Agent Bristow-Vaughn
Cadet
FISH FEET
Chapter 1
The door was closed, but unlocked as usual. For the thousandth time he saw his reflection in the polished brass plate which read "Norma Fitzgerald, teacher of classical ballet". For the thousandth time he pushed the door handle, heard the groan of the elderly hinges, and stepped into the hallway.
But then things stopped being normal. The studio was silent. The tall, old-fashioned windows in Miss Fitzgerald's house allowed plenty of four o'clock September light in to the room, but it fell on dusty floorboards and a covered piano. The whole ground floor, he discovered when he started pushing other doors, was empty too. Nether Miss Fitzgerald nor Mr. Pope the accompanist, nor any of the other students, had turned up for his usual Monday lesson.
Bizarre. Where were they? And why was the front door open?
He stood in the middle of the studio in his jogging pants and singlet, his bag on his bare shoulder. The strap chafed his sunburn. Half his mind thought about Greece, and the flight back last night, and falling asleep in the back of the car on the motorway, and his step dad cursing at him when he didn't offer to help him with the bags. The other half wondered, a little desperately, whether Miss Fitzgerald had told him before he went on holiday that his lesson had been changed, and he'd had two weeks to forget her instructions.
The phone rang, very loudly and suddenly in the silence. He swore under his breath. The phone went on ringing. Six, seven, eight rings. He breathed deeply a couple of times, and looked out the window, and then he put his back down, went to the hall and lifted the receiver.
"Diana?" said a woman's voice.
"Er... Who's Diana?"
The caller paused. He waited, feeling uncomfortable.
"Who is this, please?" asked the voice.
"Um... my name is Michael Vaughn. I'm one of Miss Fitzgerald's students. I came for my lesson but there's no one here."
He stopped, aware that perhaps he shouldn't be telling a stranger that Miss Fitzgerald's house was empty. His parents were always warning him not to let callers know that he has home alone.
"How did you get in?" the woman asked suspiciously. "Have you got a key? Because if you have, you have to give it back."
"I haven't. The door was open like it always is."
"Oh god, that fool Diana." There was a pause as the woman thought.
"Who's Diana?" ventured Michael.
"Look." She'd made up her mind. "You sound sensible. How old are you?"
"Sixteen. Well, nearly."
"Do you think you could do a small favor for me? Mitchell was it?"
"Michael." He stopped himself himself from adding, "spelt a-e-l". It didn't seem worth explaining that he was named after a famous French ballet dancer that died the year he was bourn.
"Would you stay there until Diana arrives? I don't want the house left empty with the front door open."
"Who's Di –"
"My mother's in hospital, you see," said the woman quickly. "Diana – that's my sister – is supposed to be looking after the house, and notifying all the students. She obviously forgot to call you. She's hopeless!"
Michael didn't speak for a minuet. He was trying to take in that Miss Fitzgerald was in hospital. How could she be, when she was always, always here on Monday afternoons, with her wobbly bun and smeared lipstick and wrinkled boneless arms? He glanced at the clock. Twelve minuets past four. Right now, at this very moment, she should be nagging the girls to hurry up ant tie their shoes while he was doing his warming up exercises. She shouldn't be lying in some nameless hospital, ill.
"Your sister probably did try to get hold of me, but we weren't there," he explained, glad to stick up for the hapless Diana. "We just got back from holiday last night. What's wrong with Miss Fitzgerald?"
"Oh, my dear boy – we've had such a to-do!" her voice rose to a squeak. "She fell down the stairs last Saturday evening and lay there with a broken hip until the postman called the next morning. She couldn't get to the phone, though it was only a couple of feet away."
Michael looked at the spot on the hall floor were Miss Fitzgerald had lain all those hours.
"When will she be back?" seemed the most practical thing to ask.
"Well... look, are you very keen on ballet dancing?"
Funny question. "Quite keen."
"Better look for another teacher, then"
"But –"
"Be a good boy and wait for Diana to get there, won't you? It'll only be about twenty minuets. Thank you very much, and good luck, Michael."
Michael went back into the studio and picked up his bag. His legs felt strange. He was relieved that he wasn't going to have to dance after all. Two weeks without even a pointed toe was one thing, but the news of Miss Fitzgerald would be giving up teaching was a blow not just to his already stiff muscles but to his entire future. It was enough to make anyone's legs feel strange.
Bizarre, he thought again.
It was boiling and stuffy in the studio, because no one had drawn the blinds or opened the windows for days. Michael sat down on the window-seat and took out the much-handled, folded-back copy of The Dancing Times which lived at the bottom of his bag.
