BALLET SHOES

Sarah put the shoes, still in their packet, on the bed. Neatly folded, flat, pink canvas. No ribbons, these days. The shop assistant had said. Just elastic. These are the crossover ones. You’ll find them more supportive. She had spent ages helping her find the correct fit. I don’t suppose you get many my age in, Sarah had said. One or two, was the reply. Very diplomatic.

She was itching to try them on again. Without help. She sat on the bed, the familiar scrump of the mattress, then a twinge in her back. She kicked off her slippers. Another twinge, stronger than before. How could a silly fall on the stairs leave anyone so damaged, even after the surgery? And it was at work, for maximum embarrassment. The physiotherapist had said exercise was the healer now, but what if she fell again? Do you like yoga or pilates? he had asked. No, she did not. She had never liked exercise. Not the formal kind, anyway. Too much like games lessons at school, led by angry women with short skirts and big thighs. She didn’t mind a walk with the dog, or dancing on a night out, once upon a time. She used to be a good dancer.

That was how it came to her. The ballet lessons. For grown-ups, obviously. God, she hoped they were going to be grown-ups, not skinny-minnie twenty-somethings with no bums and no boobs. She had plenty of both. Mercifully there would be no need for a leotard; there was no getting her into one of those now.

Just the ballet shoes is all you need, Miss Clare had said on the phone. Which is how Sarah came to be sitting on her bed, making a heroic attempt to get her right foot into a limp banana skin of a ballet shoe.

Shoes finally on, she stood up and looked in the mirror. Jumper, jersey trousers, black socks and pink ballet shoes. It looked like she had forgotten her feet. She wondered how much she could remember. She tried pointing her toes, the right foot, then the left. It felt alright. Maybe a quick plié? She turned out her toes and bent her knees, forming a lopsided diamond shape with her legs. Her knees cracked audibly, but there was no pain.

It was the class that Sarah was really dreading. She had told her family she was going, so she couldn’t chicken out. It kept her awake the night before, her head swimming with half remembered names of steps. She had to go. Doctor’s orders.

She was late getting there. Muffled music drifted into the foyer. Taking a deep breath, she pushed open the door. A row of dancers stood facing her. Women like her; older,

younger, lumpy, bumpy women, all getting their fitness fix for the week. Miss Clare was as young and pert as expected. She turned towards the door and beamed.

“Hello! Are you Sarah? We’ve just started our pliés.” Sarah took her new shoes out of her handbag. She was sure everyone was staring at her. She wished they would just carry on.

Miraculously, she got the shoes on in one attempt. The ladies in the middle of the barre shuffled along to make space for her. The music began again. Something faintly familiar played slowly on the piano. Relief rushed through her; then something else, at once calm and uplifting, light and powerful. She glanced down at her new shoes and smiled. She had missed this.