Girl's Guide to Kissing Frogs (53 page)

‘Oh, dearest Lizzie! How marvellous!’ I put my arms round her and held her in a long embrace until I could be certain that I had control of my face. ‘I hope you’ll always adore each other and have everything you’ve ever wanted.’

‘We will.’ I rejoiced at the note of certainty in her voice, even while I tried to crush an illogical feeling of being abandoned. ‘So we’ll soon be two old married ladies. Pity we can’t have a joint wedding but we might be able to synchronize our first babies—’

‘I’m not marrying Rafe.’

‘What?’

‘It’s all off. Oh damn!’ I felt the customary clutch of guilt whenever I thought of Rafe. ‘I promised to keep it a secret until he’s told his mother.’

To my great relief Rafe and Isobel were still in Scotland, disposing of their aunt’s livestock and chattels and unravelling the complicated laws of Scottish land tenure. His letters were frequent and affectionate and sometimes it seemed he had forgotten we were no longer engaged. He always said how much he was missing me. The very idea of him made me feel anxious, as though I had in some way behaved badly despite my best efforts to be helpful. I had no way of knowing whether Evelyn knew that the wedding was off. She and Rex had spent only one night at Shottestone between returning from Austria and departing for Canada. I worried terribly whenever I thought of Madam Merle stitching away at the exquisite lace dress. The chances that Rafe would find another bride of my dimensions were slim.

I groaned. ‘I’ve made a muff of things, as usual. You won’t tell a soul will you?’

‘No, of course not – but what a shame! I thought he was the love of your life. What’s happened?’

‘It wasn’t his fault. But I don’t
think
it was mine either. We aren’t the same kind of people … and though we wanted to, we didn’t really love each other. It was all a dream.’

‘Marilyn,’ called Trevor. ‘Just come and walk through the next bit, would you, so I can see where the others are to stand?’

‘Where’s Sebastian?’ I asked when I returned an hour later.

‘He’s gone to Bristol with the others. Poor Sylvia, he’s so nasty about her
port de bras
. She gets shaking fits these days when he starts criticizing. She turned green when he said he was going with them. But her loss is Cynthia Kay’s gain.’

‘Cynthia Kay?’

‘I told you about her. Can’t dance for toffee nuts but Sebastian’s screwing her anyway because nothing better offers. He gave her a tiny solo in
Pagodas
and she made a complete bungle of it, poor girl. I sat next to her on the coach. She says she’s looking forward to being able to sit down comfortably
after a few days without Sebastian’s ministrations. That’s her, over there.’

She pointed to a pretty girl standing by herself, looking listlessly through a magazine. I felt truly sorry for her.

‘Anyway,’ said Lizzie, ‘never mind about Sebastian. Are you quite certain it’s finished between you and Rafe? I was so looking forward to meeting the redoubtable Evelyn.’

But at that moment I was called for another walk-through. After rehearsals finished, Lizzie and I went out to supper with some of the other dancers so there was no chance to explain. But over the next few days, in moments snatched between classes and rehearsals, the story of my love affair with Rafe was told. At first Lizzie was inclined to think that in turning down a man who was kind, gracious, honourable, well connected, well heeled and resembled a Greek god, I was making a terrible mistake. But when I succeeded in convincing her that despite these allurements I was not in love with him, she agreed that I had no other option but to break it off.

‘Besides,’ she said solemnly, ‘it would be a crime and a sin if you gave up dancing. I’d forgotten just how good you are.’

Orlando was keen that we should dance at full stretch to keep our bodies and techniques up to the mark. So, on the second day of rehearsals, when my first solo came up, I put everything I had into it. Not having danced before an audience for so long I felt extremely tense, but I pretended I was alone in the drawing room at Hindleep, dancing to the tape of Conrad’s playing. I wasn’t particularly pleased with my performance, but to my surprise it met with sustained applause and even a few cheers from the singers as well as the dancers. After that everyone, including Trevor, was much friendlier.

‘Yes,’ said Lizzie. ‘You were right to finish with Rafe. You were born to dance. Men, love, marriage – those things go by the board when you’ve got that sort of talent. I’m so proud of you.’

I felt unreasonably depressed by this generous compliment.

‘That’s kind of you but … oh, Lizzie, so much of the success of the opera depends on my not making
un joli fouillis
of it … I’ve never felt so frightened in all my life.’ Or lonely, I might have added, but didn’t.

In the wings, Orlando and I embrace carefully so as not to smudge my make-up. Though he is not performing, he is quivering with tension and grey with terror. In the next two and a half hours, he says with a little moan, his reputation will be made or destroyed. My limbs seem to be set in plaster of Paris and my heart is beating so hard in my throat I feel as though I am being garrotted.

‘I can’t remember the first
enchaînement
,’ I gasp.

‘Nor can I. Wait a minute –
pas couru en avant, grand jeté
croisé en avant
down to stage right …’

‘Oh … yes … but what happens after Giovanni says I’m the girl of his dreams?’

