The Drowning (2 page)

Jenna woke early that February morning.

Her room crouched in darkness.

She listened for the yearning cries of the gulls, the swirling waves of sea.

They made no answer.

Instead she heard the faint growl of Sunday traffic, pawing the streets beneath her attic room; a tube train grumbling underground; water lurching down a pipe.

Suddenly she remembered.

She was not in Cornwall.

Yesterday, on the station platform, sleet blowing across their shoulders, Dad had waved her goodbye, his eyes behind his funny round spectacles full of pride and shining with tears. She had taken the train from St Erth to Paddington. To stay with Dad’s beloved sister, Aunt Tamsyn.

For a very special reason.

Jenna sat up, her heart flapping into her throat like a bird trapped in a chimney.

It had finally arrived. The first Sunday of the spring half-term.

The day that could change her life . . .

“Are you ready?”

“No,” Jenna said. “How can I be? I’ll never be ready, not in a hundred years.”

“Nonsense.” Her aunt looked Jenna squarely in the eyes. “You haven’t got a hundred years, you’ve got half an hour to get there. You’re sure you know the way?”

“Out of Goodwin’s Court, turn right up St Martin’s Lane . . . God,Tammy, you’ve shown me often enough. It’s only down the road.”

“And you know what they want, what they’re looking for.”

Jenna chanted, “Potential not perfection.”

“Exactly—”

“But I haven’t
done
anything. There’ll be girls so much better than me. From Edinburgh, Paris, Stockholm, all over. I’m not
good
enough—”

“Oh, yes, you are. I’ve watched you dance, remember? I’ve heard you sing and I’ve seen you act. I know it was only local, amateur stuff, but it was plenty good enough for me. I can spot real talent a mile off.”

“But you’re biased. You know it’s me and you make all kinds of allowances.”

“Rubbish, Jenna. Stop putting yourself down. You’re better than good. You’re brilliant – and you’re beautiful.” Her aunt’s voice grew brisker. “Now, have you got everything? Pink tights, leotard, ballet shoes, jazz trousers, jazz boots, sheet music—”

Reluctantly Jenna grinned. “Arms, hands, legs, feet, head, eyes, hair, memory—”

Her aunt gave a sharp crow of laughter. “Point taken . . . Here, I’ve made you lunch. It’s going to be a long, hardworking day. Promise me you’ll eat, keep up your energy.”

“Yes,Tammy.” Jenna crammed the food into her bag.

“So!” Her aunt stood back and looked at her. “It’s ready, steady, go, then?”

“Suppose.” Jenna swung her bag over her shoulder. “I guess this is the moment.” Her teeth chattered. “Eleven years of work, since I was four years old . . . all leading to this.”

Stiffly, she turned towards the door, but her courage failed. She threw down her bag and leapt across the narrow hallway. In her arms, Aunt Tamsyn felt like a tiny, light-boned child.

“Thanks for everything, Tammy. Your support, your encouragement—”

“
Least
I could do—”

“Being here in London, being here for me . . . Even if nothing comes of it, thanks for everything. Even if I fail.”

Her aunt hugged her. Then she held her at arm’s length, her eyes scanning Jenna’s face, her hands gripping Jenna’s.

“You won’t fail, Jenna Pascoe. What have I always told you? You’ve got star quality.”

Jenna bit her lip. “Don’t know about that.” She felt her aunt’s confidence flowing through her, warming her veins. “But I’m going to have a bloody good shot at this. My best.”

“There! You’re never Elwyn’s girl for nothing.”

“Ready, steady, then, Tammy?”

“Go for it. I’ll meet you outside the Academy at the end of the day. I’ll be jumping up and down, longing to know how it went.”

Jenna shot out of the door and started down the flights of narrow wooden stairs. Her feet clattered like the thunder of tap shoes on the rehearsal floor.

She heard her aunt calling after her.

“I’ll be thinking of you all day, Jenna Pascoe. Just you remember that.”

