Copyright

First published in Great Britain by HarperCollins Children’s Books 2017

HarperCollins Children’s Books is a division of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd,

1 London Bridge Street, London SE1 9GF

The HarperCollins Children’s Books website address is:

www.harpercollins.co.uk

Copyright © Jean Ure 2017

Cover artwork © Lucy Truman 2017

Cover design © HarperCollinsPublishers 2017

Jean Ure asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Source ISBN: 9780008164522

Ebook Edition © 2017 ISBN: 9780008174781

Version: 2016-12-19

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Keep Reading …

Also by Jean Ure

About the Publisher

I knew the minute I saw her that Caitlyn was a dancer. Even though she was just sitting there quite quietly in the front hall, along with the other new girls, I could tell. There was just something about her. It was the way she sat – straight-backed, but perfectly relaxed, knees neatly together, hands lightly clasped in her lap. Very calm and poised.

On one side of her there was a tall, athletic-looking girl with her legs sprawled out and her hands dangling down like she’d forgotten they were there. Not very elegant! On the other side was a tiny, bright-eyed thing with a mop of dark curls, who was swinging her feet to and fro and nibbling at a thumbnail. Probably suffering from new-school nerves. Caitlyn said a lot later that she had been, too, though you would never have guessed it.

“What do you reckon?” hissed Livi.

We were standing at the top of the stairs, Livi and me and Jordan, peering down into the hall. We weren’t supposed to be at the top of the stairs, we were supposed to be making our way to our classroom, but it was the beginning of the autumn term when new girls would be starting, especially in Year Seven. Who could resist the temptation to have a bit of a sneak peek?

“That one looks like she could be OK,” said Jordan, nodding in the direction of the tall girl.

“Or the little one,” said Liv.

Jordan agreed that she might be fun. Neither of them bothered with Caitlyn; it was almost like she didn’t exist. Where I saw a fellow dancer, they just saw someone small and pale and insignificant. In other words, boring.

The office door opened and Mrs Betts appeared. Mrs Betts is our school secretary and a lot fiercer than any of the teachers. She glanced at the three of us at the top of the stairs and frowned slightly, like, Isn’t it time you were in class? We drew back, guiltily.

“You coming?” said Jordan.

I said, “Yes, OK! I’m coming.”

I stayed just long enough to watch as Caitlyn and the others made their way across the hall. I was right: Caitlyn had a dancer’s walk! Even down to what Jordan and Livi insist on calling splay-feet, just to tease me. Actually it’s flat-footed people who have splay-feet: dancers have turn-out. There’s a huge difference. With splay-feet you flump. Caitlyn didn’t flump. She was elegant!

Of course at that point I didn’t know her name, but I was already wondering where she went for lessons. I knew all of the local dance schools. I also knew lots of the people who went to them. The world of dance is quite a small one. I thought perhaps, looking at her, that she might go to Miss Hennessy, who was the only other teacher Mum considered reputable. The only other teacher besides Mum herself, that is! She was always very scathing about the rest of them, especially The Dance Bug, with its ridiculous purple uniform and glossy brochures. She said it turned out nothing but robots.

“All technique and no soul.”

As for Babette Wynstan and her Babette’s Babes – always strutting their stuff in the local pantomime – well! I couldn’t repeat the things Mum said about them. It’s true that Mum is a bit of a snob where ballet is concerned, but wherever Caitlyn went for classes it looked to me like she had been well taught.

Her name, as I discovered in registration, was Caitlyn Hughes. A good name, I thought, for a dancer. Mum once had a pupil called Martha Roope. How could you get anywhere with a name like that? And I once read that Margot Fonteyn started off as Peggy Hookham. I couldn’t believe it! Peggy Hookham.

The part of the Swan Queen was danced to perfection by Peggy Hookham …

I don’t think so! I was so amazed when I discovered this that I excitedly reported it to Livi and Jordan.

“Did you know that Margot Fonteyn started off as Peggy Hookham?”

I confidently expected them to squeal and go, “Peggy Hookham?”

But they just stared at me in total blankness and said, “Who’s Margot Fonteyn?” I’m not even sure they didn’t say Margaret Fonteyn. Un-be-liev-able!

I snapped, “She was only one of the all-time greats!” How could anyone not have heard of Margot Fonteyn? People are amazingly ignorant when it comes to ballet. I’d been friends with Livi and Jordan ever since we’d started at Coombe House. We always shared secrets and hung out together and stuck up for one another, but they still couldn’t tell a jeté from an arabesque, and didn’t have had the least idea what a pas de bourrée was. As for never having heard of Margot Fonteyn … words fail me!

I watched that morning as Caitlyn filed into assembly with the rest of us. I thought that she would know who Margot Fonteyn was! I liked the idea of having a fellow dancer to chat with. The only other girl in our class who did ballet had left, and she hadn’t been what Mum would call a proper dancer, anyway. Just one of Babette’s Babes. Mention Babette to Mum and she goes, “Well, if you want to train chorus girls …” Meaning not proper corps de ballet, just Babette’s Babes, all simpering and kicking their legs in the air.

