Darcey Bussell Favourite Ballet Stories Read online

  The prince stared out of the photograph; a proud young man with dark hooded eyes, high cheekbones, and a mass of unruly black curls, and he seemed to be boasting, ‘I am the best in the world.’

  He must have been famous, for some of the photographs were of him with famous people – and one even showed him bowing before the Queen.

  Then Kit saw Mr George. He was in his wheelchair in the bay window, half hidden by the curtain, his head bowed down on to his chest and his eyes closed.

  ‘Mr George?’ Kit whispered nervously.

  The old man looked up, nodding slowly. ‘Come, come!’ he said in that strange voice.

  ‘I, er . . .’ Kit held out the letter. ‘This is yours,’ he said. ‘It came to us by mistake.’ He went up to him tentatively.

  Mr George took the envelope with a quivering hand. However, the look he gave Kit was not old and bleary, but suddenly awake, sharp and scrutinizing.

  ‘Where are you from, boy?’ he asked. ‘Do I know you?’

  ‘Yes, sir, I mean, no, sir. I mean, I live downstairs.’

  ‘Ah yes, downstairs!’ The old man looked at the letter in his hand and his thoughts seemed to drift away. Kit backed towards the door behind the curtain. ‘Goodbye,’ he said and quickly left.

  It was some time before Kit had the dream again – but when it came, it was just as powerful as before. A dream so real, he thought he was awake.

  He heard music. Music which made him want to go on stage and hop and leap and skip. He leapt from his bed and crawled about on the floor looking for the trap door, but it wasn’t there. He shivered. He was awake. Kit reached for the bedside light. This was no dream. The music was real, and it came from upstairs. He looked up at his chandelier. It was trembling, and now he was sure he could hear other bumps and thumps and creaking sounds. Perhaps Mr George had fallen and was trying to get help.

  Bare-footed, he crept to his door and opened it. A dim night-light glimmered in the hallway. The red-carpeted stairway rose into the shadows above. Step by step, he climbed and reached Mr George’s door. He stood there, listening, wondering if he should knock. He raised a hand, but saw the door was open. He saw a light and stepped inside the lobby. He peeped round the curtain and almost cried out loud with shock.

  It was his dream. There was the huge stage with the row of dazzling footlights; a black void swept out over the pit where an orchestra played, and out into the dark auditorium packed with rows of people. He could just see their rows of heads, and caught the glimmerings of hundreds of eyes.

  The stage was set, as in his dream, like a crystal wood.

  Through the great mirror at the back of the room Mr George’s flat was reflected, shimmering with crystals, white and flashing with rainbow colours from glass twigs and branches which crisscrossed the room. It seemed to stretch on and on to a shining lake in the distance.

  On the edge of the lake he saw the ballerina, a sylph all in white, swirling as she danced. A prince sped after her down the path. It was the prince in the photograph, with billowing cloak, leather hunting boots and bow in hand.

  The music in the pit below the stage grew louder; its rhythms made Kit’s feet flex and tap in time. He wanted to join in. The prince reached the sylph, flung off his cloak, then, as if to show off in front of her, began to dance. His dance was proud; his dance was wild. He leapt high and clicked his heels, he sprang round her like a stallion, twirling and spinning, yet never losing his balance, and when he had finished, he bowed before her and kissed her hand. She laughed and clapped – but then suddenly, the ballerina saw Kit.

  Her eyes widened as they stared into his. She pointed at him. The prince turned, his hand on his dagger, and began to advance towards him.

  Kit had the strangest feeling that with every step, the young prince grew older and older, and more and more hunched and twisted. He shook his head as if in despair and stretched out a hand. Panic-stricken, Kit let drop the curtain and backed out of the door. He fled down the stairs two and three at a time, and flung himself, panting, into bed.

  The chandelier was swaying furiously, but the sound had ceased. Kit lay back, his heart still thudding. He watched the chandelier till it finally stopped trembling, and hung still and frozen. It was nearly dawn before he slept.

  The next morning, Kit was woken by a commotion. The sound of a vehicle drawing up; voices in the hallway. The chandelier above his head swayed vigorously as several feet pounded to and fro.

