Echoes of the Dance (27 page)

Instead, once she was showered and had eaten some breakfast, she telephoned Mim. There was the usual sense of chaos at the other end – nobody knew where Madame was, voices were upraised enquiring one to another as to her whereabouts – but presently her voice spoke in Daisy's ear.

‘Daisy! I was hoping to hear from you. Have you got good news for me?'

‘Oh, Mim. I'm still dithering. I wondered if I could come up and see you. It might be just what I need to help me to decide . . . I know it's crazy even to be doubtful about it and I should be so grateful . . .'

‘Darling Daisy, just get on the first train. Can you manage the journey?'

‘Oh, yes. I'll be fine. If you're sure?'

‘I told you when we were in Cornwall that you should come to see us.'

‘I know you did. I'm just so . . . crazy.'

‘Terrible, terrible love. Come and see us, darling. Pack a little bag and spend the night. Must rush.'

Daisy did as she was bid, catching the train to Paddington with moments to spare, taking the tube to Holland Park. Outside the tall, gracious house she paused for a moment, seized by an unexpected nostalgia, and then, turning aside from the steps up to the pillared front door, she passed around the side of the building and went down the basement stairs. Once inside the door she stood still, listening. Evocative sounds tugged at her memory: the machine-gun rattle of tap shoes halfway through a routine, the tinkling notes of a piano echoing in a large, mirror-lined studio, and a voice raised above the music shouting, ‘Move it
out
. Use the space. That's better. Ready now . . .' and a burst of singing.

As she made her way along the passage, the door of a nearby dressing-room opened suddenly and some older students clad in tights and tunics bundled out and hurried away into the interior of the building. In the lobby Daisy knocked on the office door, turned the handle and looked inside: it was empty. Climbing the stairs, looking up into the spaces of the three storeys above her, she could hear a drama class in progress. Someone was speaking persuasively and at some length: a second voice broke in and a third cried out in anguish, then a short silence before the sound of scattered light clapping broke out.

She hesitated outside the half-open door of one of the studios: through the gap she could see a group of small children standing in rows, heels together, toes turned out, their eyes fixed trustingly upon the slender girl who stood facing them.

‘Now watch Miss Nicola, my darlings. Are you ready? And
one
and
two
, now
point
those
toes
. . .'

It was Mim's voice and she appeared suddenly, coming out and closing the door behind her, opening her arms to Daisy.

‘How lovely. And you're in time for lunch. We'll have it upstairs in the flat, just the two of us, and you can meet everyone later.' She hesitated, smiling a little. ‘And how did you feel when you came in?'

Daisy smiled too. ‘I felt as if I'd come home.'

Afterwards, travelling back to Bath on the train, Daisy realized that this was the truth: she'd felt as if she'd been returning home after a long absence. Well, that wasn't surprising. After her mother's death the school had given her the stability she'd so desperately needed, and Mim and the other members of staff had become her family, but this time there was much more to it than that. The children, the atmosphere, the bustle, all these things had injected her with excitement and, as she'd talked to Andy and watched some of the classes, it was as if a new kind of vocation had begun to flower inside her.

‘But I still don't know about Paul,' she said uncertainly to Mim. ‘When I see him I feel obsessed. He fills up all my vision.'

‘Have you talked to him about this feeling?' asked Mim. ‘It could simply be sex, of course. That's easily dealt with. You know you did promise me that you would be open with him.'

‘I know I did,' said Daisy wretchedly, ‘and I meant it, but when I'm with him I feel tongue-tied. Sort of helpless, as if only he can make the running. It's like he's cast a spell over me.'

Mim gave an expressive little shrug, her eyes were compassionate, but she spoke firmly.

‘I must know soon, Daisy.'

‘I know. I promise I'll have it out with him as soon as I get back. I do want to say “yes”, Mim.'

‘Good. But we need to be clear. I'm not asking you to choose between us, simply that you must know where you are with Paul before you commit yourself to us.'