At first break I went bounding up to Caitlyn, dragging Livi and Jordan with me. I said, “’Scuse me! Where do you do ballet?”

Caitlyn said, “Ballet?” She sounded startled, like I’d caught her out in some kind of crime. Maybe I’d been too eager. Mum is always accusing me of blundering around like a bull in a china shop.

I said, “Yes, sorry! I’m Maddy, by the way. I didn’t mean to be nosy – I just wondered which school you went to.”

Caitlyn hesitated, as if she didn’t quite know what to say.

“Dance school,” I added.

“Actually she is being nosy,” said Jordan, “but she can’t help it. It’s not her fault, poor thing. Her whole family is, like, obsessed.”

“Her mum,” said Livi, giving me a little poke, as if perhaps she might be referring to someone else’s mum, “has her own ballet school. She used to be a ballerina! So did her dad – well!” She giggled. “Not a ballerina, obviously!”

“Ballet dancer,” said Jordan.

“Ballet dancer,” agreed Liv. “And now he makes up ballets for other people. He goes all over the world. Doesn’t he?” She turned to me. I nodded, reluctantly. Why were we talking about my dad? How did he come into it? It was Caitlyn I wanted to know about! “He’s even been to Moscow,” said Liv, proudly.

“Yes, and her brother,” said Jordan, “is a preema dancer!”

“Premier danseur,” I said. And anyway he wasn’t. He was too young to be a premier danseur. He’d only just been promoted to soloist.

“He’s a star,” said Liv. “And her sister—”

“Is having a baby,” I said.

“Yes, but before that she was a star! All Maddy’s family are stars. That’s why—”

“Oh, do shut up about my family,” I begged. “Nobody’s in the least bit interested.”

Certainly not Caitlyn. She couldn’t have made it more obvious. If she’d been interested, she’d have wanted to know what my surname was, and I’d have said O’Brien and then she’d have put two and two together and realised that my dad must be Declan, and my brother was Sean. She might even have remembered that my sister was Jenny and that Mum had been Yvette Anderson. And she would certainly have heard of the Anderson Academy of Dance! Except—

She’d been there, hadn’t she, when we had registration? She’d have heard my name read out – Madeleine O’Brien. So, if she was a dancer, she’d surely have put two and two together right away? Just for a moment I thought perhaps I’d got it wrong. But I hadn’t! I was sure I hadn’t. Caitlyn was a dancer if ever I saw one. She had to be! When you have a mum who runs a ballet school and a dad who’s a choreographer, when your entire family is into ballet, you can recognise a fellow dancer when you see one.

By now the silence was becoming too embarrassing even for me. In what I hoped were dignified tones I said, “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to pry, it’s just that I know all the local teachers and I couldn’t help wondering …” My voice trailed off. Lamely I said, “I just wondered where you took lessons.”

“Ballet lessons,” said Jordan, encouragingly.

“I don’t do ballet,” said Caitlyn. She said it quite rudely. Almost like, Who in their right mind would want to do anything so girly?

Some people do think that ballet is girly. They have no idea of all the training you have to go through and all the hard work you have to put in. They think it’s nothing but pointing your toes and wearing fluffy skirts. Was that what Caitlyn thought?

I almost never blush but I could feel my cheeks fire up. I felt like I’d been slapped in the face. I’d only meant to be friendly!

“Sorry,” I muttered. Not, to be honest, that I saw any reason to apologise. I was just showing an interest! Showing an interest isn’t the same as being nosy. “I really thought you looked like a dancer.”

“Well, I’m not,” said Caitlyn.

Jordan slipped her arm through mine. “Let’s go,” she said.

Meekly I allowed myself to be led away.

“Really!” said Livi. “What a thoroughly unpleasant person.”

“Won’t bother with her again,” agreed Jordan. “Dunno what made you go and talk to her in the first place.”

Pleadingly I said, “I really thought she was a dancer.”

I still thought she was a dancer. Why wouldn’t she admit it?

“Doesn’t look much like a dancer to me,” said Livi.

“That one could be.” Jordan nodded across the yard to where the tiny girl with the bright eyes was standing with the big, athletic-looking one. Ava, her name was. The other was Astrid.

I shook my head. “She’s way too small.”

“Too small?” Jordan’s voice rose to a squeak. “How can she be too small?”

“That Caitlyn’s hardly a giant,” said Livi. She sniffed. “Skinny thing!”

Caitlyn was what I would’ve called exactly right. Right height, right shape. About the same as me, in fact. Mum has always monitored all of us most carefully, terrified that we’d end up too short or too tall. You don’t want extremes in a ballet company, except maybe for soloists. But nobody starts off as a soloist. Pretty well everyone has to begin in the corps, and you can’t very well have six-foot dancers and four-foot dancers all muddled up together – it would ruin the line.

