Hester's Story Read online

  She couldn’t understand how someone like Claudia Drake, who’d been so good, could let herself go on dancing when she wasn’t really up to it any longer. She was too old. That was the truth, and it was brutal, but far more bruising than giving up forever must surely be trying to regain her youthful glory and failing.

  The trouble is, Silver thought, stepping into the shower and turning it on as hard as it would go, she believes her own publicity. That’s dangerous. If the papers tell you you’re a star and a beauty and can do no wrong loud enough and long enough, it must be easy to believe it. Not me, though, she thought, wrapping herself in a towel and going back into the bedroom. I try to make a point of not believing anything except the evidence of my own eyes, my own body, where the work is concerned.

  She’d been uncharacteristically nervous during the audition she did for Hugo Carradine. She didn’t normally pin her hopes on things. Roles were frequently offered to her without her seeking them, but this was different, she had thought as she stepped out on to the stage and looked into the darkened stalls. She could just make out the pale oval of Hugo’s face.

  ‘I’m going to do the first act solo from The Bells of Paradise, which I’ve just finished dancing at the Sadler’s Wells.’

  ‘That’ll be fine,’ Hugo’s disembodied voice answered her. And it was fine, because he’d offered her the part of the Angel, but she’d had the distinct impression that he was a little underwhelmed by her performance. It wasn’t anything he said, but Silver couldn’t help thinking that he was not one hundred percent bowled over by her dancing, and that irritated her.

  The small flat she shared with Gina wasn’t the most luxurious place in the world, but Silver was fond of it. It was a vast improvement on the two-up, two-down in the grotty suburb of South London where she’d lived as a child. That was only a couple of steps up from a slum. The streets she’d grown up in were dingy and unattractive, with not a tree to be seen. There was a small park nearby, but the trees and shrubs there had an air of exhaustion about them, as though producing every leaf and flower had been a huge effort. Silver’s dad worked as a lorry-driver and was often away. When he did come home he was worse than useless, sitting around in front of the telly for the most part, and hardly taking any notice of her. He loved her well enough, but rather in the way you’d love an exotic pet, a cockatoo or something. He treated her gingerly, as though she might bite, or behave suddenly in ways he didn’t understand.

  Her two brothers, both older than she was, petted and spoiled her but they didn’t understand her either. Her name was her own invention. She’d been called Sylvia at birth, but Silver was how she always said it, from when she was tiny, and the word had suited her so well that she’d never felt the need to change it. No one could resist the urge to muck about with it. She tolerated Lone Ranger jokes, and was almost used to ‘Silly’ – the name that the younger of her brothers always called her.

  When she’d insisted on going to a local ballet class, she’d had to put up with a hell of a lot of teasing. Her brothers started it, mimicking her first tentative steps and chortling at their own daring and originality, leaping about in football boots and making what they thought of as ballet movements with their hands. Mum used to shoo them out of the room sometimes, to protect her.

  Her mother had been delighted that she had at least one child for whom she could buy ballet shoes and other pretty paraphernalia. Even though the money had been tight, she somehow seemed to find the best bargains from the most unlikely places – market stalls, catalogues, charity shops. Whatever she had to go without (and looking back Silver could see that she probably had had to make sacrifices – you never noticed such things when you were a kid) Mum was determined that Silver would be properly kitted out. And, Silver thought, she loved having to knit crossover cardigans in sugary colours like pink or lilac. She even enjoyed sitting in on the class in the draughty church hall where Miss Valerie tried her best. Now her mother was the one who cut out all the bits from newspapers and magazines; who came to watch her dance, who took pride in what she’d achieved. Thank God for Mum, Silver thought. And Miss Valerie too. She hadn’t been much of a teacher, but she did realise that I was different, and it’s thanks to her that I ended up at the Royal Ballet School.

