The policeman looked down at her, smiling. ‘Want to go to the opera?’
‘No, the ballet,’ Drina said earnestly.
‘Well, cross over and keep straight on up Wellington Street. You’ll soon see it on your left.’
‘Oh, thanks awfully!’ And Drina waited till the traffic stopped and bounded over the crossing. But as she continued up Wellington Street she walked more and more slowly. Just now, not knowing whether she would get seats or hot, she could savour the hope. In five minutes she might have no hope at all, and suddenly she was on fire with eagerness to see the Royal Ballet and the greatest of all ballerinas.
Crossing a side street she slipped on a cabbage leaf and almost fell and she thought that the Royal Opera House was not in a very nice neighbourhood. But its very situation in the heart of the market, as it seemed, somehow began to add an extra aura of romance, and when she saw the huge building in front of her, her heart quickened, though her footsteps did not.
There was a notice saying ‘Box Office’ by a side door and a few people were going in and out. Drina, suddenly very shy and extremely doubtful of herself, pushed open the door and found herself in warm gloom. It was the first time she had tried to book theatre seats and she began to feel small and very young.
There were three people in front of her at the booking-office, the window of which was very high, so high that Drina wondered if she would be able to see over the top when she got closer. A tall, prosperous-looking man was putting down several pound notes to pay for seats in the Grand Tier and Drina envied him and his party fiercely. Lucky, lucky people, who were sure to see Les Sylphides, Daphnis and Chloe and Les Patineurs the following night!
The man immediately in front of her was paying for the Grand Tier, too. Drina stared blankly into the middle of his back and tried to will the cheerful man in the box office to find her two seats.
It was her turn and she stood on tiptoe, looking up at him. At first, in her intense eagerness, no words would come, then she gasped out: ‘Oh, please, I suppose you haven’t – are there any seats for tomorrow night?’
‘How many do you want?’
‘Oh, two.’
Though she had nerved herself to hear the words: ‘No, I’m sorry. There aren’t any seats!’ they did not come. The young man’s face disappeared, and she stood stiffly on tiptoe, her hand, clutching the purse, resting on the edge of the high ledge.
After what seemed a long time, the young man’s face was back again.
‘The only seats there are,’ he said, ‘are two in the Stalls Circle. They’re rather at the side . . . you’ll have a slightly restricted view. But they’re all I have.’ He named the price, and Drina gasped with relief. She had enough money.
‘Oh, thank you! I’ll take them.’ Drina could hardly believe in her good luck. She paid, took the small envelope marked ‘Royal Opera House’, and stumbled out into the cold sunshine again. Among the cabbage leaves some way down the street, she stopped to examine the tickets.
She was going to see the Royal Ballet . . . first class ballet for the very first time. She was going to see the inside of that famous opera house; the great staircase, the glittering chandeliers, that she had so far known only from pictures in ballet books.
She put the tickets away in her purse and somehow got herself down the Strand. She had enough sense to dive down the steps and cross Trafalgar Square underground. Otherwise, in her dazed state, she would probably have got run over and would never have seen the ballet at all.
She arrived back at the flat starry-eyed and almost incoherent with excitement. She babbled so much that Mrs Chester said quite gently: ‘Now start again, Drina! I haven’t grasped it yet. What ballet have you got tickets for?’
‘Oh, Granny, for the Royal Ballet tomorrow night at Covent Garden! I just can’t believe it! Oh, Granny, you will come with me? I shall die if you won’t.’
Mrs Chester said dryly: ‘There’s no need to die, Drina. Since you’ve been lucky enough to get seats of course I’ll come. It’s a good thing that you’ve got that new party dress. We shall need to dress up.’
‘And Grandfather won’t mind, will he? I only had enough money for two tickets, and, anyway, there weren’t any more seats.’
‘No, I don’t suppose he’ll mind. As a matter of fact he rang up yesterday evening to try and get seats for us, but there were none at all then. You must have got “returns”. What a lucky girl you are!’
So Drina was in seventh heaven and her grandmother sighed because she could get so little sense out of her for the rest of the day.