The bell had rung for the end of break and I watched, critically, as Ava set off across the yard. She bounced as she walked. Bibbity-bob, bibbity-bob, with her head nodding up and down. Quite cute! But not a dancer’s walk. Caitlyn, on the other hand … I looked around in time to catch her going back into school. She was so graceful. She had to be a dancer! I didn’t care what she said.

It was a puzzle, and I couldn’t help feeling a bit disappointed. It would have been fun to have someone to talk ballet with. Even sometimes, maybe, to practise with. Livi and Jordan meant well, but they had no idea what it was actually like, training to be a dancer. Still I didn’t intend to go back for a second helping. I am not a person who bears grudges – I honestly don’t believe that I am – but once is enough. I’d tried to be friendly, and she’d made it quite plain that she didn’t want to know.

I pointedly didn’t take any notice of Caitlyn after that. At least I tried not to, but I still found myself watching her at odd moments, like in morning assembly or out in the yard at break. It didn’t help that her desk was directly in front of mine in class, which meant I could hardly avoid studying the back of her head. A dancer’s head! There are all different types of heads. Big ones, like turnips; small ones, like tennis balls. Round ones, oval ones, lumpy ones, bumpy ones. Caitlyn’s was small and shapely, perfectly balanced on a long, slender neck. Just right for ballet!

It was really frustrating. I still couldn’t believe I’d got it so wrong. I might almost have been tempted to break my vow and try talking to her again, but Livi and Jordan made sure I didn’t get the chance.

“Just ignore her,” said Liv. “People who are that rude aren’t worth bothering with.”

“I mean, so insulting,” said Jordan.

“Ungracious,” said Liv. She is rather into these literary sort of words. It’s cos of her dad being this big, important professor of English. “You’d have thought she’d feel proud being at school with someone from a famous family.”

I mumbled a protest. “My family aren’t famous.”

“We think they are,” said Jordan.

I said, “Sean might be, one day.” Even I might be, one day!

“Are you telling me,” said Liv, “that people don’t know who your mum and dad are?”

“Well … some people,” I said. “Ballet people.”

“We’re not ballet people,” said Jordan.

“No, but you’re my friends,” I said.

And being my friends they did sometimes have this tendency to boast a little. To new girls, for instance, such as Caitlyn. But it wasn’t like I was boasting! There really wasn’t any reason for Caitlyn to have been so unpleasant.

For all that, I still couldn’t stop studying the back of her head. I still refused to believe she wasn’t a dancer.

I tried talking to Mum about it after class that evening. I said, “There’s this new girl started at school. She’s called Caitlyn. She swears she doesn’t do ballet but I don’t believe her! I’m sure she does.”

Mum said, “Really?” Not, unfortunately, in a very interested sort of way. More like, Why is she telling me this now? It probably wasn’t the best moment to try talking to her about Caitlyn, when she’d been teaching all day and half the evening and just wanted to get home. But it’s never a best moment with Mum. She’s very … absorbed in her work, is what Liv would say.

I waited while Mum locked up and we walked out to the car. I said, “Why would anyone lie about it?”

“About what?” said Mum.

“Learning ballet!”

“Oh, goodness knows. People have their reasons. Incidentally, I meant to say earlier, you really must put in some work on your ports de bras. You’re getting very sloppy!”

I pulled a face. I know that arms are not my strongest point.

“Did you hear me?” said Mum.

I said, “Yes. I heard you.”

“Well, don’t just talk about it,” said Mum. “See to it!”

“I will,” I said. “I will!”

I always give up, in the end. You simply can’t have a conversation with Mum that isn’t directly to do with ballet. Dad isn’t very much better. No use expecting either of them to shed any light on the mystery. But I do so hate to be wrong!

On Thursday the following week, when we’d been back at school for ten days (and I was still hypnotically staring at the back of Caitlyn’s head), it poured with rain and we had to do PE in the gym. Coombe House is a very small school; we don’t have proper sports facilities. Just a single court where we can play netball or tennis, plus a patch of grass for rounders. No hockey. Certainly no football. So, when it rains, we all have to go up to the gym, where there isn’t very much except a few wall bars and a bit of coconut matting.

Miss Lucas, our PE teacher, is quite ancient and what she likes best is to get us all swaying about in time to music, or doing strange, bendy exercises – “Stretch, girls! As high as you can!” Sometimes we do a bit of dancing: old-fashioned stuff like polkas and waltzes. Stuff that anyone can do. But still Miss Lucas always goes, “Watch, girls! All look at Maddy!” Really embarrassing. There was this one time she said we were going to do Greek dancing and we got all fired up with enthusiasm, cos Greek dancing is fun, at least all the Greek dancing I’ve ever seen. I was all ready to fling myself into it, and this time I wouldn’t have minded if Miss Lucas wanted people to watch me. I’m really good at character dancing! But then all it turned out to be was just wandering about, striking weird poses. No real dancing at all.