  ‘What’s going on?’ Kit went into the hall and looked up the stairwell to Mr George’s flat. Then he saw the stretcher being carried out by two men in uniform. Kit sprang up the stairs. ‘Are you ill, Mr George?’ he cried with alarm. The two men tried to keep him back, but Kit bent over the old man, who lay there with his eyes shut.

  ‘Mr George?’ Kit whispered.

  The old man opened his eyes. His lips moved. He wanted to say something. Kit bent lower to hear.

  ‘Go to the wood,’ Mr George said in a voice so soft Kit had to bend even closer. ‘She’s waiting. You’ll have to take my place. You will go, won’t you?’

  Then the ambulance men whisked him away.

  That night he heard the dancing music. He sat up in the darkness, wide awake. He didn’t leap into the centre of his bedroom and look for the trap door. He knew the music was coming from Mr George’s flat upstairs. He slipped out of bed and out into the hall. He climbed the red-carpeted stairs till he reached the first floor and stood before Mr George’s door.

  Surely it would be locked? He tried the handle. The door swung open.

  He stood behind the thick velvet curtains. He could hear the music coming from a great distance. With trembling hand, he pulled aside the curtain. But he was surprised; disappointed even. There was no stage, no crystal wood. Mr George’s flat was just as it was before, with its bare floorboards, one chair and table and one upright piano; and, of course, the photographs of dancers and ballerinas round the room.

  But where was the one of the prince holding the beautiful drooping sylph? Strange. There was a picture of a sylph, who arched forward on one leg into a deep arabesque, while her other leg stretched out beneath her long flowing white dress – but she was alone. The handsome, haughty prince who had supported her had gone.

  The music got louder. The harp strings echoed with a long trickling glissando. The ballerina in the photograph spun round and stepped out of the picture frame and, as she did, the whole room was transformed into the crystal wood.

  The ballerina was looking for someone. She ran here and there through the trees, looking everywhere. She ran to the edge of the stage and looked out into the black void beyond the footlights. Where was the prince?

  Kit looked at the photograph. It was a blank. The frame was empty.

  The ballerina returned towards him, her arms outstretched. ‘Dance with me,’ she pleaded with her dark eyes. He took her hand – and suddenly, he was dancing.

  At breakfast, the next morning, Kit’s mother glanced through the newspaper, before bundling all of them into the car to get to school and on to work. ‘Oh!’ she said with a sad sigh.

  ‘What?’ asked Kit.

  ‘Ivan Gregorski died yesterday. He was very old. He used to be my pin-up when I was a young girl! He was a wonderful dancer. I used to dream of being a ballerina. I wanted to grow up and dance with Ivan Gregorski. ‘

  Kit looked at the photograph. It showed a young man, with a haughty, regal look. He had glowering eyes and a broad brow, an unsmiling mouth and a narrow long nose. His hair was dark, and unruly with curls . . . and he seemed to be saying, ‘I am the greatest!’

  It was Mr George.

  That night, Kit awoke to the sound of music. He looked up at his chandelier. It trembled as if a wind blew through its crystals. Upstairs, he knew the ballerina was waiting for someone to dance with her. ‘Take my place,’ old Mr George had begged.

  Kit leapt from his bed, the music making his feet twitch and his muscles flex. ‘Yes! Ivan Gregorski,’ he whispered. ‘Yes. I
’ll take your place.’

  Mega-Nuisance

  by Geraldine Kaye

  ‘PADDY, YOU SHOULD shut your mouth when you’re eating,’ Rosalind said crossly. ‘I don’t want to see all your chewed-up liver and bacon, thanks very much.’

  ‘You know he finds it difficult, Rozzy,’ Mum said gently. ‘Especially now with this awful cold and his nose stuffed up, poor little chap.’

  Rosalind said nothing. A seven-year-old brother like Paddy who was all hugs and kisses, who needed it? she thought.

  ‘Your audition tomorrow, isn’t it?’ Daddy said as if her bad mood needed explaining. ‘Don’t let it get to you, poppet. It’s not the end of the world if you don’t get in.’

