Little Swan

  Contents

  Cover

  About the Book

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  About the Author

  Also by Adèle Geras

  Copyright

  About the Book

  Louisa (known as Weezer) is determined to become a ballet dancer. She starts lessons locally and with her typical self-assuredness, soon sees herself in the role of class-star. So when it comes to putting on a performance, Weezer knows there’s only one place for her – prima ballerina or bust!

  For Jacqueline Wilson

  MY NAME IS Annie. I’m ten years old. Weezer, my little sister, is seven. Her real name is Louisa, but nobody calls her that. About six months ago, she started nagging our mother. Weezer is an excellent nagger. She never stops. She wanted to go to ballet classes. So at every meal, she tried a different kind of nagging.

  “Some of my friends started going in the First Year.” (That was one kind.)

  “It’s not very expensive.” (That was another kind.)

  “St Christopher’s Hall is so close. I could walk there by myself.” (That was a third.)

  We were in the middle of breakfast. Mum said, “No, you couldn’t. You have to cross three main roads. You know you’re always in a dream.”

  “Annie’ll take me,” said Weezer. She smiled at me. “You will, won’t you, Annie?”

  “I suppose so,” I answered. It’s best to agree with Weezer. She can stay in a terrible mood for days and days if you don’t. Once, her friends Tricia and Maisie were playing Kings and Queens. Weezer wanted to be the queen, but the others decided she should be the princess.

  “It was my turn,” she told me. “I was princess last time.” She sulked about it for three days, and in the end Maisie said she didn’t mind being princess for the next four games, and Weezer could be queen if she liked.

  Mum must have realized that Weezer was never going to stop nagging. She sighed.

  “OK,” she said. “I give in. You can start next week. We’ll have to buy everything you need.”

  Weezer’s smile beamed out over the table. “I’ve got a list,” she said. “I’ll go and get it.”

  “Finish your toast first,” Mum said. But she was too late. Weezer had rushed out of the room. We could hear her clattering up the stairs. I ate the piece of buttered toast she’d left behind. I knew she wouldn’t eat it now. Her dream was about to come true. I couldn’t believe my bratty little sister was about to become a ballet dancer.

  Weezer laid all her new equipment on the bed.

  “Look, Annie,” she said. “Isn’t it lovely?” I looked. I saw two pink leotards, two pairs of pink ballet shoes, a white cardigan, and a small pink suitcase. The suitcase had a picture on the lid. It was painted in gold and showed a ballerina standing on her points.

  “Very nice,” I said. I didn’t think the stuff was anything to get excited about. But Weezer had other ideas. She was determined to make me see how wonderful each item was.

  “These shoes are real leather, Annie. Feel how soft they are. They’re real ballet shoes, even though they’re not toe shoes. You aren’t allowed to go on your points. Not till you’re twelve. But the ribbons are satin. There’s a special way to tie them. And I have to have my hair done up in a net. Have you seen my hair net, Annie?”

  “No,” I said. “I missed that.”

  “This is it. And this is my cardigan. It crosses over and ties at the back.” She started jumping up and down.

  “Lovely,” I said. “But why is everything spread out on the bed?”

  “I’m going to pack my case,” said Weezer. “Isn’t it a beautiful case? Don’t you like this ballerina on the lid? I’m going to look just like this when I grow up.”

  “I hope you won’t be gold all over.”

  Weezer threw her hairbrush at me. She’s a good thrower. It’s time she learned when I’m joking.

  At last, the day came. In case we had forgotten, Weezer reminded us.

  “It’s the first class today,” she said. She put a spoonful of dry cereal into her mouth. She was so excited she’d forgotten all about milk.

  I passed the milk jug to her and said, “We’re not going till four o’clock. Your pink suitcase is by the front door already.”

  “I put it there last night,” said Weezer, “in case I forgot this morning.”

  “Have you remembered to pack everything?” Mum asked.

  “Yes,” said Weezer. “I checked my list.”

