August 1989 Kenwood
KENWOOD
The Kenwood Festival was only two days away, and I was getting my feet acquainted with the sprung-floor stage which had been assembled specially for our reprisal of La Sylphide.
I’d spent the night at Sander’s so that we could walk across the Heath together.
We’d never done that walk before, and even though he didn’t decline the offer, he visibly tensed, and held my hand tightly all the way from Parliament Hill Fields to the gated entrance of the Kenwood Estate.
The tech crew were already there when we arrived, but we were the first cast members, so we had the fake castle interior and Scottish Highland backdrop to ourselves.
I took a big gulp of summer air, floral and free of grime.
Walking into the centre of the stage, enjoying the moment of peace before our company call began, I pictured myself in costume, looking out at rows of deck-chairs with Kenwood House in plain view at the top of the slope.
‘My dream house,’ I said of the stately home, its outer walls so creamy I could have spread them on toast. ‘My dream house. Imagine waking up every morning to see all of this. Though I suppose I’d have to contend with tourists and day-trippers milling around all the time.
That’s why these things are best left to dreams.’ I left a pause after each sentence, waiting for Sander to offer his thoughts, even a neutral “mm”.
But he was silent, standing at the edge of the stage and scanning the woodland downhill from the mansion.
There was a barre in the middle of the stage so that when Jamie, Lorenzo, Fiona, and the other dancers arrived, we could do a company warm-up. I leaned my elbows on it.
‘If you could live anywhere in London, where would you choose?’
Sander finally left the woods alone and turned his gaze to me. ‘Soho.’
‘Ha. I should have guessed. Proximity to the Dance Hall, is that it?’
‘That, but also… it is always busy. Always vibrant. I like that. A townhouse in Soho, or Spitalfields, or…’ When he met my eyes again, he looked more like himself than he had all week. ‘Any house with you, I will be happy.’
A smile spread across my face. I slowly pushed myself up from the barre, going up and down in little ankle rises. ‘A house with me? You’d… buy one with me?’
He mirrored my rises, hands behind his back, with a small and playful shrug. Maybe. The blue flame in my chest became an orange glow, warming my cheeks.
‘I’d like that. I’d love that. My parents would be thrilled. They’ve been asking why I haven’t thought of scaling up and getting a house of my own, especially given that I’ve been on a principal salary for a few years now.’
‘Why haven’t you?’
‘Because it always sounded a bit much, a house just for me. A bit much, and a bit sad.’ I lowered both feet to the ground, reached over the barre and gently pulled him closer, until it was the only thing between us.
‘But it wouldn’t be sad with you. In fact, I think it would make me very happy.
With you, I’m the happiest I’ve ever been. ’
He beamed, checked over his shoulder even though any passing members of the public were far away up the hill, then ducked under the barre so he could wrap his arms around my waist and kiss me.
We held each other for a few moments, unbothered by the squeak of wardrobe rail wheels and the clunk of ladders.
‘I’ve always put off thinking about the future,’ I murmured, ‘but a future with you in it is much less daunting.’
‘What is daunting about the future?’ he asked into my hair.
‘You know.’
A few seconds of silence. ‘Life without ballet.’ He pulled back and studied my face. ‘Life after the BCBC.’
‘Do you ever think about it? What you want to do, after your ankles finally give out and your knees say, “Enough! Please, we beg you!”’
He tried to smile, but fell short. ‘I… don’t know. I don’t like to think of it either.’
‘But we’ve got to. Sooner or later.’ How many times had Fiona and the others tried to have this conversation with me, only to hit a wall? I didn’t want to be asking this, but it felt like the adult thing to do. To pick up an uncomfortable thought and, for the first time, examine it properly.
‘Then make it later,’ Sander said. ‘James and his sylphide do not care for the future.’
‘And look where that gets them,’ I retorted, pointing to the empty space which would soon become the forest clearing where an innocent, if impulsive, fairy of the woods dies a slow and painful death.
‘Come on. You must have entertained some idle thoughts about what you’ll do.
Fiona’s getting serious about this jewellery-making business.
Jamie’s thinking of qualifying as a physio.
Charlie’s one funding meeting away from choreographing the full-length he’s always dreamt of – you could collaborate with him.
You could do anything you wanted.’ I glanced out at the woods, remembering how earnestly Sander had contemplated the fallen trees after the Great Storm.
‘You’ve always been at home around greenery.
Perhaps you could join a conservation society, or an environmental charity. ’
He pondered this. ‘I could learn to ski.’
‘Well, sure.’ Dancers are contractually obliged to put a cap on the number of adventures they have outside of a ballet season: no skiing, no mountain climbing, no marathon running. ‘But I meant what you want to do to earn a living.’
‘I will… think of something.’ He sighed and dropped his arms, looking suddenly and uncharacteristically weary.
‘You could teach?’ I suggested, annoyed with myself for resorting to that. Other people, especially non-dancers, offered it up so flippantly, as if teaching were easy and came naturally to everyone. ‘Or coach? God knows how many companies around the world would die to have—’
‘Trix,’ he said flatly. ‘I told you, I do not like to talk about the future. Please don’t make me.’
‘I’m not, I’m…’ I backed off, scrabbling for words. ‘I only…’
Why was I getting upset? I looked up at Kenwood House again, and saw a group approaching from the Hampstead Lane entrance.
I breathed in deeply, willing the tears that had snuck up on me to go away.
‘Sander, sometimes I feel like I’m being punished for not knowing certain things about you, even when you refuse to share them.