Drina scarcely knew how she would live until it was time to go to the ballet, but Mrs Chester was determined to keep her occupied. In the morning they went shopping and in the afternoon they went to the wintry Zoo, where Drina forgot a little of her restless excitement in watching the antics of the monkeys and the strange writhings of the snakes in the Reptile House.
The Zoo closed early, of course, so they returned to the West End and had tea, returning to the flat in good time to dress for the theatre.
Drina’s new dress was white and stiff. It was quite the most grown-up dress she had ever had. To add to her feeling of elegance she had a little scarlet stole to put round her shoulders and a small scarlet evening bag to hold her handkerchief and comb.
Mr Chester took them to Covent Garden in the car, but pointed out that they would have to come back by taxi, as he had no idea what time the ballet would be over. Drina sat alone in the back of the car, warmly wrapped up in her best coat and a fluffy rug, and, as she looked out at the evening glitter of London, she could hardly believe that she was really Drina Adams on her way to see the Royal Ballet.
Mr Chester drew up in front of the Opera House, in the midst of all the arriving and departing taxis, and Drina caught glimpses of figures in evening dress.
‘Have a good time!’ called Mr Chester, as he began to drive away, and Mrs Chester led Drina firmly inside, into the glare of lights and the company of crowds of laughing, chattering people. She seemed to know her way about very well and led Drina quickly round the back of the auditorium to the cloakroom.
‘Oh, Granny, you’ve been before!’ Drina said breathlessly, trying to take in the vast building.
‘Of course I have. Hurry up and take your coat off, Drina. There’s going to be a crowd in here very soon.’
So Drina handed her coat and gloves to the attendant and combed her hair. Then she arranged the stole and, catching a glimpse of herself in the long mirror, was astonished to see that she looked almost pretty. She usually thought of herself as rather plain, but there was no doubt that tonight she looked quite striking. Probably it was the brilliant scarlet so close to her dark hair and eyes.
Their seats certainly were at the side, but they were at the front of the Stalls Circle and she knew that she would be able to see most of the great stage. It was thrilling to watch the people arriving, but quite soon she buried herself in her programme, drinking in the famous names and reading the story of Daphnis and Chloe, though she already knew it.
Mrs Chester sat there calmly, staring about her. Once she gave a little bow to someone in the stalls just below them, and Drina, noticing, asked: ‘Who is he, Granny? Isn’t he handsome?’
‘Colin Amberdown, the ballet critic.’
‘Oh, but – he writes books about the ballet, too. I read his Our Changing British Ballet not long ago.’
‘Did you indeed?’ said her grandmother, with a small, half-amused smile. ‘Didn’t you find it fairly heavy going?’
‘Oh, no. Not a bit. I loved it.’
‘He’s heart and soul in the ballet world, and he has some connection with the Dominick School.’
It was nearly half past seven. Drina was tense with excitement as she looked round the vast place. She had once seen it on television, but she had scarcely been prepared for its hugeness.
‘I am at Covent Garden!’ she told herself. But she could scarcely believe it.
She still di
d not believe it when the music of Les Sylphides began and the curtain rose on the white-clad figures. How long ago it seemed since she had sat in the shabby old Grand Theatre with Mrs Pilgrim and Jenny, watching this same ballet! But she knew now that the company she had seen had indeed been third-rate, and, watching the perfection of the dancing on this far greater stage, she was filled with so great a delight that her eyelids prickled.
Her whole being seemed to follow the familiar music and it was as though she was there in spirit with those airy dancers, who had most of them left the anxious, hard years of training behind them. Though she knew, of course, that even the ballerina, at the height of her power, must still practise every day of her life.
Sitting there at Covent Garden, for the most part lost and entranced, Drina vowed at the very back of her mind that, if it was faintly possible by years of hard work, she would somehow achieve perfection. It might be impossible, of course, but she would try.
And then she forgot everything again but the ballet before her.
At the end of Les Sylphides Drina came very slowly back to earth and began to clap with the rest of that huge audience. The curtain rose and fell again and again and the ballerina was presented with great sheaves of flowers. She smiled and curtsied, but the audience would not let her go.
