Martha had packed most of the boxes in the old attic above the kitchen. Much of it had been junk left by previous owners: an old black ballroom dress which looked positively Victorian, a pair of children’s slippers, a broken table, a hideous green coffee set, a pile of odd socks, an empty bottle of Chanel Number 5. Then, at the very bottom, a worn but probably much -loved teddy bear. He had only one boot button eye, his stuffing had been escaping through a hole in one arm and the red satin ribbon round his neck had certainly seen better days. His one eye seemed fixed on Martha with a sad, appealing look. He looks lost and abandoned. Perhaps we have something in common. Thethought struck Martha. She and the bear needed somewhere to truly belong. Martha climbed slowly downstairs carrying the last of the rubbish. She had left the bear on the top of the box. She would rescue him later.
‘About time too. You’ve been long enough clearing that attic. I told your mother to get professionals in to do the job.’
Martha knew better than to argue. She never won and it only upset her mother. ‘I’ll just leave them in the yard with the others.’ As she piled up the boxes in the dreary cobbled yard, Martha took the chance to rescue Archie. It was odd, why had she called him ‘Archie’? It had a sort of friendly ring to it. Years ago, it must have been in kindergarten, she had befriended an anxious little boy called Archie who always stood on his own in the corner, sucking his thumb.
She opened the door back into the kitchen. Ken was deep in the evening paper. His feet stretched out in front of him, a mug of tea on the table which he seemed to have forgotten about. Martha slipped quietly past her step-father but just as she had her foot on the stairs, she froze.‘What have you got under your arm young lady? You know the auctioneers will sell anything valuable.’
'Oh, it’s only a tatty old teddy,’ I took pity on him. It seemed a shame to put him with the rubbish.’ ‘Teddy bears can be valuable. I saw one of those programmes on the telly the other week. An old bear sold for a couple of hundred.’ Ken took the bear but after a trail of sawdust had fallen from Archie’s arm, he tossed the toy back to Martha.
'Anyhow, what’s a fifteen-year-old girl like you want with a scruffy old bear?’
Martha didn’t reply as she hurried up to her room. Things had become more difficult since Margo had moved in with her boyfriend. At least her older sister had been on her side. Martha sighed as sheopened the bottom drawer of the dressing table and took out her sewing box.
By dinner time, she had found a button to match Archie’s remaining eye and patched up the hole in his arm. There were odd pieces of ribbon lying at the bottom of the box with buttons and reels of cotton. As she went down to dinner, Martha looked back at the bear lying comfortably on her pillow. He was a new toy with his second eye and his shining red satin bow. Dad would have approved of saving Archie. He had never been happier than recycling and restoring things. She looked in Margo’s empty room with its Hollywood style dressing table. Dad had spent months making that.
Next morning before college, Martha went up to the attic, Archie in one hand, her school bag in the other. She just wanted to have a quick look round before the cleaners came up, before it was converted into Ken’s office and workroom. Now it looked bigger with the bare floor and skylight visible. Now, for the first time, Martha noticed a door in the far wall. Odd, where does that lead to? It can’t go to the Browns next door, surely? She dropped her school bag and Archie on the floor, then lifted the latch of the small door. It opened into a dark passageway. As Martha crawled a few yards, she heard the door behind her slam. No choice now but to go on.
Martha could see light ahead. The passage had opened out and she was able to stand up. She had lost all sense of direction crawling in the dark and had no idea what might lie ahead. Whatever Martha might have guessed, she could never have been prepared for the scene that greeted her. At first, she thought she had arrived in an exotic garden. Roses trailed over a golden trellis and white lilies filled large earthenware pots. It was certainly not the Browns’ muddy patch of grass with football posts at one end. Then, she realised this was not a living garden, but rather an elegantly painted one. In fact, she was standing on a stage beneath a dim light. The backdrop and the wings depicted a summer garden. Martha had never before stood on a stage, staring out into an empty auditorium which looked different from any theatre she had ever been in. A gallery stretched right round the theatre supported by gold barley twist poles. Down the middle of the auditorium on either side long tables were already laid for drinks and refreshments. Looking down, she realised her black trousers had been replaced by a long woollen dress, with leg-of-mutton shaped sleeves. Her usually untidy hair was swept up into a neat bun.
