Page 34 of Dancing Fools and All That Jazz

Fay

When I have finished helping Ingrida with her make-up, I add a few finishing touches to mine. The effect is rather marvellous; I look ten years younger. The red top, red combs in my hair, bronzer and lipstick all contrive to give me a wonderful, healthy glow.

My thoughts drift to Edith and I feel butterflies in my stomach.

I cannot believe she is here. And I cannot help feeing this is more than coincidence.

I no longer subscribe to any religious beliefs, thanks to Andrew, but maybe this was pre-ordained?

I find myself saying a silent prayer that it indeed be so.

It may be a few years since Edith and I were together, but the minute I saw her on the stage, there was no mistaking her.

My heart began to race and while I briefly acknowledged it could just be a strange coincidence of watching someone who was her spitting image, I needed no further confirmation when she took her first steps.

I know the way Edith dances. Her movements are ingrained in me.

She has always danced beautifully and today it was clear she is even better than she used to be.

Her performance was completely breathtaking.

I was so enraptured I could not concentrate on anything other than her movements and that of her dance partner.

At the end, when everyone in the auditorium burst into spontaneous applause, I found I was overcome with awe and pride.

It took a great deal of self-control not to tell Asha the reason for my attention, but I fear Asha takes an unhealthy interest in the affairs of others and does not know when to hold her tongue.

I was perfectly outraged when she gleefully told us the reason for Monica and Ruby’s fall out.

This is an extremely private matter, and in my opinion, it should not be bandied around as if it were a tasty morsel of inconsequential gossip.

I am relieved I did not explain to Asha my relationship to Edith.

The rest of the dance group would no doubt have heard it by now had I done so.

When Edith and her group had left the stage – they must have allowed them access from the wings due to them being barefoot – I began to wonder how I could approach her and more importantly, if she would be happy to see me.

I have scoured the competition information and the programme, so I have learnt Edith’s quartet is called Corps et Ame .

Ingrida says the name translates to Body and Soul.

Had I not witnessed their dance I would have thought this a somewhat overdramatic, bordering-on-pretentious name, but it is entirely suitable as they most definitely put every ounce of themselves into the performance.

In fact, it was a bit of a light bulb moment for me.

Clarissa said I needed to dance from the soul and up until that point, I had not truly realised what she meant.

It has made me resolve to give my dancing more than just the correct rhythm and steps.

I need to feel the music as Edith does. I am a little nervous to try this out, but I have rehearsed our numbers in my head using more expression, and I think I can elevate my performance.

Besides, Edith may be watching me from her dressing room, and I would like her to be as proud of me as I am of her.

I keep glancing up to the screen to see if she is on stage.

I could not bear to miss Edith dancing in costume.

My programme says they are on after our first dance, but I notice some of the other entries are not appearing in the planned order, so I keep checking the screen just in case Edith’s slot has been altered.

What a pity we cannot hear the music, as this would alert me if the “Fix You track started to play.

If Edith’s ensemble is indeed on after our first number, I have a plan.

I will stay in the wings and watch them close up.

I know we must get changed quickly for our next dance, but I cannot miss this opportunity.

It will only take a few minutes extra to linger on the side of the stage and watch my daughter.

The others will barely notice I am a little late back into the dressing room.

I think back to the last time I saw Edith.

It was way back before the pandemic. It is not a pleasant memory.

She had driven to my flat with some of my personal effects after I refused to go back to the family home, knowing Andrew had since installed his mistress there.

OK, not his mistress, as we were no longer married, but I was not going to set foot back inside that house now tainted by her presence.

Andrew had already delivered all my clothes and the items I insisted would be mine, like the crockery and cutlery we had accumulated over the years.

Why should I go to the extra expense of replacing these items when it was Andrew who wanted to end our marriage?

Edith made a final trip to bring over additional items Andrew thought I should have, including the photograph albums of when they were little girls. I suppose I should have been grateful for that.

I think back to our last conversation, which, like all our exchanges of the previous decade, was awkward and strained.