‘But don’t imagine yourself in that position,’ said Mrs Chester, in her dry, rather tart way. ‘If you do make dancing your career there’ll be years of being in the corps de ballet and after that you may never be a ballerina.’
‘Oh, Granny, I know,’ Drina said, blinking. ‘I’ve always known, I think. But I don’t really care. Even just to be in the corps de ballet in a really good company! I think that would make me happy.’
‘I hope you will be happy,’ said her grandmother. ‘As I’ve told you, it’s not my idea of a good life. That’s why I didn’t want it for you. Now I think we’ll stay here during this interval and then after Daphnis and Chloe we’ll go up into the Crush Bar. You’ll like to see the chandeliers and all the people.’
After that she did not speak again, and Drina sat there in a dream, keyed up to what was to follow. For she had still to see the greatest ballerina of the present day, who was only dancing in the main ballet. Prima ballerina assoluta! Of all the titles in the world that seemed to her the most satisfying.
She was very tense as the curtain went up, revealing the scene that she had seen sometimes in pictures; ‘Before the Cave of the Nymphs’.
The shepherds and shepherdesses arrived to present their offerings before the nymphs of Pan and Drina stiffened to such tenseness as she watched Chloe that her back ached, though she did not realize it till afterwards. The great ballerina, as Chloe, looked so very, very young in her simple frock, and oh! the delight of her every perfect movement. It seemed to Drina as she watched that long ballet that she might never see anything so beautiful and moving again. She wanted it never to end, so that she could stay in that lovely, brilliantly coloured world, knowing such utter delight.
But the third scene ended almost before she expected it and she was left with a tear in one eye that threatened to roll down her cheek, and yet it simply mustn’t, as she dared not cry over dancing before her grandmother.
The curtains, the flower-giving, the wild clapping, seemed to last for a very long time, and through it all the great dancer remained smiling and serene – almost, thought Drina, a very young girl. And yet no young girl could have that wonderful poise and assurance. All the same, it was impossible to believe that she was quite old; well over thirty.
The curtain came down for the last time and Drina felt almost worn out. It was really a good thing that her grandmother was so matter of fact.
‘Yes, well, it’s not a ballet that appeals to me much, but you’ve certainly seen some perfect dancing. Now come along quickly, or we shall never get into the Crush Bar at all.’
She bustled Drina up some stairs, along the top of a brilliantly lighted staircase and into a vast room, a-glitter with chandeliers and crowded with people, mostly in evening dress. They were thronging everywhere, all talking about the ballet and some clutching coffee cups. Drina hoped that her grandmother wouldn’t insist on getting her coffee, because she was sure she would disgrace herself by dropping the cup. There was scarcely room to move.
Mrs Chester did insist on just that.
‘I think you’d better have coffee. Stand by that pillar and I’ll fetch it. Don’t move, or I shall never find you again.’
‘No, Granny,’ Drina said meekly and she retreated obediently through the crowd to the pillar.
Mrs Chester brought two cups eventually and Drina was glad that they were in a fairly safe corner. She had drunk a little of the coffee when a male voice said close to her: ‘I was hoping to get a chance to speak to you, Mrs Chester. It’s many a long year since I saw you at an occasion like this!’
‘Indeed it is, Mr Amberdown,’ agreed Drina’s grandmother. ‘I’ve not been near any performance of ballet since that night when The Breton Wedding was first danced. I’ve had no occasion to, and I need hardly tell you that I’ve been glad.’
‘You never cared for the ballet,’ he said. His manner was – well, it was strange, but Drina thought dazedly that he sounded respectful. Why on earth should the great Colin Amberdown be respectful to her grandmother, especially when she had just said what must be heresy to him?
Mr Amberdown’s calm grey eyes looked down at Drina.
‘And is this – your granddaughter? Don’t tell me that you’re bringing her to see ballet at last?’
‘Yes, this is Andrina. And actually she brought me,’ said Mrs Chester, with a faint chuckle. ‘Marched up here by herself yesterday and came back with two tickets.’
