Betty came up this afternoon, which cheered me enormously.
Jerry was strapped to her back, and after tethering Randy on one side of our driveway so he could munch happily away, she came into the kitchen for a cup of tea and a natter.
She doesn’t smoke so I try not to when she and Jerry are there. He is crawling everywhere now so we shut the doors into the hall and into the scullery, and allowed him to explore the kitchen.
I opened one of the lower cupboard doors where some pans are kept, and he had a wonderful time pulling them out, and their lids, with noisy abandon.
Betty and I had to shout a bit but we got used to the din and she wanted to know all about my dancing. It was great to ‘talk shop’ again and she genuinely wanted to know.
‘Why is it called the Windmill?’ she asked.
‘Because there was a real mill there in the reign of Charles II. Can you imagine it? All fields and bushes – like this farm – right in the middle of London!’
‘What’s it like inside? Is it a big theatre?’
‘Not the auditorium, but the whole building is fairly large and there’s lots going on in it.’
‘Tell me,’ she said, her eyes bright with anticipation. ‘Tell me about your world.’
‘Our dressing rooms are underneath the stage but if you climb the stairs we’ve got a big rehearsal room with huge mirrors on the walls, so we can see ourselves from every angle.’
Betty blushed. ‘Isn’t it embarrassing looking at all those pink bodies?’
‘But we aren’t nude!’ I said. ‘We aren’t allowed to dance with no clothes on. The real nudes have to keep as still as statues.’
‘Oh,’ she said.
‘Sometimes our draperies are a bit transparent, or don’t exactly cover everything,’ I admitted, ‘but it’s only our breasts which sometimes show – never anything below the waist.’
I described the fan dance and said how we all longed to be the main dancer. She was completely naked but moved her fan so skilfully that her body was never seen by the audience. She was also assisted by her companions, one of whom was me, and we had to make sure we covered all her actions with our own fans whenever hers left her body for a moment. The Lord Chamberlain was very strict about that.
‘By golly, we had to practise,’ I said, remembering all the tension and concentration with a whoosh of excitement, ‘because timing was absolutely essential and those ostrich plumes were jolly heavy. We had to train for weeks to get that performance right.’
‘What about food?’ said plump Betty. ‘Did you take sandwiches? Or pop out for a snack? You must have been starving after all that dancing.’
‘We were,’ I said. ‘But there’s a kitchen upstairs, and a canteen, so we all ate there. We had a wardrobe department, as well, for all our costumes. It really was a little world of our own. There was even a lift to go up to the top floors, but that was for Mr Van Damm and the office staff.’
‘Don’t you miss it, Honey?’ said Betty.
‘A bit,’ I said. In fact, I missed the theatre world more than I was willing to confess. But it was super having Betty there, asking questions, and wanting to know so much about my past.
‘Show me,’ she said suddenly, sitting forward. ‘Not the naughty bits but the ballet you learnt at dancing school.’
‘All right,’ I said. It had been ages since I had danced and now was my chance to show off.
We pushed back the kitchen table then found that if we put it on its side in one corner, and opened the lower doors of two cupboards on either side, it made a splendid den for Jerry and kept him safe.
Betty leaned back against the dresser and clapped her hands.
‘Now for some ballet,’ she said.
I pirouetted across the floor and she oohed and aahed and Jerry shouted from his cage.
An audience again! Honey Brown was in her element.
There wasn’t much space but I leapt across from one corner to the other, doing grande jetés, then ran round to posé forward and end in an arabesque followed by a neat (nearly) fifth position of my feet. Panting.
Betty was thrilled. ‘Let me try something,’ she said.
‘I’ll give you a lesson but I’m not sure about those jodhpurs,’ I said. ‘Why don’t you take them off?’
She went bright red.
‘Then I’d just be in my knickers! I’ve got to cover myself, Honey. Somebody might come in!’
I raced upstairs and collected my revolting full skirt and carried it down for her. She slipped out of her riding gear and pulled on my skirt which had an easy waist band and fitted her reasonably well. At least she was freer in that and her modesty remained intact.
‘My legs will be fine for ballet,’ she announced cheerfully, ‘I’ve got good strong thighs thanks to my riding.’
