‘I’d have to teach in the afternoons just after school. Maybe the school truck could drop them off and then the mothers could come and get them later.’ Isabel worked out details in her head. ‘Do you think they’d be too tired then? And what about music? The gramophone’s hopeless and the records are nearly all scratched.’
‘We’ll get a piano in. I’m sure we could get someone to play’
‘What about you, would you like to play? Didn’t you learn the piano when you were a kid?’ Isabel asked, sure that Zelda would have no trouble with this; she seemed to have every other accomplishment.
‘Darling, they tried real hard, but I’ve got a tin ear. I preferred to be outside riding horses. And of course Pa encouraged me; he wanted a boy. I should have been born in the Wild West!’
Isabel was only slightly disappointed, suspecting that Zelda might not be sufficiently reliable. ‘I understand. I’ll just have to find a pianist. But then I’ll have to pay them.’
‘You’d include that in the fees – people won’t expect it to be cheap. A few dollars a session I would think.’
‘Do you suppose ten bob a time would be too much? Otherwise it’s hardly worthwhile. No, it would be too expensive for most families.’
‘Don’t be so negative,’ said Zelda ‘You know it’s a great idea.’
‘But I’ll have to ask Bill. He can be a bit of a stick-in-the-mud, you know.’
‘Yes, but you know you can charm him round.’
They worked on the plan while they drank tea and ate some of Irma’s delectable seed cake.
As it proved, Bill had little objection to the plan.
‘We’d better see if Dennis minds, but I can’t see why. He’s out most of the time and now Emma’s going home to Cheltenham, you won’t disturb her. A few little girls running around can’t do much harm and it’ll be good for you to have something useful to do. Keep you out of mischief.’
Isabel thought this was a bit patronising, but said nothing, at least he had agreed. He was right anyway; she longed for a useful occupation. Bill even said he would find a piano for her.
‘I’m sure there will be someone with one to sell. A few cigarettes and cocoa will see to it. That’s if all the pianos in Berlin haven’t been bombed to bits. Then I’ll ask my people if they know anyone who can play.’
A ten-ton truck delivered a good quality upright piano within a few days and four hefty Privates heaved it into position in the hall close to the stove and positioned it according to Isabel’s instructions.
‘Oh, that’s wonderful,’ she thanked the soldiers. ‘Can I get you anything before you go?’
They shuffled their boots, embarrassed, and mumbled gratitude as they accepted a mug of Irma’s luscious cocoa.
‘It’s getting right parky out there, Mrs Barton,’ one of them said. ‘We have to scrape ice off the vehicles in the morning already.’
‘Yes, we’re in for a hard winter, I’m told.’
After their departure Isabel sat down and tried to play the piano, running inept fingers up and down the keys. Her sister Grace had learned to play properly - Isabel’s skill was limited to little more than Chopsticks and a clumsy rendition of ‘Little Brown Jug’, that Glenn Miller standard.
When Penny was delivered home from school they sat together and Isabel taught her what little she knew. They strummed for a while, laughing at the discordant sounds.
‘No, Mummy, it doesn’t go like that.’
‘You show me then.’
‘I don’t know how. How do you make a tune out of just these notes?’
In the bowels of the piano they discovered some sheet music, curling at the edges, the squiggles dense on the pages. The pieces looked far too difficult for Isabel. Anyway, she couldn’t read music.
Irma joined in with singing any recognisable songs they managed to produce. ‘I have never learned how to play piano. My cousin Willi played, he was quite good,’ she added sadly. Willi had died in the siege of Stalingrad, aged nineteen.
‘Do you know anyone who can play, Irma? Well enough for my dance lessons?’
‘I will ask, Mrs Barton, Mutti may know someone.’ Irma’s mother still lived in squalid seclusion in those rooms remaining of her bombed block of flats. The front of the building had been ripped away, but the rooms at the back were still deemed to be habitable. Most of Irma’s wages went to help her survive. Irma was surpassingly grateful for having somewhere warm to stay. It was safe in the Barton’s apartment, after the perilous streets of Berlin, awash with marauding Russian soldiers, before the British came. Irma’s food was included so she was spared the freezing, starving fate of many people she knew.
