We quietly watch on, moving only to help ourselves to the limited selection of snacks and drinks that remain. It’s as Mufasa’s spirit sends the message to Simba to ‘Remember who you are’ that Connie begins to speak.
‘I’m going to do it,’ she announces, ‘I’m going to find out about the volunteer programmes in Africa. It’s what I want to do. It’s what I’ve always wanted to do. If Mum could see me now she’d be devastated that I’m working in a stuffy office, typing endless numbers into meaningless spreadsheets. I want to make her proud. To remember who I really am.’
An excitable buzz fills the room as me, Hope and Issy fire question after question at an eager Connie.
‘Do you get to choose where?’
‘How much money do you have to raise? Do you need sponsorship?’
‘When will you go? And how long will you stay?’
‘I don’t know!’ Connie exclaims with a shrug and a laugh. ‘I’ve only this minute decided to go for it. But tomorrow morning I’m going to start Googling, find out the most reputable charities and how to apply.’
‘It’ll be amazing,’ Issy assures her. ‘A once in a lifetime opportunity that’ll make a real difference.’
‘There’s something else, too,’ Connie adds. She has a fire in her eyes full of feisty determination that I’ve not seen in her since our last ballet recital. Naturally she’d had the solo, executing perfect fouette turns and pirouettes that made the kids in the junior classes sigh dreamily. ‘I’m not putting off the teaching exams any more.’ She looks directly at me, waiting for my reaction.
‘No way.’ I’m agog. ‘You’re finally going to bite the bullet and become a dance teacher? At our dance school?’ I refer to it as ours, even though we’re only pupils. We’ve been going there so long it feels like we have the right to stake some claim over it.
She shakes her head. ‘I’m going to try and get a bank loan and start up on my own. It sounds ludicrous, I know. But there’s got to be a disused factory somewhere in Sheffield that I can buy, or at least rent. Line the walls with mirrors, put up a barre, get a sprung floor laid… after that it’ll just be upkeep and running costs. And if it doesn’t work, then hey ho. At least I’ll have tried.’
I can’t help it, I have to hug her. In my excitement I go in with a bit more force than I’d planned, almost knocking her right off her feet. It’s a good job all those years of ballet have worked on her core stability. She manages, just about, to stay centred and steady.
‘I’m thrilled for you, Con, honestly I am. After all those years of nagging at you to do it. Miss Gemma will be too.’
Connie laughs. ‘She’ll never believe it when I tell her she’ll need to get revising the exam syllabus. I think she’d given up hope of me ever putting in for them.’
‘We’d all given up hope,’ I say. Out of the six of us in our class, Connie’s the only one who has what it takes to teach dance. The rest of us can hold our own in the showcases, years of practice have ensured that. But there’s something in the way Connie moves – something elegant and strong and inspiring – that sets her apart from the rest of us. She was born to dance, no two ways about it.
‘Who’d have thought The Lion King would be so inspirational, eh?’ jokes Hope, a glimmer of a smile passing over her face. ‘Maybe you’re right, Mon. Maybe it’s not just for kids after all.’
Friday 23rd September
*The Sound of Music – Issy’s choice*
‘So, what’s it to be?’
We all look on eagerly as Issy whips a DVD out from behind one of the tatty patchwork cushions that rest along the back of the sofa, straining our eyes to make out the title of the musical we’ll be watching.
‘The Sound of Music!’ Issy proclaims, a triumphant smile on her face. ‘I love this film. It makes me think of my Gran – she was a huge Julie Andrews fan.’
Connie didn’t seem to share Issy’s enthusiasm. ‘Oh no, it’s the one with the nuns, isn’t it?’ She clutches her head in her hands in a dramatic fashion. ‘I’ve never liked nuns. They scare me.’
‘Maybe I should become a nun,’ Hope muses. ‘My love life’s in tatters since Amara decided she didn’t want me any more. And at least I wouldn’t have to worry about bad-hair days if I had to wear one of those floppy sheet things on my head.’
I raise my eyebrows in despair. ‘Floppy sheet things’ indeed. ‘They’re called wimples. And you’d be a terrible nun. You’re far too cynical!’
‘And an atheist,’ Hope adds, deadpan. ‘That might be a bit of a problem.’
‘This is a real tear-jerker, too, from what I remember,’ Connie says, trying to rein us back in. ‘I’m going to need tissues, aren’t I? Again.’ She rifles through her patent red over-the-shoulder bag. Folders, notepads and something that looks suspiciously like a Filofax from the 1980s peeps out of the top, and as she pulls a small rectangular packet of tissues out she adds, ‘It always gets to me. I don’t know why, but it does.’
‘Because it’s depressing, that’s why.’ That was Hope.
‘It’s not depressing, it’s emotive,’ Issy insists. ‘And based on a true story too. That poor family… imagine how horrific it must have been.’
‘Yeah, imagine having to wear clothes made from floral curtains the colour of wee. It must have been dreadful.’ The withering look Issy throws Hope cuts her off before she can rant further about the Von Trapps, which is just as well. If she finds her stride, who knows what she’ll belittle next?
‘Let’s start,’ I interject, taking the disc from Issy and inserting it into the DVD player. ‘It’s not a short film and it’s already almost nine. And even if you don’t like the storyline, you must admit it’s got a classic score. ‘Edelweiss’? ‘Do Re Mi’? ‘My Favourite Things’? They’re exactly the kind of songs the Singalong Society was founded for. I think I’m going to get a glass of water to go along with my Riesling because I’m going to need it to hit those high notes.’ I hurry to the kitchen, fill a glass with cool tap water and pick up a packet of chocolate digestives for good measure. ‘Julie Andrews might make it sound easy, but it’s not. Not for us ordinary folk.’
‘Be quick, it’s starting,’ Issy yells, but I’m already back in the room in time to see the long-lens opening shots of the stunning Austrian landscape appear on the screen. Beautiful castles, rolling green hills, clear blue water – and Julie Andrews sporting helmet hair and a shapeless pocketed pinafore.
Before long we’re all drawn into the film, laughing at the gentle humour and singing the anthemic songs with all our might. Maria’s love song to her favourite things causes us to dissolve into fits of laughter; Hope declaring that anyone who claims doorbells as one of their favourite things deserves to remain in a convent for all eternity.
‘What would you sing about, then? What amazing things are there that help you when you feel bad?’ Issy asks, although she’s been as exposed to Hope’s doom and gloom almost as much as me. There doesn’t seem to have been much that’s raised Hope’s spirits since she moved in.
‘White wine, most likely,’ Hope replies, raising her fourth glass of the evening to the air in a toast.
‘Friends,’ I add, without missing a beat. ‘Friends who accept you as you are, warts and all.’
‘Good one,’ Issy says approvingly. ‘Mine would be weekends. How about