‘Would you like to come in and see the flat, Edith?’

‘I don’t think so, Fay.’

Edith and Bethan stopped addressing me as Mum quite a few years before. It was all part of their adolescent rejection of me, and I refused to rise to it. I will never give them the satisfaction of knowing how much this hurt.

‘You wouldn’t even let us into your bedroom at home. You’ve made it clear you have your separate personal space where Bethan and I are not welcome. So, I will say goodbye here from the outside, where I have always been.’

‘Edith, there is no need to be so melodramatic. This situation does not call for hysteria. I was merely asking you if you wanted to see the small flat in which I am now forced to live.’

‘Nobody forced you. Dad tried his best. It was you who turned your back on Bethan and I and then on Dad. You brought this on yourself.’

‘You always did have an overinflated sense of self-righteousness, Edith.’

‘I wonder where I got that from?’

‘Here we go again, rudeness and insolence. One day you will become a mother, Edith. And perhaps then you will realise the sacrifices and devotion I put into caring for you. I must say, all I ever wanted was the best for you and your sister.’

‘Well, you had a bloody funny way of showing it.’ Edith then turned on her heels and it was the last time I saw her. I confess I was on the brink of tears.

Over the past few years, I sent Edith and Bethan cards and money every birthday and Christmas. Annoyingly, I had to send them via Andrew, as I did not know where either girl was living. But I have not received a single message back. Most ungrateful. That was years ago now. I sigh.

In the last few days, I have had a recurring niggle that I may have been a little extreme in my reactions to my teenage girls.

Ingrida recently borrowed a book on parenting from my library.

When she returned it, I looked through the section of self-help guides to see what else was on offer and I found a book about adolescents.

After thumbing through its pages, I decided to bring it with me on this trip.

I read it on the train journeys here. It cited several scientific studies and the information contained within has left me feeling somewhat uncomfortable.

I thought I knew about the terrible teens everyone talks about, but I had not appreciated teenage children have a different chemical make-up in their brains to adults, to the point where belligerence and awkwardness are often a manifestation of hormone imbalance and over which they had no control.

It certainly made for interesting reading, and it has started me questioning if I had been a little too harsh on occasions.

I frequently wonder: if I had known my own mother or been raised in a traditional home rather than the orphanage, would I have been better prepared for the changes in my girls?

I consider the opportunity I now have with Edith here in this very theatre.

I had always envisaged being reunited with my daughters once they became parents.

Perhaps my new relationship with Edith will start before she is a mother.

I vaguely acknowledge she may already have a family, after all, I have had no contact for so long.

Although it would be disgraceful if Andrew had not told me if I had become a grandmother.

Perhaps I can make a connection with Edith using our common bond of dance? I give a little shiver of anticipation. She must remember it was I who instilled this love of dancing into her and her sister at an early age. I encouraged them to keep up ballet and just look at Edith now.

I can barely listen to the others gossiping in the changing rooms as all I can think about is Edith and the best way to approach her.

I had asked a few of the competition officials if they could direct me to the dressing room for Corps et Ame but they did not understand me.

Perhaps it was my attempt at a French accent.

I have never been proficient in foreign languages.

I admit it would be marvellous to be as fluent as Ingrida.

I was most grateful she acted as interpreter at the Charbon Hotel for our group.

I went on a foray down the adjoining corridors to look for Edith’s group, but I was unable to locate them in the rooms near ours.

There are over thirty dance troupes in the competition, and we are spread out over several floors – the place is quite a labyrinth.

However, on reflection, it is perhaps as well I have not stumbled into her yet as I need to prepare myself.

‘All right, Fay?’ Bonnie asks and I realise I have been looking in her direction but with my eyes unfocussed. ‘A penny for them?’

‘Sorry?’

‘Oh Lor, have I said that wrong? You just looked like you were far away.’

‘No, I mean, penny for your thoughts is the correct idiom.’

‘Who are you calling an idiot?’ Bonnie and Cath laugh out loud.

