Lucky Break (10 page)

‘And you,' Susie held out a hand to her. ‘Good luck.'

Hamlet

Dan hated to admit it, but the atmosphere in the dance studio was electric. Just the twelve of them. The chosen. The ones that had survived. ‘Right,' Olinka was actually smiling. ‘Who's ready to learn tap?' She gave a sparkling, razor-sharp demonstration, and nodded to the accompanist, Miss Goeritz, still miraculously with them for another year.

‘A shuffle, shuffle, shuffle tap. A tap, tap, tap, step.' Olinka clicked her fingers above the shambling piano, and repeated her moves. There was an assumption that they knew what they were doing, that the clumsy, hopeless drifters had fallen by the way. Charlie danced nonchalantly beside Dan, in black tights and a faded T-shirt, her hair longer now, the tight curls softened to a wave. She swayed her hips, her long legs bent a little at the knee, and marked the steps with brand-new shoes.

‘And a shuffle, shuffle, shuffle, tap. A tap, tap, tap, Turn . . .'

Dan swivelled the wrong way and collided with her. ‘Sorry,' they both said, overlapping, and they trotted round in a circle, their hands flapping, their toes blunt.

‘I didn't think we'd see you back here,' Charlie spoke out of the corner of her mouth, as they rearranged themselves in a line between Kevin and Marvella.

‘Yeah, well . . .' Dan flushed to think of his drunken posturing on the last night of the summer term, his adamant announcement that he wouldn't be back, however much they begged him, no, they wouldn't be seeing him again. It was inhuman, that was his conclusion, the way Drama Arts toyed with people's lives. He gave Charlie a shifty smile. ‘Here I am.'

 

Dan had woken the following day, his head splitting, his throat parched, and before Jemma could stop him, he'd pulled on his clothes and made his way to college. ‘I need to speak to Patrick Bowery,' he'd presented himself at the door of the staff office, nervous and already sweating, but the registrar had told him Patrick wasn't in that day, he was probably working at home.

Dan knew this was his chance – he could leave a message, and slope off – but he'd made a promise and he was going to follow it through. ‘I need to speak to him,' he repeated, as much to himself as anyone, and he turned away.

Dan had never been to Patrick and Silvio's flat, but he knew it wasn't far. He set off at a run, his head thudding, his thoughts frozen, until, after a few false turns and one stop for directions, he found himself outside their building, climbing the steps, ringing the bell, hoping, praying even, that no one would be in. He took a deep breath and counted, and just as he was about to move away, he heard the shudder of an interior door being opened. Heavy, familiar footfalls approached along the hall.

‘Daniel Linden.' Patrick didn't seem surprised to see him there. ‘Good morning.' And with a toss of his head, he stood back to let him in.

Dan walked through a narrow corridor into a living room, spotless, with only a framed photograph of Laurence Olivier to indicate who the inhabitants were. Silvio sat at a table, in dance trousers and a polo-neck top, a glass of water before him, as if he might be about to perform. ‘Hello,' he said, and he nodded as Patrick closed the door. The two men looked at Dan, expectant.

‘The thing is . . .' Dan started. He felt crumpled and chaotic. If only he'd stopped for breakfast, or a wash. ‘The thing is, I just . . .' and to his mortification tears forced themselves into his eyes. ‘I just . . .' Dan struggled, ‘I don't agree with the way you do things . . . it doesn't seem fair . . .' His voice rose, childish, complaining, and he looked round angrily, swatting away his tears. ‘I mean, what difference does it make, one more year . . . why does it have to be so harsh?' and Silvio handed him the glass of water. Dan drank gratefully. ‘Thank you,' he murmured, passing the glass back, and for a moment there was silence. ‘I don't see how I can stay.'

Silvio took Dan's hand in his own warm palm and led him to the sofa. ‘You are very young,' he said gently. ‘And you feel everything, with passion.' He sat beside him, ‘which is right and true, but it is different for us, we see things clearly.' Without mentioning Jemma's name, he explained that in some cases they were being kind, kinder than if they offered up encouragement. In time he would come to understand, this great and difficult profession was not suitable for everyone.

‘The real question is . . .' Patrick cut in, impatient, but Silvio quieted him with a look.

‘Daniel,' Silvio bent towards him, ‘we have been thinking about you, more than you imagine, and we've been considering . . . How would you feel . . . if you
were
to stay with us for another year, about taking on a challenge . . . a play that would stretch you. The pinnacle of most actors' careers.'

