The Street of Broken Dreams

by Tania Crosse

  ‘You ain’t got no wheelchair for him, have you?’ Eva’s kindly face pleated in concern as she indicated for Bridie to sit down at the table.

  ‘They gave him an arm and a leg and a crutch all those years ago, and reckoned that was enough,’ Bridie grimaced. ‘But he could really do with a wheelchair nowadays. So now we’re settled, I guess I can go through all the rigmarole of applying for one. Certainly can’t afford to buy one ourselves just now, although things are easier now Zac’s working. So grateful we are to your Stan and Jake for getting him that job at Price’s.’

  ‘And how’s he getting on?’ Eva called over her shoulder, popping out into the scullery to light the gas under the kettle.

  ‘Loves it, so he does,’ Bridie replied as Eva reappeared. ‘It was really good of that Belinda to listen to his needs and give him a test at packing rather than – what was it? – night-light wicking. Even cleaner work, and he’s so neat and tidy that his hands became expert at it in minutes. He only needs to be shown a couple of times and he’s got it. He says there’s so many different ways that different candles are packed, it makes it interesting for him.’

  ‘Yeah, lots to learn,’ Eva agreed. ‘Not as easy as it sounds. That’s what our Gert did when she worked there. Got a bit boring sometimes, but on the whole, she quite liked it. So how does Zac like working with a load of women?’

  ‘Sure, don’t the older ones mother him, and he seems to have a bit of a laugh with the younger ones. Giving him confidence to be doing a job and doing it well, so it is.’

  ‘I only hope it lasts, then,’ Eva sighed, carrying in the kettle and pouring hot water into the teapot onto the same leaves they’d used for breakfast. ‘Some people are saying Price’s won’t last with all the electric now. Or it’ll get smaller, at least. But we’ll have to see. But I’ve been thinking, we’ve still got my old mum’s wheelchair at the back of the outhouse in the yard. Been out there ten years, but it might be OK. I’ll get Stan to have a look at it for you.’

  ‘Oh, sure, we’d be more than grateful! You’re a good friend, Eva.’

  Eva felt herself blushing and flapped her hand dismissively. ‘Well, I can’t promise it’ll be usable, but we’ll see. And I’m afraid I can only spare a few drops of milk for your tea,’ she concluded, passing her friend a cup of wishy-washy liquid.

  ‘This rationing’s enough to drive you to drink,’ Bridie agreed. ‘If there was enough of the stuff to be had, that is. All those celebrations a few weeks ago, and now what? Bacon ration cut from four to three ounces, and cooking fat halved. And soap cut down, too, unless you’ve a babby, so at least we should be able to muddle through with Jane.’

  ‘I know.’ Eva shook her head. ‘Next thing is they’ll be putting flipping bread on ration.’

  ‘I wouldn’t joke about that if I were you.’

  ‘What!’ Eva was horrified. ‘You don’t think they’ll ration bread, do you? Not when it ain’t been rationed all through the war? Even if it is this disgusting National Loaf stuff.’

  Bridie shrugged ruefully. ‘Who knows? Sure, the country isn’t going to get back on its feet in a few weeks. And what with Mr Churchill resigning, who knows what’ll happen to us next? I don’t understand why Mr Attlee refused his offer to continue the coalition until after we’ve beaten Japan.’

  ‘Wanting to force an election, my Stan reckons. Still in charge, though, ain’t he, Churchill? And you must’ve heard his speech the other day. Said they’re calling it a caretaker government or something. And that’s what Mr Churchill promised to do. Take care of us.’

  ‘Well, sure, cutting our rations when they’re meagre enough already doesn’t seem too much like taking care of us to me. Much as I admire the man as much as anyone does.’

  ‘Well, he’ll get my vote when it comes to the election. Bound to win, though, ain’t he? But life ain’t gonna be easy for a while, I suppose. At least we ain’t got to worry about no bombs no more, mind. It’s just people like our Milly what’s got someone still fighting against the Japs what’s still got something to worry about.’

  ‘Still trying to take that island, Okinawa, aren’t they, the Allies? Been going on for weeks. One of the worst battles in the Pacific, they’re saying.’