She'd carried Daisy off to see
Chicago
, taking her backstage to meet an ex-pupil, and then on to supper at The Ivy.

The following morning Daisy watched a rehearsal for the school's summer show and had another long talk with Andy before catching the train back to Bath.

There was no sign of Paul's car but, this time, she felt a sense of relief at his absence.

Tomorrow morning, she promised herself, she would speak to him: on Saturday mornings he was generally at home and she would go down at about coffee time, tell him about Mim's offer and ask him if he'd ever really considered that they might have a future together. After all, Mim had said that it wasn't necessarily a question of choosing between her and Paul, other people managed to run careers and marriages very satisfactorily, and Bath wasn't very far from London . . .

Daisy turned on the television: she didn't want to think about anything, not Mim nor Paul, until the morning. In the morning everything would be made clear.

By the time Paul arrived home, well after eleven o'clock, she'd switched off the lights and was ready for bed. A tiny part of her was inclined to go down to him now and confront him: perhaps a visit at this late hour, clad in her dressing-gown, might precipitate matters. Surely he'd have to invite her in? She remembered Mim saying: ‘It could simply be sex, of course. Well, that's easily dealt with,' and chuckled reluctantly. Mim's prosaic streak always came as a bit of a shock but she might be right. Perhaps this terrible fever might have a simply physical cure and then the torment would be over.

Yet Daisy's rational self shrank from Paul's look of surprise and, possibly, distaste: she simply couldn't risk it. Instead, she took two painkillers and went to bed, only to lie awake rehearsing the next morning's conversation and listening to the distant sounds of late-night revellers. Presently she dozed and dreamed that she was dancing, lifted and supported by a partner whose face was always in shadow. She soared and turned, light as thistledown, until suddenly her partner danced away from her, fleeing down dark corridors and winding passages, whilst she pursued him calling out his name, ‘Paul, Paul,' though no sound could be heard. He was far ahead now, disappearing round a corner and, as she rounded the corner in her turn, someone loomed in front of her, blocking her way. She cried out and the person turned to look at her and she saw that it was Mim.

Daisy woke suddenly, bathed in perspiration, her heart banging uncomfortably. She lay quite still, taking deep breaths, schooling herself to be calm. Mim had taught her this trick. When she'd discovered that Daisy was having nightmares following her mother's death Mim had shown her how to breathe deeply, to relax her body, and to concentrate on something else. Because Daisy had difficulty in remembering her lines for her audition pieces they'd agreed that some passage of Shakespeare, or a verse of poetry, would be the best thing to distract her.

‘And,' Mim had added smilingly, ‘it will almost certainly send you back to sleep.'

Daisy stretched, and then began to relax: what should she try to remember? The Boy's speech from
Henry V
, Act Three had worked well in the past. She began to speak the part inside her head.

‘As young as I am I have observed these three swashers. I am boy to them all three; but all they three . . . though they would serve me, could not be man to me . . . for, indeed three such antics do not amount to a man. For Bardolph . . . For Bardolph, he is white-livered and red-faced; by the means whereof . . .' Daisy began to doze again, waking fitfully to cudgel her memory. ‘For Pistol, he hath a killing tongue and a quiet sword . . .' By the time she reached Nym she was fast asleep.

She wakened shortly after seven, with a clutching panic in her gut and an ache in her back. Sitting on the side of the bed, drinking some water, she planned her morning. There was no point in attempting to see Paul much before eleven o'clock: four hours to endure. Daisy levered herself up stiffly and went to run a hot bath: she would have a calm morning, she told herself. A long, relaxing bath and a leisurely breakfast would take at least an hour and then she'd have a walk in the park.

As she prepared her breakfast she paused to look across the street at the window boxes filled with striped petunias, pink and white, and blue and white, and with geraniums and trailing ivy. The members of a ladies' jogging club appeared, running down the street, some of them stopping at the entrance to the park, panting and holding on to their sides. An elderly golden Labrador, on an early morning walk with his owner, was much more composed and they too turned into the park.

