Short story: Ballet Shoes

It had taken humiliation, tears and perseverence but now was her time to enjoy the spotlight

I’m eavesdropping. At least, that’s how it feels as I stand here, rooted to the spot. I’m in the shadows so no-one can see me, which is probably just as well as I feel so uncomfortable in this dress.

I’m still asking myself why I’m here, in this particular spot, in the wings. Then, as I see my beautiful girls elegantly leaping about the stage to the enchanting music of The

Nutcracker, their expressions alight with joy, I am reminded: I am here as a proud mother.

I have two very talented daughters, created to pirouette, made to dazzle the audience with their arabesques and fouettés. They might just as well have been born with ballet shoes attached to their little feet. Unlike me…

My mother always joked that I was born with clogs on; I was clumsy and accidentprone, and she decided the best course of action was to find me a local ballet class.

‘Ballet will give you poise. People will know that you’re a ballerina because of your posture and grace.’

I had no idea what she meant. I was only 5!

A black leotard, pale-pink tights and soft ballet shoes was my uniform – only the leotard was a little big, the tights itchy and the shoes uncomfortable.

My knees wobbled when I tried to do a plié, I kept forgetting the positions of my feet and I slipped over when I attempted the polka.

Perhaps worst of all was the day that the other little girls were absent from class and it was just me and my teacher, Mrs Kazakova. This meant her full attention was on me alone.

She forced my legs into position, held my arms out until they ached and shouted when I forgot the steps.

‘I’ll make a ballerina out of you, Frances Elliot, if it’s the last thing I do!’ she yelled, dark eyes flashing with passion.

I just cried all the more. To me, it was plainly obvious that I couldn’t dance.

Peeking around the red velvet curtain, I see my daughter, Lucille, is dancing with the prince, and I’m mesmerised. He lifts her high into the air, the audience gasps and I have tears of pride on my cheeks.

‘Not long now, Mum.’

I turn to look at my other daughter, Jessica. Her cheeks are flushed from dancing.

‘You were absolutely amazing,’ I say, hugging her.

‘Careful of the dress!’ she laughs.

‘I’m just overwhelmed,’ I tell her – and I really am.

‘I think the audience will soon be overwhelmed, too,’ Jessica beams.

‘I can’t wait,’ I whisper.

It didn’t help that my mother had been destined to become a ballerina, but had grown too tall. Her disappointment made her more demanding of me.

‘Look at my certificates, Fran. Why can’t you just do the same as me?’

In all her ballet exams, she received ‘honours’. I’d been lucky to scrape a ‘pass plus’.

For 10 years, I dreaded every class, until the day came that my mother decided enough was enough.

At last, I was no longer under pressure to perform.

Then a handsome young man invited me to a disco. As he led me to the dance floor,

I was reluctant, afraid of my two left feet. Yet, as he swung me around in his arms to the music, smiling, I fell in love...

My heart is beating fast as the music of the ballet fades.

I’m still here, pensively waiting. It will soon be time.

My beautiful girls are dancing again. I marvel at their skill as they jump into the air.

I long again for their youth and vigour, yet some say that it’s never too late…

Those were the words their teacher used, after watching me one day. Everyone had left the studio, or so I’d thought…

I turned up the music, strode into the middle of the room and began to sway to the sound. And then I danced.

I had never felt such joy before, and the disappointment of my years of ballet fell away.

As the music ended, I turned to find my family and the ballet teacher staring at me. None of them knew I could dance, but then neither did I. Maybe all those years of training hadn’t all been for nothing…

‘Are you both sure?’ I whisper urgently to my daughters as we wait behind the curtains. ‘Of course!’ beams Jessica. ‘It’s your time, Mum,’ Lucille encourages me.

And so, with the poise and elegance that had always escaped me when I was young, I face the audience.

I begin to dance as the sugar plum fairy – for my mother, for her dreams and for me; for my family and their faith in me; for myself, and my love of ballet; and for Mrs Kazakova. She

made a ballerina out of me, after all.

THE END Rebecca Mansell, 2018