  From White Lodge in Richmond, Silver had gone on to dance small parts and then more important ones, and meanwhile she had grown away from her family. It wasn’t that she didn’t love them, but she felt that she had less and less in common with them. This made her feel a little guilty whenever she thought about them. She didn’t visit them often enough and, although her mother came to see everything, Silver knew she didn’t spend time with her when she did, but treated her only as a rather privileged member of the audience. Thoughts that she should make more effort came to her regularly, and she vowed to do better soon, but somehow there was always the next ballet to be rehearsed, and then the next, and the schedules were punishing. But she could phone. Or write. She sat down at the dressing-table and said aloud, ‘I will. It’ll be my New Year’s resolution. To be a better daughter. A better sister.’

  She sighed, and turned her attention to putting her make-up on. It was a process she relished, because it meant creating a public face, a mask for the world to look at. No one would have believed her if she’d told them, but Silver was unconvinced of her own beauty, and felt she needed to create it. I’m different from what they think I am, she told herself, smoothing on foundation.

  She loved the names given to all the shades of makeup. This cream was Porcelaine and, as well as blending in perfectly with her skin, it conveyed the right image – delicate, pale and unblemished. From the first time she’d appeared on a stage, she knew that this was how you escaped from yourself. In exactly the same way that she put on a face to dance in, Silver invented a person to be: a smooth, well-groomed, elegant, silvery sort of person to go with her name.

  The transformation happened when she was eighteen. At the time, she was living in a pokey room above a launderette, but she had started to buy her own clothes for the first time. Her mother watched, horrified, as she went through everything that was still hanging up in the cupboard in her old room and threw everything on to the bed as though it were so much rubbish.

  ‘What’s got into you, madam?’ said her mum. ‘One minute in that fancy ballet school and living away from home and all this gear’s not good enough for you, that it?’

  ‘No,’ said Silver mildly. The more her mother spluttered and fumed, the quieter she became. She’d been doing this since she was a little kid, saying nothing or nearly nothing, which always calmed Mum down. It was quite hard to keep up a heated argument if the other person wasn’t joining in. ‘I’ve just decided that I don’t wear colours any longer.’

  ‘You don’t wear colours. Right. Silly me. I thought colours was all there was, but you probably know better.’

  ‘I mean colourful colours, red and blue and stuff. I’m going to wear white, black, grey and beige from now on. And silver of course, for parties.’

  ‘Hmmph!’ said Silver’s mum, looking cross and bemused. ‘What are you going to use for money to buy new clothes? That’s what I’d like to know.’

  ‘I won’t need to buy much at first. I’ve got quite a lot of stuff in those colours and I’ll just add to it, bit by bit. From markets and charity shops and things. It’s amazing what you can find if you know what you’re looking for.’

  ‘And what am I supposed to do with this lot?’

  ‘Take it down to the Oxfam shop or something,’ said Silver. ‘I don’t care what you do with it. I just know I don’t want it.’

  ‘Maybe Maureen …’

  Silver looked away to hide her smile. Maureen was her cousin, two years younger than she was, and twice as fat around the waist. Should she point out that Maureen had about as much chance of fitting into her clothes as an Ugly Sister did of getting into Cinderella’s shoes? No, I’ll shut up, she decided. Let Mum find out when she takes it all over there.
/>   Silver blinked and returned to the present. She frowned into the mirror. The ‘strictly no colour’ plan had worked well for a number of years, but nowadays she did sometimes add a splash of something here and there for special effect. There was the apricot velvet shawl which she wore with her black silk dress; the moss-green and emerald and turquoise scarves she sometimes tied around her neck or hair, and the satin dress she’d packed to take to Wychwood for the first night party, in a red so dark that it was almost black.

  Pale lipstick today, a pinkish shade called Si la rose. I’m innocent, she smiled into the mirror. I’m a good girl. I’m going to meet everyone quite soon. I’m hardworking and conscientious. She had three other lipsticks in her bag and one of them, she knew, made her look like something out of a horror movie, a rather attractive ghoul, perhaps. It was almost black and she wore it on occasions when she needed to be strong. Magic wands, that’s what lipsticks are, she said to herself and was pleased with that description. Had she seen it in an ad somewhere? Maybe, but it was still quite right even if she hadn’t thought of it herself.

