Echoes of the Dance (32 page)

His attention was caught by a flash of light, a heavy wing-beat. The great bird was flying slowly, watchfully, upstream, attracted perhaps by the flashes of gold in the water of the pond below. It was the heron.

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

Daisy was watching the heron's flight from the banks of the stream. Camouflaged by bushes of dense, prickly furze and the close-growing small, shrubby salix trees, she stared upwards. Long neck drawn back, broad wings arched, spindle legs extended, the heron soared majestically. Soon he dis- appeared from sight towards the open moor, where bulrushes and reeds grew along the grassy banks.

She walked on a little way, waiting in vain for the inspiration she'd found in the wild beauty of this landscape on her earlier visit. Those moments of sharp awareness that translated themselves into a sense of shape and movement and harmony had seemed pleasant diversions. Now, she would give much to recapture just one of those creative images or be vouchsafed a tiny spark of that earlier inspiration. Her imagination and inventiveness lay dormant: any real attempt to breathe them back to life seemed merely to weigh them down further into sluggish torpor. The more she beat them the less they responded.

‘I never thought it would be easy,' she'd cried to Roly, ‘but I never thought I could feel so . . . so
paralysed
.'

‘You're trying too hard. Don't think about anything in particular; just walk and read and dream. I've found some more CDs: Rachmaninov's
Rhapsody on a Theme of Paganini
and some of his preludes. And this one is Grieg's
Holberg
Suite
and his
Lyric Pieces
. They might just spark something off.'

He allowed her a free run of his music library and never questioned her; she was grateful for that. Knowing that anxiety made her irritable – which in turn made her feel guilty – she tried not to be too glum when they were together. It was a relief to play silly games with the dogs, as far as her injury allowed, and she was looking forward to the visit to Kate at the weekend. The proposed meeting with Nat was rather more worrying. She couldn't decide whether it was simply a figment of her own overwrought state of mind or whether she'd actually detected a sense of collusion here: that she and Nat would hit it off, be great friends – and perhaps more than that.

Daisy genuinely wanted to meet Nat – her natural curiosity had not abated along with her creative ability – but she didn't want to be set up for a relationship or pitied because of Paul.

‘Will I meet Janna too?' she'd asked – but Roly had frowned, as if perplexed, and said that Janna would be away at a market helping a friend with a stall.

‘She's the original free spirit,' he'd answered, ‘but she and Nat are great friends.'

He hadn't added ‘You'll like Nat', which was good. Some perversity in her disliked being told whom she would or wouldn't like. She preferred to make up her own mind. If he were to be like Roly then she would like him very much indeed. Perhaps he might even distract her from her misery about Paul.

Paul: at the thought of him she cradled her arms about her body as if to ward off the pain. She hadn't seen him again since the scene in the hall: she'd been unable to face any of the possible ways of parting. He might have managed some explanation as to why it was that he'd believed his marriage was finished, though it would have been deeply embarrassing for both of them, but she could think of no good reason why he hadn't told her that his wife and children were at the cottage in Salcombe. After that meeting with his family in the hall she'd imagined various farewell scenarios with a kind of shrinking horror. He might have felt that an apology was in order, which implied that she was the injured party and that he pitied her; or he might have remained cheerfully detached, waving her off and brutally slamming the door on her and everything they'd shared. Either way she'd known she simply couldn't bear it.

He'd made no attempt to seek her out, hadn't even left her a note, and still she couldn't decide whether she was relieved or deeply hurt. She knew exactly what Roly meant when he talked about the fever passing.
‘A great deal more
comfortable if slightly less exciting.'
Being in love made it quite impossible to be natural: it placed constraints upon the tongue and distorted everything that came into contact with the beloved. At the same time, life was strangely empty without it. Each day stretched ahead, a dull and characterless plain with no landmark or feature to redeem it. Work must be her salvation.

Roly seemed to understand this and was doing everything he could to enable her: if anyone were an unwumbler then it was Roly. She smiled a little at the word he used; he was intent on sustaining her through this difficult time. This afternoon he was taking her to meet a friend of his who lived on the north Cornish coast at a place called St Meriadoc.

‘Bruno understands the value of work,' Roly told her. ‘He'll know just how frustrated you're feeling.'

She'd been impressed when she'd understood that he was talking about the well-known writer Bruno Trevannion, and now, as she turned back towards the ford, she realized how very much she was looking forward to meeting him. Perhaps he might be able to inspire her: galvanize her into some kind of action.

St Meriadoc was a perfect little valley and she was immediately drawn to the strange stone house, a kind of Victorian folly perched on the side of the cliff.

Bruno greeted them wearing an open-necked shirt with jeans and bare feet, his dog, Nellie, at his heels. Roly introduced Daisy. He'd already explained the circumstances surrounding her accident and her present dilemma and Bruno grasped her outstretched hand with a friendly compassion.

‘I know all about writer's block,' he said sympathetically. ‘But I'm not sure of the correct term for it when it comes to dancers. Come on in and have a drink.'

She felt comfortable at once, going to stare out at the silky-blue sea from the large outflung window. She turned, pausing before the big black-and-white framed photograph which hung over the sideboard opposite the wide granite hearth. It was well known to her: an icon of the sixties. It showed a Paris boulevard, passers-by stepping round the pavement café, a Citroën parked at the kerb. The girl's head was turned a little aside, chin up, but the long, narrow eyes looked straight at the camera: indifferent yet provocative. Her elbow rested on the small wrought-iron table, a cigarette between the fingers of the drooping hand, whilst her companion, just out of focus, was bending towards her, holding a coffee cup.

Bruno, coming in from the kitchen carrying a dish of delicious-smelling cassoulet, saw the direction of her gaze and smiled.

‘Recognize it?'