I got a bit bold, cos it was, like, really frustrating, and shouted, “It’s not like Zorba the Greek!” Zorba the Greek is this film that Dad has in his collection and which I know practically off by heart. They do real dancing in that. But when I told Mum, expecting her to be sympathetic, she said it was not only extremely rude of me but also unkind.

“Poor old soul,” she said. “She does her best.”

“But Mum,” I wailed, “it was just stupid!”

“So learn to put up with it,” said Mum. “Behave yourself!”

I do try, but when you’re told to “hop like a kangaroo” or “bounce like a ball” it’s very difficult to take it seriously, especially when you’re used to the discipline of barre work, with Mum prowling about the studio, watching your every move with her hawk-like eye.

That Thursday, after the usual stretching and skipping, Miss Lucas said she wanted us to walk across the floor as though on a tightrope above Cheddar Gorge.

“High, high up!” She wafted her hands above her head to demonstrate. I giggled, and immediately stifled it. I Iike Miss Lucas; I would never want to hurt her feelings. But it really did make me feel like I was back to being four years old and just starting my first dancing class. It’s all very well being kangaroos and bouncing balls when you’re four years old; not when you’re eleven and have been studying ballet for almost as long as you can remember. But Mum had said to behave myself so I obediently went off to the far end of the gym to make like I was crossing Cheddar Gorge.

I glanced at Caitlyn out of the corner of my eye to see how she was taking it. She seemed quite happy, lost in a world of her own. High up among imaginary clouds, no doubt. I shrugged. What would Dad do, I wondered, if he was making a ballet about tightrope walkers? He would be bound to have one person who was a bit uncertain. Like in Les Patineurs, which is a skating ballet, where one of the skaters goes flump! on to her bottom. I couldn’t very well go flump and fall into Cheddar Gorge, but I could be a bit wobbly. More than a bit wobbly! I could miss my footing. I could slip, I could slide, I could almost fall off. Eee … ow … aaaargh!

I knew it wasn’t what Miss Lucas wanted. She wanted us all to be beautifully poised and balanced, like the time she’d got us walking around the gym with books on our head. But you have to have some fun!

When we’d all successfully walked our tightropes across the yawning gulf beneath us, Miss Lucas said, “Right! Let’s all watch Maddy.” She nodded at me. “Off you go!”

I think by now people were used to me being singled out. They were kind of resigned to it. There wasn’t anyone else in the class who was a dancer, or even wanted to be a dancer, so perhaps they didn’t really care.

I wobbled back along my imaginary tightrope. I slipped and tripped and threw up my arms in horror. People laughed. I did it again, and they laughed again, so I pulled this agonised face and began to step reeeeally sloooowly, trying not to look down, cos if you looked down … Eee … ow … aaaargh! That was nearly it. Phew!

Everybody by now was in fits of giggles. Miss Lucas gave a little smile. She said, “Well, I think you’ll all agree that was very clever. Thank you, Maddy! Now … Caitlyn.” She beckoned. “Not quite so clever, maybe, but … let’s see what people think. Come! Don’t be nervous.”

Caitlyn had turned bright pink. I wondered what Miss Lucas had meant when she’d said, “Not quite so clever but …” Like maybe clever wasn’t such a good thing?

“Off you go,” said Miss Lucas.

Caitlyn set off diagonally across the gym. We all watched, like in some kind of trance. You could almost feel the wire stretched taut beneath her feet, just as you could almost sense the gaping void beneath her. If she’d been in a film, instead of in the gym, it would have been enough to make you hold your breath. I think some people actually did hold their breath, cos the minute she reached the end and stepped off there was a loud burst of applause. Even Miss Lucas joined in. After a few seconds (to get over my surprise) I did, too.

“So, there you are,” said Miss Lucas. “Two very different interpretations. Maddy used technique, Caitlyn her imagination. We laughed at one and held our breath with the other.”

Liv and Jordan grumbled afterwards.

“What on earth was she on about? You used your imagination just as much as she did!”

But I hadn’t; Miss Lucas was right. I had relied on technique. If I’d used imagination, people wouldn’t have laughed: they would have been holding their breath, just as they had for Caitlyn.

Why did I feel that I’d let myself down?

Next morning I was told that Miss Lucas wanted to see me in the gym at lunchtime.

“Wonder what that’s about?” said Livi.

I pulled a face. She was probably going to talk to me about yesterday, about what Mum would have called my “antics” on the high wire. Mum doesn’t approve of antics; she says they are just a way of showing off. Mum’s pupils are not expected to show off. We leave all that sort of thing to Babette’s Babes, sashaying about the stage in their sparkly tiaras and pretty little pink tutus.

Miss Lucas is softer than Mum, and a whole lot kinder. She wouldn’t fix me with a contemptuous stare and coldly ask me what on earth I thought I was doing. Mum would! Miss Lucas would just be very sad and reproachful, which in some ways was even worse as it would make me feel ashamed of myself, especially if she gazed at me with her sorrowful eyes. Like, How could you do that to me, Maddy? Like she knew I secretly considered myself too grand to go skipping and hopping and tiptoeing about on imaginary tightropes.