  ‘Yeah, they are. I think it’s mainly Yanks, but a lot of our boys are involved, too. Anyway, my Stan reckons once Okinawa falls – all these strange blooming names – the Allies’ll be straight in to flatten the rest of Japan proper. You’d think that after seeing Dresden, the Japs’d blooming realise they’re beaten and give in.’

  ‘They’re a strange people, so they are. Brainwashed into believing they should die fighting rather than surrender, even when the odds are totally against them. And have you heard about these young kamikaze lads they’re calling them? Crashing their planes onto the Allied warships. Or at least trying to. They say they’re virtually all shot down before they can do their worst. I don’t know. All of it such a waste of young lives.’

  ‘Yeah.’ Eva gave a deep, wrenching sigh. ‘Our Mildred ain’t heard from her Gary for a while. She don’t say nothing, but that’s our Milly for you. Putting on her usual happy face. Yeah, terrible thing, war.’

  ‘Well, I’ll be praying to Our Lady that her young man comes home safely,’ Bridie said, standing up. ‘It’s been nice having a chat even if we don’t have as much to be happy about as we might’ve done after all the celebrations. Thank you for the tay, and for all the babby clothes and things you got for us.’

  ‘Not at all,’ Eva smiled, seeing Bridie to the front door. ‘And I’ll get the menfolk to take a look at that wheelchair for Ron.’

  ‘Thanks, Eva. It’d make a real difference to him. See you again soon. And feel free to pop round to us, too, whenever you want.’

  ‘Thanks, Bridie, I might take you up on that,’ Eva winked. ‘Ta-ta, then, ducks.’

  Bridie turned to wave as she covered the few yards to her own front door. A good sort was Eva Parker. Bridie had the feeling that if she knew the truth, she’d be horrified at what had happened, but no way would she turn against them as others had. Bridie hated lying to such an honest soul. Not only did it go against her beliefs, but it would be such a relief to confide in someone outside the family. But for Cissie’s sake, her lips remained sealed.

  *

  In the front room of Number Twelve, piano music was floating from the gramophone. Cissie was standing, one hand resting on the back of the chair, as she began the exercises to warm up her muscles. The time-honoured routine started with a demi-plié, full plié, rise and lower in each position with the appropriate port de bras, then turning to repeat on the other side. A series of battements followed, working through tendus, soutenus, retirés and frappés, all performed en croix. One of Cissie’s favourites was battement fondu, a sinking or bending of the supporting leg while performing a développé with the other. Years of training, of precision, of control, allowed her to carry out the movements with intuitive perfection, and yet every cell of her mind and body was lost in concentration. Concentration that blotted out the anger, the bitterness and frustration. The pain.

  Illogical resentment speared into her brain each time the record came to the end and it whirled round and round, the needle gliding over the soundless grooves in the centre. Cissie stepped across to replace the stylus at the beginning, her teeth gritted. How dare it interrupt the soft enchantment that swallowed her torment and allowed her to be free, to breathe again? But a second later, the gentle, inspiring tones of the music were filling her head once more, and she let herself sink into the passion that was her salvation.

  There was a rough order to follow, building to the more extended, more difficult exercises. Grand battement en croix, raising the working leg to the front as high as it could go, then lowering it back down to fifth position. Repeat to the side, closing behind, repeat to the back, and then again to the side, closing in front. As always, back like a broomstick, hips square, legs turned out from the hip and straight as a die. Weight over th
e little toes of the supporting foot, working foot pointed and turned out as it soars through the air. Free arm fluid as it swoops through the accompanying port de bras, head turning, inclining or rigidly straight. Pulling her into some glorious world where nothing existed but grace and beauty and achievement, all else forgotten.

  Damn. The music had ended again. She needed to get stronger. Her leg wasn’t reaching the height it used to. Her hips needed to regain their old flexibility, the muscles in her back no longer of steel. Battement cloche would stretch them out, her leg swinging back and forth with the momentum of a bell. She’d change the music, a different rhythm. Perhaps something stronger would help.

