Wildflower Hill (26 page)

“Of course. You did a brilliant job. Monica’s a lovely young woman.”

“I took the job at Lewinford High School when Monica was still there. Everything was easy for a few years then.” He shrugged. “I did my best.”

I tried to imagine what it had been like for him. No teenage tomfoolery, no going out on drinking binges with mates. Working and looking after his little sister instead. It went a long way toward explaining his nature.

I tried to remember what I was doing at the end of my final year. I was failing high school because I didn’t pay any attention, thought I was above it all. I’d already been accepted into two dance academies in the United States and was waiting to hear from one in London. Mum had wanted me to study in Australia. We always rubbed each other the wrong way, Mum and I. She was too controlling, and I was too single-minded. There had been an enormous fight, perhaps the worst of my life. I told her I hated her. I was a child who thought she was a grown-up. Patrick had all the responsibility of a grown-up but
was little more than a child. As a rule, I tried not to be embarrassed about things I did in the far past, but that thought made me squirm for the spoiled brat I had been.

“So how did you get involved with the Hollyhocks?” I asked.

“Marlon,” he said. “You’ll meet him this morning. He was a drama teacher briefly at the school. It’s his project, really, and he used to have this ancient old battleax who played piano for him.” He smiled sheepishly. “Sorry, but she really was a battleax. Used to shout at the kids. He asked if I could replace her for a few months while he found somebody else, and that was two and a half years ago.”

He talked for a little while about the kids. It had started out as a project between four mothers of children with Down’s syndrome, then it kept growing. Some of the children were autistic, some blind, one was even deaf but felt the beat of the music through the floor. They were drawn from all over the southern parts of Tasmania. He told her about the concert they put on last year and how the prime minister happened to be in Hobart and turned up at the last minute to watch, about how the dancing helped the kids with confidence, with coordination, and how they made intense friendships with each other. I felt myself growing apprehensive: he seemed so natural and accepting of their differences. I was sure I’d be awkward, say the wrong thing.

The rain eased as we pulled in to our first rest stop and bought takeaway coffees. I walked around for a few minutes, noted that the ache wasn’t too bad, and urged Patrick to keep driving while the weather held. We were in Hobart by a quarter past nine.

The Hollyhocks practiced in the theater of a private school looking down on the Derwent River. Patrick led me to wide double doors that were already open onto a large foyer. Beyond, a compact theater space waited. The seats were tiered, the stage on the ground. A tall, dark-haired man in tight leggings greeted us.

“Oh, how lovely to meet you!” he enthused, grasping my hand and shaking it firmly. “You look beautiful! That frock is
divine
on you! I’ve only seen you in pictures. You’re twice as gorgeous in real life.”

“Thank you,” I said, readjusting to his extreme sociability. “And thank you for letting me come today.”

All his sentences were punctuated with dramatic emphasis. “No, no, thank
you.
The kids don’t know you’re here yet, but they are going to
love
meeting a real live ballerina! My God! They will die! Especially Mina. Right, Patrick?”

Patrick’s gentle voice was in deep contrast to Marlon’s. “Mina Ballerina,” he said. “She loves ballet.”

“She’s a
star
!” Marlon squeaked. “You’re going to love her.”

I took a seat in the front row while they set up the room. Patrick retrieved an electric piano from the backstage area and ran through some pieces on it. Marlon pranced about making up dirty lyrics until the first children and their parents arrived, when he became so dignified and circumspect that I wondered if I’d imagined my first impression of him. Slowly, the front rows filled up with parents, while children—from small ones to young adults—lined up with Marlon to have armbands attached to their wrists. Pink for left, blue for right. Ten of the eighteen had the almond eyes and square features
of Down’s syndrome, but apart from that, the children varied widely. I watched them getting ready. Some seemed brighter, more connected somehow. Others were off in a dream. Other children were alternately very focused or noisy or apprehensive and clinging to their parents. But when Patrick started playing the opening strains of an old love song from a musical that I couldn’t place, they all snapped to attention and moved into their positions. Marlon started calling, “Move pink! Move blue! Turn! Arms up and . . . slowly.”

I admit I didn’t think it could be a pretty sight. I thought they would be clumsy, awkward, unable to follow instructions properly. But there was a childish grace about the dancers, a deep enthusiasm infused through their limbs and shining in their faces. It was beautiful. I had never felt more human. I blinked back tears—I didn’t want anyone to think I felt sad or sorry—and let the slow, melancholy music wash over me.