Suddenly, Martha heard heavy footsteps at the back of the stage. A tall man with an impressive handle bar moustache and a splendid white tie appeared. He strode towards Martha, holding out his hand, a wide smile on his face.
‘Now you must be Miss Martha Grange our much- needed understudy for Gracie Brewer?’ He shook her hand so powerfully that Martha felt it was in real danger of being broken or dislocated.
'Yes, I am Martha Grange but I‘ve never heard of Gracie Brewer. What type of performer is she?’
Martha was feeling decidedly nervous. This man was clearly under the illusion that she was ready to take Gracie’s place in that night’s performance. Surely, he couldn’t expect her to sing? Martha was the only pupil in her class specifically asked not to sing. Her voice had been so out of tune, it had carried the other children’s voices with it.
‘But everyone has heard of Gracie, the most momentous, magnificent, magical, marvellous dancer ever seen on the London stage.’ As he declaimed the talent of the prima donna who was Miss Gracie Brewer, Martha became ever more nervous.
Her attention was suddenly drawn to the arrival of two brightly dressed performers. The man, tall and thin, wore white tights and a glittering top of gold lame that sparkled in the footlights which had now been switched on. His English was limited. Whenever he spoke his partner would quickly translate. Martha guessed, from his dark hair and expressive eyes, that he was Italian.
'We practise now, a little time,’ the girl explained. Petite and elegant she looked like the fairy on the Christmas tree with her white tutu and gossamer wings. They began to assemble the equipment which suggested they were trapeze artists and tight rope walkers.
Martha was distracted by a voice calling her from the wings, ‘Where is Miss Martha Grange? I’m looking for Gracie’s replacement.’
Martha raised her hand. The slight, elderly woman in a while apron beckoned her to come. Martha followed the woman through a maze of narrow passages backstage which twisted and turned like a rabbit warren.
‘From the audience, you would never guess there were so many rooms and passages at Wilton’s.’
The woman stopped a moment for Martha to catch up.
'Wilton’s? Where’s that?’ Martha’s breathless voice echoed in the old corridor. ‘Only, the most famous Music Hall in London’s East End. It’s on Cable Street, Shadwell. Is this your first visit to the East End?’ ‘Eh, yes I guess so.’ Martha barely had time to recover her breath before they were off again.
At last, they stopped in front of a door labelled ‘Room 25’ in faded white letters. The woman knocked loudly. The door opened to reveal a handsome young man in white tights and an elegant brocade waistcoat, over a shirt with full, white sleeves and an open neck.
‘Mademoiselle, you must be the new Gracie Brewer. Delighted to meet you.’ He stretched out an elegant hand, with a delicate lace cuff, towards Martha, as he bowed before her.’ I am Leon De Saint- Pierre.’ ‘Hello Leon, I’m Martha Granger. She quickly added, ‘I’m afraid there’s been a mistake.’ Too late! The door had already shut. The sound of footsteps faded away.
‘What do I have to do?’
'We are dancing the par de deux from the ‘Nutcracker’ ballet. You of course are the Sugar Plum Fairy, I am your Prince. He bowed elegantly.’
Martha was speechless. Ever since she had started ballet classes at the age of three, she had dreamed of dancing that classic role. Dad had made her a glittering wand and tinsel wings. He had played a recording of Tchaikovsky’s iconic music. Martha could feel the tears welling up. Leon must have noticed the emotion in her voice as she explained, ’I have been dancing since I was three. I always dreamt of dancing the Sugar Plum role. Things have been hard since …’ her voice broke. ‘Since Dad died, money’s been tight. I couldn’t afford regular lessons.’ Martha pictured her mother’s pale face explaining, ‘Ken thinks dancing lessons are an extravagance we can’t afford. You see it’s not my money now,’ she had added sadly.