  ‘I know,’ Rosalind said out loud but secretly she thought it would be the end of the world. She had been thinking about the audition, working towards it, ever since she had done her first ballet exam and Miss Reid had put her into the acceleration class for gifted pupils. In October she had got through the preliminary audition for entrance to White Lodge, the Royal Ballet School at Richmond. Now it was February and tomorrow was the final audition. They lived too far away for daily travel. She would have to board and the best thing about that was she would only have to put up with Paddy at half-term and holidays. If she got into White Lodge.

  ‘Wozzy?’ Paddy said, smiling widely as Mum wiped his face and hands and let him get down from his chair. He couldn’t say his ‘r’s properly. ‘Wozzy?’ He was beside her now, pulling at her skirt and staring up at her with his eyes like grey marbles. ‘Wozzy wead . . . ? Wozzy wead . . . ?’

  ‘Sorry,’ Rosalind said getting up. She kicked off her shoes and gripped the back of her chair and raised one leg to illustrate. ‘I’m busy, Paddy. I’ve got to do a barre tonight.’ She had to see to her pointes and her ribbons and practise her pliés but you couldn’t explain things like that to Paddy.

  Miss Reid had said her pliés could let down her whole enchaînement. Even the greatest dancers had stronger and weaker parts to their dancing, Miss Reid said.

  ‘Wozzy wead . . . ? Wozzy wead . . . ?’ Paddy said batting the book against her.

  ‘Oh, read to him for a minute while we wash up, there’s a love,’ Mum said. ‘You’re his favourite person, you know.’

  ‘Big deal,’ Rosalind said. He certainly wasn’t hers and she couldn’t pretend. She wasn’t good at pretending.

  ‘Wozzy wead . . . ?’

  ‘Oh, all right, mega-nuisance,’ Rosalind said, walking off to the sitting room. ‘Bring your book then.’

  How could you be fond of somebody you don’t like looking at? she wondered as he scrambled on to her lap and put his arms lovingly round her neck. A long time ago, alone in the sitting room with Paddy, she had held his lips closed between her fingers as if she could change him. Perhaps Paddy had wanted her to change him too because he hadn’t pulled away. He just stared at her with tears running down his face.

  He had been four then. She had been four when he was born. ‘Why is he so ugly?’ she had said, seeing him at the hospital for the first time. She was too young to know it was better not to say things like that. ‘Poor little chap, poor little boy,’ Mum had said, rocking him tenderly. Had she ever held her like that when she was a baby? Rosalind wondered.

  Afterwards, Daddy had explained that Paddy was a Down’s syndrome child, some people called it mongol. He would always have some trouble learning to do things, but he should be able to go to school and learn to read and write. Later he might get a job doing simple work. He was delicate too: he had cold after cold. His heart was damaged and his lungs didn’t work properly. They would all have to work hard helping Paddy to learn to keep his tongue in and his mouth closed. Daddy said there were many things Paddy would do very well, but he might take a long time to learn.

  Rosalind tried hard to be nice to Paddy like Mum was. But it was just too difficult. How could she bring friends home, for instance, with him in the house? Once she had heard girls in the cloakroom whispering, ‘Have you seen her brother? Well, he’s funny.’

  ‘He’s not funny,’ she had shouted, erupting through the thicket of coats like an avenging angel. ‘He’s Down’s syndrome, so there.’

  They had all gone pink and Tracey’s mouth fell open like a parody of Paddy’s. Well, it would all be different if she got into White Lodge. All her form were going to Hill Street Comprehensive next year and she need never see any of them again. And nobody from White Lodge need ever see Paddy, if she didn’t want them to.

  ‘Wead us . . . wead us . . .’ Paddy had opened the book and was snuggling against her. His fair hair still smelled of liver and bacon.

  His favourite story was The Tin Soldier by Hans Andersen and that was odd because it had been her favourite story too. The tin soldier was disabled with only one leg, she supposed, but he stood straight and true whatever happened, even when he was swallowed by a big fish. The tin soldier loved the paper dancer, and no wonder, Rosalind thought, she loved her too. The little dancer who stood on the mantelpiece was partly herself of course. But why did Paddy love the story? He wasn’t anything like the tin soldier who stood true and steadfast whatever happened, or anybody else in the story unless it was the fish with the big swallowing mouth.

  Still it was the story he always wanted read. Not that she really had to read it because she knew it by heart. She recited her way through while Mum and Daddy cleared the table.