  A last look in the full-length mirror showed her that she had been transformed into somebody who was ready to meet people and walk about in the world. She took her coat from the hanger in the cupboard and left the room.

  As she ate her breakfast, she thought about winter. Most festivals happened during the summer, but Wychwood was different. She wondered whether there would be snow on the moors all around the house. Her first starring role had been as Clara in The Nutcracker when she was only just fifteen and that was a wintry ballet, with a set that included specially designed snowflakes which glittered as they drifted down from the flies in the theatre and settled in her hair. ‘A magical début’ said the papers and more than one couldn’t resist ‘A star is born.’

  Silver smiled and took a sip of coffee. She never minded a cliché when it was also a compliment. She’d gone on to dance almost every major role in the last nine years. Odette/Odile was her favourite; the one she was born to perform. One review had specially pleased her. You couldn’t often say that about a critic, but this one knew his onions all right. She had whole paragraphs off by heart. The bit she liked best compared her to Hester Fielding:

  Not since Hester Fielding’s legendary Odette/Odile of 1959 has there been a performance of the role to match McConnell’s. She brings to the double part not only the elegance we expect, but also the almost superhuman power that is the special quality of real swans. She combines grace and poignancy with the hard-edged glamour needed in the dramatic shift of the dual role. It’s hard to imagine that she isn’t partly a bird. Astonishment is the only possible reaction. Astonishment and wonder.

  Since accepting the part of the Angel in Sarabande, she’d wondered about the wisdom of taking more than three weeks out of her diary to dance in front of such small audiences for ten consecutive nights. Other choreographers, especially Jacques Bodette, who was waiting for her to finish at Wychwood before beginning rehearsals for Sellophane in G, tried to talk her out of it. But she wasn’t going to pass up the chance of staying in Hester Fielding’s house, of meeting her and dancing in front of her. For years, she’d been watching Miss Fielding’s performances on video, over and over again. Her copies of Swan Lake, Giselle and Sleeping Beauty were almost worn out because she’d played them so often. She had been quite honest with Bodette and he’d understood perfectly.

  ‘Naturellement,’ he’d said. ‘No one would refuse such an invitation. I envy you, ma petite. La divine Hester Fielding …’ He shrugged his shoulders as if to say, what can you do?

  Gina, her flatmate, was now sitting opposite her, tucking in to a plate of cereal.

  ‘You nearly ready?’ she said. Gina was a chaotic blonde, who had trouble adapting to the strict discipline of the ballet. ‘I hope you’ve packed a nice thick sweater. Yorkshire’s sure to be freezing cold.’

  ‘God, you’re a cheery soul this morning! I’m off now. Bye!’

  Silver leaned over and kissed Gina goodbye. Then she picked up her suitcase and began to carry it down three flights of stairs to the front door.

  *

  Claudia changed gear and sighed. She and Alison were driving to Wychwood House and she felt quite disoriented. Anyone would, on a journey into a place where there was nothing to see but moors and more moors (ha! ha!) and only the occasional sheep to break the monotony. It wasn’t exactly raining, but misty droplets of water seemed to hang in the air and make everything around slick and moist and chilly. How typical of Alison to pretend to be asleep and leave her with no one to talk to.

  ‘Darling, you’re not sleeping, are you?’

  ‘I was trying to. What’s the matter?’

  ‘Nothing, only I wanted to ask you something. Something about Hugo. Do you mind?’

  Alison sat forward and sighed. ‘Go on then.’

  ‘Did you notice anything different about him, the last time you saw him?’

  ‘When was that?’

  ‘Honestly, Alison, don’t be obtuse! Just before he went off to his dad’s. The other day.’

  Alison was silent for a few moments and then said ‘Right. He was a bit glittery, I thought.’

  ‘Glittery?’

  ‘I don’t know how else to describe it. He was excited. His eyes were all shiny and, well, glittery. Is that all you wanted to say? Okay if I go back to sleep now?’