He looked at the page. He'd read it so often he could conjure it in his imagination. In math lessons, usually. But there it was for real. Those four words at the top of the page. The Royal Ballet School. He stared at the words for so long they started to jump around. Then, lower down another word, Auditions.
How could those five little words contain something so desirable yet so scary that it gave him a pain in his head to think about it? How could they fill up his world, like football filled up his friend Erick's, and computers filled up his friend
Marshal's, and being in a rock band totally taken over Marshal's brother Eddie's? Sport and computer games and electric guitars were sensible obsessions for boys, approved of by parents and teachers and other boys.
Unlike ballet dancing.
Preliminary audition, the age announced importantly, at the end of February, with the final audition a month after that. The end of February was less than six months away. Less than six months in which to convince dad that being a dancer was a good job for a man. A job that carried status and attracted admiration. Perhaps it wasn't quite as financially rewarding as becoming a businessman or a lawyer. But being in business or the law would be like serving a life sentence.
Less than six months, god that was too soon. The Royal Ballet School was the hardest ballet school to get into in the country. Boys would come from all over the world to take part in the audition. Boys who had been to ballet class everyday since they could walk. Boys who were the sons of professional dancers (well, he had some claim on that himself, mum having been what she called a "hoofer" before he was born). And boys who had been at full-time ballet school since they were eleven and had been trained by ex-soloists from internationally famous companies.
It was the only way, though. It was the only school he wanted to go to. Miss Fitzgerald might not be an ex-soloist from an internationally famous company, but she knew what she as talking about. She always said that if you were good enough you'd make it, and if you weren't you shouldn't anyway.
He put the magazine down and looked out at Miss Fitzgerald's unmown lawn and unweeded path. He thought about a lot of other things she said.
All's fair in love, war and ballet.
Every successful dancer tramples on the dreams of thousands of failed ones. It is a ruthless profession. Talent will out. That was one of her best ones.
He tried to hear her voice in his head. A funny voice, with a crack in it from fifty years of smoking. Then he wondered if he would ever hear it again, and he felt suddenly terrible, like he had felt when he missed lunch to play football and had no money for the vending machine.
Come on, come on, he urged Miss Fitzgerald's invisible daughter. Getting up he wandered restlessly around the room. But it was so hot that sweat broke out on his scalp, so he leaned on the barre and looked at himself in the mirror.
The Greek sun had reddened his skin and bleached his dyed blonds streaks whiter. His hair was too long and the darker roots were showing. He needed to go and get it done again. But dad said that if he wanted to look like Marilyn Monroe, he could pay for the privilege himself, and Michael had spent all of his money in Greece.
He examined one of the things he had bought. A silver earring in the form of a leaping fish. Quite small, but noticeable enough to incense dad even more than Marilyn Monroe hair. For ballet class, of course, he would remove it. But since ballet class wasn't going to happen, it stayed in his ear lobe, flashing in the sunlight like a real flying fish.
"Hello-ooh! Anyone there?"
Michael had been so interested in looking at himself that he missed Diana's arrival. Now she was here, though, he could escape. He whirled The Dancing Times into his bag like a Frisbee and made for the door.
Diana was a light-haired woman of about fifty, who explained that she'd forgotten to lock the door and her sister had told her off for being so silly, and they were both so-o relieved he was there, and she could give him a lift anywhere, and she didn't know her mother took boy pupils.
This last bit made Michael stop on the doorstep. "I'm the only one," he said.
"Really?" Diana was astonished. Her eyes were like Miss Fitzgerald's. Small, pale, lively.
"Don't you mind being with all those girls?"
Michael didn't mind. It was part of every male ballet student's life, to do class with girls, and be taught by woman. "Is Miss Fitzgerald all right?" he asked.
“Well... actually, she looks worse every time I see her. She had to have an operation on her hip, you see, and I don't think she's recovering very well." She looked at him worriedly. "If she goes it will be an awful headache for us, what with this big house to see to and everything. She should have retired years ago, of course, but there's no convincing these ballet dancers." She checked her bag for her keys and shut the door. "They're quite mad, all of them, you know," she told him solemnly. "I think they have to be, in order to stay sane."
Michael managed not to smile until he was around the corner. He hurried on a few steps, giggling. Then the giggles, or something else, blurred his view of the pavement, and he had to walk more slowly.
To Be Continued
A.N.
Hi, I just wanted to let you all know that this is based on thebook Fish Feet, PLZ reveiw I would love to see what you think, and because it was one of the first fics I have done I am asking you to go easy on me, thanks!
oh and if you like it i will continue before the night is out!!!