I wasn’t too sure about her good strong thighs, but gave her the back of a chair to hold on to.
‘That’s your barre,’ I said. ‘Hold on with one hand and allow the other to hang gracefully by your side.’
I faced her, doing exactly the same, holding on to another chair back.
‘First we do pliés,’ I said, ‘to warm our muscles up.’ And demonstrated, feet apart, toes out, back straight. ‘Look ahead as you bend your knees slowly over your feet.’
Oh dear, it was a disaster.
Betty’s bottom stuck out, her knees fell forward, and her top half sagged.
‘Betty, stand up straight – look at me!’ I said, showing her again. But it was no use. She had no idea how to control her body and began to giggle.
Then I giggled, and little Jerry began to chuckle so loudly that he sat down on his heavily nappied bottom with a THUMP.
‘I don’t think I was meant to be a ballerina,’ cried Betty, collapsing over her chair back.
‘You need training,’ I gasped, wiping my eyes. ‘You need years and years of classes. But I didn’t realize simple pliés could be so difficult!’
I showed her a few leg movements after that, like grande battement and ronde-de-jambe, but we got even more hysterical trying these together and finally decided to stop before she did herself an injury.
Jerry was on his feet by then, hanging on to the upturned legs of the table and upping and downing his fat little body, like a Jack-in-the-box.
‘You should give dancing classes in the village, Honey,’ said Betty, once she had recovered her breath. ‘For adults as well as children. There isn’t a dancing school any closer than Horsham and I’m sure lots of mums would like to get their figures back after having a baby. And children love to dance. I know several in the village who would like to learn, and Jerry, too.’ She grinned at her son.
‘Wait a minute,’ I said, going to fill the kettle at the sink. ‘I haven’t yet learnt how to be a good farmer’s wife.’
‘But farming isn’t really you, is it?’ she said. ‘And dancing is. You should stick to what you do best, Honey.’
I’m afraid that remark annoyed me.
‘Are you saying I’m not a good wife to August?’
‘I’m not saying that at all,’ said Betty, struggling to get back into her jodhpurs. ‘Don’t get ratty. All I’m saying is do something you really enjoy and it will bring you in some money of your own, as well.’
That calmed me. Money would be very, very useful. Earned by me, to do with exactly what I pleased.
‘I’ve never done any teaching,’ I said, placing the kettle on the hob. ‘Once you’ve been on the stage, teaching seems rather tame.’
‘Well, think about it,’ said Betty, decently clad once more and placing my skirt carefully folded on a spare chair.
And I will. But I wonder what August will say to that idea? A working wife? Hmm. I don’t think he’ll like it. And Mil? Now she might think it a good idea – being such an accomplished and industrious lady, herself.
‘We’d better go and release my son before he starts hollering,’ said Betty.
So we went across to stand the table on its legs again and let Jerry out of his cage, then sat down with our tea and some of Mrs Stow’s scones, and talked of other things.
It was lovely seeing them and I intend asking them again soon. Betty is the first real friend I’ve made down here, but I’d probably make more if I started classes in the village.
One other nice thing happened today. I heard the cuckoo early in the morning.
I have never heard one before – only read about it in books – and I was so excited: I heard it out of the bedroom window as I was making the beds, and I rushed downstairs to tell Mrs Stow.
But she wasn’t a bit impressed.
‘Nasty cruel things,’ she said. ‘They come over from foreign parts and take over our birds’ nests, then throw out all the eggs and put their own in.’
‘I didn’t know that,’ I said. ‘Why do they do it?’
Mrs Stow shrugged. ‘Dunno – always have. Then our little birds feed their great fat chick and look after it until it flies away. And good riddance, I say, till next year comes and it all… happens again.’
I’ll have to ask Mil to get me a book on birds from the library and I’ll find out more. It’s a shame, really, because the cuckoo’s call sounds so romantic and is a sure sign that spring is here.
I suppose it’s a bit like Dairyman Nick; nice on the outside but bad within. Of course I don’t know what a cuckoo looks like but the sound it makes is lovely and haunting. And Nick may look handsome but there is something unpleasant about him. I just wish somebody else would think the same as me.
Ah, that’s August taking off his boots – I’ll stop now and carry on another day….