The Summer We Danced. Fiona Harper

I woke up the next morning, I sat up and tickled Roberta under her chin. She’d crept up on to the bed during the night as she often did and had tucked herself into the hollow made as I slept on my side. She looked up at me and I looked down at her.

      ‘I know this is daft,’ I began, ‘but I really think I need to just pop down to the dance school this morning, check that Miss Mimi’s okay and see if there’s anything I can do.’ I paused for a moment. ‘Good idea or bad idea?’

      Roberta kept staring at me.

      ‘Great! Knew you’d say that.’

      I jumped out of bed and went to find something comfy—and warm—to wear. Who knew if the heaters were back on again? That hall could be horribly draughty.

      I decided that it was probably better to get down there as early as possible, so I didn’t bother with toast, only a cup of tea, which I tipped into a travel mug, thinking I’d just slip along to the Apple Tree Cafe when I was finished and get something healthy, like a pot of bircher muesli or some porridge. Not a pastry. Definitely not a pastry.

      When I edged the hall doors open I could hear piano music and the timbre of Miss Mimi’s voice, still clear and strong after all these years. I hesitated in the vestibule, wondering if I should just turn around and sneak away, but something kept me there. The same something caused me to push open the inner doors and slip inside the hall. I owed her this, because I’d let her down once before when she’d been relying on me.

      ‘Philippa!’ Miss Mimi exclaimed and paused her instructions on doing the perfect plié to sweep across the room towards me, a vision in orange and pink, her long gold chains clinking musically as she walked. ‘How can I help you, dear?’

      ‘Actually, I thought I’d pop by to see if you needed any help,’ I said.

      Miss Mimi beamed at me and reached out a papery hand to pat my cheek. ‘You were always such a kind girl,’ she said, warmth lighting up her eyes, ‘but we’re all perfectly fine, aren’t we, girls?’

      The dozen or so eight-year-olds lining up against the barres and mirrors against the far wall nodded, their eyes wide, but I saw the way their lean little bodies were quaking under their thin crossover cardigans and how some were even trying to clench down on chattering teeth. It was then that I realised, despite my coat and big woolly jumper, that the hall was perishing. The only person who didn’t seem to notice it was Miss Mimi, whose arms were bare from the elbow down and who was wearing only a colourful sheer wrap over the top of her leotard and skirt.

      I touched my cheek, suddenly remembering the iciness of her fingers there. The information had arrived late, the sensation momentarily overridden by the warmth of her smile.

      I looked up to the ceiling. The old-fashioned globe lights that hung down on metal poles were unlit and every time the wind hit the windows at the far end of the hall, they rattled noisily.

      ‘Miss Mimi, did the electricity come back on?’

      She waved her hand dismissively. ‘Oh, I’m sure it will sort itself out soon enough.’

      I looked over to the other side of the room. The little girls had given up pretending they were holding their places on the barre and were now hugging themselves. Two or three of them had huddled together in a group.

      I stared intently at Miss Mimi, trying to work out how to respond, and then the strangest thing happened. She kind of went out of focus and went back in again, and when she was sharp and clear once more it was like I was seeing a completely different person. I realised I hadn’t properly looked at her since we’d met again.

      Oh, I’d taken in the changes of twenty years, noted the new lines on her face, the thinner limbs, but it became clear that I’d been looking at my old dance teacher through the lens of my teenage self, the Pippa who’d worshipped her mentor, who’d thought she was eccentric and charismatic and wonderful.

      Of course, Miss Mimi was all those things still. It was just that thirty-seven-year-old me could see other things too, things that only living with a man who thought he was Peter Pan could teach a person. It shocked me that I hadn’t seen the similarity between them before, that magical ability to reshape reality into their own design, to ignore the things they didn’t want to see.

      ‘Miss Mimi,’ I said softly. ‘You can’t teach in here without electricity. It’s freezing.’

      ‘Pff,’ Mimi replied, looking very French, as she had a tendency to do when she thought she knew best. ‘You should have been backstage at the Palladium in December. It was twice as cold as this back in the fifties. A dancer has to learn to be hardy, to deal with all conditions.’

      ‘But these aren’t dancers,’ I said softly. ‘These are little girls, and I doubt their parents will appreciate it when they come home from ballet with hypothermia.’

      Miss Mimi stared back at me, her gaze strong and determined, but then I saw something shift behind her eyes, a subtle ‘click’ of agreement. ‘Okay,’ she said. ‘Perhaps you’re right.’

      She walked away from me and over to her students. ‘Girls! We’re going to stop for today. You may get your clothes back on and come back and sit on the floor in front of the stage.’

      All twelve of them scurried off to the little dressing room at the back of the hall.

      ‘Do you have phone numbers for their parents?’ I asked. ‘We might as well get hold of them and tell them to come back early.’

      ‘Oh, Sherri keeps all that sorted for me,’ Mimi said breezily. ‘I’m sure it’ll all be in the office somewhere.’

      I pulled my mobile out of my pocket. I didn’t know what kind of phones were in the office, but if they were the kind that needed to be plugged in, they were going to be about as useful as the ancient caged-in heaters that hung from the walls of the main hall.

      When we got to the office, though, I had a shock. In the back of my mind I’d been expecting a cosy little nook, the walls filled with photographs of Mimi’s glory days and memorabilia, maybe an old armchair with a shawl draped over it in the corner, opposite an old leather-topped desk. What I saw was indeed small, but not at all cosy.

      Papers and folders were balanced precariously on every available surface and lay in piles on the floor. The photos and keepsakes might have been around somewhere, but they were buried by the unending stacks of clutter. I took one look and went straight back out to the main hall.

      ‘Hi,’ I said, smiling at the girls, who were all looking a little bit worried as they huddled together on the floor, their bags at their feet. ‘I’m Pippa. A long time ago I came here and did dance lessons just like you.’

      A girl with a perfect blonde bun and a pinched expression looked me up and down, then wrinkled her nose. I knew what she was thinking: How on earth did one of us turn into that great tub of lard? I ignored her and carried on. New Pippa didn’t react to things like that. She was comfortable in her own skin, however large it was.

      ‘Anyway, as you can tell, there’s no heating and no lights, so we’re going to have to call your mums and dads and get them to come and get you early. Who knows their home phone number?’

      Five or six of them put up their hands. The rest just looked worried.

      ‘Never mind,’ I said as Miss Mimi rejoined us, ‘we’ll work something out.’ And I began tapping a number into my mobile as one of the girls recited it to me.

      In the next ten minutes we managed to dispatch almost all of the girls. Some had parents who passed the message on and a couple more took turns in doing lifts, so managed to drive away with two or three. That left two students sitting on the hall floor, fidgeting with their coat zips.

      And then there was one.

      ‘Ursula’s mum never gets the time right,’ Miss Mimi explained as the penultimate girl skipped out the door. ‘Either she’s twenty minutes late or twenty minutes early for pick up. Thank goodness it was the