Chapter 1
The door was closed, but unlocked as usual. For the thousandth time he saw his reflection in the polished brass plate which read "Norma Fitzgerald, teacher of classical ballet". For the thousandth time he pushed the door handle, heard the groan of the elderly hinges, and stepped into the hallway.
But then things stopped being normal. The studio was silent. The tall, old-fashioned windows in Miss Fitzgerald's house allowed plenty of four o'clock September light in to the room, but it fell on dusty floorboards and a covered piano. The whole ground floor, he discovered when he started pushing other doors, was empty too. Nether Miss Fitzgerald nor Mr. Pope the accompanist, nor any of the other students, had turned up for his usual Monday lesson.
Bizarre. Where were they? And why was the front door open?
He stood in the middle of the studio in his jogging pants and singlet, his bag on his bare shoulder. The strap chafed his sunburn. Half his mind thought about Greece, and the flight back last night, and falling asleep in the back of the car on the motorway, and his step dad cursing at him when he didn't offer to help him with the bags. The other half wondered, a little desperately, whether Miss Fitzgerald had told him before he went on holiday that his lesson had been changed, and he'd had two weeks to forget her instructions.
The phone rang, very loudly and suddenly in the silence. He swore under his breath. The phone went on ringing. Six, seven, eight rings. He breathed deeply a couple of times, and looked out the window, and then he put his back down, went to the hall and lifted the receiver.
"Diana?" said a woman's voice.
"Er... Who's Diana?"
The caller paused. He waited, feeling uncomfortable.
"Who is this, please?" asked the voice.
"Um... my name is Michael Vaughn. I'm one of Miss Fitzgerald's students. I came for my lesson but there's no one here."
He stopped, aware that perhaps he shouldn't be telling a stranger that Miss Fitzgerald's house was empty. His parents were always warning him not to let callers know that he has home alone.
"How did you get in?" the woman asked suspiciously. "Have you got a key? Because if you have, you have to give it back."
"I haven't. The door was open like it always is."
"Oh god, that fool Diana." There was a pause as the woman thought.
"Who's Diana?" ventured Michael.
"Look." She'd made up her mind. "You sound sensible. How old are you?"
"Sixteen. Well, nearly."
"Do you think you could do a small favor for me? Mitchell was it?"
"Michael." He stopped himself himself from adding, "spelt a-e-l". It didn't seem worth explaining that he was named after a famous French ballet dancer that died the year he was bourn.
"Would you stay there until Diana arrives? I don't want the house left empty with the front door open."
"Who's Di –"
"My mother's in hospital, you see," said the woman quickly. "Diana – that's my sister – is supposed to be looking after the house, and notifying all the students. She obviously forgot to call you. She's hopeless!"
Michael didn't speak for a minuet. He was trying to take in that Miss Fitzgerald was in hospital. How could she be, when she was always, always here on Monday afternoons, with her wobbly bun and smeared lipstick and wrinkled boneless arms? He glanced at the clock. Twelve minuets past four. Right now, at this very moment, she should be nagging the girls to hurry up ant tie their shoes while he was doing his warming up exercises. She shouldn't be lying in some nameless hospital, ill.
"Your sister probably did try to get hold of me, but we weren't there," he explained, glad to stick up for the hapless Diana. "We just got back from holiday last night. What's wrong with Miss Fitzgerald?"
"Oh, my dear boy – we've had such a to-do!" her voice rose to a squeak. "She fell down the stairs last Saturday evening and lay there with a broken hip until the postman called the next morning. She couldn't get to the phone, though it was only a couple of feet away."
Michael looked at the spot on the hall floor were Miss Fitzgerald had lain all those hours.
"When will she be back?" seemed the most practical thing to ask.
"Well... look, are you very keen on ballet dancing?"
Funny question. "Quite keen."
"Better look for another teacher, then"
"But –"
"Be a good boy and wait for Diana to get there, won't you? It'll only be about twenty minuets. Thank you very much, and good luck, Michael."
Michael went back into the studio and picked up his bag. His legs felt strange. He was relieved that he wasn't going to have to dance after all. Two weeks without even a pointed toe was one thing, but the news of Miss Fitzgerald would be giving up teaching was a blow not just to his already stiff muscles but to his entire future. It was enough to make anyone's legs feel strange.
Bizarre, he thought again.
It was boiling and stuffy in the studio, because no one had drawn the blinds or opened the windows for days. Michael sat down on the window-seat and took out the much-handled, folded-back copy of The Dancing Times which lived at the bottom of his bag.