I’d already made up my mind that I would apologise. I would admit that Mum is always accusing me of playing for laughs. I would be humble and meekly accept that it is one of my worst faults. I am never meek with Mum! She can sometimes make me quite defiant. But Miss Lucas is so gentle you almost feel the need to protect her.

“Ah, Maddy,” she said, as I presented myself in the gym. “Thank you for coming! I’m so sorry to cut into your lunch hour.”

I said, “That’s all right.” I was a bit taken aback, to tell the truth. I’d thought I was the one who was supposed to apologise!

“I wanted to talk to you,” said Miss Lucas, “about the Christmas production.”

“Oh?” I perked up. Maybe she was going to offer me one of the lead parts. Fingers crossed! After all, I was in senior school now, so she surely couldn’t expect me to do what I’d done last year, and the year before, when she’d wanted me to perform little soppy dances to steps that she’d made up. Not when I was in Year Seven!

“Let’s sit down,” said Miss Lucas.

We both sank down on to the coconut matting and sat with our legs crossed. I had to fight another of my horrible urges to giggle. Miss Lucas is older than my gran! I couldn’t imagine my gran sitting cross-legged on coconut matting. But I suppose Miss Lucas is still quite supple for an older person.

“I thought that this year,” she said, her eyes gleaming with excitement, “we’d do a real play … a Christmas play. One that I’ve written myself.”

I made a little noise like “Mm!” to show that I was impressed. Miss Lucas beamed.

“Let me tell you what it’s about.”

It was about a Christmas tree fairy who had become old and tattered. Once upon a time she had been young and beautiful. Every year she had been brought down from her box in the attic with all the rest of the Christmas decorations and placed at the top of the tree. Now the family who owned her didn’t want her any more.

“Four little rich girls,” said Miss Lucas. “All horribly spoilt! ‘Ugh, Mum, look at it!’ they go.” Miss Lucas put on a little girly voice. Little rich girly voice. All shrill and shrieky. “‘You’ll have to get us a new one, Mum! We can’t invite all our friends to our Christmas party with that disgusting old thing at the top of the tree!’ And so,” continued Miss Lucas, “they take the poor fairy and they throw her out with the rubbish.” Miss Lucas made a throwing motion. “‘Tatty old thing!’”

She leaned forward, very earnestly. “They’re not very nice girls, you see, but they don’t really know any better, poor things! They’ve been brought up to believe that the minute something becomes a bit worn or a bit dirty it’s no good any more.”

I nodded, solemnly. I wasn’t going to tell her that last Christmas I’d begged Mum and Dad for new decorations cos ours were starting to look all old and shabby!

“That poor fairy,” said Miss Lucas. “She’s so unhappy! Cast out of the only home she’s ever known … rejected by the family she loves. Can you imagine it, Maddy? Can you imagine how she must feel?”

Miss Lucas fixed me with a tragic gaze. Her eyes were swimming. I made another encouraging “Mm!” sound. Maybe, I thought, I could play one of the spoilt little rich girls. I’d enjoy that! “So, there she is,” said Miss Lucas, “tossed out with the rubbish. All alone in the cold and the dark. But wait!” She flung up a hand. “What’s this sniffing around the bin? It’s a fox!” Miss Lucas clasped her hands to her bosom. I clasped mine as well, to show that I was living it with her. “He drags the poor fairy out and starts playing with her … tossing her about—”

We both made tossing motions.

“Until, in the end—” Miss Lucas sank back, “—he tires of the game. He drops her in the gutter – plosh! – and goes running off. The poor little soul is left there, face down—” Miss Lucas drooped. “She’s cold; she’s wet; her once beautiful skirt is torn and muddy. Her poor heart is broken.”

I said, “That is really sad.” I wondered if it was a part that I would want to play. Being broken-hearted is not really my thing. I mean, I could be, obviously. But it’s not what I’m best at.

“Anyway,” said Miss Lucas, “time passes and we cut to a different family … a mum and her three children. Two little girls, one little boy. Well! The boy isn’t that little. About your age, I’d say.”

I sat up, bright and expectant. Maybe I could play the boy? I’d be good at playing a boy!

“This is an underprivileged family,” said Miss Lucas. “Dad’s no longer around; Mum is on her own. They’re having to live in a B & B.”

Excuse me? I obviously looked puzzled.

“Bed and breakfast.” Miss Lucas whispered it, as if it was too dreadful to say out loud. “Sometimes they even have to visit a food bank. What kind of Christmas can they look forward to?”

“Not a very nice one,” I said.

“Not a very nice one at all! No tree, no fairy … hardly anything in the way of presents. One little girl isn’t very well, and she does so want a tree. And a fairy to go on top! But Mum can’t afford it.”

