Echoes of the Dance (4 page)

The odd thing was that she'd been able to translate her wonderful gift into inspiring children to dance. Even at eight years old, Daisy had seen at once that Mim wasn't like the other ballet mistresses – she rarely taught a class alone – her magic lay in instilling some kind of ardour, a passion to stretch further, to jump higher, to give that tiny bit extra for her.

Daisy smiled, remembering the tiny pulse of excitement that would shudder through the class when Mim put her head round the studio door. Dressed always in soft, fluid materials of dark, subtle colours – forest green, indigo blue, charcoal grey – and wearing neat leather ankle boots that were supple as dancing slippers, she had a style all her own.

‘Come, my darlings,' she'd say with a wicked smile, ‘you can do better than that.'

Oh, how true it was: how high they sprang, how they arched their feet and injected some extra grace into their arms. Breathing hard, beaming back at her with delight, they strived to win that special smile or the touch of her hand placing the head, lifting an arm.

‘Well done, my darling. Oh, that's perfect . . . now on you go – and one – and two – and three' – and she'd be gone, the door closing quietly behind her.

At the beginning of a dress rehearsal a chair might be placed beside the piano and then a delicious rustle of nervous excitement would ripple around the assembled pupils: ‘Madame's coming to watch!'

She'd sit quite still, unobtrusive but potent, and each one of them would drag their performance up a notch, no matter how exhausted they were or how much their muscles ached or their feet hurt. That shining smile and the little gesture she made to indicate approval – hands held high to clap lightly – were worth any amount of pain.

‘My darling Daisy! How terrible!' she'd cried, when Daisy had telephoned.

She'd listened carefully to Daisy's troubled story and had immediately suggested the trip to Cornwall.

‘I'm going down for a short break and it would do you so much good to have a rest right away from Bath. You simply mustn't sit there moping alone. Anyway, Roly would love to meet you. I'll ask him to send you directions. I'm simply hopeless at that kind of thing and we're rather hidden away.'

He'd done better than that: he'd telephoned.

‘I'm so glad that you can get away,' he'd said, as if it were she who was conferring the treat. ‘Mim's often spoken of you. Now how would it be if you took down some directions? Got a pencil?'

Getting from the A38 onto the A30 sounded very simple but shortly after he'd talked her past Launceston and onto more local roads she'd begun to laugh.

‘Help!' she'd said. ‘I'm lost already. I've got it all down but if I could have your telephone number I'll put it into my mobile and then you can rescue me if need be.'

He'd chuckled too. ‘If you can get a signal,' he'd warned. ‘Don't worry. I'll send you a blow-up of the local map and you'll be fine. Can you manage short walks? . . . You can? Then don't forget your walking boots.'

He'd done just as he'd promised. Each small road, crossroad and lane along her route was inked with red, leading all the way to the edge of the moor and the ford. Attached to the map was a drawing: an enlarged section of the lane over the ford and the house itself. He'd drawn himself and Mim waiting outside with several dogs in attendance: two retrievers and a small brown person that she'd identified as a dachshund. She'd laughed with pleasure at the little sketch: it captured Mim to the life – elegant, eager – and, if this tall man with a mane of white hair and the small dog in his arms were Roly, then she was very ready to love him too.

She packed her case and gathered her belongings, watching all the time for the return of the little car, listening for a ring at the doorbell. There was no sign of Paul. By Sunday morning the car had not returned and, assuming that he'd gone away for the weekend, she set off for Cornwall feeling oddly disappointed.

On the whole she managed very well, following Roly's instructions, recognizing odd names from their conversation: Kennards House, Pipers Pool, St Clether. Once she'd turned off into the quieter roads she drove slowly, delighted with the variety of the countryside that was unfolding around her. Here, in this tiny village, the sheltered cottage gardens were full of flowers, next moment she was passing over a wild heath where the silently turning sails of a wind farm transformed the landscape into a strange, bizarre world. One minute she glimpsed the sea, the next she'd plunged into a deep narrow lane sunk between high banks of thorn and furze. A board stuck in a hedge advertised a bank holiday fête: the attractions included a flower festival and duck racing.