  Claudia nodded absently. Glittery. Yes, that was quite right. He was excited about something, and it was probably that young McConnell girl he’d managed to persuade up to the wilds of Yorkshire. A bit of a feather in his choreographical cap, that was.

  She tried to recall the whole conversation they’d had, she and Hugo, as she lay in bed by herself watching him (already up and dressed in his usual black trousers and black polo neck) throw things into his suitcase. At the start, when he’d been incapable of tearing himself away from her for even the shortest time, they’d have stayed in bed together for as long as possible. Going off to his poor old widowed father for a few days wouldn’t have got him up so early and so enthusiastically. It was her, Claudia was sure of it, though she had no proof. Silver McConnell. Hugo couldn’t stop talking about her.

  Everyone in the ballet world had been doing nothing but talk about Silver McConnell for the last couple of years. Claudia had followed every review, every interview. It wasn’t that she was envious of her success (I’m a star, Claudia told herself repeatedly – I wouldn’t change places with anyone), but her youth was something else. Silver had danced Odette/Odile in Swan Lake last year at Sadler’s Wells and people were still saying how amazing she’d been in the part. Hugo must have seen her then and decided to try and get her for Sarabande.

  Claudia had made it her business to visit him straight after Silver’s audition. Hugo was very excited, that much was clear.

  ‘She’s really fantastic,’ he told Claudia. ‘Just right for the Angel.’

  ‘Where did she get the name Silver from? It’s surely not what she was born with,’ Claudia said.

  ‘No, she was called Sylvia but never could say it properly when she was a kid. Called herself Silver and it sort of stuck. And now it suits her perfectly. She is very silvery. You’ll see when you meet her.’

  ‘I’m a bit surprised, actually, that our paths haven’t crossed before.’

  ‘She’s been in Paris with the Opera Ballet there. And yes, she is very eye-catching. She was dressed entirely in black and white. Stunning silver earrings, like flashes of lightning, hanging down. White neck, with a very gracefully poised head. Very good skin. What she looks like is a rather stylish portrait of herself in black and white.’

  Claudia remembered how he’d smiled. There had been something about his mouth – not exactly a smile just a small, satisfied look that was there and gone before you could fix it properly in your mind – and what it said to Claudia was he thinks he’s found a new star. Be sensible, she said to herself. You are the principal dancer in the Carradine Company. This was
quite true, but there was a tiny voice speaking in her mind, a voice she couldn’t quite ignore, saying the unthinkable: You might be past it as a dancer. Silver McConnell is very young. She’s the new prima ballerina everyone’s talking about. She’ll be at the Festival. What if Hugo brings her into the company permanently? What future will there be for you then?

  No, Claudia told herself, I must try to be positive. I shan’t worry about Silver. She’s going to do something with Bodette when the Wychwood Festival is over, and once she’s with him the Carradine Company will seem very unglamorous in comparison. I’m not going to worry about the dancing. Not yet. She resolved to banish any idea that she might not be able to do her part justice, any fear of being past her best. These things had been troubling her more and more recently, but she wouldn’t allow them into her head today. I’m a prima ballerina. I’m a star. I will think of Hugo, who’ll be waiting for me. And besides, she thought, I’ve had all those calls asking me to consider modelling. At least four magazines in the last six months had tried to persuade her to come on what they called a shoot, with nothing but the best photographers in attendance. The clothes will look divine on you, Miss Drake. Do say yes … This was a surprise to her, as she thought models had a shorter working life even than dancers, but she’d been assured that her fame as a ballerina would more than make up for her relative maturity.

  That was a nice way of putting it: relative maturity. They probably mean, she thought, that I’m on my way to being a wrinkled old crone. Still, the body was slim enough to be a clothes horse and that, plus her reputation (she was always in the gossip columns of one paper or another), would more than compensate for not being eighteen years old. She’d had to refuse these people, naturally, but it was comforting to know that there was someone out there who wanted her, and would still want her, even when she was no longer dancing.