seized on it as an opportunity to galvanise the half-hearted among her girls.
‘Mais oui, mes chéries,’
she said to them, her face a study in sincerity. ‘It is the ghost of Dolly Treddle, the lady of the loom, and she only appears when lazy girls are in the building. She was lazy herself, you see. She was flogged to death for her laziness. She comes to warn you of the perils of
la paresse
!’
Eliza, the originator of the myth, was impressed at the way her teacher had smoothly embellished it. Mademoiselle Evangeline, sending them all to the barre with Dolly nipping at their heels, had winked at her.
‘Merci, ma petite,’
she had said confidingly, then, in her usual, commanding voice, ordered them all into first position.
These moments of complicity helped to inspire a level of devotion in Eliza that she had never felt for anyone, and she was a child who gave her heart quite readily. Mademoiselle, sparing with praise, lavish with criticism, was Eliza’s great obsession. She was easily the most beautiful creature in her world, and quite how she had ended up in Barnsley no one really knew. But here she was, with her long neck and perfect poise, and as she moved gracefully through the crush of the market or up the sweep of Peel Street people fell away and stared, as if a gazelle was in their midst. She was luminous in Eliza’s eyes, a higher being. An approving nod or a kind word from her dance teacher was worth more to Eliza than the most heartfelt acclaim from anyone else. Three times a week she caught the train from Netherwood to Barnsley, for dance classes after school. She wished it were more. ‘
Mon petit papillon
,’ Mademoiselle called her when she was pleased: light and graceful, like a butterfly. Eliza longed for her teacher’s attention, yearned for the moments when, scanning her small ensemble of ballerinas, Mademoiselle’s eyes would alight on Eliza and she would say: ‘
Alors, le papillon va nous montrer
. Eliza, show us your arabesque,
s’il te plaît
.’ This happened perhaps only once a month, because Mademoiselle detested favouritism, but Eliza knew what she knew. She had seen the way her teacher watched her, and each discreet nod of approval elevated her soul. They were moments of glory, and though few and far between, they sustained and encouraged. And then today, as she prepared to leave the studio, glancing one last time in the wall mirror at her face, flushed with exertion and all the prettier for it, Eliza had been called back by Mademoiselle, who had said she wished to speak with Eliza’s mother and stepfather as, at fourteen, she believed Eliza was ready to accompany her to France, to the Ballet de l’Opéra de Paris.
‘Ask your mother, first of all, if she would come and speak with me. I can explain all.’ She had smiled at Eliza’s instant torrent of questions, and answered none of them.
‘
Silence, ma petite, c’est tout
,’ was all she had said. ‘Run away, shoo, shoo.’
So Eliza had left, and in her mind was a frenzy of possibilities. She was a fanciful girl, even without the promise of Parisian adventure; awake or asleep, her imagination ran riot, and at night her dreams were so crammed with incident that sometimes, when she woke, she had to lie stock still for five minutes to give the scenes in her mind time to fade and retreat. On the thrice-weekly train journeys to and from Barnsley she would rest her head on the window, close her eyes and let her thoughts carry her away – to centre stage, more often than not: Coppélia, Giselle, Odette on the London stage, before a rapt audience. Sometimes, if Eve had been working in the Barnsley shop, she would catch the same train home and Eliza would have to forgo the adulation of hundreds of ardent fans in order to answer her mam’s questions about school and what she’d had for dinner. This always felt like a sacrifice, though she bore it stoically.
This evening, though, she travelled alone. It was half past six by the
‘Mais oui, mes chéries,’
she said to them, her face a study in sincerity. ‘It is the ghost of Dolly Treddle, the lady of the loom, and she only appears when lazy girls are in the building. She was lazy herself, you see. She was flogged to death for her laziness. She comes to warn you of the perils of
la paresse
!’
Eliza, the originator of the myth, was impressed at the way her teacher had smoothly embellished it. Mademoiselle Evangeline, sending them all to the barre with Dolly nipping at their heels, had winked at her.
‘Merci, ma petite,’
she had said confidingly, then, in her usual, commanding voice, ordered them all into first position.
These moments of complicity helped to inspire a level of devotion in Eliza that she had never felt for anyone, and she was a child who gave her heart quite readily. Mademoiselle, sparing with praise, lavish with criticism, was Eliza’s great obsession. She was easily the most beautiful creature in her world, and quite how she had ended up in Barnsley no one really knew. But here she was, with her long neck and perfect poise, and as she moved gracefully through the crush of the market or up the sweep of Peel Street people fell away and stared, as if a gazelle was in their midst. She was luminous in Eliza’s eyes, a higher being. An approving nod or a kind word from her dance teacher was worth more to Eliza than the most heartfelt acclaim from anyone else. Three times a week she caught the train from Netherwood to Barnsley, for dance classes after school. She wished it were more. ‘
Mon petit papillon
,’ Mademoiselle called her when she was pleased: light and graceful, like a butterfly. Eliza longed for her teacher’s attention, yearned for the moments when, scanning her small ensemble of ballerinas, Mademoiselle’s eyes would alight on Eliza and she would say: ‘
Alors, le papillon va nous montrer
. Eliza, show us your arabesque,
s’il te plaît
.’ This happened perhaps only once a month, because Mademoiselle detested favouritism, but Eliza knew what she knew. She had seen the way her teacher watched her, and each discreet nod of approval elevated her soul. They were moments of glory, and though few and far between, they sustained and encouraged. And then today, as she prepared to leave the studio, glancing one last time in the wall mirror at her face, flushed with exertion and all the prettier for it, Eliza had been called back by Mademoiselle, who had said she wished to speak with Eliza’s mother and stepfather as, at fourteen, she believed Eliza was ready to accompany her to France, to the Ballet de l’Opéra de Paris.
‘Ask your mother, first of all, if she would come and speak with me. I can explain all.’ She had smiled at Eliza’s instant torrent of questions, and answered none of them.
‘
Silence, ma petite, c’est tout
,’ was all she had said. ‘Run away, shoo, shoo.’
So Eliza had left, and in her mind was a frenzy of possibilities. She was a fanciful girl, even without the promise of Parisian adventure; awake or asleep, her imagination ran riot, and at night her dreams were so crammed with incident that sometimes, when she woke, she had to lie stock still for five minutes to give the scenes in her mind time to fade and retreat. On the thrice-weekly train journeys to and from Barnsley she would rest her head on the window, close her eyes and let her thoughts carry her away – to centre stage, more often than not: Coppélia, Giselle, Odette on the London stage, before a rapt audience. Sometimes, if Eve had been working in the Barnsley shop, she would catch the same train home and Eliza would have to forgo the adulation of hundreds of ardent fans in order to answer her mam’s questions about school and what she’d had for dinner. This always felt like a sacrifice, though she bore it stoically.
This evening, though, she travelled alone. It was half past six by the
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