Echoes of the Dance (3 page)

Later, after Mim's telephone call, he had a more complete picture of Daisy Quin. It had been clear from the beginning, Mim told him, that Daisy's career was more likely to be bound up in dancing than in acting or singing, yet she'd been the best all-rounder the school had ever had. It was Mim herself, once so single-minded, who had encouraged Daisy to extend her talents: to develop a wide area of expertise to fall back on if something should go wrong. Nobody knew better than Mim how very vital it was to be flexible in the precarious world of dance.

After the accident, a friend who ran a successful stage school persuaded Mim to join her. She knew that Mim's name would attract even more pupils and she promised that the dancing classes would be Mim's own special province.

‘You can see for yourself,' Jane West had said bluntly, ‘how important it is to be versatile.'

Now it seemed that Daisy might have to be versatile too. Roly had said as much to Mim.

‘Yes . . . ' she'd answered – but she'd sounded vague, as if she was searching for something just below the surface of her thoughts. ‘There's an idea – nothing I can quite grasp yet. Daisy was different: rather special. I need to see her again.'

Roly had made no attempt to press her – he knew Mim in this mood – yet the conversation increased his curiosity and he realized that he was looking forward to meeting Daisy Quin.

CHAPTER THR E E

Daisy Quin woke early on Friday morning. She could hear the blackbird singing in Henrietta Park – Pavarotti of the Park she called him – and the crying of the gulls as they drifted upriver. As she stretched sleepily, carelessly, the sharp pain knifing in her back and down her leg seized her anew with an awareness of her vulnerability and fear. The physiotherapist was by no means able to reassure her how fast, or even how total, her recovery might be and her short-term contract had expired at the end of the rehearsal period. Now it was the old story for the dancer: no performance, no fee.

She edged stiffly out of bed, sitting for a moment on the side of it and stretching cautiously, and then went into the kitchen to make some tea. They'd been so lucky, she and Suzy and Jill, to find this flat in Henrietta Street. During the last two years she'd made herself very much at home in Bath and the prospect of having to leave it was grim indeed. Especially just now. . .

Daisy took her mug to the window and gazed down into the street. She was by nature an optimist and she struggled valiantly with the twin devils of misery and depression, refusing to dwell on the dismal results of her disastrous fall during rehearsal six weeks earlier. Instead she thought about her forthcoming journey to Cornwall, smiling with gratitude when she remembered Mim's sympathetic reaction. She sipped her tea slowly, watching the splashy patterns of sunlight in the blossom of the trees in the park, and all the while conscious of a small car parked beside the kerb.

She almost missed him when he came out. Suddenly he was there, below her on the pavement: briefcase in one hand, his car-keys in the other. He opened the door, hesitated, and then turned to cast a swift look upwards. She almost ducked out of sight, suddenly fearing that he'd think she was watching out for him – ‘Well so you are,' she told herself – but, instead, raised her mug as if in salute. He lifted his hand in response, climbed into the car and drove away.

She drew back from the tall sash-window, feeling both elated and slightly foolish. After all, they barely knew each other.

‘I'm your new neighbour,' he'd said as they'd arrived in the hall together one evening towards the middle of March. ‘Paul Maynard.'

‘Daisy Quin,' she'd said, liking him at once. He had very dark hair and his eyes were bright and quick. Everything about him was quick: his gestures, his movements, even the way he talked.

‘Hello, Daisy Quin,' he'd said. ‘Are you first floor or second floor?'

‘First,' she'd answered. ‘With Suzy and Jill. We're dancers with the Upstage Dance Company.'

He'd looked so surprised that she'd laughed at his expression.

‘Someone has to do it,' she'd joked – and he'd laughed too.

‘I love the dance,' he'd said. ‘What fun. I'm settling myself in so as to be ready to take over the Art Department at Beechcroft School next term. Lots to do. See you later, Daisy Quin.'

