Lies Lies Lies. Adele Parks

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СКАЧАТЬ 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 of her but it won’t work. A modest grumble about your own kid’s mediocrity, whilst said kid is out of earshot, is nothing compared to interrupting the recital.

      Delia reminds me of myself as a child. She looks uncomfortable in a leotard on stage. She looks uncomfortable full stop. Her mother thinks she’s helping her confidence by putting her on stage, but I think Delia would be happier at Brownies or in the library.

      ‘Which one is Delia?’ Simon asks.

      ‘She is in Millie’s group. She was on the far right hand side, most of the time. She’s very tall.’

      Simon snorts, ‘Oh yeah. I know her. I think you’re wasting your money.’ Delia’s mum blushes. Simon is acting as though he doesn’t know the parent script, or at least if he does, he can’t be bothered to follow it. He’s supposed to say her performance was charming, that she was enthusiastic and full of character. I’m only glad he didn’t call her fat. Delia’s mother says she’s going to get another cup of tea.

      ‘Simon, what is wrong with you?’ I snap.

      ‘Is there only fucking tea?’

      ‘Will you please stop swearing. There are children around.’

      ‘Yeah, the place is full of supportive siblings, isn’t it?’ He stares at me with a cool intensity that manages to slice through his more obvious state, one of inebriation.

      ‘Have you been drinking already?’ I ask.

      ‘No biggie. Mick from work has had a baby – well, his girlfriend has. We went for a drink to wet the baby’s head.’

      ‘But you knew this started at five thirty. You didn’t have time to go to the pub. Did you leave work early?’ He’s clearly had more than one.

      ‘I was only ten minutes late. I didn’t miss much. Hell, Daisy, if I have to sit through another rendition of “Let It Go” I might literally beat myself over the head with that bunch of roses.’

      I’d happily do as much, and my only regret would be that I had the thorns removed at the florist because I’m not careless enough to give my child a bouquet with thorns. The bell, announcing the second half is about to begin, rings.

      ‘I’ll wait for you outside,’ says Simon.

      ‘No, you have to come in.’

      ‘She’s done her bit.’

      ‘She’ll be on stage again for the encore. That’s when the entire assembly dance together.’ He looks at his feet. ‘Please Simon.’

      He shrugs and follows me back into the hall, like СКАЧАТЬ