Sadly Miss Lucas shook her head. I waited, expectantly. At least she couldn’t ask me to play the sick little girl; she’d need someone younger for that.

“So next,” said Miss Lucas, “we have a scene where the little boy is walking along the road, scuffing his feet, miserable because he can’t do anything to help his little sister.”

I nodded. I could scuff my feet! And kick things. Little boys were always kicking things.

“I think probably,” said Miss Lucas, “that both this scene and the one with the fox—”

I had a moment of horror. Please, please, I thought, don’t ask me to play the part of a fox!

“I can see you looking worried,” said Miss Lucas. “You’re asking yourself, how do we portray a fox? I’m sure it can be done. There’s a girl in Year Six—”

Oh, I thought. Lucky her!

“Anyway, as I was saying, I think those two scenes should both take place in front of the curtain. What do you think?”

Like I was some kind of expert! I said, “Yes, that’s an excellent idea. Cos they’d be street scenes.”

“Exactly.” Miss Lucas looked pleased. “I thought we could get the art department to paint a suitable backcloth … houses, shops. That kind of thing.”

“That would be really good,” I said.

“It would, wouldn’t it? We obviously think alike! So, there’s the little boy, wandering along, when suddenly he catches sight of something in the gutter … what can it be?”

“The fairy?” I said.

“The fairy! Poor, wet, bedraggled fairy. To cut a long story short,” said Miss Lucas, “he rescues her, takes her back with him. Mum helps clean her up, even manages to make her a new skirt and mend her wand, while the little boy uses silver foil to turn an old abandoned umbrella into … guess what? A Christmas tree! Such a wonderful surprise for his little sisters when they wake up on Christmas morning! ‘Is she really ours?’” whispered Miss Lucas. “‘Can we keep her?’ Mum assures them that they can. So, all ends well for everybody! The little girls have their Christmas tree fairy, and the Christmas tree fairy has a new family to love her. What do you think?”

She looked at me, eagerly. I struggled to find something to say. To me it seemed a bit … mushy. Like when I’m forced to eat something I hate, such as Brussels sprouts, just to take one particularly loathsome example, and I smash them all up with the potatoes and the gravy so that Mum accuses me of making a mush. Miss Lucas’s story was a mush! All soft and squishy and kind of yuck. But she was so pleased with it! She was so happy!

“Of course,” she said hastily, “there will be other scenes. I thought maybe in the penultimate scene – that is, the next to last, before we have the little boy and his family waking up on Christmas morning – I thought it might be nice to show the rich little girls having a party. They could invite all their friends and show off their new expensive fairy, but oh, dear!” Miss Lucas rolled her eyes. “These rich little girls will squabble so! They all want to be the one to put the fairy on the tree. They end up quarrelling so badly that their mother has to come in and put a stop to it.”

In that case, I thought, I’d like to play one of the little rich girls. The oldest one. I already saw her as being very bossy and snatching at the fairy and jumping on a chair so she could reach the top of the tree. But then maybe one of the others would grab at her and pull her down and they’d end up fighting and pulling hair and scratching. Yes! I could turn her into a really spoilt brat.

“Well?” Miss Lucas was waiting anxiously for me to say something.

“It sounds really good,” I said. “Which part did you want me to play? Shall I be the oldest sister?”

“Oh, Maddy, no!” cried Miss Lucas. “You’re our little dancer! What I want from you, I want to have a dance interlude between the acts. It would be after the poor fairy’s been thrown out. She’d be so sad. So very sad! She’d remember the old days, when she was young and the girls loved her. She might even do a few steps, trying to recapture the magic of her youth …”

Miss Lucas made a frail gesture with one arm. Her head drooped, her shoulders sagged. She looked a bit like Anna Pavlova in The Dying Swan. I fought back another surge of giggles. I’d promised Mum I’d behave myself! And it wasn’t fair to laugh just cos I thought her idea was mushy. My only fear was how much more mushy would her dance interlude turn out to be?

“Naturally—” she suddenly snapped back into brisk, teacherly mode “—it would be entirely up to you. I wouldn’t want to interfere. You would have complete freedom. I’m sure you’re a far more capable choreographer than I am!”

I blinked. “You want me to make up my own steps?”

“Oh, Maddy, could you?” Miss Lucas clasped both hands back to her bosom. (I say bosom as it is only polite, though in fact she is so skinny she is like a tube.) “That would be really wonderful! You’re so much more advanced than you were last year. I couldn’t possibly do justice to your talents! But of course,” she added, “you must ask your mother. If she thinks it’s too much, you must say so. I know how busy you are, with your lessons.”

I wasn’t as busy as all that. I could find the time. But I did so wish that just for once I could play a speaking part! Maybe I could get Mum to say she’d rather I didn’t take on any more dance assignments but wouldn’t mind if I was one of the spoilt sisters.

“So, what do you think?” said Miss Lucas.

I promised that I would ask Mum. “I’ll see what she says.”

