A born dancer?

 

A born dancer?

‘You don’t realise the true proportions of someone until you see them in a leotard,’ thought Sylvia. Fully dressed, Miranda was elegant and rather pretty. She was almost six feet tall and broad-shouldered and had the milky skin that so often goes with tawny hair.

She had taken ballet classes since she was four years old and was now seventeen. In the autumn she would be going to university and her dancing lesson days would be behind her.

Sylvia had encouraged her daughter to continue dancing lessons, recognising early on that the little girl was not going to develop into a small and dainty adult. She would need the discipline of dance or sport to teach her to coordinate her limbs. Miranda had never been interested in athletics or games, and didn’t care for swimming, but she had enjoyed dancing.

The introductory music started, and the audience ceased their chattering. First onto the stage tripped the very smallest girls and one little boy. They looked so sweet as they galloped around to the music, looking at each other to make sure they were doing the right thing. One of the children was very lissom and floated across the stage like thistledown. Miranda had never been like that, Sylvia thought, smiling a little sadly.

The more advanced classes followed, consisting mostly of girls with one or two boys. The differences in physique were more noticeable in the older students. Some were slim and fine-boned and in perfect proportion, while others were undergoing the tribulations of sudden growth spurts, when limbs didn’t quite match heads or trunks. Miranda had often seemed ungainly in her early teens but now looked much more balanced.

At last it was the turn of Miranda’s class to perform. All girls, they wore pointe shoes which clonked across the wooden boards of the village hall. Each dancer in turn performed a short solo and then they danced an ensemble piece. Miranda stood head and shoulders above the rest of the chorus. She had not been placed in the centre, where her mother had expected her to be, but off to the side, almost out of view. As the girls danced, Sylvia began to understand why. Miranda was always half a beat behind the others.

Through the years, Sylvia had noticed that her daughter’s timing was slightly askew when she played the piano or her guitar, but she had never recognised until now just how poor it was. As she reflected on this, she realised it had not improved and may even have become slightly worse as the years rolled by.

Over dinner that evening, Miranda confided in her mother that she was glad she would never have to dance on stage again. ’You know, Mum, everybody thinks I’m a terrible dancer, but I’m glad I stuck at it. My timing’s dreadful but dancing has taught me how to hold my head up high and always do my best.’

Sylvia smiled and squeezed her daughter’s hand. ‘I’m glad, too,’ she said.