Orlando bites his lip to stop it trembling. ‘Haven’t the foggiest. But you’ll know when you come to it. Don’t worry.’ He stares at me with wild, tormented eyes. ‘I have complete faith in you. Oh God! I think I’m going to be sick! Look out!’

We take a step back. The crew are rolling a huge magnet round the stage to pick up any nails or tacks that might have been left during last-minute adjustments to the sets.

‘Is my hair all right?’

After the dress rehearsal Sebastian, who has been in Newcastle for the last week, coolly countermanding details of Trevor’s
direction and always, it must be admitted, improving the production, insisted I dispense with the thick black wig which had been specially made for me. He said it made him think of a clump of dead pampas grass. I’m to dance with my hair loose. I’ve fastened back the side pieces to stop it being sucked into Giovanni’s airways when he’s singing at full throttle.

‘It looks perfect.
You
are perfect.’ Orlando gives me a Svengali-like stare. ‘You will dance like a dream. Remember, the worse the dress rehearsal, the better the performance.’

There had been panic when, two days ago, Lizzie discovered that her weight gain was due to pregnancy. She had wanted to carry on but Nils, who had come up to Newcastle to lend support, pleaded with her not to jeopardize the future of the third generation of logging magnates. He is a blond giant with a nice face and charming manners, but there has been no time to get to know him properly. A replacement for Lizzie has been flown up from London. Orlando has sacrificed two valuable hours to teach her the steps. Poor girl, in the dress rehearsal she and I collided when she did one too many
jetés battus
. Then the igloo I was supposed to crouch behind while overhearing Giovanni’s passionate song of jealousy and betrayal before he stabs me with a narwhal tusk (the plot has undergone further changes) stuck on its way down from the flies, so instead of leaping out from behind it I had to weave my way through the corps and come in two beats late. Also, one of the singers fell backwards over a dog-sled, hurting his back and ruining his recitative.

‘Iron coming in,’ shouts the fireman.

I watch the heavy brown fire curtain being lowered. This is a safety precaution. It will be dropped again in the interval to muffle the sound of props and scenery being changed.

‘Iron going out,’ shouts the fireman as it is raised.

Orlando and I move forward onto the stage as the dry-ice machines for the blizzard sequences are brought into the wings and switched on. They make a distracting gurgling noise. The
‘quarter’ is announced over the Tannoy, which means the performance will begin in fifteen minutes. Now we can hear the audience coming in, a buzz of talk, a communicable anticipation. In the wings, members of the corps are dipping their feet into trays of rosin to give them a better grip. One of the prompt-side crew cuts his finger on the giant polar-bear sculpture and there is a frantic hunt for a sticking plaster. The stage manager rushes past, checking that the cue light boxes are all working. These signal with red and green lights when the crew are to move scenery. The follow-spot operator comes to consult with Orlando about picking up my moves. Trevor, looking white and not his usual ebullient self, joins them to countermand their decisions. They move away to debate a move in the third act. I feel terribly alone.

The ‘five’, meaning five minutes to curtain up, is announced over the loudspeakers. Squawks from the oboes, blasts from the horns and trumpets, scrapes from the strings as the orchestra tunes up. Suddenly the stage is flooded with brilliant artificial polar light. All this is familiar to me, yet I am possessed by a painful feeling of unreality. Two of the crew push on the gallows-like structure from which hangs the whale-bone that I must kick with both feet. My heart speeds to a gallop as I become certain that I cannot do it.

‘Marigold, darling! Break a leg!’ says one of the chorus, planting a kiss on my naked shoulder as he goes by. During the four weeks of putting the opera together, friendships have sprung up, crossing the divide between singers and dancers. Now we are partners with one aim only – that the performance should be a success.

‘Beginners, please,’ says a voice over the loudspeakers.

A current of excitement and fear runs through us all. Singers rub their throats and sip water, dancers stretch and bend. We exchange stricken glances, black-rimmed eyes staring out from masks of yellow make-up. The theatre manager comes to say that the audience is seated and waiting. I have a violent desire to burst into tears.

Orlando comes over to whisper, ‘I’ve just heard! Didelot’s here!’ He squeezes my hand so hard I want to protest, but my lips are glued together with fright. ‘You’ll be wonderful, darling, he’ll adore it.’ He groans and totters away to collapse into the arms of Fritz who is standing in the wings.

Didelot! I cup my hands over my mouth to stop myself hyperventilating. This is monstrously unfair! Everyone knows he dislikes visiting the provinces. We all thought he’d wait until the production went to London, by which time it will be polished to a smooth shining gem, unrecognizable as the rough-hewn rock it is at present. I want to run from the stage, down to the stage door and out into the street all the way to the railway station and thence to Outer, or better still, Inner Mongolia. I look to Orlando for aid. He rolls his eyes in despair.

‘House lights going down,’ whispers Bill, the stage manager. I consider asking Bill to take me away from all this and live with me for ever in a hut in the middle of a dark, impenetrable wood. The orchestra noise fades. Giovanni comes running to put his arms round me. I can feel him palpitating with fright. We embrace each other passionately. On our performances the opera pretty nearly stands or falls. We communicate this with eyes that jerk with terror. I do not care that he is my height and ten times my weight, has hair sprouting from ears and nostrils and a nose like a banana. I love him. We love each other.