Leon turned to a strange old- fashioned gramophone which Martha remembered seeing in Hollywood costume dramas. The room was magically filled with the beautiful music of the duet they were to dance. The soft descending notes of the cellos and the exquisite bell-like tones of the celesta conveyed all the magic and delight of Christmas. Leon insisted on playing the music three or four times before carefully going through the choreography with Martha.
'Next we will collect your costume and most important, your shoes.’
Later that night Martha stood in the wings. She had caught a glimpse of herself in the dressing room mirror. The tutu a delicate shade of peach, the bodice satin, embroidered with hundreds of sparkling ‘diamonds’, her dark brown hair, topped by a beautiful tiara – the perfect Sugar Plume Fairy of her childhood fantasies. The theatre was packed, many in the gallery leant over the balcony to secure a better view. Martha was entranced by the colourful dress of the audience. Bonnets with exotic, feather boas, silk top hats. Working men in cloth caps, the women in long cotton dresses and bright Paisely shawls.
She stood watching a succession of amazing acts, tightrope and trapeze artists, comics, strong men, culminating in the famous Marie Lloyd who brought the house down with a saucy rendering of ‘A Little of What you Fancy’.
Her heart had almost stopped, when the Chairman announced, in ringing tones, ’The stupendous, scintillating, scrumptious, duo of Monsieur Leon De Saint-Pierre and Mademoiselle Martha Granger, straight from Paris!’
The orchestra played the opening bars, the exquisite soft sound of the cascading cellos, the magic of the tinkling celesta. Martha forgot the expectant audience, the colourful performers, the mysterious passageway, even the nightmare of Ken. She was lost in the passion of the music, the excitement of the dance as she floated above the wooden boards, caught in the moment. She seemed lifted out of time and place. She was dancing with all those wonderful ballerinas who since that first performance in St Petersburg in 1892 had, for a few precious minutes, become the Sugar Plum Fairy herself.
Martha stood looking at a door in the side of the attic. She tried the latch but the door seemed securely locked. She picked up her schoolbag and Archie, just as she heard her mother’s voice from the kitchen. ‘Hurry up Martha, you’re going to be late.’
'Martha Granger, what’s your answer to number six?’ Martha stared blankly at Mr Blake and the maths homework on the board. ‘I didn’t get so far as number 6, Sir.’ ‘I’m not surprised. You seem to be away with the fairies.’
Martha tried hard to suppress a smile. For some reason or other ever since she’d come to college that morning, she’d had the dance of the Sugar Plum Fairy on her mind. Even in the maths class she had been twirling and spinning over the desks, out through the window and over the poplar trees by the tennis courts, instead of concentrating on the answer to number 6, or indeed numbers 5 or 7 for that matter. She knew that she had to go back to her ballet classes, somehow or other. Her friends all had weekend jobs at coffee bars, hotels or the local swimming pool. She should be able to manage if she organised her time and her money.
On the way home, Martha noticed a beautiful bunch of very pale peach roses in the small florist’s, wedged between the baker’s and the dry cleaners. The delicate perfume surrounded her as she walked into the local cemetery. The huge iron gates were open and hundreds of monuments stretched before her: crosses, angels, cherubs, Bibles stood guard over some of the Victorian graves. Martha walked down the neatly trimmed grass paths reading the inscriptions. She stopped by a tomb stone dedicated to a ‘Gracie Brewer’ born 1869, died 1912. It looked neglected and lonely. Martha removed the dead leaves and laid one of the peach roses across the green turf. As she looked back, a ray of Autumn sun transformed the peach petals to gold.
At the far end of the cemetery were the more recent tombs. She stood in front of her father’s grave, simple, plain. Martha picked up a bunch of fading lilies and replaced them with the roses. She stood by the nearby tap, filling the ugly, regulation vase. Dad always liked roses. He would want her to go on dancing. He always said, ‘You’re not dancing alone, you belong to the music and all the dancers who have loved that music, dance with you.’
Bio:
Sarah Das Gupta is an ex- teacher, aged 83, who worked in UK,
India, Africa. She is learning to walk again, after an accident. Her work has
been published in over 20 different countries. She is a nominee for Best of the
Net and Dwarf star.
