Lies Lies Lies. Adele Parks
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more than respectable). Millie and I sharing a schedule makes things easier when it comes to drop off, pick up and school holidays. I immediately get to hear if she’s sick or hurt and I never miss her school assemblies or sports day. Besides, quite simply, I like having her close by. That’s the most important thing. I waited long enough for her. Now I drink up every moment. I promised Simon I’d be vigilant to bullying, alert to any favouritism, and I put Newfield Primary as my first choice on the application form. Then I crossed my fingers. We are in the catchment area. We got lucky.
On days like this I’m so glad I pushed for us to be at the same school. Since Millie has started to dance I’ve come to understand just how serious her performances are, at least to her, her dance teacher, and a fair amount of the attending parents. I wouldn’t miss it for the world. Not that I’m enjoying myself today, at least not yet. I sit, stiff-backed and self-conscious. I wish Simon would get here soon; my handbag looks bolshie on the spare seat. I wonder where the woman who asked me to give it up is sitting. I daren’t turn around to locate her. I nervously check my phone every ten seconds, hoping for news from Simon. Once the performance starts I’ll have to turn it off, not put it on silent, because if a message flashes up on the screen, the light is incredibly bright and can be distracting to other audience members, possibly even to the dancers on stage. It said so on the rule list. In capitals. The list terrifies me. I read it and memorised it as though it’s been brought down the mountain on two tablets of stone. Generally I really am a rule follower. As a teacher I know rules are set for a reason.
I’ve left Simon’s ticket at the box office for collection. We’ve been informed that the recital is designed to flow seamlessly between performance pieces and so we were firmly instructed not to enter or exit unless it is an emergency. To give some clarity to what constituted an emergency, we were briefed that if there is a ‘fussy child’ in the audience, said child was to be exited as quickly and quietly as possible. The rules list actually used that phrase, ‘fussy child’, like something out of a nineteenth-century novel. We were also advised (warned) that the intermission was the opportunity to chat or eat. Considering all this, I can’t imagine that Simon will be admitted once the curtain rises. There was an instruction that we aren’t to take photos, although there is to be a professional DVD made that can be purchased at a later date. I think he’ll have to make do with that.
Despite the rather draconian list of rules, people around me seem genuinely excited. Many parents are clasping bouquets of flowers or single stems of roses. I have a small bouquet made up of six fat, soft pink roses and sprigs of baby’s breath. It’s a tradition to present your dancer with flowers to recognise the effort and achievement of having performed in front of a large audience. Besides, everyone loves receiving flowers.
The lights dim, and the music starts up. I feel a surge of excitement that the show is about to begin and a sting of disappointment and irritation that Simon is going to miss it. A chain of little girls dressed as daisies scurry onto the stage. They are all about three years old and what they lack in ability, they more than make up in sheer cuteness factor. The audience ‘ooh’ and ‘aah’ volubly, the girls can barely hear the music over the audible swooning. This lot are too little to manage anything more than a bit of twirling, even the planned simultaneous raising of their arms ends up looking like a Mexican wave, but that in no way diminishes the pleasure the audience derive from the performance. When the daisies finish and dip into sweet little curtsys or simply wander off the stage because they’ve had enough, we burst into raucous applause. Some parents even stand up. A few flashes pop, the rapturous delight has emboldened one or two parents to break the rules. I look to the door and will Simon to slip through it. It stays resolutely shut. I wonder whether he’s the other side of it. Trapped. Or somewhere else entirely. A pub. Maybe.
The next group runs onto the stage. Most are dressed as icicles; silver and white, they sparkle and shine. The word ‘Frozen’ shimmies up and down the rows of spectators. Sometimes it’s said with a self-satisfied enthusiasm – a treat delivered – sometimes it’s said with a hint of boredom. I have to admit to having seen hundreds of performances of Frozen, it’s a stalwart favourite in most dance teachers’ repertoires. The cute factor intensifies. These little children (mostly girls but two boys) are still fairly unskilled but they are trying so hard. Their faces are scrunched in concentration as they point their toes or bend their bodies to one side, it’s impossible not to melt. I risk sharing the observation with the woman sat next to me – well, it’s tricky attending these things and not having someone to enthuse with. She nods and comments, ‘Good pun.’
I hadn’t intended a pun and feel a little embarrassed that she thinks of me as the sort of mother who tries that hard.
Millie’s group are next up on stage. The girls are wearing pink tutu dresses with ballet tights and ballet shoes, the one and only boy is wearing shorts and T-shirt and ballet shoes. They are only five to six years old, but they are considerably more in control of their bodies than the last groups; all but one seem to be following the choreographed pattern. They manage to alternate hands on waist, hands above the head, they leap (although not all at once) and they twirl (only one girl looks precariously close to falling off the stage). By this age, most have stopped waving to their parents if they spot them in the audience. About two minutes into the dance Millie has a small solo piece. She has rehearsed this endlessly. I know she’s my daughter and I’m biased, but once she starts to leap, other parents gasp with admiration. She’s simply enchanting. Her arms flutter like streamers in the wind as she executes artful, mesmerising and deliberate moves. Her toes are pointed, she angles her legs, torso and head with precision, and she morphs into something other than a little girl on a stage; she is the butterfly she’s portraying. Everyone stares at her: the other dancers on the stage who are kneeling in a circle around her, the parents, grandparents, the pianist, the ballet teacher. She doesn’t notice us. She doesn’t scan the audience to catch my eye, she doesn’t look to the teacher or the pianist for the lead or the beat, she simply allows the performance to run through her. She’s everything every little girl wants to be: strong and beautiful. She elegantly extends her legs, points her toes and throws her arms wide as she commits to a leap. She sails through the air as though she has wings and then the hall door slams open. The noise ricochets through the room.
Most people can’t help themselves, it’s instinctive, they swivel their heads, attention pulls away from Millie and rests on her father. I hear him say, ‘I have a fucking ticket.’ Swearing is rife in the circles we mix in, holding back is seen as prudish and lower middle class. Still, I’m mortified. I guess I’m prudish and lower middle class. I don’t turn. I keep my eyes trained on Millie and watch her as she lands, not quite as gracefully as I’ve seen her do in rehearsals. I notice her eyes slip to the doorway for a fraction of a second. She’s no longer in a garden, a butterfly flitting from flower to flower, she’s a little girl with an embarrassing daddy.
The children scamper across the stage, toes pointed, legs stretched in front of them, a light, elegant pitter-patter. All I am aware of are his heavy footsteps slamming on the wooden floor as he threads his way towards the front of the hall. Why hasn’t he slipped into a seat at the back? I can hear him repeatedly say, ‘Sorry, ’scuse me, can I get past?’ He sounds impatient, a little sarcastic. His words are slurred.
At the interval, we stand in a frosty silence. Simon is swaying slightly. We have nothing to say to one another. Only the kindest of the mothers try to talk to us.
‘The costumes are quite something aren’t they?’ says Ellie’s mum.
‘The Year Twos looked like hookers,’ replies Simon.
I blush and sip my tea. Ellie’s mum pretends she’s seen someone else she knows that she needs to have a word with.
Delia’s mum picks up the mantel. ‘I love this troupe.’ It’s just a ballet class, not a troupe, but it seems rude to correct her. ‘It’s so inclusive. Rather lovely that all the children have been given roles, even though they don’t all have rhythm. You are lucky. Millie is so incredibly talented. If Delia had as much ability in her big toe I’d be thrilled, we just come here for the exercise really.’ She smiles at Simon. I think she’s trying to say something outrageous to draw attention away from his behaviour. It’s lovely