Hester's Story Read Online Free Page B

scarlet poppies, was draped over the other armchair.
    The walls, papered in pale apricot, were crowded with framed photographs. There was the picture of her mother she had brought with her from France as a child, a few of Madame Olga, her first teacher, and better than a mother to her; several of her grandmother, darling Grand-mère , and many from productions in which she’d appeared. These were mostly of other dancers – her partners, her friends, and members of the corps de ballet . There was one exception. She’d hung the famous Cecil Wilding photograph of herself, the one known as A Backward Glance right next to the mirror. Every time she checked to see if her hair was tidy; every time she looked in the mirror to apply her lipstick before going out into the world, she compared how she was now (dark hair cut short in a near shoulder-length bob and highlighted with streaks of red, still excellent skin but, oh God, look at the tiny wrinkles appearing near her eyes!) with the person in the portrait: herself as Aurora in Sleeping Beauty . It was taken when she was seventeen. Her head was turned to one side, her hair (very long, in those days) was twisted into a knot at the nape of her neck and threaded with pink and white roses. Her hands were crossed gracefully just below her waist and rested on the stiffened skirts of her pale pink tutu. It was, Hester knew, every little girl’s dream of what a ballerina should look like, which was one of the reasons she loved it. She enjoyed the illusion that it represented.
    She’d often thought it would be fun to put up another photo of herself right beside it, showing her sweating after a particularly hard class; hair scraped back and in need of a wash; darned tights; aching calves; torn and bloody feet after hours en pointe . But nobody wanted to see that. It was the truth, but who was interested in that when magic was so much prettier? Who wanted to admit that all the effortless grace, the leaping and the flying and the turning were the result of hours and hours of back-breaking work? No one. Everyone liked the illusion. Each time she passed the mirror on leaving the room, she still had the distinct feeling that she was making an entrance, leaving the space that was hers and entering a public stage. Seeing her portrait on the way out to take part in the life outside the Office reminded her of how much she’d loved performing and it gave her courage. She had, she reflected, needed to be brave all through her life, from the very earliest age.

1939
    Estelle knew, even when she was a very little girl, that there was something about her which upset her father. Henri was his name – Henri Prévert. He left the house each day dressed in a dark suit. He worked in a bank and Grand-mère said his work was very important. He was extremely tall and thin, and when he came into a room he filled it and it was difficult to look at anyone else. And to his little daughter he appeared enormous and she was frightened by his appearance. He reminded her of a scarecrow she’d once seen in a field, who’d worn a hat like Papa and also stood like him motionless, unbending.
    He loved Maman. Grand-mère told Estelle that he did, and she believed her. Henri was her only child, but she had as much affection for her daughter-in-law as if she’d been her own flesh and blood.
    ‘The love between your parents,’ she told Estelle, ‘was a mad love. Un amour fou.’
    Grand-mère looked after everything in the house, so that Henri’s beloved wife might have nothing to do but be with him. Estelle’s mother was English, and she had no relations except for her second cousin, Rhoda, who lived in Yorkshire. Her mother spoke to Estelle in English from the day she was born, and she found nothing strange about speaking in two languages. One of Estelle’s favourite stories was the one about how Papa met Maman. Grand-mère used to tell it to herquite often and it was better than any fairytale, because it was