In the end Bill found their pianist.
‘She was a Nazi Party member,’ said Bill and Isabel flinched ‘No, it’s all right. They forced teachers to join and any one in an official capacity had to sign up to keep their job. I don’t think she’s a proper Nazi. You’ll like her. She’s had a hard time, lost her husband and son, this will help her immensely.’
‘Does she speak English?’
‘Very well. I told you, she used to be a teacher and she didn’t just teach music. Shall I send her along?’
‘Yes, of course I’ll meet her. We’ll have to get along; it takes a lot of patience. She may get bored with having to stop and start all the time.’
‘I’m sure she’ll put up with a bit of boredom for money and any other things you can send her way.’
Frau Hilfe was a surprise. Her rounded frame and blooming complexion, even after years of starvation rations, caused her to look more like a farmer’s wife. She appeared stouter because she seemed to be wearing all the clothes she possessed at once, layer after layer on top of one another. Her deferential and wary manner was normal. Not all of the conquering occupiers were kind to the defeated Germans, seeing their role as one of vengeful masters. But she could not suppress her naturally cheerful nature and Isabel was glad she was not as depressed and helpless as many German women.
‘Just for two hours a week?’ she asked in her excellent English.
‘Yes, certainly at first,’ replied Isabel ‘I don’t know how the classes will go yet. I may do more later. Is that not enough for you?’
‘It will be fine. Something is better than nothing, Frau Barton. I shall be happy to be able to play again,’ she glanced at the piano, longing in her eyes. ‘May I try the instrument?’
‘Of course. But I don’t think it’s in tune.’
Frau Hilfe sat and opened the lid. She ran her hands up and down the keys and played a few scales. It sounded amazing to Isabel, like a virtuoso performance.
‘It’s not too bad, but you should get it tuned, ja. May I arrange it? I know a man who would be happy to do it, maybe for a little cocoa, or tea?’
‘Certainly, please ask him to come round.’ Isabel was concerned that cocoa or tea might seem insufficient for this important job, but Irma reassured her; the value of these commodities was greater than money in these times.
The piano tuner, a stooped old man, greeted Isabel tentatively. His gaze passed over her shoulder. Shrapnel had almost blinded him in the latter days of the war, Isabel discovered. Before the war he played piano in a symphony orchestra of international renown. His coat looked as if it had been fashioned from a thick blanket and his feet poked through the toes of his demolished shoes. Frau Hilfe led him to the piano. Firstly he ran his hands over the instrument.
‘Ah, a good sound case,’ he pronounced and probed the insides, ‘and an iron frame, das ist gut.’
Isabel watched as he minutely adjusted the strings and hammers, playing the notes randomly; tapping his tuning fork on the tiles of the stove and matching the plangent notes. He cured the few sticking keys and when he had finished, he played some majestic chords.
‘Splendid, meine Frau, you have a fine instrument here!’
‘Thank you so much. As long as Frau Hilfe can play for the children, it’ll be wonderful.’ She felt a wave of compassion for the man.
How was he going to survive with only this skill to offer?
‘Good luck with your ballet lessons. I hope the children enjoy themselves. We need some joy in these sad times.’
Isabel watched as Frau Hilfe guided him away, carrying his precious payment of Twinings tea clasped to his chest as if it contained the riches of the Orient.
With Zelda’s energetic networking, word quickly got around that Isabel was to give ballet lessons to any little girls that were interested. Isabel had more enquiries than expected. One mother telephoned; a worried note in her voice.
‘Is it just for girls, Mrs Barton? I have a boy, Andrew, he’s just six and he’d love to learn to dance. Could he come?’
‘Of course. I’d love to have a boy. I just thought that only girls would want to.’
‘Oh no. He’s always liked the idea since we took him to see the Nutcracker Suite in London. I think he sees himself as a dashing prince.’
‘Well, do bring him. Classes start next Wednesday, after school – as near to four as you can make it. We’re going to arrange for the school truck to drop them when we’re more organised.’
Isabel explained to the mothers about clothes.
