comes down from the fells. I do hope –’
She stopped, and a pang of fright shot through me.
‘Do hope what?’
‘I was going to say I do hope Mummy leaves the Chiswicks’ in plenty of time. It’ll take Perkins ages to get back.’
I didn’t say anything. I was quite sick with fear at the awful thought of missing that train. Surely, surely Fate wouldn’t be so unkind as to dash the cup from my lips before I could drink!
At eight o’clock the telephone rang. I dashed to answer it before anyone else could get there. I knew quite certainly that it was about me, and I wanted to hear the worst. When I heard Aunt June’s voice at the other end of the wire, I knew that it was indeed the worst!
‘Oh, it’s you, Veronica,’ said the voice, sounding quite cheerful, and not a bit as if my whole future were at stake, ‘I’m sorry, dear, about this frightful mist. I’m afraid it’s quite impossible for me to get back tonight. Perkins won’t risk it – the visibility here is practically nil.’
‘But, Aunt June,’ I wailed. ‘My audition – my audition is tomorrow morning! Have you forgotten? I must – I simply must catch the train to London.’
‘I’m afraid it’s quite impossible, dear,’ said the calm voice at the other end. ‘We’ll arrange another interview for you. It will be quite easy, I’m sure, when we explain. You see, Perkins –’
I put down the receiver, cutting off Aunt June and her maddening voice. ‘Arrange another audition for me’ – you didn’t arrange auditions at a famous school like Sadler’s Wells just like that! You were granted an audition, and you turned up f
or it, by hook or by crook, whether you had a streaming cold, or a splitting headache, whether there was a bus strike and you had to walk, or a pea-soup fog, or – or anything. You let nothing stop you! Why – why couldn’t Aunt June understand? As for Perkins not daring to drive in the mist – I knew quite well that it wasn’t Perkins who was afraid but Aunt June . . .
‘What’s the matter, Veronica?’ said Caroline’s anxious voice from behind me. ‘Is anything wrong?’
‘Wrong?’ I repeated. ‘It’s finished! My career’s finished!’
‘You mean –?’
‘Aunt June can’t get back tonight because of the mist,’ I said. Then I added bitterly, ‘It just doesn’t dawn on her that my whole career is at stake.’
‘I’m sure she realizes, Veronica,’ Caroline put in gently, sticking up for her mother as she sometimes did most unexpectedly. ‘It really is frightful outside, you know. I don’t think anyone could possibly drive in it.’
I dashed away to hide my tears, leaving Caroline looking after me with a worried expression on her face, and Fiona smiling her hateful, knowing smile. I knew that Fiona was pleased that all my hopes were being crushed.
‘I must, I must do something!’ I said to myself. ‘What can I do? Oh, God – please tell me what to do!’
Then suddenly I had an idea. I expect some people would say God had nothing to do with it – that God was far too busy to bother about a little thing like my dancing, but I was sure in my own mind that my idea was Heaven-sent, and that God was telling me what to do.
I tumbled my things out of my suitcase on to the floor, dashed into the schoolroom and pulled a rucksack from the bottom of the toy cupboard, where now books and tennis rackets and suchlike were kept, dashed back with it to my bedroom and hastily began to repack my things in it. I didn’t bother about my nightie and toothbrush, this time, but squeezed in the dancing things as best I could, ending with Madame’s shoes. Then, like a shadow, I slipped down the backstairs and out to the stables.
Darcey Bussell Favourite Ballet Stories Page 8