Jenna closed the front door behind her.

She glanced at the brass plaque,
Tamsyn Pascoe,Theatrical Agent,
ran her fingers over the lettering in a last goodbye.

Then she turned her face into the bitter wind, hunching her scarf across her throat, pulling on her gloves. Her singing teacher’s voice rang in her head.

“If you are cold, you cannot sing. You must be warm, relaxed, comfortable. You sing not just with your throat but with your entire body. To look after your voice, you must attend to your health. It must become the good habit of a lifetime.”

The alleyway of Goodwin’s Court stood bleak and empty. A thin tabby cat with yellow eyes, prowling for food, looked up at her expectantly. He reminded Jenna of Dusty, the cat at her home in the narrow cobbled street of the Digey in St Ives. He lived in their tiny communal courtyard, belonging to them all and yet only to himself.

A wave of homesickness flooded the pit of her stomach.

Right now, Dad would be standing at the long table in their tearoom kitchen, slapping and pounding his wonderful homemade dough, singing a sea shanty happily off-key.

Her brother, Benjie, would be sitting at his desk, dissecting the insides of a radio in order to put it back together again, muttering to himself, frowning with concentration.

For a moment, Jenna longed to be with them, safe and snug in her attic bedroom opposite Benjie’s; practising at the barre in the dance studio Dad had made for her above the tea room; walking through St Ives and up the steep hill of the Belyars to school, hidden among the quiet of its green fields.

Mum would be still asleep. Sunday mornings were the only ones when she wasn’t up at the crack of dawn.

Jenna groaned at the thought: Mum spelled problems, big time . . .

Jenna tilted her chin in defiance. With an effort, she pushed thoughts of home aside. She walked briskly into St Martin’s Lane, turned right towards Shelton Street and the old banana warehouse which for the last thirty years had been the Urdang Academy.

Towards her audition.

If she could only get it right, Tammy’s flat, this short walk – and this Academy – would be her home from the autumn for the next three years. Her aunt had offered to pay the fees, to give Jenna all the support and encouragement she’d need. In spite of Mum . . .

Jenna’s breath pumped into the dank, foggy Sunday-morning air. Her cheeks stung with the cold. Her heart raced with excitement.

This is it, girl.

Go for it.

And don’t let anyone see just how nervous you really are . . .

Shivering with fright, Jenna stood with nineteen other hopefuls in an awkward queue as they registered their names and were given a number and a timetable for the day. She glanced at some of them and tried to smile, but the effort was monumental. Her hands shook as she changed her clothes in silence for ballet, the first class of the day.

She pulled on her pink ballet tights and the new leotard Leah had given her. Leah, who had taught her everything she knew.

“A little present for you to kick-start the day. It’s a lucky red. Most of the girls will be in black. But with your dark hair and eyes, red will look wonderful. The colour’s warm and inviting – and you want to be noticed. You need to stand out from the crowd the minute you walk into the studio. Here, Jenn: wear it for me.”

Jenna brushed back her long, straight hair, secured it firmly in a neat chignon. She double-checked that her ballet shoes were correctly tied; smoothed her heavy eyebrows, glossed her mouth. Hands on her hips, she took a deep breath.

Right . . . Here we go . . . I guess I’m ready as I’ll ever be . . .

They zoomed into the cream-and-green-painted ground-floor studio, its upright piano perched in a corner, the pianist already behind it.

The panel of four directors sat in front of them, poised along the wall of mirrors and multiplied by them, their pens at the ready, their smiles careful, neutral, attentive.

Jenna willed herself not to look at them.

They all appear so composed and confident . . . Wish I felt like that! . . . I’m not good enough for them . . . I’m going to blow this big time . . . I’ll probably fall flat on my face trying to do a pirouette and everyone will laugh . . .

Their teacher – the whisper had flown: she had once been a soloist with the Royal Ballet – introduced herself and welcomed them. She was small with grey hair cut into a spiky fringe, bright eyes and a warm, authoritative voice.