This time I waited for a good moment. Mum had taken her last class of the day and was back home, with a glass of wine and her feet up. Sean wasn’t there cos he was at the theatre, and Dad was on his way to New York to mount a production of ZigZag, one of his most popular works, for the New York City Ballet. I had Mum all to myself. I just wanted her to agree that it wouldn’t be sensible for me to take on any more work. Dancing work.

“Cos, you know, having to do all the choreography … I couldn’t properly give it my full attention.”

“Why not?” said Mum. I said, “Well, I mean …” I waved a hand. “What with classes and everything.”

“What’s everything?” said Mum.

“Practising. Ports de bras, like you said! And schoolwork. I have to do some schoolwork.”

Mum said, “Maddy, you have the very minimum amount of schoolwork. It’s one of the reasons we sent you there, so you’d have plenty of time for your dancing.”

“But classes!” I wailed.

“Two a week plus Saturday mornings? That’s nothing! When I was your age,” said Mum, “I was leaving home for a seven o’clock class every morning.”

“Not when you were eleven,” I said.

“I would have done,” said Mum, “if it had been asked of me.”

“Well, anyway.” I flopped down at the far end of the sofa. Mum hastily transferred her glass from one hand to the other.

“Just watch what you’re doing, Maddy! You’re supposed to be a dancer … Gracious. Poised. Not hurling yourself about like a baby elephant.”

“Sorry.” I could already sense that this was not going to go well. “Thing is—” I picked at a bit of sofa which seemed to be coming loose. “Thing is, it’s a really soppy storyline! I just don’t know what I’m supposed to do with it. It’s about this—”

“Stop!” Mum held up a hand. She never has much patience with what she calls “moaning and carrying on”. “Whatever it’s about I’m sure you’ll find a way to deal with it. It’ll be good experience for you.”

“It might be,” I said, “if I wanted to be a choreographer. But I don’t!”

“Do you think your dad knew that that’s what he wanted at your age?”

I frowned. What did Dad have to do with it?

“You just never know,” said Mum. “And think how happy it will make Miss Lucas!”

I plucked some more at the sofa. “It won’t make her happy if I’m just, like, totally uninspired.”

“I should certainly hope you won’t be totally uninspired!”

“But I don’t know how long she wants it to be! I don’t even have any music! I—”

“So find some,” snapped Mum “Heaven knows your dad has a large enough collection. And stop pulling the furniture to pieces!”

I said, “Sorry! But honestly I can’t see there’s any point in having a dance interlude.”

“Why not?” said Mum. “If that’s what Miss Lucas wants … It’s her show. And you are a dancer, so why not make use of you?”

“But Mum, she wants me to be a fairy!” I said.

“So? What’s wrong with that? I’ll have you know,” said Mum, “that the Lilac Fairy was one of my very first solo roles!”

I said, “That’s different. That’s in Sleeping Beauty. That’s a classic! This is just soppy.”

“It doesn’t have to be,” said Mum. “You’re the one doing the choreography; it’s up to you. You can’t have it both ways! You complain when you’re asked to do it yourself and you complain when Miss Lucas does it for you. All that fuss last year at having to do that pathetic little dance she’d made up!”

I said, “Yes, cos it was tacky. You said so.”

“Well, all right, it was. But Miss Lucas is not a professional dancer: you are. Or at least you’re aiming to be. I would expect you to do a bit better than Miss Lucas. This is an opportunity, Maddy! Make the most of it. You could start by finding some suitable music. That’s always your dad’s way in. Find the music and let it inspire you.”

I heaved a sigh. I had so wanted, this one time, to have a proper speaking part! Just to show what I could do. Everybody knew I could dance. I wanted to show them I could act as well!

“Music!” said Mum.

I said, “Yes. All right.”

I supposed it would have to be something slow and mournful. I would obviously have to waft about the stage looking pathetic, with lyrical arm movements and maybe the occasional arabesque. Nothing in the least bit exciting. Certainly no fouettés or pirouettes. Just boring adage. Slow, slow, slow. Exactly what I am least good at!

I went through Dad’s music collection and found some slow, sad music and waited for it to inspire me. But it didn’t! There are some dancers who are just naturally gifted at adage. They have beautiful lines and what Mum calls “poise and serenity”. Then there are others – like me – who shine at allegro. We leap, we spin, we turn, we dazzle. But how could a broken-down fairy do any of that?

And then, as I sat on the floor, brooding over the slow, sad music and waiting for inspiration, I remembered something Miss Lucas had said. She’d remember the old days, when she was young … She might even do a few steps, trying to recapture the magic of her youth.

Yesss! I sprang up, suddenly excited. That would be my way in! The fairy leaping and spinning, just as she had when she was young. Now I was inspired! All I had to do was find some music. Something fast and zingy. Of course it would only be a dream. An old, tired fairy wouldn’t really have the energy to perform fouettées and entrechats and grands jetés all over the place. But that was all right: she would be remembering. It would be a dream sequence. Dad had a dream sequence in one of his ballets; there wasn’t anything wrong with it. It wouldn’t be showing off. It wouldn’t be cheating. It would show the audience what the fairy had once been capable of. And, of course, to show them what I was capable of. Why not? I was the choreographer!