  I sighed. Perhaps now that Weezer was finally starting classes, we could take down the list she’d put up in our bedroom. She’d stuck it on the dressing-table mirror – right in the middle so that you couldn’t see your whole face at once. After a few days, I knew that list by heart.

  Everything was now safely shut up in the suitcase.

  “Don’t be late home from school today, Annie,” said Weezer firmly. “Remember you’re taking me. We have to leave at four o’clock exactly.”

  “I know,” I said. “You’ve told me. I won’t be late. Promise.”

  I wasn’t late, but Weezer made me drink my milk at top speed. She’d changed her mind. We would leave, she told me, at ten to four.

  “We’ll be early,” I said. “And anyway, I want a biscuit.”

  “The traffic may be very busy. There might be an accident. We might have to go the long way around.” Weezer has a very vivid imagination. I swallowed the last drop of milk and took a biscuit to eat on the way. Sometimes, I just had to listen to Weezer. She would only walk out of the house on her own if I wasn’t ready.

  There are twenty girls and five boys in the junior ballet class. The teacher, Miss Matting, is a thin, pale woman with a lot of blonde hair done up in a bun on top of her head. One whole wall of the room is a mirror. All the children lined up at the barre along this wall for their exercises. I sat on a bench and watched.

  Weezer stood between two girls from her class at school. I never realized how much she already knew about ballet. She knew the five foot positions and a few of the basic exercises. I had seen Tricia and Maisie teaching her in the playground. Also, for her last birthday, Mum had given her a book full of beautiful photographs of ballerinas and Weezer had looked at it very carefully every day. Miss Matting brought her out to the front to teach her how to curtsy properly.

  “That’s good,” she said when Weezer had curtsied perfectly. “You’re naturally very graceful. I’m sure you’ll do well at ballet.” Weezer’s face was pink with pleasure. She looked at me, to make sure I’d heard. Tricia and Maisie looked proud that she’d done so well. Perhaps they’d been teaching her curtsies at school along with all the other things.

  I heard one of the other girls whispering to her friend, “I bet she was at another class before she came here.” I felt proud of Weezer too.

  While the class continued, I looked around the room. It has a very high ceiling and lots of long, narrow windows. The floor is made of polished wood. There is an upright piano in one corner, and the pianist is a plump, elderly lady who kept her hat on all through the class. The bunch of cherries she had pinned to it jumped about as she nodded her head in time to the music. Later on, Weezer told me her name is Mrs Standish.

  At the end of the lesson, Miss Matting said, “Please sit down, children. I have an important announcement to make. We must start thinking about our annual show. We’re going to do some very interesting dances this year. I shall be watching you all closely, and in a few weeks’ time we will have auditions. Of course, everyone will have a chance to take part in the sh
ow, but there is a special dance we’re going to do this year. I shall need four girl soloists. I’m sure you’ll all try to do your best.”

  I glanced at Weezer. Her eyes were as wide open as they could be, and her mouth was open too. This was exactly the kind of competition that my sister loves, and I just knew that she’d already set her heart on being one of the chosen four.

  AFTER THE CLASS, Weezer almost flew over the pavement. She was swinging her pink suitcase backwards and forwards.

  “Oh, Annie,” she said. “It was great. Wasn’t it great? And there’s going to be a show! A real show! I wish it was next week. Hurry up! I have to practise after supper. Come on!”

  Weezer was walking so fast that she nearly knocked over one of our neighbours, Mrs Posnansky. She is a thin, small woman who wears her grey hair in a bun. Her dresses are mostly black, but you can tell she loves pretty scarves and lace collars and long necklaces. She was walking out of someone’s drive and Weezer only just missed her.

  “Oh, Mrs Posnansky,” she cried. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you.”

  Mrs Posnansky smiled. “You are hurricane. You are not girl.”

  “I’ve been to my first ballet class,” said Weezer. “I’m so excited. I feel like running and running. I don’t think I’ll ever sit down again.”

  “Aah!” sighed Mrs Posnansky. “The ballet! How beautiful is it! How I love! In Russia, of course—”

  Weezer interrupted her. “I’m sorry, Mrs Posnansky, I have to go now.”