Slowly Daisy finished her breakfast and cleared it up, slowly she made her bed and tidied the flat, and by half-past nine she was sitting reading her book on a wooden seat in the Garden of Remembrance. At this time of day there were no students with their textbooks scattered over the grass, studying for their exams; no small children playing hide and seek. A young woman strolled along the path pushing a pram in which a baby was sitting, leaning a little forward, gazing out in a kind of wide-eyed amazement at the antics of the world. Daisy smiled involuntarily at the baby's magisterial expression and gave him a little wave. His mother paused, so that he might return the salute if he wished to, and after a long considering moment he raised his starfish hand in a regal gesture that amused the two women. As he was wheeled away his hand remained, waving majestically from the side of the pram until he was pushed out of sight amongst the mass of white roses that tumbled and cascaded from the wooden pergolas.

Daisy glanced at her watch and closed her book: it was twenty minutes to eleven. Swallowing several times in an oddly dry throat, she put the book into her shoulder bag and with deliberately measured steps walked out of the park and along Henrietta Street, planning how she would go upstairs first and brush her hair, rehearsing her words ready for when Paul opened the door. An unfamiliar car was parked outside and, even before she reached the front door, she could hear the sounds of arrival and excitement: voices were raised above the wailing of a baby and footsteps echoed in the hall. A small boy dashed out of the door, saw Daisy and raced back inside. As Daisy entered she was confronted by an amazing sight: the door to Paul's flat was open and the boy was disappearing through it; in the doorway a pretty dark-haired girl was bending to catch him and, missing, turned away laughing, only to come face to face with Daisy.

Instantly her expression changed. A wary, interested look stilled her face as they stared at each other, the noise seeming to wash and flow around them. The boy ran out again, shouting with excitement, and his mother put out a restraining hand. This time he stopped, holding on to her leg, looking up mistrustfully at Daisy with a finger in his mouth.

‘Stop, Tom,' his mother said. ‘Do be quiet for a moment. Where's Daddy?' and Paul appeared from behind him, the baby in his arms.

Staring at him, Daisy was unable to conceal her shock. She saw that the girl took note of it as she glanced quickly from Daisy to Paul and it was she who spoke first.

‘I'm so sorry about the noise. The children are overexcited. We woke up terribly early, you see, and on the spur of the moment we just piled into the car and drove here. Paul had no idea we were coming.'

‘What fun. You must be Ellie.'

Pride just enabled Daisy to control her voice but she couldn't look at Paul. He moved forward now and began to make introductions, gratefully hampered by the baby who'd stopped crying and was patting his face with her hands and putting her fingers into his mouth. He struggled with her, pretending to admonish her, holding her as a barrier between him and the scene that was playing out in front of him.

‘Paul told me about you,' Ellie was saying rather too brightly. ‘About you being a dancer and going to the ballet together. How nice of you to take pity on him. I'm so sorry to hear about your injury. How ghastly for you. I hope you got your postcard? We had the most fantastic week . . .'

Daisy looked at last at Paul. He looked distressed, embarrassed, thoroughly uncomfortable, and yet he wasn't quite able to hide his natural reactions of relief and happiness at the sight of his family. There was a rightness about him, standing in the doorway holding his baby daughter, his wife and son beside him: even now, in this moment of terrible tension, he still seemed able to control the scene. As usual Daisy felt tongue-tied, submissive to his will, though words that could damage him formed sentences in her head. The little boy was watching her gravely and even the baby was silent, her rosy cheek pressed trustingly against Paul's, as if they sensed a threat.

‘I was coming to see you,' Daisy said to him. ‘That job I was telling you about. I went to London for the interview yesterday and I've got it. I shall be off any day now so I'll pop in to say goodbye sometime.'