Now that I’d decided what to do I found myself fizzing with enthusiasm. I wondered if this was how Dad felt when he began working on a new ballet. It was exciting! Especially once I’d found the right music, all zippy and fast-moving, with sudden trumpet blasts and spiky rhythms. Mum was right: music was the starting point! My head was a whirl of steps and sequences; I just needed space to try them out.

I did consider asking Mum if I could borrow one of her studios, but then I thought maybe that wasn’t such a good idea. Mum would always be looking in on me to see how I was getting on and to offer advice. I didn’t want that! This was going to be my choreography, done entirely by me. So then I had the much better idea of asking Miss Lucas if I could use the gym.

She was delighted. I knew she would be!

“Maddy,” she said, “I’m so happy that you’re doing this! By all means use the gym. Do you want it before school or after?”

I said that it would have to be before cos of after-school lessons with Mum.

“But if I could come in really early in the morning? Like half past seven maybe?”

“No problem,” said Miss Lucas. “There’s always someone around. I’ll arrange it with Mrs Betts. Just remember to sign in at the Office so we know you’re here.”

Mum was quite impressed when I told her I’d need to be leaving an hour earlier every morning. She even said she’d give me a lift.

“I don’t mind getting to the studio a bit earlier. It’ll give me a chance to catch up with myself.”

School was very strange and deserted so early in the morning, though Mrs Betts was there, and some of the teachers. I could also see a group of Year Twelves practising on the netball court and hear the tinkling of someone having a piano lesson in one of the music rooms. I was already wearing my leotard and tights under my coat, so I went straight up to the gym with my shoes and a couple of CDs I’d brought with me. One of them was my lovely zingy music, the other was a CD Mum had put together for workouts. My plan was to work out for fifteen minutes then spend the rest of the time getting the jumble of steps out of my brain and into my feet. I was itching to try them out!

And then, as I reached the gym, I stopped. What was going on in there? I could hear what sounded like someone moving about. Not loud enough to be an actual noise: more like the sliding of feet on the gym floor, followed by a soft thunk.

I opened the door, very gently, and peered through. What I saw was such a shock that I almost let the door go thudding shut again. A small figure, dressed like me in leotard and tights, was dancing in the centre of the gym. It was Caitlyn!

She seemed to be attempting pirouettes, though not very successfully. Not very successfully at all. I could see at once what the problem was: she was so busy concentrating on the position of her arms and legs that she was forgetting to find a spot to fix her eyes on. You can’t do turns without spotting! Surely whoever her teacher was must have told her?

“’Scuse me!”

I’d gone racing into the gym before I could stop myself. I could see, afterwards, that it would have been more diplomatic to stay outside and clear my throat or rattle the door handle, to give her some warning. But I was just so surprised!

Caitlyn spun around, startled, as I burst in.

“Are you trying to practise pirouettes?” I said.

“No!” Her face immediately turned crimson. “It was just … just something I …”

What? Something she what? She didn’t stay long enough to say. Just gave a little gasp and scuttled for the door.

“I’m sorry! I know I shouldn’t be here!”

“You can be here!” I cried. But too late: she was already on her way out.

In her rush I saw that she’d left her outdoor shoes behind. I snatched them up and ran after her.

“Caitlyn!” I called out, over the banisters. She paused, and glanced up. “Here!” I tossed the shoes down to her. “You don’t have to go,” I said.

For a moment she hesitated, but then violently shook her head and scurried on her way.

Slowly I went back into the gym. I put on Mum’s CD and dutifully did my fifteen minutes of workout, but my brain was now buzzing with so many unanswered questions that I found it almost impossible to concentrate. Why was Caitlyn practising pirouettes in the gym? Why hadn’t she been taught how to spot when doing turns? Why, after all, did she persist in saying she didn’t do ballet when she quite obviously did?

All the rest of the day she kept away from me. At breaktime she stuck closely with the other two new girls: the tall one, Astrid, and the tiny one, Ava. I didn’t want to barge in and start questioning her in front of other people. I’d already embarrassed her once, bulldozing my way into the gym. But I was just dying to get to the bottom of the mystery!

It wasn’t till going-home time that I managed to get her on her own. I could see Mum waiting in the car outside the school gates, but I could also see Caitlyn just ahead of me. I raced after her.

“Hey, Caitlyn!”

She half turned. For a minute I thought she was going to take off, but reluctantly she waited for me.

“I don’t mean to be nosy,” I said, “but do tell me who your teacher is!”

“I don’t have one.” She said it almost desperately, like, Please, please, just go away and leave me alone!

I don’t enjoy upsetting people. In spite of what Mum says, I am not

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