  “Of course, of course,” said Mrs Posnansky. “Your mother waits to hear all about class. I tell you stories from Russia on other day.”

  She set off across the street. Her house was just opposite ours. At her door, she turned and waved. Weezer had already rushed into our house, but I waved back to Mrs Posnansky.

  Later I said to Weezer, “You should listen to Mrs Posnansky. She was born in Russia. Lots of famous dancers come from there. Maybe she knew one of them.”

  “I bet she didn’t,” said Weezer. “Anyway, I can’t listen to her. We hardly know her at all. We’ve never even been in her house.” She disappeared upstairs to do exercises in front of the mirror, and I thought about how much fun it would be to visit Mrs Posnansky. I like seeing how people decorate their homes, and Mrs Posnansky’s was sure to be full of interesting things to look at.

  Weezer had wanted to be a ballet dancer ever since she was four years old. That Christmas, Mum and Dad took us to see The Nutcracker. I had a book with the story in it, and I’d read it to Weezer over and over again. She knew it by heart. She was longing to see Clara, the little girl who is given a gift of a magic Nutcracker that turns into a prince. She couldn’t wait to see the snowflakes, the flowers, and the Sugar Plum Fairy.

  On the day of the performance, Weezer woke up at six o’clock and pulled me out of bed. She wanted to put on her party dress right away and said that I had to help her. Then she made me plait her hair.

  “We’re not going till tonight,” I said. I was cold and cross and sleepy.

  “Don’t care,” said Weezer, pushing out her bottom lip. “Want it now!” Weezer said that a lot when she was small: “Want it now!” Dad used to tease her about it all the time.

  Dad was living with us then. He doesn’t live here any more. He and Mum are divorced.

  “Annie,” he’d said to me, “you’re the grown-up one. Will you help me tell Weezer? Mum and I feel we’d be happier living apart, but we both still love you very, very much. And I’ll still see you. Even though I’m moving away, I’m still your Dad. I’ll always be your Dad. Do you understand that?”

  “Yes,” I said. “I understand.” I didn’t really, but I could see Dad was sad. I wanted him to look happier.

  “And will you help me tell Weezer?”

  “Yes,” I said. Telling Weezer wasn’t easy. At first, she pretended she didn’t know what we meant. When Dad left, she cried and cried.

  “Don’t cry,” I said, over and over again. “Dad loves us very much.”

  Weezer’s face turned red with fury. “No, he does not! He doesn’t love us enough. He’d stay here if he did.” I couldn’t think of anything to say to that.

  In the end, we all got used to it. We see Dad at weekends sometimes, and during the holidays. We talk to him on the phone a lot, but everything is different now that he’s gone.

  Dad was still living with us when we went to see The Nutcracker. After he left, Weezer talked about that evening all the time.

  “Curtains,” she’d say. “Remember the red curtains?”

  “Yes,” I’d answer.

  “Draw me the Sugar Plum Fairy,” she’d say. I did the best I could. Weezer started twirling about in front of the mirror. She pointed her toes. She walked about on tiptoe. She took our nutcracker out of the kitchen drawer and wrapped it in a napkin. She carried it everywhere. She began to keep a scrapbook, and we all looked out for photos of ballet dancers. When we found them, in magazines or newspapers, she would cut them out and stick them in. If there was a ballet on TV, Weezer would be sitting in front of the set fifteen minutes before it started.

  By the time she began nagging Mum about classes, Weezer had been mad about ballet for years.

  FOR THE NEXT three Tuesdays, Weezer went to her class after school. When she wasn’t at class, she practised and practised.

  “I’ve worked really hard at everything,” she told me.

  “I know,” I said. I’d even seen her using the school railings as a barre during lunch break. Almost every day Tricia and Maisie came to our house. First they would turn our living room into another studio. Then they’d spend hours at the kitchen table discussing Miss Matting’s special dance. What could she be planning this year?