  On again, pushing and pushing. Her hips still didn’t feel right. It had to come back, that sensation that she could fly, that her legs could reach any height she demanded of them. Grand battement en rond. That was always the test. Raise the working leg to the front, rigid as an arrow, to hip level or higher. Then sweep it, fully extended and at the same height, all the way to the side and then through to the back. That transition from seconde to derrière was the ultimate struggle, as was the return.

  Yes, it was good. But it wasn’t good enough. Not for the principal dancer of the Romaine Theatre Company. Perhaps her mum was right. That she wasn’t ready yet. But she needed it, to be herself, to be whole again. And this chair was useless. She needed a proper barre to work on. To be able to stretch her joints, to get back to where she was. And maybe then she’d find peace.

  There was only one answer. She would finish the punishing regime she was putting herself through. She would wash and change. And then she would go to the call box and telephone the studio. If there was a class or rehearsal in progress, they might not hear. There might be no one there. The company toured the capital, after all. It didn’t have its own permanent theatre. But as soon as she could, she’d be back in the studio. She had to be. Or else she’d go mad.

  Fifteen

  ‘Cissie!’

  ‘Oh, you’re back!’

  ‘We’ve missed you! Are you better now?’

  A chorus of welcome greeted Cissie as she walked into the dance studio. Her former colleagues, most of them female, left off their preparations for the class and hurried over to hug her, some with only one shoe on, the ribbons neatly about the ankle, others with the ties of their wrap-over cardigans trailing to their knees. A lump rose in Cissie’s throat at the warmth of their friendship. She’d missed them so much more than she’d realised.

  ‘It’s so good to be back,’ she managed to tell them, trying to conceal her deep emotion. And then guilt snapped at her heels as she said, ‘And yes, I’m much better now, thank you.’

  But was it truly guilt, or was it shame at the lie that dug its teeth into her? But she had to lie. Not everyone might understand, and she didn’t want to feel shunned by anyone, not in this, the only place where she might find salvation.

  ‘Ah, Cissie, ma chérie, it is so good to have my little star back!’ Monsieur Clément, the dance master, strutted across the studio. The girls at once stood back, allowing him to reach Cissie. His face, with its oiled and twirled moustache, was beaming like a polished apple. He took Cissie’s hands, brought them up to his lips and then kissed her on both cheeks for good measure. ‘Mon Dieu, you still look a little pale. You must only do a little work at the barre. We must build you up slowly. We do not want any torn muscles that will take months to heal.’

  ‘I’ve been doing a lot of work at home,’ Cissie assured him. ‘So it’s not as if I’ll be starting from scratch. But I’ve only got the back of a chair, not a proper barre to work with. And I haven’t got much room, either.’

  ‘Well, you are returned to the right place.’ Monsieur Clément nodded his head like a puppet. ‘But I will not allow you to overstrain yourself before you are ready. Now, mes jeunes, prepare yourselves for class. Vite, vite!’ he commanded, clapping his hands.

  ‘So where did you go to get better?’ one girl, Jo, asked as Cissie went with them to finish changing. ‘An aunt of mine was sent to a sanatorium on the Isle of Wight. But she was there three years.’

  ‘I was lucky they caught mine early. They sent me to Devon. On the edge of Dartmoor. It was beautiful. The air was so clean, it smelt different. That’s why I got better so quickly.’

  The lies tripped off Cissie’s tongue so easily that she inwardly cringed. But then she spied Sean emerging from the gents’. Dear Sean, whose idea the deception had been when she had been so broken.

  ‘Sure, isn’t it my little bird!’ he grinned, coming over and lifting her from her feet. ‘Wasn’t I over the moon when I heard you were flying home.’

  Yes, that was just how she felt. That she was coming home to the nest where she felt safe and secure. There were only four other male dancers. All the rest were girls. But every one of them wanted to welcome her back, all except one, who just nodded at her.

  Cissie didn’t care, though. She was there to dance, to let the old euphoria froth up inside her, to transport her to that other world where nothing else existed.

  The class went on for nearly two hours with a couple of short breaks – and Monsieur Clément constantly ensuring she wasn’t overdoing it. When they finished at the barre and came into the centre, it was as though Cissie’s soul broke free. Her body swayed and bent and lilted like a flexible doll, arms floating through the air when a grand port de bras was incorporated in an enchaînement. She twirled across the studio in a string of posé turns, spun in a whirlwind of elation as she executed eight ronds de jambe en tournant and soared like a bird with the three grands jetés en tourant that she could fit across the diagonal of the studio.

