Born to Dance. Jean Ure

next,” said Miss Lucas, “we have a scene where the little boy is walking along the road, scuffing his feet, miserable because he can’t do anything to help his little sister.”

      I nodded. I could scuff my feet! And kick things. Little boys were always kicking things.

      “I think probably,” said Miss Lucas, “that both this scene and the one with the fox—”

      I had a moment of horror. Please, please, I thought, don’t ask me to play the part of a fox!

      “I can see you looking worried,” said Miss Lucas. “You’re asking yourself, how do we portray a fox? I’m sure it can be done. There’s a girl in Year Six—”

      Oh, I thought. Lucky her!

      “Anyway, as I was saying, I think those two scenes should both take place in front of the curtain. What do you think?”

      Like I was some kind of expert! I said, “Yes, that’s an excellent idea. Cos they’d be street scenes.”

      “Exactly.” Miss Lucas looked pleased. “I thought we could get the art department to paint a suitable backcloth … houses, shops. That kind of thing.”

      “That would be really good,” I said.

      “It would, wouldn’t it? We obviously think alike! So, there’s the little boy, wandering along, when suddenly he catches sight of something in the gutter … what can it be?”

      “The fairy?” I said.

      “The fairy! Poor, wet, bedraggled fairy. To cut a long story short,” said Miss Lucas, “he rescues her, takes her back with him. Mum helps clean her up, even manages to make her a new skirt and mend her wand, while the little boy uses silver foil to turn an old abandoned umbrella into … guess what? A Christmas tree! Such a wonderful surprise for his little sisters when they wake up on Christmas morning! ‘Is she really ours?’” whispered Miss Lucas. “‘Can we keep her?’ Mum assures them that they can. So, all ends well for everybody! The little girls have their Christmas tree fairy, and the Christmas tree fairy has a new family to love her. What do you think?”

      She looked at me, eagerly. I struggled to find something to say. To me it seemed a bit … mushy. Like when I’m forced to eat something I hate, such as Brussels sprouts, just to take one particularly loathsome example, and I smash them all up with the potatoes and the gravy so that Mum accuses me of making a mush. Miss Lucas’s story was a mush! All soft and squishy and kind of yuck. But she was so pleased with it! She was so happy!

      “Of course,” she said hastily, “there will be other scenes. I thought maybe in the penultimate scene – that is, the next to last, before we have the little boy and his family waking up on Christmas morning – I thought it might be nice to show the rich little girls having a party. They could invite all their friends and show off their new expensive fairy, but oh, dear!” Miss Lucas rolled her eyes. “These rich little girls will squabble so! They all want to be the one to put the fairy on the tree. They end up quarrelling so badly that their mother has to come in and put a stop to it.”

      In that case, I thought, I’d like to play one of the little rich girls. The oldest one. I already saw her as being very bossy and snatching at the fairy and jumping on a chair so she could reach the top of the tree. But then maybe one of the others would grab at her and pull her down and they’d end up fighting and pulling hair and scratching. Yes! I could turn her into a really spoilt brat.

      “Well?” Miss Lucas was waiting anxiously for me to say something.

      “It sounds really good,” I said. “Which part did you want me to play? Shall I be the oldest sister?”

      “Oh, Maddy, no!” cried Miss Lucas. “You’re our little dancer! What I want from you, I want to have a dance interlude between the acts. It would be after the poor fairy’s been thrown out. She’d be so sad. So very sad! She’d remember the old days, when she was young and the girls loved her. She might even do a few steps, trying to recapture the magic of her youth …”

      Miss Lucas made a frail gesture with one arm. Her head drooped, her shoulders sagged. She looked a bit like Anna Pavlova in The Dying Swan. I fought back another surge of giggles. I’d promised Mum I’d behave myself! And it wasn’t fair to laugh just cos I thought her idea was mushy. My only fear was how much more mushy would her dance interlude turn out to be?

      “Naturally—” she suddenly snapped back into brisk, teacherly mode “—it would be entirely up to you. I wouldn’t want to interfere. You would have complete freedom. I’m sure you’re a far more capable choreographer than I am!”

      I blinked. “You want me to make up my own steps?”

      “Oh, Maddy, could you?” Miss Lucas clasped both hands back to her bosom. (I say bosom as it is only polite, though in fact she is so skinny she is like a tube.) “That would be really wonderful! You’re so much more advanced than you were last year. I couldn’t possibly do justice to your talents! But of course,” she added, “you must ask your mother. If she thinks it’s too much, you must say so. I know how busy you are, with your lessons.”

      I wasn’t as busy as all that. I could find the time. But I did so wish that just for once I could play a speaking part! Maybe I could get Mum to say she’d rather I didn’t take on any more dance assignments but wouldn’t mind if I was one of the spoilt sisters.

      “So, what do you think?” said Miss Lucas.

      I promised that I would ask Mum. “I’ll see what she says.”

      This time I waited for a good moment. Mum had taken her last class of the day and was back home, with a glass of wine and her feet up. Sean wasn’t there cos he was at the theatre, and Dad was on his way to New York to mount a production of ZigZag, one of his most popular works, for the New York City Ballet. I had Mum all to myself. I just wanted her to agree that it wouldn’t be sensible for me to take on any more work. Dancing work.

      “Cos, you know, having to do all the choreography … I couldn’t properly give it my full attention.”

      “Why not?” said Mum. I said, “Well, I mean …” I waved a hand. “What with classes and everything.”

      “What’s everything?” said Mum.

      “Practising. Ports de bras, like you said! And schoolwork. I have to do some schoolwork.”

      Mum said, “Maddy, you have the very minimum amount of schoolwork. It’s one of the reasons we sent you there, so you’d have plenty of time for your dancing.”

      “But classes!” I wailed.

      “Two a week plus Saturday mornings? That’s nothing! When I was your age,” said Mum, “I was leaving home for a seven o’clock class every morning.”

      “Not when you were eleven,” I said.

      “I would have done,” said Mum, “if it had been asked of me.”

      “Well, anyway.” I flopped down at the far end of the sofa. Mum hastily transferred her glass from one hand to the other.

      “Just watch what you’re doing, Maddy! You’re supposed to be a dancer … Gracious. Poised. Not hurling yourself about like a baby elephant.”

      “Sorry.” I could already sense that this was not going to go well. “Thing is—” I picked at a bit of sofa which seemed to be coming loose. “Thing is, it’s a really soppy storyline! I just don’t know what I’m supposed to do with it. It’s about this—”

      “Stop!” Mum held up a hand. She never has much patience with what she calls “moaning and carrying on”. “Whatever it’s about I’m sure you’ll find a way to deal with it. It’ll be good experience for you.”

      “It might be,” I said, “if I wanted to be a choreographer.