Carol’s Column

The knock-kneed protege

THE chair is hard, it's digging into my back and I don't like the woman on my right. She has a hatchet face and keeps digging me with her left elbow.

I think she's wearing reinforced steel elbows.

The hall is icy and my feet are frozen. I can't even knit because I broke a needle while unblocking the sink this afternoon.

I yawn and freeze as I catch the ballet mistress glaring at my upper dentures. I try to smile but my teeth have jammed and I can't move my jaw.

From behind my scarf, I remove the teeth discreetly. At this moment, Jean's mother wafts down the aisle. She smiles and waves.

I smile and wave and only remember to replace the teeth when I see her look of horror.

There are several fathers scattered among the proud parents — a healthy sign.

I sigh to myself. I mean what could be worse than watching a kid's concert on a Monday afternoon?

Amy's mummy is filing her nails — it really doesn't look nice.

I've been sitting in this chair for half an hour and I think paralysis is setting in.

Someone hiccups. No it's the tape recorder. False start, wrong place.

Never mind, the teacher claps her hands and we all stop breathing except for hatchet-face on my right who is wheezing in time to the music.

There's a rustle from the wings and 24 tiny woolly pink legs trip across the stage as the ballerinas begin their dance.

Good heavens, how graceful that third one from the left is — like a feather she floats.

She's exquisite. Very talented, obviously a Margot Fonteyn in the making.

And creative too. Look how she waves her hands while the others bend theirs.

An individualist. Note how she looks to the right as the rest of the dancers glare in the opposite direction.

She performs a masterful pirouette and the fall at the end adds to the fluid movement.

Whispers

Hatchet-face nudges me in the ribs.

"Which is yours?" she whispers loudly, the "sss" of yours hissing like a mamba about to attack.

"The third from the left," I whisper back proudly.

She nods. "The one with the knock-knees?"

"Yes — it runs in the family."

She points to a rather plump little brunette.

"That's mine, she's extremely talented — takes her dancing very seriously — we're thinking of enrolling her at Italia Conti in London."

I nod sagely. I've never heard of Italia Conti — it sounds like a spaghetti factory to me.

"Sssh." The father behind is irritated. "I can't hear my daughter dance," he says.

My little Fonteyn suddenly catches my eye and waves vigorously, thereby hitting Samantha Gilliwell on the nose.

Samantha Gilliwell starts crying.

The concert continues. The repertoire is varied and endless. We're still sitting there an hour later.

One thing puzzles me.

I wonder why it is that the ballet mistress hasn't picked up the fact that my dear little Nicky is the only child dancing in time to the music.

At the end of the concert the applause is deafening.

All around parents are smiling proudly.

"Such talent, such talent," murmurs Hatchet-face as she stuffs her knitting in her bag.

As I walk out of the hall, I overhear a father saying to his wife.

"Of course they're all pretty good — but did you notice how our little Vanessa was the only one dancing in time to the music."

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