  ‘Goodnight, mega-nuisance,’ she said as Daddy gave Paddy a piggyback upstairs to bed. They were both so good with Paddy, made such a fuss of him. Once she had tried to say something about it and Mum had said, ‘Well, of course . . . they didn’t think he’d survive . . . I mean we’re lucky to have him . . . we have to make the most of him while . . . because . . .’ She never finished the sentence, just blinked and added, ‘Oh, sorry, Rozzy dear . . .’ But it was clear what she meant.

  That evening Rosalind darned the toes of her pointes with pink silk more carefully than she had ever done before. Everything was ready for the next day but the night was full of restless, anxious dreams. Saturday morning was sunny, the sky a comforting Cambridge blue as Rosalind got dressed. Mum was going to drive her to Richmond.

  ‘Car?’ said Paddy, running to the door after breakfast. ‘Me come in car?’

  ‘You’re not taking him?’ Rosalind said.

  ‘Well, he does love the car so,’ Mum said apologetically. ‘Daddy’s going to take him to Richmond Park to see the deer while you’re having your audition.’

  ‘No,’ said Rosalind. Somebody might see him and nobody from White Lodge was ever going to see Paddy. ‘I’m not going then.’ She sat down in the chair in the hall. ‘If you’re taking Paddy, I’m not going.’

  There was a pause. Daddy and Mum looked at each other and then Daddy said, ‘Tell you what, we’ll go to the park here, Paddy, eh? Feed the ducks.’

  ‘Park with Wozzy . . . ?’ Paddy said looking from one face to the other uncertainly.

  ‘Better get going, you two,’ Daddy said crisply. ‘Good luck, poppet, I’m sure you’ll do fine.’

  ‘Thanks,’ said Rosalind. They set off. It was a two-hour journey and Mum didn’t say a word, but her lips pressed together said a silent selfish. And Rosalind couldn’t get Paddy’s disappointed face out of her head, which was really unfair, she thought, because she ought to be thinking about her pliés which Miss Reid said was the one thing which might let her down.

  She never really knew what happened. All she heard was a screech of brakes and then a stupendous crash and a jerk which flung her against her seat belt, then the side of the Mini caved in like toffee. A shower of glass and then blackness.

  She woke up in hospital. Daddy was there and her leg was hurting badly and so was her head.

  ‘What happened? Where’s Mum?’

  ‘Don’t worry, love. She’s quite all right. She’s at home with Paddy. Nothing but a few bruises. It was you who copped it, you’ve broken your leg.’

  ‘What . . . ?’ It
was dark outside. ‘What time is it?’

  ‘About seven o’clock.’

  ‘The audition . . . ?’

  ‘I’m afraid it was all over long ago,’ Daddy said.

  ‘Did I . . . didn’t I . . . ?’ She still didn’t know what had happened. She didn’t know anything except there was this terrible pain in her leg. And thousands of bandages.

  ‘The car was hit by a lorry,’ Daddy explained, taking her hand. ‘You’ve been concussed. Your leg was badly broken. They had to put a pin in it, bit of metal or plastic or something. But the doctor thinks you’ll be quite all right eventually. Probably not even a limp.’

  ‘Eventually?’ Rosalind whispered. How long was eventually?

  She stared at the pale grey walls of the women’s surgical ward. Everybody said she was very brave. At first the woman in the next bed tried to talk but Rosalind turned away. For a bit she wondered if she could have an audition later, next year say, they took people at twelve, didn’t they? But then Miss Reid came to see her and she shook her head. ‘Such a shame, this setback,’ she said, but a lifetime of teaching ballet had accustomed her to setbacks. She smiled at Rosalind kindly. ‘I daresay you’ll be able to go on with your grades later on,’ she said vaguely. She didn’t come again.

  Daddy or Mum came every day. They brought books and puzzles and things to do but Rosalind took no interest. She had no interest in anything. Going to White Lodge had been the first step to a ballet career and if she couldn’t take even the first step, she didn’t want to take any step at all.

  ‘You’re not dying, you know,’ the physiotherapist said quite irritably one day. ‘You really must try to work at your exercises or you won’t improve.’