As it finished, the parents and I applauded loudly. Marlon turned and gave a theatrical bow. “And now,” he said, “our special guest. Guys, this gorgeous creature in the first row is a famous ballerina, Emma Blaxland-Hunter.”

I wasn’t sure what to do, so I smiled and gave a little wave. In seconds, the children were crowding in front of me, asking for autographs, calling out questions. I didn’t know who to look at or answer first, but then an older, dark-haired girl with Down’s syndrome slid into the seat next to me and took my hand. I turned to her.

“I’m Mina,” she said.

“Nice to meet you,” I replied, smiling.

“Mina Ballerina.”

“Yes, I’ve heard of you.”

“Could you teach me ballet?”

She spoke thickly through her tongue, but I could understand her perfectly, unlike some of the others. “I . . . I can show you a few moves, I guess.”

“I already know all the positions. Let me show you.” And she tugged my hand and pulled me out of my chair.

I found myself in the center of the stage with a crowd of children around me. Mina stood in front of me and went through the positions. I helped correct her arms on fourth position and her feet on fifth, though physically, she simply couldn’t manage the last one.

“Show me something else?” she asked.

I glanced at Marlon, who smiled and shrugged. I had no idea what Mina was capable of. “How about the first arabesque position?”

“Is that more standing still? Because I’d rather learn a dance. I like
Swan Lake.
”

“The dances from
Swan Lake
are very hard. I’d have to think about it. I’m not—”

“Can you dance for us?”

“I . . . No, I can’t. I injured my knee. It doesn’t work properly anymore.”

Mina nodded reverently. “That happened to my friend,” she said. “She had a car accident and she’s in a wheelchair.”

Marlon interrupted. “Okay, Mina. Let other people have a turn with Emma. Who wants autographs?”

A general chorus of “Me!” went round, and as I signed autographs, I tried to think about what kind of dance I could teach
Mina. I felt that I’d disappointed her. She clearly hadn’t the physical ability for anything from the great choreographers: she could move her arms well enough, but her lower-body flexibility was always going to let her down. Yet she was keen and was clearly crazy for ballet. And having watched the first dance, I could see that she stood out in terms of her ability.

I watched the rest of the rehearsal, lost in thought. Marlon was wonderful with the children, firm and loving, occasionally cracking cheeky jokes to make them laugh. Patrick played beautifully and was patient and calm.

As the rehearsal finished and the children began to file out, chatting happily, Mina approached me again. “Will you come and see us next week?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “I’ll try to. Patrick has to drive me, so I’ll have to ask him.”

“Will you teach me some ballet?”

“Mina, I’m really only here in Tasmania for a little while.”

Patrick, who had heard his name, came over to join us. “Come on, Mina, your dad will be waiting out front.” He led her off. I picked up my bag and hitched it over my shoulder.

Patrick returned. “She lives alone with her dad,” he explained.

“He must be proud.”

“He never comes in.”

“Really?”

“Drops her off and picks her up. I’ve only ever seen him through his car windshield. She’s the oldest here; she’s just turned seventeen.”

“She seems very keen.”

“She’s amazing. But I think she’s sad sometimes. All the dances we do are to old show tunes or pop ballads. I think she really would like to do something more like real ballet.”

I opened my mouth to say that I could help, but then I changed my mind. I’d be gone soon. Best not to raise anyone’s expectations.

Monica and I were making headway. I was getting better at throwing things out. I didn’t need to keep every birthday card Grandma had ever received, every drawing Uncle Mike had done in kindergarten. I had a week to go before my flight, and if I worked around the clock, I believed I was going to make it. Monica stayed longer hours. I sorted boxes until the early hours, then fell to sleep dreaming of more boxes filled with random, unidentifiable things.

Then Monica found the key. She was cleaning out the dining room, pulling out all the drawers in the oak sideboard one by one. The key wasn’t hidden, it had just slipped to the back of the drawer and become jammed.

“Look,” she said, standing in the threshold to the kitchen, where I was sorting business letters on the table. I glanced up. She held it out, told me where she’d found it.

“It’s got to be for the shearers’ cottage, right?” I said.

“It’s the only door we haven’t been able to unlock.”