Do you know that? Do you know that’s how you make people feel? ’
I picked up the ribbons at the waist of my dance skirt and reknotted them, swallowing the lump in my throat. How had this happened? Our friends were half a minute away, the orchestra wouldn’t be far behind them, and I’d lost my composure.
Sander gently pivoted me towards him. He looked so crestfallen, I wished I could gather up my words and throw them in the nearby pond.
‘I know. I do know that. I hate it,’ he added. Then, more softly: ‘I want a future with you, Trix. I want a future where you are happy. Both of us, happy. I just…’ He pulled me into another embrace, rubbing my back. ‘I need to choose a path. It is not an easy decision.’
* * *
You can hear the family resemblance between L?venskiold’s score for La Sylphide and Adam’s for Giselle. The same romantic breeziness, chased by shadows.
As the sun began its slow descent, and the audience settled into their deckchairs, we began the story.
La Sylphide is a two-act ballet that isn’t much longer than one-acts like The Dream.
Usually, I liked to luxuriate in full-length Imperial stories, but given that we had to contend with the lingering dry heat of a mid-August day and the heat of the stage lights, I was grateful that I’d only have to sweat in my white satin bodice for so long.
I was also grateful that Sander had seemed a little more like himself before we went on, as if he’d only allowed himself to relax after the dress rehearsal went smoothly.
I watched from the wings as he faithfully committed to all the notes Ben and Salvatore had given him about keeping his jumps low, per the Danish style.
The Danes were the ones who’d so lovingly preserved Bournonville’s choreography; companies who wanted to do it justice had to let the ballerinas playing the sylphs jump higher and land lighter than anyone else.
I felt strangely proud that the orchestra was playing not only for our human audience, but for the acres of trees, some of which were centuries old.
I’d picked up Sander’s habit of greeting trees as I walked past them, either out loud or with a pat of the hand.
I didn’t care if it was just the giddiness of my first proper, fully requited relationship – the world felt that much more magical with him in my life, every day and every night.
Obviously, I had to leave all that offstage while I danced the eponymous sylphide.
After my wings were plucked from my bodice, it was time for my wilting, drawn-out death.
I fell backwards into Sander’s arms and let my feet leave the floor as I’d done two days earlier, and on the Dance Hall main stage numerous times before that.
Several things happened in the span of two seconds: something like a heavy sheet of paper fell against the side of my face, Sander let out a guttural gasp – and my body hit the floor.
The pain could have – should have – been worse.
The long layers of gauzy tulle helped to cushion my hips and knees, but the shock vibrated through my elbow and I bit down on a gasp.
I nearly sprang back up as if nothing had happened, which is what our BBA teachers had always drilled into us for any mid-performance mishaps, before remembering that I was meant to be dead.
So, despite the ripple of audience whispers and winces, I styled it out, and the orchestra played on.
The story ended as it always did, the other sylphs bearing their sister away from a man so heartbroken that he himself collapses, perhaps never to rise again. The audience applauded heartily. Nothing had been disturbed except the atmosphere backstage.
The first thing I did was find a mirror and check my costume to make sure nothing had torn, then my face to make sure nothing was bruised under the powder.
‘I am so sorry.’ Sander’s hands were around my waist before his words even registered in my ear. ‘We must go. I am sorry. We need to leave, now, quickly. Are you hurt? I will never forgive myself if—’
‘Sander, what on earth’ – I slipped out of his grasp and tried to swat his panic away – ‘is the matter with you? Why do you want to leave?’
‘There was…’ His mouth twitched. ‘You did not see it?’
‘See what?’
‘What a lucky escape, darling!’ Carolyn exclaimed, hurrying to my side.
The heavy eyeshadow she wore as the ballet’s powerful, easily offended sorceress only accentuated her astonishment.
‘For one heart-stopping moment I thought it was going to make off with your flower crown, or worse, scratch your beautiful face. The owl,’ she added.
‘The what? An owl?’ I skimmed a finger over my ear, but there was no blood. A lucky escape indeed. I knew how sharp their talons were. ‘Well, I never.’
‘It came from nowhere, this terrific white blur. I wasn’t sure what we were even looking at until it flew away.’
‘I didn’t see it, my eyes were closed. I didn’t think the Heath still had owls. I thought they dropped off after the war, during the big construction boom. No wonder you were startled,’ I said to Sander, my unease fading. ‘Owls are beautiful creatures, but not at such close quarters.’
‘They are dangerous,’ he said, flinching when the stage manager came up behind him and asked if we were all right. ‘Yes, fine – no, no need for plasters. Let’s leave this place. Please.’
He directed this at me with a level of desperation I’d only ever seen in his character performances.
Carolyn touched his arm and looked at him askance. ‘You’re rather rattled, aren’t you, darling? You’re quite right, they’re as dangerous as they are majestic. Did you have a bad experience with an owl as a child?’
He stiffened, then nodded brusquely. I looped a hand through his arm and steered him towards my designated dressing room.
‘It’s all right. We’ll get you home. I’ll be as quick as I can; find me when you’re done.’
He closed his hand around mine. ‘I am so sorry.’
‘Don’t be silly. I know you’re not one to make mistakes, but you’re only human, and—’
‘No, no.’ He closed his eyes. ‘You could have been hurt, badly. It’s my fault.’
I fitted my hand along the sharp line of his cheek and waited for him to look at me. ‘Do you want to go, or do you want to stand there apologising all night?’ I rose on demi-pointe for a brief kiss. ‘It was only an owl. I’ll live.’