Dan frowned.

‘Are you willing to be challenged?' Patrick strode across the beige carpet.

‘I . . . I'm not saying that . . . I mean, of course.'

‘The Dane.' Patrick fixed him with his steely eye.

‘Hamlet,' Silvio whispered.

‘You're joking?' Dan felt a rush of adrenalin flood through his body, the whole of his future career mapping out.

‘Patrick would direct,' Silvio said proudly. ‘Of course,
Hamlet
is a play very rarely done at drama school, for reasons of . . . well, maturity, but we feel, with your essential qualities, and the way you have understood my techniques, we could make it into something . . . spectacular.'

‘Bloody hell,' Dan ran his hands through his hair, ‘that would be hard to resist.' He frowned as if he was still considering, but even as he did so he knew he wouldn't miss this chance.

‘I have been wanting to direct
Hamlet
for a long time,' Patrick stared into the middle distance. ‘I've been thinking about the central themes, the haunting, the psychological truths, the relationship the poor boy had with his mother.'

‘And of course we have our Ophelia,' Silvio looked shyly towards Patrick.

‘No,' Patrick snapped round. ‘There is no Of Course about it.'

Silvio pursed his lips as if he'd been slapped. And there was silence. Dan shifted in his seat and glanced round the room. It reminded him of his mother's house in Epping. Neat and beige, with a fruit bowl on the table. There was a varnished trolley with gold detail beside the sofa, on which sat a teapot on a linen doily. From what he'd heard, he'd never imagined it like this. Some of the boys from his year were regular visitors, dropping in for evening drinks, and even on weekends. Kevin, in particular, and Jonathan. Stuart apparently had once gone round for dinner and found himself wrestled by Patrick into an awkward embrace.

‘Well, thanks,' Dan shifted. ‘I mean, if you really think I'm up to it . . .' It disgusted him, this need for one more word of reassurance.

‘If
you
think you're up to it,' Patrick had caught him and he knew it. ‘Well, only you can say. How far you are prepared to delve into yourself, examine your innermost compulsions, your motivations, your sexuality . . . your fears?'

The questions were left hanging there. ‘Yes.' Dan nodded like an idiot. He bit his lip.

‘So, we'll see you next term,' Patrick pinned him with his protruding eyes, ‘and continue the discourse?'

‘Right.' Dan moved towards the door. ‘I suppose you will.' He turned to Silvio, still sitting by the window, stung. ‘Bye then.'

‘Of course,' Silvio roused himself. ‘Please, enjoy your summer.'

‘And you.'

In the hall two wooden masks hung side by side. One tragic, and one comic. He put his hand up and touched the smooth surface of the stained wood. To be or not to be. And he let the door slam hard behind him as he ran down the steps.

 

As soon as Olinka's class was over Dan called Jemma from the phone box in the canteen. ‘What are you up to?' he asked.

‘Nothing much,' he heard the rustle of sheets, ‘just lazing about.'

‘Really?' He pressed his face into the receiver.

‘Yes. Really. And thinking about you.'

Dan turned to check he wasn't being overheard, but there was only Becky, slicing up a tray of those infernal flapjacks; the others had all gone outside to smoke.

‘Hmm. Sounds interesting. So what . . . are you dressed?'

‘Actually,' she lowered her voice, ‘I've been a bit naughty. You know, downstairs. Well, there was no one there so I snuck down and tried on some of the clothes.'

‘Jem!'

‘It's all right. I didn't take any. But there are such lovely things. A long silk slip with the most beautiful embroidery, and a white fur tippet. I might surprise you when you come home.'

‘Miss you,' he said quietly.

‘I miss you too. What are you doing there? Have they dragged you up to the office yet, tried to convince you that you're gay?'

Dan laughed and looked up towards the gallery. ‘Just tap. Quite a laugh actually. If you're good later I'll show you my routine.'

‘Can't wait.'

‘Nor me.' They were both laughing. ‘See you later. Or meet me for a drink if you like?'

‘No.'

‘All right,' he sighed, thinking of the dank comfort of the pub, the cold pint between his fingers, the glass slippery with wet. ‘I'll come straight home.'

