Echoes of the Dance (38 page)

She took the sheaf of papers and stared at the photographs. There was a strange sense of unreality about the whole business but she tried to concentrate.

‘The other disadvantage about the cottage,' Michael was saying, ‘is that you'd have made very little money on the way through and you'd have wanted to do certain things to it. Maybe we can do better.'

She smiled at him, deliberately being cheerful, trying to will herself to enthusiasm.

‘I'm sure we will. This place at Mary Tavy looks interesting.'

Coffee arrived and they drank it while compiling a short list of possibilities. Michael made a few phone calls and two viewings were arranged for the afternoon.

‘I'll come and collect you, shall I? We'll go together and then we can talk them through afterwards.'

She smiled at him, wondering why kindness was suddenly so unbearable, agreeing with everything. After all, nothing mattered much now she'd made the decision.

‘By the way, Harriet said to say that you can always stay with us. You know, if you decide to sell but can't find anything at once. She said that with Cass so close you probably wouldn't need it but the offer's there. Just so you don't feel . . . worried.'

‘Thanks.' She got up, turning away from him, pretending to be busy putting the papers into her bag. ‘That's so sweet. Thank her for me, won't you? And you'll pick me up later. Half-past two? See you then. Thanks, Michael.'

She managed to get out of the office and into the street without breaking down and, as she took the path through the churchyard, she suddenly turned aside and went into the church. Someone was playing the organ, Brahms's chorale prelude
Es ist ein Ros'entsprungen
, and she took a seat at the back and listened with delight.

Here, at the end of each term, she'd sat with the twins amongst the other parents with their small boys, the church filled with an almost tangible atmosphere of excitement: expectation of the holidays ahead and the knowledge of tuck boxes and overnight cases waiting, packed and ready up at the school, to be collected after the service.

The music, interwoven with the memory, touched her heart and she remembered something she'd read earlier that morning in Dame Julian's
Showings
: ‘I saw and I understood that our faith is our light in the darkness, and this light is God, our endless day.'

The music, infused with a calm, radiant joy at the coming of the Saviour, filled her with a strange, trembling happi- ness, and it was some while after the organist had packed up his music and disappeared that she picked up her own belongings and went out into the sunshine.

CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

Daisy took the Angelica Kauffmann postcard of Henrietta Laura Pulteney down from the shelf and stared at it. She turned it over and read the words Paul had written: ‘I bought this especially for you.' His handwriting and the message no longer had the power to move her so painfully: she could look at it with little more than an aching sadness. She saw now that she'd never stood a chance with him. His heart had always belonged to his family, which is why he'd been so invulnerable, so cool, so much in charge of his relationship with her. He'd behaved selfishly in trying to hedge his bets. Trying to remember it truthfully, she guessed that he'd genuinely valued her as a friend and had convinced himself that it was possible to have the best of both worlds. After all, she reminded herself, he'd never gone beyond an affectionate friendliness and perhaps, with his own heart so safely guarded, he'd been unable to imagine that hers might be so vulnerable.

Daisy put the card back in its place, smiling wryly at this reluctance to think ill of him – or perhaps it was simply that she wanted to preserve a good opinion of her own judgement. Either way, it was a relief to wake up each morning without the twisting grind of misery in her gut and a sense of desperation at the prospect of the day ahead. Now, her work stretched and grew to fill every horizon; new ideas about the characters jostled with plans for dance routines and costumes. Gradually her memories of Paul were being squeezed out by the excitement of this wonderful project and she was ready to let them go without too much regret.

She liked to keep the card, though. It was a reminder of happy times, of the Nureyev exhibition and the trip on the river, of visits to cafés and to the theatre, of Henrietta Street and of Bath itself. The other postcard of Salcombe, with its connotations of deceit, she'd thrown away. As soon as she'd seen his children – Tom and the baby – she'd under- stood Paul's determination to hold his family together if he could. She remembered how Tom had shown her the football fashioned on the bottom of his shoe and how she'd held his small smooth leg between her hands and looked into his eyes: Paul's eyes.