‘
Duck
racing?' Daisy rolled her eyes. How did one race ducks? She had a mental picture of a group of Jemima Puddle-Ducks racing along a track on their yellow webbed feet, quacking madly. She shook her head, dismissing such a crazy idea, and stamped painfully on the brake as a pheasant ran out in front of her. She followed it slowly whilst it zigzagged to and fro along the lane until it rocketed suddenly upwards with a clatter of wings and vanished over the hedge.

She drove on, taking one or two wrong turns but, with the aid of the map, she got herself back on the right route and it was with a sense of triumph that she passed through the ford and pulled into the yard.

Only one dog was waiting for her – one of the retrievers was lying in the sunshine – but it gave her a moment to savour the charm of the old barn and the beauty of its setting. As she climbed rather stiffly out of the car she could hear barking from somewhere inside and almost immediately a man came through the open doorway, the two other dogs at his heels. Daisy recognized him at once from the drawing.

They smiled at each other: his handclasp was warm and firm and she saw a resemblance to Mim in his smile.

‘I made it,' she said triumphantly, as if she'd passed some kind of test. ‘It's taken much longer than it should but I've stopped every hour to walk about a bit. Thanks for the map. I certainly needed it. What a simply heavenly place this is.'

‘We like it.' He gestured towards the dogs. ‘This is Uncle Bernard. Don't be fooled by his size. He's top dog here. This is Bevis and this is Floss. Her owner died and I'm fostering her until we find her a home.'

‘Oh, poor girl,' cried Daisy, bending down to stroke Floss, who received the caress gratefully. ‘How awful for her. She's lucky to have you, though, isn't she?'

‘She's settling down very well and I'm hoping that an old friend of mine will be interested in her. She's coming over tomorrow to have a look at her. But I've got some rather disappointing news, I'm afraid. Something's cropped up and Mim won't be down for a day or two. It's nothing too serious, I understand. Someone has twisted an ankle and the understudy has developed tonsillitis. I didn't quite take it all in, but Mim's got to stay until everything's sorted out. I'm so sorry.'

‘Well, I'm just so sorry that poor Mim's got problems,' answered Daisy, ‘but don't worry on my behalf. Shall I be a nuisance?'

‘Of course not. I'll show you the stable flat and you can get settled in. I'll be making some tea if you'd like some but you'll find all that kind of thing in the flat if you simply want to rest.'

‘Rest?' Daisy grinned at him. ‘How do you spell it? I need some exercise after all that sitting and I'd love some tea.'

His smile was so like Mim's that she felt that she'd known him for ever.

‘Tea first,' he agreed, ‘and then we'll walk the dogs a little way up on to the moor, if you feel up to it. Let me take that big case.'

He led the way up the flight of stone steps and she followed him, full of eager anticipation, whilst the dogs sat in a semicircle at the foot of the steps and waited patiently for their return.

CHAPTER FIVE

The flat was charming. A tiny lobby, with some pegs and space for gumboots, opened into a square living room that had a window on to the yard and another looking up to the moor behind the stable. The rough stone walls were washed a warm yellow and two comfortable sofas faced each other across the room, one beneath each window. A small wood-burning stove sat on a slate hearth with logs in a big basket to one side.

‘This is just so nice,' declared Daisy. ‘And you've lit the fire for me.'

‘It can be a chilly little place,' admitted Roly, ‘and it's not summer yet by any means. We converted the stables in the seventies when our father died and it's a bit rough and ready by modern standards but our friends like it. Through here is the kitchen.'

He led the way beneath an arch to the left of the stone fireplace into a small kitchen and, passing through another tiny lobby, opened the door into the bedroom.