‘Hum! So it’s come out, after all, has it? I know you said she should never have anything to do with the ballet.’
‘I said a lot of things and meant them,’ said Mrs Chester grimly. ‘But it wasn’t a bit of good. Drina found ballet for herself. She insisted on learning from Janetta Selswick, and now she’s made me agree to letting her have an audition at one of the Schools. But we only decided two days ago, and I’ve made no plans yet. I suppose, though, that it will be the Dominick School.’
Drina was very shy and rather puzzled under the searching eyes. Why was he so interested in her?
‘I should think it will have to be, considering that they helped to make her mother what she was. And, God knows, they’ll jump at the chance of taking Ivory’s daughter.’
The great chandeliers seemed to be descending on Drina in a blaze of light. The crowd seemed to her to have gone silent; the world was rocking. She heard her grandmother say: ‘Take her coffee cup, for heaven’s sake! She didn’t know.’
‘Didn’t know what?’ asked Colin Amberdown, taking the cup with one hand and putting the other arm behind Drina, who was grateful for the support. Things were still whirling about in the most alarming way.
‘That her mother was Elizabeth Ivory. I was always afraid that she’d get hold of her life story and guess. She could hardly fail to have done. She reads so many ballet books, and I suppose there might have been something in any one of them, but –’
Things were getting back to normal, but Drina still felt hot and weak. She opened her eyes wide and stared at them.
‘My mother – oh, it can’t be true! I thought she was in the corps de ballet in some third-rate company!’
‘I didn’t tell her that,’ said Mrs Chester hastily. ‘I didn’t tell her anything. But I was going to do so tomorrow.’
‘Your mother,’ said Mr Amberdown very clearly, ‘was Elizabeth Ivory of the Igor Dominick Company. She was one of the most wonderful dancers that Britain will ever see, even greater, some think, than this great dancer we have seen tonight. She died very young, of course, but even so –’
‘How did she – die?’ Drina asked.
‘Well, she was flying to the States to appear as a guest artist with an American Company in New York and the plane cras
hed. You must have read that.’
‘Yes, I – have. But I didn’t know – I can’t believe –’
‘Your grandmother, who had never wanted her to be a dancer, felt that dancing led her to her death. Wasn’t that so?’ he asked, quite gently.
Mrs Chester said dryly: ‘Yes, it was true. I always hated all that travelling that Betsy had to do. New York, Paris, Stockholm, Helsinki. Once she was famous we scarcely saw her, though she was always a loving daughter as far as she could be. Even her husband and baby scarcely saw her.’
‘But she couldn’t help it. Dancers have to do that,’ said Drina. She had not yet really taken in the wonderful news. She still felt very wavering and odd.
‘There’s the bell. We’ll have to go,’ said Colin Amberdown. ‘Well, let me know what you decide and I’ll arrange it for you with the Dominick School.’
‘Mr Amberdown!’ cried Drina, clutching his sleeve.
‘Yes?’ He hesitated, looking down at her.
‘Mr Amberdown, I – I haven’t had time to think yet, but I know one thing now. Please don’t tell them – don’t tell anyone – that I’m Ivory’s daughter.’
The crowd was streaming past, but he stopped dead. His eyes had lit up with quick understanding, though Mrs Chester looked startled and a trifle annoyed.
‘Drina, don’t be ridiculous! Why –’
‘Because – because I want to be quite on my own. To work as me; not as Ivory’s daughter. I don’t want things made easy for me. I don’t want people to say, “Take her because she’s Ivory’s daughter!” Later they can know, if I’m good, but not now. You do understand?’
‘Yes, and they shan’t know,’ Mr Amberdown assured her. Then he patted her arm briefly and went away.
‘Well, you are a strange child!’ said Mrs Chester, as they made their way back to their seats. ‘But you’re certainly like your mother. She was always independent and knew her own mind. I should have thought you’d want to shout from the house-tops that Elizabeth Ivory was your mother!’
Darcey Bussell Favourite Ballet Stories Page 11