Daisy deliberately closed her mind to the thought of the little scene – the baby so confident in her father's arms, the family group – and concentrated instead on her own new extended family: the stage school. Thinking of little Tom made her wonder who would be chosen for the part of Jimbo; which little girl would dance the role of Monkey and what about the older girl, Jane Anne? Was it possible that she and Cousin Henry might fall in love? Already Daisy could see the beginnings of a
pas de deux
. It was clear from the CD's sleeve that, in the play, Cousin Henry had been the same generation as the children's parents but Daisy could see no reason why this shouldn't be adapted to fit with her ideas for the ballet.

Then there were the parts of the sprites – the Dustman who carried the stardust, the Sweep who swept clean the hearts and minds of the wumbled humans so as to make way for it, the Lamplighter who touched people alive to the starlight of compassion and the Gardener who planted seeds of love and laughter, hope and courage. She'd decided that the role of the Gardener should be danced by a girl and that the Haystack Woman, who was the mother of all the sprites, should be a comic figure: large and cheerful and ungainly, rather in the tradition of the pantomime dame. She couldn't help but be influenced by those brilliant creations of Frederick Ashton: the Ugly Sisters from
Cinderella
and the Widow from
La Fille mal
gardée
. Then there was the dance of the Little Night Winds who had to blow the Haystack Woman out of bed, whirling her canvas skirts over her head and driving her into the Star Cave where everyone had to go if they wished to accomplish anything useful. The music was already giving her plenty of ideas for the ballet of the four Little Night Winds.

It was the practice to invite one or two famous ex-students to perform at the Charity Matinée – it added a special excitement – and Daisy had begun to wonder whether to suggest to Mim that the roles of Mummy and Daddy should be danced by two well-known performers. Much more difficult to cast, however, were the demanding singing roles of the Organ-Grinder and the Laugher: Daisy knew that even the oldest, most accomplished students would have difficulties with these.

Longing to see Mim and talk it through with her, all thoughts of Paul forgotten, Daisy went to the table where her notebooks lay and switched on the CD.

Roly, grooming Bevis in the yard, smiled to hear the music. Daisy was immersing herself in
The Starlight Express.
In fact she was listening to as much of Elgar's music as he, Roly, could find in his library: the
Cockaigne Overture
, the Cello Concerto, and the two Symphonies Elgar finished as well as some of the Oratorios. She already loved the
Sea Pictures
and was reading extensively on the subject of Frederick Ashton's ballet choreographed to the score of the
Enigma Variations
. It was clear to Roly that whilst Daisy's heart was mending her creative spirit was flowering.

Bevis whined a little, he hated having the tangled hair behind his ears teased out, but Roly was unmoved. He talked soothingly but firmly whilst Floss rolled a sympathetic eye, anxiously waiting her turn, and Uncle Bernard grunted contemptuously.

‘It's all right for you,' said Roly in defence of Bevis. ‘You don't have all this long fine hair to worry about.'

Uncle Bernard barked once or twice – he always had the last word – then yawned and turned his back on them, curling into a ball beside the wall in the sunshine. Roly picked up the scissors to clip out a particularly knotty piece of furze, combing the hair free and smooth of tangles, and all the while he was thinking about Nat. He was remembering how he'd run and jumped, calling to the dogs, his relief exploding in wild energy and his face unclamped from its habitual expression of wariness. His happiness had filled Roly with a generosity of spirit – a kind of magnanimity of purpose in response to such joy – that had made it easy to accept this new truth about his son and it was only much later, when Nat had gone, that misgivings and anxiety returned.

At one point he even wondered if a talk with Bruno might clear his mind and the sudden realization that he didn't want to tell Bruno about Nat shocked him almost as much as Daisy's revelation.