  Monsieur Clément clapped his hands, his face split in a grin of adoration. ‘Ma petite Cissie, you have lost nothing of your grace. But that is enough. You will please go to the barre and do some gentle exercises to calm the muscles down while the rest of us continue. After our long break, perhaps you will stay to watch our rehearsal? It will help to exercise the mind and the spirit.’

  Cissie didn’t protest. Despite her work at home, it hadn’t been quite the same, and she knew she had done enough on her first day back. She went off meekly to the barre, her heart drumming with happiness. For at last, she was home.

  *

  ‘Sure, you’re as good as ever.’

  When the class was over, Cissie waited with Sean as he changed his shoes and pulled on some clothes over his dance wear. They were a little apart from the others, who respectfully kept their distance. They all knew Cissie and Sean had a special relationship and needed some time together.

  ‘And are you fully recovered now?’ he asked, raising a sceptical eyebrow. ‘It hasn’t been that long.’

  ‘Long enough. And I needed to come back.’ Cissie felt her pulse accelerate. She had to ask. ‘And you’re sure no one knows?’ she quizzed him, lowering her voice.

  ‘Not even Monsieur,’ Sean assured her under his breath. And then his flecked, green eyes fixed on her face. ‘You know, we could’ve done what I suggested. Said it was—’

  ‘And who would’ve believed it?’ Cissie gave a wry smile that spoke also of amusement and fondness. ‘You’re an angel and a good friend, Sean. But that wouldn’t have been right.’ Sean blinked at her, almost sadly. But before he could say anything, she went on, ‘I understand Deirdre’s been partnering you while I’ve been away?’

  ‘She has so. And that probably accounts for the sour expression on her face. None too pleased to see you back, I don’t suppose. She’s good. But she’s not as good as you and she knows it.’

  ‘Yes, she was the only one who didn’t give me a hug.’

  ‘Ah, my two little doves.’ Monsieur Clément interrupted their conversation as he padded up to them. ‘I wish to talk to you. It will take two or three weeks to build up your stamina, I think, Cissie. But come to class every day and I will decide how to work you back into the performance. Perhaps I will create for you a solo that will be beautiful but not too tiring. We will
put our heads together, no? I promise we will revive Tristan and Isolde, but not yet. I think first, a pas de deux a little less strenuous when I feel you are ready. I am thinking “Rhapsody in Blue” perhaps?’

  ‘Oh, yes.’ Cissie nodded thoughtfully. ‘That’s a lovely piece of music. It’d be a bit different.’

  ‘And a little more moderne, perhaps,’ the dance master beamed. ‘So, we have a plan. Bon. Now then, Deirdre, come here if you would,’ he called across the studio.

  Cissie watched the other dancer come over to them. She didn’t look too happy. But Monsieur Clément reached out and took her hand to silence her.

  ‘Deirdre, you have been wonderful filling in for Cissie. But she and Sean belong together. There is magic in their dance. So, when she is returned to full strength, she will dance with him again in our main pas de deux. But do not worry. I create a new role for you, yes? You will still be a principal dancer, but I will choreograph solos for you instead. Now, off you go. Rehearsal begins in one hour.’

  He trotted away, chivvying the chorus dancers as he made for the door. Cissie turned back to Sean, feeling happier than she had since… She’d begun to think she’d never be happy again. But perhaps she would, after all.

  ‘Shall we be getting something to eat in the café round the corner?’ Sean asked.

  But before Cissie could answer, Deirdre poked her nose forward, face as dark as thunder. ‘I suppose you think that’s fair?’ she spat.

  Cissie blinked at her, shocked to the core, as Deirdre spun on her heel and stomped away. Cissie stared after her, disbelieving. The girl should think herself lucky. At least she hadn’t been…

  ‘Take no notice of her,’ Sean advised. ‘Can’t I see the little green monster inside her?’ he attempted to joke. ‘Sure, she’ll come to her senses when Monsieur creates something wonderful just for her. Come along now, and let’s find what we can to eat.’