She expected them to work for a living.

She glanced at the pianist, gave him a brief nod. “Thank you, Nick . . . Right, everyone. Shall we begin? I’d like you all to lie down on the floor . . . Use the space sensibly, please, including the corners.”

First came the exercises to warm and strengthen their bodies. The routines at the barre followed, as familiar to Jenna as her own face and hands. Then the class burst into full swing. Feet in their ballet shoes pounded the floor like the drumming of horses’ hooves. Jenna forgot everything else as the music and the teacher’s voice took over – and as her body began to respond.

Next came the physical examination. The Academy needed to see how good their turn-out was, how flexible their feet, how strong their backs, the overall alignment of their bodies, whether they had ever had any injuries.

“Be honest,” they were told. “We need to be confident that you can get through three years’ work without weaknesses rearing their ugly heads. If you try to hide anything serious, you will be the ones to suffer in the end.”

Jenna stood brave and tall as the steely eyes looked her over. She was lucky to have a flexible body and not to have broken any bones – but even so, she gave a sigh of relief when the inspection ended.

I felt like a fluttering moth being trapped and put under a microscope . . . Are her wings really strong enough? Do you think she can fly for ten hours at a single stretch?

The relentless pace of the day refused to slacken or give Jenna time to breathe. The Head of Dance stood in front of them.

“I’d like you to fill in these.” She gave them each a blank sheet of paper. “Write me a personal statement. Tell me why you want to be here, why you want to do our course. You can tell me anything you like, as long as you really feel it and mean it.”

Jenna stared down at the paper.
My dancing life in a nutshell?
She picked up her pen and began to write as fast as she could:

I went to my first dance class when I was four years old. Leah, my ballet teacher, had just arrived in St Ives and was starting up a theatre dance school. Dad said it would be a good idea if I went on Saturday mornings. My parents own and run a tea room which is open six days a week. They’re always busy,so having me safe and occupied on a Saturday seemed like a good idea.

I loved it. I’d spend all week asking when I could go to Leah’s again,singing the music she’d used for our class – and driving my parents mad! Then I’d pull on my pale blue leotard,clip my frilly skirt over it, and hop up and down, wanting to leave.

When I was six, Dad drove me up to London to stay with his sister, my aunt, Tamsyn. She took me to see my first ballet, Giselle, danced by the Royal Ballet. I can still remember feeling completely overwhelmed and enchanted. I knew straight away that that was what I wanted to do when I grew up.

Four years ago, as a special treat, my aunt took me to see Matthew Bourne’s company,Adventures in Motion Pictures:their Swan Lake with Adam Cooper. It made me rethink everything: the storyline, the music, the way you could dance to it.

I hope more than anything else in the world that you will take me on. I shall work until I drop – and I promise you will not be disappointed.

When they were asked to stop writing, Jenna gave her piece of paper to the Head of Dance, catching in her eyes the faintest glimpse of a smile.

After lunch –
Thanks,Tammy, I’m ravenous –
they were put through their paces once again in a jazz class. This time they were all in regulation black: tight tops, bell-bottomed trousers, soft black jazz boots. And with a new teacher: young, dynamic, with a body lithe as a snake, she did the splits on the floor as easily and swiftly as her head-high kicks and dazzling pirouettes.

Half-way through the class, Jenna’s confidence and energy began to flag. She noticed how well some of the other students were dancing, how quickly they picked up the teacher’s instructions for the routine they were expected to learn on the spot.

I’m just one of the crowd. They all dance better than me. I don’t know what I’m doing, apart from wasting everyone’s time.

She was glad when the class came to an end.

Catching her breath, she changed back into her jeans and blue top. The rest of the afternoon passed swiftly in a haze of vocal work: group singing to warm up their voices; a solo song, followed by a monologue from a modern play she had chosen. At the end of it, Jenna’s mouth felt dry. In the uncomfortable silence, her legs shook with sudden exhaustion.