He'd opened his door and vanished inside so quickly that she'd felt oddly bereft. Indeed, had it been anyone else she would have considered it almost ill-mannered, but there was some quality about Paul Maynard that made her certain that no rudeness was intended. She'd gone on her way thoughtfully, unable to put him out of her mind. It was odd, too, that she didn't mention him to Jill or Suzy. She couldn't quite bring herself to make the usual jokey observations about their new neighbour that would have been normal under the circumstances but, instead, waited to see if either of them met him by chance.

Neither of them mentioned him and then, a few days later, she saw him again in Argyle Street. She'd stopped at the florist on Pulteney Bridge and her arms were full of tulips; as she paused at the kerb, waiting to cross, she found him suddenly beside her. He smiled delightedly, as if she were the one person he was hoping to see.

‘Daisy,' he said. ‘How nice! And what gorgeous flowers.'

‘Tulips are my favourites.' She smiled back at him, foolishly glad because he'd remembered her name, confused but so pleased to see him. ‘Especially this dark rich purple colour.'

‘In that case,' he answered at once, ‘I think we should go to Bar Chocolat and have something delicious, don't you? Your flowers will match their décor so perfectly.'

She was surprised at this impulsive invitation but his ease of manner and complete naturalness made refusal seem immature and boorish.

‘It's one of my favourite places,' she admitted, ‘but I have to ration myself. The toasted coconut fudge ice cream is to die for.'

They crossed the road together, pausing to read the words on the blackboard outside – ‘Who says only pigs like truffles?' – before going into the little café. Sitting at the small round table, with Daisy's tulips laid carefully on one of the purple and chrome seats, they studied the card that told them that the drink of the month was iced orange and geranium chocolate.

‘Well, who could resist that?' asked Daisy contentedly. ‘Are you an orange and geranium man, would you say?'

He grinned at her. ‘I am now.'

They laughed and suddenly she was seized with an uncharacteristic fit of shyness. Looking at him more closely she could see now that he was probably thirty-five – a good ten years older than she was – and she guessed that his ease of manner was all part of a sense of rightness with himself. He wasn't overbearingly self-confident, he was simply himself and happy to be so. He ordered their drinks and then began to talk about an exhibition he'd seen at the Holburne Museum; he was so unaffected, so utterly natural, that her awkwardness quickly passed and she was able to relax.

Afterwards, they walked back to Henrietta Street and he left her in the hall with the same abruptness she'd witnessed at their first meeting.

He was absent for nearly the whole of April, no sign of him or his car, and she guessed that he was away for the school holidays. Then, early one evening as she was letting herself in after a gruelling session with the massage therapist, he appeared beside her at the front door. As she passed before him into the hall, he saw at once that all was not well.

‘What's up?' he asked. ‘Been working too hard?'

She grimaced miserably and explained the problem: the accident in rehearsal just after their last meeting, the diagnosis, how she'd been dropped from the company's three months' European tour. Her natural optimism had sustained a grievous blow that she was unable to hide and his sympathy was genuine and wholehearted.

‘That's terrible,' he said. ‘You must feel absolutely gutted. And I was going to ask you if you'd like to come to the ballet at the Theatre Royal at the end of the month. The last thing you'd want to do now, I should think.'

‘Have you got tickets for the Royal New Zealand Ballet?' She was jolted out of her misery. ‘Oh, I should love it. I was expecting to be abroad so I never booked and now it's sold out.'

‘A friend of mine can't make it and gave me a couple of tickets.
Romeo and Juliet
, isn't it?'

She took a deep, happy breath of delight. ‘It's a new production choreographed by Christopher Hampson. He's fantastic and it's had the most amazing reviews . . .'

Words failed her and he smiled at her enthusiasm.

‘Then I'll take that as a “yes”. I'll let you know which evening it is when I've checked the tickets. And I'm really sorry about the accident and everything.'

He took out his key, gave her a smiling little glance and vanished. Once again she experienced the sensation of being abandoned; the warmth he spread so comfortingly around her twitched away suddenly as if a blanket had been pulled from her shoulders. She slowly climbed the stairs, depression held at bay by the definite prospect of seeing him again, trying to analyse her feelings. He was so . . . friendly? No, that wasn't quite the right word here. He seemed so
accessible
– a sense of real intimacy was so swiftly established – and yet as soon as he was gone she felt that no real progress had been made. It would be impossible, for instance, for her to go back downstairs now, bang on his door and invite him up for a drink. Why? It seemed that, without her being aware of it, Paul Maynard had already laid down certain rules for their relationship: he might invite her to the Bar Chocolat and to the ballet but not into his flat.

