First published in Great Britain by HarperCollins Children’s Books 2017
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Copyright © Jean Ure 2017
Cover artwork © Lucy Truman 2017
Cover design © HarperCollinsPublishers 2017
Jean Ure asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
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Source ISBN: 9780008164522
Ebook Edition © 2017 ISBN: 9780008174781
Version: 2016-12-19
Contents
I knew the minute I saw her that Caitlyn was a dancer. Even though she was just sitting there quite quietly in the front hall, along with the other new girls, I could tell. There was just something about her. It was the way she sat – straight-backed, but perfectly relaxed, knees neatly together, hands lightly clasped in her lap. Very calm and poised.
On one side of her there was a tall, athletic-looking girl with her legs sprawled out and her hands dangling down like she’d forgotten they were there. Not very elegant! On the other side was a tiny, bright-eyed thing with a mop of dark curls, who was swinging her feet to and fro and nibbling at a thumbnail. Probably suffering from new-school nerves. Caitlyn said a lot later that she had been, too, though you would never have guessed it.
“What do you reckon?” hissed Livi.
We were standing at the top of the stairs, Livi and me and Jordan, peering down into the hall. We weren’t supposed to be at the top of the stairs, we were supposed to be making our way to our classroom, but it was the beginning of the autumn term when new girls would be starting, especially in Year Seven. Who could resist the temptation to have a bit of a sneak peek?
“That one looks like she could be OK,” said Jordan, nodding in the direction of the tall girl.
“Or the little one,” said Liv.
Jordan agreed that she might be fun. Neither of them bothered with Caitlyn; it was almost like she didn’t exist. Where I saw a fellow dancer, they just saw someone small and pale and insignificant. In other words, boring.
The office door opened and Mrs Betts appeared. Mrs Betts is our school secretary and a lot fiercer than any of the teachers. She glanced at the three of us at the top of the stairs and frowned slightly, like, Isn’t it time you were in class? We drew back, guiltily.
“You coming?” said Jordan.
I said, “Yes, OK! I’m coming.”
I stayed just long enough to watch as Caitlyn and the others made their way across the hall. I was right: Caitlyn had a dancer’s walk! Even down to what Jordan and Livi insist on calling splay-feet, just to tease me. Actually it’s flat-footed people who have splay-feet: dancers have turn-out. There’s a huge difference. With splay-feet you flump. Caitlyn didn’t flump. She was elegant!
Of course at that point I didn’t know her name, but I was already wondering where she went for lessons. I knew all of the local dance schools. I also knew lots of the people who went to them. The world of dance is quite a small one. I thought perhaps, looking at her, that she might go to Miss Hennessy, who was the only other teacher Mum considered reputable. The only other teacher besides Mum herself, that is! She was always very scathing about the rest of them, especially The Dance Bug, with its ridiculous purple uniform and glossy brochures. She said it turned out nothing but robots.
“All technique and no soul.”
As for Babette Wynstan and her Babette’s Babes – always strutting their stuff in the local pantomime – well! I couldn’t repeat the things Mum said about them. It’s true that Mum is a bit of a snob where ballet is concerned, but wherever Caitlyn went for classes it looked to me like she had been well taught.
Her name, as I discovered in registration, was Caitlyn Hughes. A good name, I thought, for a dancer. Mum once had a pupil called Martha Roope. How could you get anywhere with a name like that? And I once read that Margot Fonteyn started off as Peggy Hookham. I couldn’t believe it! Peggy Hookham.