‘No, I said idiom not idiot…’

‘Only kidding.’ Bonnie smiles. ‘You look fabulous, Fay. In fact, we all look fabulous. Not long until we’re on stage.’

‘Less than fifteen minutes,’ Asha reminds us. ‘Come on, ladies, we need to warm-up.’

Cath starts to sing about the final countdown but is cut short and before we can take over the vestibule, Sheila’s group bursts back into the changing room. They are arguing and shouting loudly. We stand back to admit them.

‘You silly bitch.’ Sheila is admonishing a large-bosomed female who has clearly been crying as her mascara is now panda-like around her eyes.

‘Why the fuck did you suddenly stop, Bridget?’

‘I went blank. The steps, I just couldn’t remember them—’

‘Well, that collision could cost us a place in the final—’ Sheila stops short when a pink feather flutters into her mouth. She spits it out and only then appears to realise we are all staring at her, so she turns on our group and hisses, ‘And you lot can mind your own bloody business.’

We all turn away without saying a word and exit the changing room.

‘That’s what I call spitting feathers.’ Ruby nudges Ingrida as we hurry towards the green room. I find myself tittering with the rest of our ladies.

In the green room, which is just outside the stage entrance, Asha leads us in a stretch out and warm-up.

We limber up and watch the huge wall screen showing the gymnastic-styled group perform. The loud Elton John song, “I’m Still Standing” blasts out even behind the closed stage door.

Not long now. I am full of anticipation. We all exchange excited smiles as we swing our arms and roll our shoulders back.

Monica’s phone buzzes and she slides it out of her trouser pocket.

‘You cannot take a mobile on stage, Monica,’ I cry.

‘I forgot it was there.’ Monica checks the screen. ‘Oh, a message from Clarissa. She says, I do not need to wish you all good luck as luck has nothing to do with the outcome. You are all not only capable but wonderful dancers, and Hazel and I know you will put everything into your performances.’

Monica gives a little cough and looks slightly embarrassed as she reads the final part of the message.

Ladies, sprout wings on your feet, reach for the sky, let your souls soar, and do your absolute best.

Clarissa loves this sort of gushy language, but I can see the others appreciate her sentiments, well perhaps not Ruby, who stifles a giggle. We all nod our agreement with Clarissa’s good intentions.

An official opens the door, and the previous entrants pour past us, fresh from their dance, all glowing and slightly breathless.

The official checks her sheet and asks Asha, ‘êtes-vous le groupe DICK? Excusez-moi – DECK? ’

‘That’s us.’ Asha winks at the rest of the group.

The official indicates for us to go out on stage.

‘Monica, what will you do with the phone?’ Asha asks. ‘There is no time to take it back to the dressing room.’ Monica flounders, unsure what to do with the device.

At that moment, the four dancers from Corps et Ame enter the room and I freeze to the spot as Edith walks straight past me.

She is dressed in a stunning, pale blue chiffon dress cut on the bias with a rustically styled multi-layered hem.

The other female dancer is in a matching dress and the men wear three-quarter length cream leggings with an open pale blue shirt.

They are all barefoot. Even without lighting, the four dancers look superb.

I realise Edith has not seen me and would probably not recognise me even if she had. Not with me in costume and all made-up. Why should she? She will have no idea I have returned to dancing, let alone entered a Paris competition where she is also competing.

Ingrida grabs Monica’s phone and places it on a chair. She points to it and speaks directly to Edith in perfect French.

‘ Excusez-moi, pouvez-vous garder ca pendant que nous dansons? ’

‘ Mais oui ,’ Edith replies in a beautiful French accent.

‘ Merci beaucoup ,’ Ingrida smiles and we all enter the stage door. I am the last to go through, so when Edith calls, ‘ Bonne chance .’ I turn and call, ‘Thank you.’

I do not have time to see if she recognises me as we all move to our starting positions.

The theatre lights dim, the audience goes quiet. This is it. My daughter will be watching from the green room. Clarissa and Hazel will be watching behind the line of judges. I certainly am going to do my best to put my body and soul into it and give the performance of my life.