This was at the root of her confusion: it would have been so natural to have said, ‘Come on in while I look for the tickets,' or something like that. Instead there had been another charming brush-off; the quick smile, the little wave, and he'd disappeared. Perhaps the flat was still in a muddle – after all, he hadn't been in very long – or perhaps he was in a rush to go out again or had work to do.

‘Next time,' Daisy promised herself, ‘I'll invite him up for a drink.'

She wondered when ‘next time' might be, knowing that the Royal New Zealand Ballet was due in Bath at the end of the month: three weeks away. Briefly she wished she hadn't accepted Mim's invitation but common sense soon reasserted its hold. It would be crazy to take it all too seriously.

Two days later she found a note folded small on top of her letters on the shelf in the hall downstairs. It read: ‘Friday 28th May at 7.30. How about a 7 o'clock start? Come down and bang on the door when you're ready. P.M.'

She hoped she might see him to confirm the plan but decided to scribble a note in return anyway: ‘Seven o'clock is fine. Looking forward to it. Daisy.' After a few moments' thought she added: ‘Away in Cornwall for a week from Sunday.'

She reread his note several times, thinking that to sign himself by his initials was rather formal, but all the while she was aware of a deep-down stirring of excitement.

Now, on this bright spring morning, watching his car pull away from the kerb, Daisy wondered if she was falling in love with him.

CHAPTER FOUR

She'd decided to hire a car for the trip to Cornwall. It was an extravagance but she simply couldn't endure the prospect of uncomfortable hours on the train: at least, if she drove herself, she could take regular breaks. This was to be her regime for the foreseeable future: plenty of rest interspersed with gentle stretching exercises to give the torn tissue the chance to heal. Daisy groaned with frustration. Moderation was not something she practised in her daily round; she was generous, enthusiastic, given to impulsive activity. Being careful did not come naturally to her and restraint was boring. Until now, her energizing drive had been channelled into her work: beginning at eight years old at the stage school, continuing amongst other things as a backing dancer for a music video, a stint as one of the six dancers in
Phantom
and for the last two years with the Upstage Dance Company.

She'd been working with a young director and choreographer, Tony Henderson, who was developing his own techniques with modern dance rooted in classical ballet. He'd begun to single her out, working with her on exciting new ideas, and slowly they'd begun to explore the relationship that was developing between them; uncovering the secret core that was an essential part of their joint talent. He'd try to convey the creative process in his head with a gesture – sometimes even a drawing – to which her body would respond with a series of movements. She had no overview, no concept of what potent, inexplicable images he was seeing, but together they would build the piece, always giving and receiving each to the other. Sometimes they'd argue: ‘That's not the right step,' she might say, frowning as she searched for some particular movement. ‘Like
this
. . .' She'd demonstrate, totally absorbed in finding the perfect expression of the idea, whilst he'd watch critically.

‘Who's the choreographer here?' he might ask from time to time – half amused, half irritated – and she'd have to bite her tongue.

Daisy tore her mind away from the thought that Jill would be dancing those roles in Paris and Prague and concentrated instead on the visit to Cornwall. It would be so wonderful to see Mim again. It was two years since Daisy had made a guest appearance at the stage school's celebrated Christmas Charity Matinée and, though she always kept in touch with cards and the occasional telephone call, she was looking forward to spending time with the woman who had been such an inspiration to her. After all, Mim knew what it was like to be in this particular position, although she never talked about it. By the time Daisy started at the stage school the story was already a legend, hidden all about with secrecy and mystery. There were several versions of the cause of Mim's injury. One story was that a taxi driver had run over her foot by accident whilst she was taking her luggage out of the car; another related that the taxi driver had actually dropped a very heavy case on her foot. Either way, the damage was such that Mim could never dance properly afterwards.