‘I don't know how to deal with it,' he admitted to Daisy. ‘I thought I did, I was fine when Nat was here, but afterwards I felt all the shock of it all over again.'

‘Well, it is a shock,' she answered reasonably, ‘and you need time to come to terms with it. That's OK. The important thing is that Nat knows you know and that it hasn't stopped you loving him. Take your time.'

‘The odd thing is that I wonder now if some part of me
had
accepted it because I could never imagine Nat married, with a family. I always thought that he'd be better off on his own. I never analysed it but the thought was there. He's very self-sufficient, though he's got lots of friends.' He hesitated, almost fearing to ask the question that had been nagging at him. ‘How did you know?'

‘It's difficult to put it into words. In my work, in the theatre world, I meet lots of gays. Some are in your face but with others there's nothing you'd notice except that there's none of the magnetism that usually exists between the sexes. Nat's like the second sort. It's as if something's been left out and you know that there's no point doing the flirty, female bit. I can't quite explain it but I always pick up on it quite quickly. I wouldn't be surprised if Nat isn't much interested in men, either, but he probably feels more comfortable in their company. I had the feeling that he's very wary of women, they have expectations he might not be able to fulfil, but I'd guess that most people wouldn't suspect anything at all. They'd put him down as the strong silent type who isn't into personal relationships.'

Roly felt relieved but, at the same time, he felt ashamed that he felt relieved. He wanted not to mind, not to care if people knew the truth, but he couldn't accept the situation quite so fully yet. He needed more time to adjust.

Giving Bevis a biscuit as a reward he called to Floss, who flattened her ears but advanced cautiously.

‘Good girl,' he said encouragingly, picking up the brush again.

He was thinking about Kate now. On Sunday, before Daisy dropped her bombshell, he'd been certain that Kate was nearly ready to commit herself to Floss. Brushing her silky coat, Roly knew that he would miss her but deep down he was certain that Kate and Floss belonged together. Whilst Flynn had been with them she'd been anxious and unsettled and, though she might grow used to a procession of dogs passing through, she'd be happier with someone like Kate.

He'd phoned her later on Sunday, to tell her how it had been with Nat, and afterwards they'd talked about the cottage.

‘I've made up my mind not to go ahead with it,' she'd told him. ‘It was all rather foolish and romantic and I'm grateful that you made things clear for me. No, honestly, you were absolutely right. I can't go on pretending that the last fifteen years never happened. I shall phone Michael in the morning and tell him that it's off. Never mind about me. I'm much more interested in you and Nat.'

She'd telephoned in the middle of the week to say that she was looking at other properties, and that Monica was spending the weekend with Nat, but she sounded pre- occupied and Roly had asked her to come to Sunday lunch. Mim would be home, he told her, and would love to see her. Now, he began to wonder if Monica might invite herself down again, and how Nat was managing, and found he was back full circle: thinking about Nat.

As he gave Floss a biscuit and collected up the grooming equipment, Daisy appeared on the stable steps carrying a tray.

‘I've made some tea,' she said. ‘I thought we both might need it after all our hard work. The dogs look so beautiful, don't they? Shall we sit out here in the sun? My head is reeling with ideas and if I don't stop thinking I shall go quite mad.'

‘Your timing is perfect,' he said gratefully. ‘We need distraction. Tell me one of your theatre stories while we drink our tea and then we'll drive the dogs down to Rock for a walk on the beach.'

CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

Kate was ironing when Gemma telephoned. She'd been reflecting on the process of grieving – how it would strike so suddenly and violently but without any apparent relevance, in Boots, buying face cream, say, or whilst cleaning one's teeth – and at other times it morphed into a flat, quiet desperation that made every action such an effort. Even lifting the iron seemed to require superhuman strength. It was a welcome respite to speak to Gemma. She'd already sent text messages, first of all to report that she and Guy were having very amicable and positive discussions and, later, to say that Guy had begun to talk about moving house; to suggest that a new start might be the next best step forward.