‘Normally the children would wear a ballet tunic, but if you haven’t got the clothes coupons or can’t get anyone to make one for you, vest and pants will do fine. If you can’t get any soft ballet shoes they can dance in socks, but they may be slippery on the wooden floor. And there may be splinters, but I’ll try to get rid of them all first.’
The dressmaker made Penny a ballet tunic from a pink silk slip. It looked so sweet on her, sleeveless and with a slit at each side nearly up to the waist, just covering her bottom. Penny already had the pair of soft ballet pumps they had brought from England.
On the day of the first class, six little girls and Andrew turned up; with Penny that made eight. One of the mothers had misinterpreted the idea of a ballet tunic and sent her child along in a full-blown ballet tutu, a froth of stiffened white tulle – completely over the top for a beginner, but she did look pretty in it, like a blond fairy.
‘We don’t want to get it spoilt, Mary. We’re going to be rolling around on the floor and getting messy. Better leave it at home next week. I’ll speak to Mummy about it.’ Isabel smiled at Mary’s troubled little face. ‘It’ll be all right, really.’
Frau Hilfe sat ramrod-straight at the piano, waiting to begin. I’ll have to tell her to relax a bit, thought Isabel.
Isabel explained the first principles of ballet to the children. She taught them how to point their toes and turn out their feet and legs; she showed them the five positions of the feet and arms.
‘You won’t remember everything at once. Don’t worry, there’s lots of time. We’ll go over it again. Now, Mrs Hilfe will play us a little tune and I want you all to dance around the room. Do anything you like. Just listen to the music and let it take you anywhere you feel you want to go. Try not to bump into each other.’
Frau Hilfe struck up a lively light polka and the children skipped around the hall in an undisciplined flurry. They still managed to bump into each other even in that huge space. Their swirling arms beat the air like birds learning to fly.
‘Remember to point your toes and try not to be quite as heavy on your feet – light as a feather. See if you can land without making a sound.’ Isabel had to raise her voice above the sound of the children’s giggles and squeals.
Bill came in early from work before the class had ended.
‘Goodness!’ he exclaimed. ‘A herd of fairy elephants!’
Frau Hilfe stood to attention beside the piano. ‘Good afternoon, Major Barton.’
‘Guten Tag, Frau Hilfe,’ acknowledged Bill. ‘At ease, please.’
‘OK. It’s time to stop now, children.’ Isabel brought the class to order. ‘Give me a little curtsey before you go. Andrew, you bow. That’s lovely. Now go and get your shoes and coats. If you sit down quietly your mothers will be here soon to take you home.’
The dancing classes proved very popular and after a couple of weeks Isabel had two extra pupils. She was amazed at how quickly they learned and how in no time a spirit of competition sprang up amongst them. Isabel lavished her praise and the encouragement she gave made them blaze with pride at their successes.
‘Andrew loves it,’ said his mother ‘and he doesn’t get teased by the other boys as I feared. I think they envy him when they’re playing football out in the cold.’
Isabel planned a concert for the parents around Christmas, if she could get the children to remember a few simple dances. Then she would invite all the parents and their friends.
‘How I love playing for the children,’ Frau Hilfe told Isabel. ‘Chopin. I’ve always loved Chopin. The little ones look so adorable; so concentrated as they work.’
Isabel persuaded Frau Hilfe to relax and now she was playing for them with a lyrical fluency that would inspire anyone to dance beautifully.
Bill was enthusiastic about the classes at first. But after a few weeks he said that he felt they were taking up too much of Isabel’s time.
‘But it’s only two afternoons a week, Bill. And it’s bringing in a little extra money,’ said Isabel.
‘What are you doing with the money? I would have thought we had enough to get by. There’s not much to spend it on around here.’
‘I’m saving a bit and I needed to get some new clothes. I’m expected to look smart at the Colonel’s wife’s coffee klatches, you know.’ Inside, indignation began to simmer. ‘The things I brought from England were hardly suitable. It’s all horribly competitive. You want me to look right, don’t you?’ She regretted this question as soon as she asked it. It sounded like pathetic wheedling.