‘I hope you'll be comfortable.' He put her case on a chair. ‘There are extra blankets in the chest and the bathroom's next door. I'm sorry that Mim isn't here to welcome you. She was so looking forward to it.'

She followed him back through the flat to the front door.

‘Honestly, you don't have to apologize. I quite understand. I remember those traumatic moments very clearly. The whole place in an uproar, last-minute rehearsals, costumes being altered and everyone panicking. Everyone except Mim, that is. There's a kind of still centre inside her, isn't there? Something right deep down that nothing can ruffle.'

He stared at her, surprised at her perception.

‘That's absolutely true. Even after the accident . . .' He paused, shocked at himself. He never talked about that ghastly moment to anybody.

Daisy was watching him with a kind of compassion.

‘How terrible it must have been,' she said gently. ‘I'm only now beginning to realize
how
terrible.'

He glanced at her quickly. ‘I hope it won't be nearly so final for you,' he said.

‘I hope not, too.' She felt a great need to reassure him; to see him smile again. ‘I have to be patient. Take things gently.' She grimaced, self-mockingly. ‘I can't tell you how dreary that seems. I am so utterly
not
patient.'

She'd succeeded: the smile flashed out and she laughed too.

‘I shall keep an eye on you,' he warned her. ‘Come over when you're ready.'

He went down the steps and the dogs stood up, tails wagging expectantly.

Daisy looked down at them. ‘Will you lend me a dog?' she asked. ‘You've got three, after all. Surely you could spare just one of them?'

Roly pretended to consider and then shook his head. ‘Can't be done. Uncle Bernard believes the flat to be beneath him socially. It wouldn't be fair to let Floss get too fond of you, she'll be moving on soon, and Bevis has a hang-up about going up stairs. Sorry, Daisy.'

She shrugged philosophically, waved a hand and went back inside to unpack. Roly crossed the yard, feeling surprisingly light-hearted. He'd been anxious about Daisy's arrival since Mim had telephoned, wondering how he'd cope with a girl in her situation. However, one look at that narrow clever face, with its slanting honey-brown eyes, had shown him courage and humour; her ease of manner had done the rest.

It was odd that someone so young had recognized and appreciated Mim's quality of inner serenity. It was their mother's gift. He pushed the kettle on to the hotplate and wandered out through the French doors into the wilderness garden. It was here that he remembered her best; pruning, weeding or simply standing quite still with her hands pressed against her breast – and, just occasionally, her face so full of sadness.

When he is small, he cannot bear to see her look so sad. He shouts to her across the garden, determined to chase away such an unhappy look, and feels a great relief when her eyes brighten and she waves to him.

‘Hush,' she says, ‘you'll wake Mim. Come and give the fish something to eat.'

He loves to feed the fish: to see the soft blunt mouths sucking at the bread. He watches, fascinated, as those bright shapes that flicker and flash amongst the weed become braver; swimming up, so sinuous, so quick to snatch the food.

Others are slower: the huge carp, Old Black and Big Blue, drift slowly upwards and gently mumble the crumbs of food into their mouths. If he moves too suddenly they turn with a great smack of their tails that sends ripples flowing across the pond.

‘Look, Mother,' he says, wide-eyed with surprise. ‘See the tiny ones,' and he crouches down to watch the cloud of small black fish that cruise in the green and gold depths.

‘Babies,' she says, smiling. ‘Lots and lots of fishy babies.'

They stand together watching the busy pond skaters who walk on the taut surface skin of the pond, casting fantastic shadows on the floor of it, whilst a dragonfly perches on the edge of a lily pad; its wings vibrate and tremble at such speed that they shimmer like bronze filaments in the sunshine. He is aware of several sensations: the heat under the trees, the feel of her hand on his shoulder, the microscopic world within the shimmering pool and the rich scents all around him.

He wants to hold this moment for ever but he knows that it is already passing: that Mim will wake and it will be time for tea. He can hear the kettle singing on the range.