He looked at the page. He'd read it so often he could conjure it in his imagination. In math lessons, usually. But there it was for real. Those four words at the top of the page. The Royal Ballet School. He stared at the words for so long they started to jump around. Then, lower down another word, Auditions.
How could those five little words contain something so desirable yet so scary that it gave him a pain in his head to think about it? How could they fill up his world, like football filled up his friend Erick's, and computers filled up his friend
Marshal's, and being in a rock band totally taken over Marshal's brother Eddie's? Sport and computer games and electric guitars were sensible obsessions for boys, approved of by parents and teachers and other boys.
Unlike ballet dancing.
Preliminary audition, the age announced importantly, at the end of February, with the final audition a month after that. The end of February was less than six months away. Less than six months in which to convince dad that being a dancer was a good job for a man. A job that carried status and attracted admiration. Perhaps it wasn't quite as financially rewarding as becoming a businessman or a lawyer. But being in business or the law would be like serving a life sentence.
Less than six months, god that was too soon. The Royal Ballet School was the hardest ballet school to get into in the country. Boys would come from all over the world to take part in the audition. Boys who had been to ballet class everyday since they could walk. Boys who were the sons of professional dancers (well, he had some claim on that himself, mum having been what she called a "hoofer" before he was born). And boys who had been at full-time ballet school since they were eleven and had been trained by ex-soloists from internationally famous companies.
It was the only way, though. It was the only school he wanted to go to. Miss Fitzgerald might not be an ex-soloist from an internationally famous company, but she knew what she as talking about. She always said that if you were good enough you'd make it, and if you weren't you shouldn't anyway.
He put the magazine down and looked out at Miss Fitzgerald's unmown lawn and unweeded path. He thought about a lot of other things she said.
All's fair in love, war and ballet.
Every successful dancer tramples on the dreams of thousands of failed ones. It is a ruthless profession. Talent will out. That was one of her best ones.
He tried to hear her voice in his head. A funny voice, with a crack in it from fifty years of smoking. Then he wondered if he would ever hear it again, and he felt suddenly terrible, like he had felt when he missed lunch to play football and had no money for the vending machine.
Come on, come on, he urged Miss Fitzgerald's invisible daughter. Getting up he wandered restlessly around the room. But it was so hot that sweat broke out on his scalp, so he leaned on the barre and looked at himself in the mirror.
The Greek sun had reddened his skin and bleached his dyed blonds streaks whiter. His hair was too long and the darker roots were showing. He needed to go and get it done again. But dad said that if he wanted to look like Marilyn Monroe, he could pay for the privilege himself, and Michael had spent all of his money in Greece.
He examined one of the things he had bought. A silver earring in the form of a leaping fish. Quite small, but noticeable enough to incense dad even more than Marilyn Monroe hair. For ballet class, of course, he would remove it. But since ballet class wasn't going to happen, it stayed in his ear lobe, flashing in the sunlight like a real flying fish.
"Hello-ooh! Anyone there?"
Michael had been so interested in looking at himself that he missed Diana's arrival. Now she was here, though, he could escape. He whirled The Dancing Times into his bag like a Frisbee and made for the door.
Diana was a light-haired woman of about fifty, who explained that she'd forgotten to lock the door and her sister had told her off for being so silly, and they were both so-o relieved he was there, and she could give him a lift anywhere, and she didn't know her mother took boy pupils.
This last bit made Michael stop on the doorstep. "I'm the only one," he said.
"Really?" Diana was astonished. Her eyes were like Miss Fitzgerald's. Small, pale, lively.
"Don't you mind being with all those girls?"
Michael didn't mind. It was part of every male ballet student's life, to do class with girls, and be taught by woman. "Is Miss Fitzgerald all right?" he asked.
“Well... actually, she looks worse every time I see her. She had to have an operation on her hip, you see, and I don't think she's recovering very well." She looked at him worriedly. "If she goes it will be an awful headache for us, what with this big house to see to and everything. She should have retired years ago, of course, but there's no convincing these ballet dancers." She checked her bag for her keys and shut the door. "They're quite mad, all of them, you know," she told him solemnly. "I think they have to be, in order to stay sane."
Michael managed not to smile until he was around the corner. He hurried on a few steps, giggling. Then the giggles, or something else, blurred his view of the pavement, and he had to walk more slowly.
To Be Continued
A.N.
Hi, I just wanted to let you all know that this is based on thebook Fish Feet, PLZ reveiw I would love to see what you think, and because it was one of the first fics I have done I am asking you to go easy on me, thanks!
oh and if you like it i will continue before the night is out!!!