“Can you go and have a look?”

She nodded once, then took the stairs down through the laundry. I was skimming through an old letter to Grandma from a wool classer. I could barely understand what was being
said, whether the letter was important. It was dated 1938, so Penelope Sykes might want it. I sighed, started a new pile. Went to the next letter. I started thinking about a coffee break.

Then Monica thundered up the stairs. “Emma!”

I turned; she stood at the top of the stairs, panting.

“Oh my God,” she said. “It’s full.”

“Full?”

“Come and look for yourself.”

I eased myself out of my chair. I’d learned that getting up after sitting still for a long time was a killer. Then I followed Monica carefully down the stairs and out through the laundry.

The sunshine was uninterrupted, but it was still cool. The morning breeze moved gently, rustling through the tall gums on the edge of the property. A pair of rabbits bounded away from us. We let ourselves out of the gate and across the overgrown green field to the shearers’ cottage, an old stringy-bark cabin on the edge of the property. The door stood open. Cobwebs everywhere. And boxes. More boxes.

In every room, boxes.

“Jesus,” I said.

“When does your plane leave?”

“Sunday at one.” I turned to her. She was smiling, and although I felt overwhelmed at the thought of more boxes—so many more boxes—I had to laugh. “I’m not going home, am I?” I said.

She shrugged. “I guess you could just take it all to the dump.

But I couldn’t. I’d only just begun to realize that I was looking for something in these boxes. I was looking for the story behind Grandma buying a sheep farm for nothing, for who the little girl in the photograph was, for what Grandma did before she had Mum and Uncle Mike and settled down to life as a businesswoman and an MP’s wife. I didn’t want to miss anything.

I opened the lid to the nearest box and peered in. Mostly books. Perhaps it wouldn’t take long after all. “I’ll ring the airline, cancel my flight. Rebook it later, when I know I’m truly finished.” That felt better; the sense that I was racing the clock had disappeared. “I’ll get the house properly ready for sale, even if it takes another month.”

“You want me to stay on?” Monica asked.

“Absolutely. I couldn’t do it without you.”

“Do you want me to clean out the master bedroom, then?”

“No,” I said quickly. I was superstitious: if I moved into Grandma’s old bedroom, that would mean I was staying forever. “I’m happy where I am.”

The two rooms I loved best in the house were the kitchen and the sitting room. My bedroom was just where I slept, and I didn’t tend to go up there until I was so tired that I couldn’t keep my eyes open anymore. The sun in the kitchen kept me there during the day, and the fireplace in the sitting room kept me there at night. It wasn’t really cold enough for a fire, but I loved the sound of it, the glow of firelight. In London
I’d only ever had central heating. My evenings involved listening to the radio, drinking a glass or two of wine, and reading old letters.

I was sitting on the couch, well into my second glass of red, reading one from Granddad to Grandma from an official trip he took to Hong Kong, when “The Waltz of the Flowers” from Tchaikovsky’s
Nutcracker
came on the radio.

I had to stop everything and listen, even though it hurt me. My first professional role as a soloist had been Dew Drop in Balanchine’s version, and this had been my moment. It was agony, here at the end of my career, to be reminded so brightly and sharply of the start of my career. My hopes. My dreams. My muscles and sinews seemed to twitch, remembering the movements, but I was still as a stone.

When it finished, I took a moment to gather myself, finished my glass of wine. I began to think about that first production. Balanchine’s choreography called for children to play the roles of Clara and the Nutcracker, and he’d simplified the roles. I was no great choreographer, but I knew Dew Drop’s dance inside out. Was there a way I could simplify it? Not for a child but for a girl with Down’s syndrome?

I stood and flicked the radio off, tested my weight on my knee in the middle of the sitting room floor. Like me, Mina couldn’t do anything complex or flexible with her legs. I hummed the tune and thought about some of the movements Marlon gave to the children. There was a lot of stomping and kicking. I tried to moderate these movements so they were more elegant, more like something Mina would think was
ballet. Then I went through some of the arm positions, adding more to them so that they were telling the story that my feet couldn’t. A vision flashed into my head: Mina, dressed all in pale colors, dancing in the center of the stage. The others, in white, around her, echoing her movements. It wouldn’t be real ballet, not even close. But it would
feel
like ballet, especially to Mina, who longed for that music.