‘Of course I do. It's a brilliant piece of photography, isn't it? Utterly evocative: you can almost catch the scent of the coffee and cigarette smoke.'

‘Sobranies,' said Bruno, putting down the dish. ‘She always smokes Sobranies.'

‘Do you know her?' Daisy was awed.

‘In a manner of speaking. Even in the biblical sense.' Bruno laughed. ‘Reader, I married her. And he,' Bruno tipped his head at Roly, ‘was the man who took the photograph.'

‘This is amazing,' said Daisy at last. ‘I had no idea. You never said anything, Roly.' She looked again at the photograph: it vividly evoked a whole era. ‘You must have had such fun back then in the sixties,' she said rather wistfully.

‘Oh, we did,' agreed Roly. ‘I'm sure we did, didn't we, Bruno? Can you remember it? You were in the Navy, if I remember, and I was struggling to make money. Who was it said that if you can remember the sixties you weren't there?'

They began to reminisce, roaring with laughter and bandying famous names about, but drawing Daisy along with them so that suddenly, joyfully, she felt a part of the whole wonderful fraternity of creative artists. After a while Bruno began to ask her about her own career, and the prospects before her, listening intelligently and discussing the possibilities of the brief Mim had given her for the Charity Matinée.

By the time she and Roly set out on the journey back Daisy felt energized and excited.

‘He's so nice,' she said, sighing with satisfaction, reading the signposts with pleasure: St Agnes, St Tudy, St Mabyn. ‘He's rather like you, Roly. An enabler. An unwumbler.'

She glanced at him in surprise as he struck the wheel lightly, exclaiming: ‘That was it! That's what I was trying to remember.'

‘What?' she demanded. ‘What is?'

‘
The Starlight Express
,' he answered. ‘No, no,' seeing her expression and laughing, ‘not Lloyd Webber's creation. Sir Edward Elgar's. It's something that's been nagging away at my subconscious for the last few days. That's where the unwumbling comes from: the play called
The Starlight Express
. Elgar wrote the incidental music for it. It's delightful. My mother loved it so Mim and I know it rather well. I only hope I can find my recording of it. It could be just the thing to unwumble your ideas.'

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

As they drove home from St Meriadoc, Roly told her as much as he could remember about the play: about the three children who were trying to unwumble their parents and to reintroduce compassion into their troubled lives with the aid of stardust and a band of sprites.

‘I expect it would seem rather fanciful now,' he said, ‘but then, during the First World War, the world must have seemed a dark and troubled place. The gist of it is that the children belong to a Star Society and their aim is to get as many people as possible out of their selves – their small locked-up wumbled lives, that is – and into the Star Cave where they are transformed by stardust. Metaphorically speaking, of course. It was hoped that the play might have the success of Peter Pan but it never quite caught on. The music wasn't to blame, though. I remember that one reviewer wrote something like, “Whosoever is wumbled let him listen to Sir Edward Elgar.” I hope you'll like it.'

As soon as they were home Roly went straight into his study and began to search for the tape. Even as he did so his earlier confidence began to leak away: he could see how desperate Daisy was becoming for any kind of inspiration and now feared that he had raised her hopes in vain. He almost wished that he wouldn't find it but there it was, tucked in next to an early recording of Elgar's
Sea Pictures.
Roly reminded himself that Daisy had loved the
Sea Pictures
, took the tape out and went downstairs.

‘Here,' he said, giving it to her. ‘Don't worry if it's not what you're after. It's just something to think about. You can play it in here if you want to. I'm going to give the dogs a walk before supper.'

He simply couldn't hang about, wondering if his instinct had been a good one. It was like recommending a film to a friend and then sitting through it with them, wondering what it was you'd ever liked about it and feeling hot with embarrassment. As he crossed the ford he wondered why he'd ever imagined that this particular music should be different from anything else he'd selected for her. Perhaps it was just a silly nonsense, tied up with being wumbled and the memories of his mother's dancing, joyful grace.

It eased his tension to walk, the dogs racing ahead, barging and jostling in their delight at being out again after the long hours of confinement. He took the track up the hill, letting anxiety drain away from him as he climbed. The high moors, rising and flowing with bleak grandeur, looked like a dun-coloured sea from which the bony outline of Rough Tor cut sharp and clear against a dazzling sky where gold and scarlet ribbons, frayed into long curling cloudy banners, were blown across the evening sky. Hushed and still now, as long, mysterious shadows came creeping over turf and rock, the moors seemed to retreat, shrouded with an insubstantial secrecy.

Calling to the dogs, turning for home, Roly paused for a moment, giving delighted homage to a thin cockleshell moon, rocking her way up into the eastern sky, a bright star following in her wake like a little dory. The sweet air drifted up from the deep valleys and enclosed lanes, releasing its midsummer scent – honeysuckle, new-mown grass – into the warm evening. Silvery slate roofs and golden thatch nestled together in the gathering dusk, thick-walled granite and stone cottages leaning quiet and close, as the sun began to slip away beyond the western shore.

As Roly crossed the ford he could hear the waltzing, dancing music pouring from the open windows, and Daisy came to the door, her face bright with pleasure and excitement.

‘Oh, Roly, I love it,' she cried. ‘My head is in a terrible jumble of ideas at the moment but, even so, I just know it's what I've been waiting for.'

He wanted to shout with relief but managed to contain himself. ‘Don't try to think about anything in particular yet. Just listen to it. Get a sense of it. There's no rush.'

She stared at him, her eyes full of visions, and he went to prepare the supper whilst the music played on and Daisy moved about as if dazed, concentrating intently. As he listened to the final duet between the Laugher and the Organ-Grinder, instinctively waiting for the heart-jumping orchestral slide into the opening bars of ‘The First Nowell', the chiming bells and the final triumphant clash of cymbals, Roly glanced at Daisy.