  “My sister went to Miss Matting’s,” said Maisie. “They did a Sailors’ Hornpipe. They had blue pleated skirts, and little hats with pom-poms on them.”

  “Maybe we’ll be flowers,” Tricia said.

  “What about snowflakes?” Weezer suggested.

  “Maybe,” Maisie and Tricia nodded. “She does keep telling us how light we must be.”

  “Well,” Weezer said, “we always have to be light. You can’t have heavy ballet dancers.”

  “Maisie’ll be heavy,” said Tricia, “if she goes on eating so many biscuits.”

  Maisie blushed. “I only had four . . . they’re very small.”

  “Never mind about that,” said Weezer impatiently. “Finish up and we’ll go and practise a bit more.” She left the table and ran back to the living room. Maisie and Tricia followed her obediently.

  When the day of the auditions came, Weezer was very quiet. All the way to St Christopher’s Hall she hardly said a word. She wasn’t swinging her pink suitcase. She just walked along next to me, dragging her feet.

  “What’s the matter, Weezer?” I said. “Don’t you feel well?”

  “I feel funny,” said Weezer. “I feel sort of fluttery inside. But I’m not ill.”

  “Butterflies in your stomach,” I said. Weezer giggled. “I suppose you’re nervous. Are you?”

  “No, I’m not,” said Weezer. Then she paused. “Yes, I am nervous. What if something . . .” Her voice faded away.

  “What if what?” I asked. “Come on, Weezer. At least speak properly.”

  Weezer looked down at her feet. “What if I’m not chosen? For the special dance. What if Maisie and Tricia are and I’m not? What then?”

  “Then you’ll be in the chorus,” I said. “There’s nothing wrong with that. You’ve only just started. Maybe you’ll be chosen next time. It wouldn’t be the end of the world, Weezer.”

  Weezer snorted at me. “Honestly! You don’t say ‘chorus’ in ballet,” she said. “You say ‘corps de ballet’.”

  I could tell just by looking at her that she thought not being chosen would be the most dreadful thing that could ever happen to her.

  After a few exercises, all the children sat down on the floor. Miss Matting said: “I can see you are all as
jittery as can be. I know why. You all want to be chosen as soloists. You’re all nervous. I know you are all going to dance as well as you can, but I’d just like to say one thing. In ballet, what matters is the whole dance, not just certain people’s parts. The corps de ballet is just as vital as the most famous ballerina. Real professional dancers try as hard as they can, no matter what they are dancing. Please, all of you, remember this: If you are not chosen this time, you may be chosen next time. I am proud of all of you. Just do your very best.”

  Everyone was smiling, except Weezer. She wanted to be chosen. Nothing I said, and nothing Miss Matting said, made any difference to her at all.

  “Now, children,” said Miss Matting. “This is the sequence I want you to learn. It’s very short.”

  For fifteen minutes, everyone practised running, jumping, and twirling in the way Miss Matting had shown them. Then they started to dance the short sequence one at a time. Miss Matting sat on a chair with a clipboard and scribbled on a sheet of paper.

  Then Miss Matting had just the girls come to the front of the class, one by one, to do a few steps. I watched closely. They all looked very much the same. When it came to Weezer’s turn, though, I was the one with butterflies in my stomach. I couldn’t look. I squeezed my eyes shut and said to myself: Please, please, let Weezer do well. Let her be chosen. By the time I’d opened my eyes, Weezer had sat down again, and someone else was dancing.

  It took a very long time for all the girls to do their dance.

  “Thank you very much, everyone,” Miss Matting said at the end. “I’m sure you’re all anxious to know who’s been picked, so I shall stop the class now and allow you to get dressed. When you’re ready, come in here and sit down quietly. I shall tell you all about the dance we’ll be doing, and give you the names of the four soloists.”

  Usually, Weezer was very slow to change out of her leotard and into her clothes. Today she was back in the hall in a couple of minutes. She sat down next to Tricia and Maisie. She was staring very hard at the floor, and clutching her little suitcase so hard her knuckles were white. Miss Matting clapped her hands for attention.