Bill ignored her. ‘I blame Zelda for this. She’s a bad influence. You didn’t think about clothes all the time when we were in England.’
‘No, I thought about food and where the next meal was coming from and whether we might be killed in the next air raid. It’s different now; I’m trying to be a good Army wife.’
‘Hmm,’ Bill grunted. ‘Are you saying I didn’t give you enough to live on back then?’
‘Oh, Bill. It wasn’t your fault. The War was on, you couldn’t be thinking about us. There just wasn’t much food and we were forced to scrimp and save and make do. It wasn’t just a matter of cash. I can’t blame you for that. Penny had never eaten ice cream until we bought her some that day last year. Don’t you remember? We all laughed because she complained it was too cold.’
‘Yes, I remember,’ Bill seemed slightly mollified. ‘I suppose everyone was in the same boat.’
‘Of course, I was luckier than some; at least I had Mum and Grace and Doris. We helped each other out.’
‘But you didn’t have to work then and now you do.’
‘I don’t think of it as work. I’m not doing it because I have to, but because I want to. I love teaching the children. It’s very satisfying. It’s reminding me of how much I loved dancing myself; how much I miss it.’
‘Do you? Would you really like to be back in that tacky theatre, dancing your feet off every night for a bunch of ogling men?’
Isabel could see Bill was working himself up into a fury.
‘Oh, I don’t mean the music hall, though that could be fun, but the ballet, that was lovely. I know I wasn’t good enough to pursue it as a career.’
‘All the same, I’m glad you don’t have to earn your living that way now. My mother thought …’
Oh no, thought Isabel, I have a good idea what his mother thought. Mrs Barton had considered her a thoroughly common piece and referred to her as ‘that Cockney gal’, which Isabel found particularly irksome as she had spent a lot on elocution lessons.
‘I really don’t want to know what your mother thought, Bill. I know she doesn’t like me. As Penny is her only grandchild I suppose she will have to put up with me.’
‘Yes, I suppose she will.’ Bill frowned. He hated the disputes between Isabel and his mother.
‘I wish you’d make more of an effort with her. You could write to her occasionally and tell her how you’re getting on.’
Isabel sighed, ‘I’m sure she couldn’t possibly be interested.’
Isabel remembered visiting her mother-in-law and how she had dreaded it and how the reality had more than lived up to the expectation. Mrs Barton could barely bring herself to be civil to her. Like many wealthy widows of her generation the senior Mrs Barton had gone to live in a hotel in South Kensington. Living on private incomes they constructed the illusion of stately home living on a reduced budget that could no longer stretch to servants or large establishments of their own.
‘I think you neglect her,’ said Bill.
‘She’s your mother, not mine. I went to see her while you were away. She was horrible to me. Kept telling me I’m bringing Penny up all wrong and she had no manners. Poor Penny is terrified of her, you know how shy she can be. It made her clumsy and she forgot to say the right things. Your mother picked her up on everything.’
‘She thinks you’re vain and spoilt. And you know, sometimes I think so too.’
Isabel was aghast, struck dumb with impotent rage. This was so unjust.
Abruptly Bill turned to leave, ‘I’ve got to go back to work; there’s a rumpus on. I may be late.’ He strode across the hallway to the front door, pulling on his greatcoat and cap. He slammed the door behind him, causing the hardboard panel protecting them from the elements to rattle. Isabel remained, silent and furious, by the stove. She found that she was holding her breath and as she let it out she was shaking.
Isabel went to check on Penny, already asleep. Isabel hoped she had not heard the arguing. She kissed the child gently on the cheek. ‘Bloody Bartons,’ she whispered.
She knew that tomorrow he would apologise and say, in soft, loving tones, ‘I do love you, you know’.
But could she believe him? He was a sentimental man with a soft inner core that she had recognised before she married him. Since they were together again she had sensed a distance between them. He never followed up his loving words with a tender touch or a secret glance to show her that she was still the most important person in his world and he was still on her side, always. She sometimes felt that if things did not change her soul would dry up and blow away, like a piece of fragile paper.
War's Last Dance Page 13