The audience breaks into applause. Bertram, the conductor has come in. There is a moment’s silence. The overture begins. I have heard this music so often that I could hum even the xylophone parts. The celeste runs up the scale to evoke ice breaking. It is brilliant and sends shivers down my back. Over the ten weeks that I have been listening to this extraordinary music, I have moved from finding it a cacophonous screech to considering it a work of genius. As the bassoon plays the sonorous bellow of the reindeer, a lump comes into my throat because it is so beautiful.

‘Stand by,’ mouths the stage manager and pulls the lever that operates the curtain.

The spotlights show the audience an Eskimo village sparkling with icy whiteness beneath a sky dark with impending snow and populated with stuffed Tundra swans and white-fronted geese. It is exciting and new and the audience stirs in response. It isn’t until you get on stage with an audience that a production starts to live. You can feel it, whether they like it, are bored and restless, apprehensive or loving it. I feel a surge of pleasure from them and my entire being catches fire in response. I see Giovanni open his mouth and hear exquisite sounds ripple from his throat. I realize that he is a genius. I hear the first violin play the Ilina motif – my cue. I lift my arms into high third position. Two light quick steps … I’m on the stage … a deep plié for the take off …
glissade precipitée
just clearing the floor … follow into
tombé effacé
… the arms
en bas
, brush back foot forward … and
leap!

Two and a half hours later, Giovanni – Amaguq – thrusts the narwhal tusk between my chest and my arm and I fall gracefully forward to lie on the ground, half turned to the audience. He spills the scarlet riband from his sleeve with prestigious adroitness after much practice. Its dramatic reappearance symbolizes the flowing of Ilina’s heart’s blood. The music becomes so mournful that my chest tightens with emotion as well as shortness of breath. Something drips on my face. I look up to see tears making pink tracks down Amaguq’s yellow cheeks. His huge chest shakes with genuine sobs. He is so deeply into his role that he only remembers at the last moment to stand back for the soul-shattering finale.

There is a tug on the harness that I have been wearing under my wedding dress for the whole of the last act – and very hot it is, too – which was hooked onto wires by a member of the crew while I waited for my last entrance, hidden behind an igloo. The music swells to a ravishing climax as I raise my right arm to the giant tangerine moon. Slowly I am lifted into the air to fly across the stage. I bend my right knee slightly and point my left leg out behind me. My white satin cloak falls away to
reveal wings which I expand by pulling a concealed tab beneath my bust. The spirit of the persecuted outcast girl escapes to eternal life in a flying arabesque as a Tundra swan. It is a sublime moment. As I am pulled up into the flies, the curtains close to the last strains of Golly’s masterpiece.

I am lowered swiftly into the wings. One of the crew is there to undo the wires. My dresser rubs my face and arms with a towel. While the igloos and other props are whisked away the chorus, who are to take the first bow, position themselves on the stage. A powder puff is dabbed over my forehead and cheeks. I hear the stage manager say ‘Ready? Curtain up.’ A roar of applause rushes from the auditorium like a great wind as the chorus steps forward and bows. Then the corps de ballet trips gracefully on to a rapturous reception and forms a line in front of the chorus. It is the turn of the soloists. First Sura, the girl in love with Amaguq, whom he spurns for Ilina’s sake, then Amaguq’s mother and the angakok; last Oogruq, the Iago figure, the jealous schemer.

It is our turn. Giovanni grips my hand and together we run onto the stage to stand in front of the others. Giovanni bends stiffly at the waist and I sink into a
révérence
, the formalized bow which all dancers make every day at the end of every class to show respect and gratitude to their teachers and pianists. Step, step, knees together, lift arms, lift head, deep plié, arms lowered to
demi seconde
, palms down, head slightly forward, drop chin and eyes. I hear the audience applaud, see the orchestra looking up, grinning. I remember to curtsey to them and acknowledge their contribution with a sweep of my arm. I see the smiling faces of the front row, Sebastian sitting in the middle looking, I think, pleased, but again the feeling of unreality has taken hold of me. Someone brings me a bouquet. I hear the clapping as though from a long distance away, as though there is a thick pane of glass between the audience and me. The conductor comes on, then Orlando, and finally there are shouts of ‘Composer!’ and Golly, looking splendid in a red velvet boiler
suit appears. She has spent the evening walking by the river, trying to distract herself by thinking of her next opera. The curtains close and the crew rush to grip the handles that hold back sections of the curtains so we can take our solo and paired calls. When I go on alone a thundering noise breaks out as the audience stamp their feet and whistle and flowers are thrown onto the stage.

After so many hours, days, weeks, months of hope, despair, rages, tears and joy – the crest and the chasm of human experience –
Ilina and the Scarlet Riband
is no longer a thick bundle of manuscript music, notes on stage directions, painted flats, bolts of cloth, ideas in people’s heads. It has been born. It lives.