 

Jemma and Dan had found a flat to rent from a woman who sold old clothes. Dresses from the 1940s and '50s, flowered, with coloured piping, made from crêpe, cotton and silk. There were shoes too, faded silver sandals, a pair of two-tone spats, and a bargain basket of roughly knitted berets, children's jumpers, scarves. The shop belonged to the stepmother of a friend of Jemma's, and by amazing luck they'd heard about it two days before the start of term. It had a small kitchen at the back, and upstairs were two bedrooms, everything furnished in the same spare tasteful style as the shop, with antique lace curtains and a patchwork quilt across the wide brass bed.

‘It's so romantic,' Jemma had said, and Dan lifted a corner of the curtain to stare out at the traffic on the Mile End Road.

Jemma and Dan had spent the summer travelling, free for a few months from the tyranny of rent. They'd taken the train to Italy, missing their connection at Calais, ending up in Paris, where, with no French money, they'd fled through the Metro, leaping over barriers, dashing to catch up with the right train on the other side of town. But it turned out not to be the right train, something they only discovered the next day when it deposited them at a small station in Switzerland, where they sat for three hours, huddled together against the mountain cold, rewarded eventually by another smaller train with their destination, Verona, listed on the side. Their plan was to camp on the shores of Lake Garda, in a small town they'd heard was idyllic, but by the time they arrived in Verona it was late at night, and the bus they'd hoped to take had long since gone. They sat in the tiled corner of the station and discussed hiring a taxi, but a taxi was inconceivably expensive. We'll just have to wait here, they agreed, and catch the bus tomorrow, but Dan woke in the early hours to find that Jemma had wandered into the station master's office, and was demanding someone show her where she could wash her hair. ‘Sorry,' Dan grimaced at the small crowd of spectators who had gathered, and he took Jemma by the arm and led her back to their bags. ‘Hey?' he looked into her face, ‘what's going on?' and she giggled and said she must have sleepwalked into the office, but when she woke up she'd been so embarrassed she thought she'd better carry on pretending to be asleep. They laughed so hard, stifling their gasps, that Dan's whole body ached. ‘Let's stay awake now,' he urged, ‘it must be morning soon,' and itchy-eyed, they leant against each other and dealt out a hand of cards.

It was the following afternoon by the time they reached the little town of Torri del Benaco. They'd boarded a bus, but had fallen asleep almost as soon as they sat down, and only woken, some hours later, to find themselves thundering along beside a lake. Automatically they looked behind them, where the roofs of a cluster of houses were disappearing round a hilly bend. ‘Torri?' they asked, and a woman jerked her thumb, back, the way they'd come. ‘Stop!' they'd shouted, leaping up. ‘Please,
per favore
!' and grabbing hold of their bags, they'd scrambled to the front of the bus, where, with a swish of rubber, they were let out on to the road.

Jemma immediately burst into tears.

‘For God's sake,' Dan hissed at her, ‘not here,' and he waved cheerily at the driver as he cranked his vehicle into gear.

‘Why
not
cry?' Jemma shouted. ‘Why do we have to keep pretending it's not all a stupid bloody disaster?' And she sat down by the side of the road and sobbed into her hands. Dan looked left and right along the deserted road and wished he was anywhere but here. The lake stretched before him, as vast as a sea, and behind them, rising steeply, was an inhospitably rocky hill. Great, he thought, and whose idea was this? but he knew better than to say a word. Eventually even Jemma saw the pointlessness of crying and so they began the long walk back, arriving in the town so numb with tiredness they hardly noticed the sun beating down. The first shop they came to they went in, and Jemma surprised Dan by asking in Italian, her voice trilling up and down, for enough food for a picnic. They sat on the narrow strip of beach below the road and tore open the bread, stuffing it with curls of ham, wedges of salty cheese and small sweet tomatoes that squirted pips a metre high as they bit through the skin. In between mouthfuls they gulped warm peach juice, and when they were already full, forced in apricot biscuits, their centres melting into jam. Dan lay back against the pebbles, sunshine dappling his face, the water lapping at his toes, and flooded with contentment he told Jemma he was sorry, she was right, they should have both wailed and beaten their chests when they missed their stop. Jemma said she was sorry too. She was just so tired, and hungry. But it was funny, she started laughing, when Dan smiled so cheerily at the bus driver, and waved him on. ‘Don't worry about us, we'll be fine,' she mimicked him, ‘we want to stop here, yes, just here, by the side of the road,' and they lay on their backs and howled up at the blue sky until tears ran down the sides of their faces.