Ballet Shoes
"It bought out in me the person whom I had the potential to become. I think that's why I loved it for it's own sake, not to be a ballerina."
The longer Patrick stared at the quote on the poster, the more it seemed to make sense to him – however, that might have had something to do with the running commentary of Mrs. Randall that was playing non-stop into his ear as he stared at it. It hadn't taken him long to work out that this was the same 'Matilda' that Violet would rant about for supplying child raising tips, housekeeping tips, and (the ultimate blow to his wife's ego) recipes. The fact that he was the only father in the room made him an easy target for her talking, it seemed.
His promise to take Claire along to her first dance session had not been forgotten. Although Violet would have easily fought him over the privilege of seeing her dance in the outfit she'd insist on them buying for her, it was Daddy who would end up with the special moment. He could still remember the way that Claire's eyes had lit up when they told her that she could go to the ballet lessons, which was partly why he wanted to be there so much. If she was that excited about the prospect of the lessons that he wanted to see the look on her face once she was there. He'd seen how something that could seem so insignificant to an adult, like taking half an hour to watch a dance recital, could be the greatest honour in the world to a child. Besides, he hadn't just promised Claire that he'd be there, he'd also promised Violet that he would cancel his usual Tuesday evening appointment with Mrs. Alison to be there to take her. He'd rather suffer the elderly woman's tears next week than miss this first lesson and endure the matching 'you are in so much trouble' look that his wife and daughter managed to imitate of each other so well.
So he was stuck sitting on the most uncomfortable plastic chair in the world, staring at the poster of ballerina Suzanne Farrell. He knew her name only because it was printed in cursive handwriting underneath the quote itself on the poster. When Matilda Randall had noticed him looking at it so intently (because the girls were out the back of the studio being shown where to hang their coats and he had nothing else to do) she had launched into a biography on the ballerina's life. He half took in the information on how she was one of the most noted ballerinas of the twentieth century, the founder of her own ballet company, and how her stage career had been shattered by the onset of arthritis. He mainly only listened enough to know when to say 'hmm' and 'interesting' and occasionally a 'really?'. Thankfully, Matilda didn't pick up on this.
"My Natasha adores her," she cooed, staring up at the poster like he did. "She has the same poster on her bedroom door."
He wanted to point out that this probably wasn't out of the admiration that she imagined. Natasha was five years old. She had probably seen a poster with a ballerina in a pink tutu with the word 'ballerina' featuring somewhere on the picture and decided that the poster would look absolutely perfect on her pink bedroom wall. Instead, he just nodded.
"Claire has a Little Mermaid poster," he replied.
A few moments later he was saved from more ballet and opera history discussion when the girls came back into the main studio where they all sat along the edge. Claire, surprisingly, was one of the smallest of the girls, all aged between four and six. She tottered in on her miniature pumps (covered in sequins because she couldn't bare them to look plain) as the other two girls he recognised as her friends, Natasha and Annabelle, rushed alongside her. He was pleased to see her chattering along with some of the other girls in the group, though, especially as Matilda pointed out to him that a lot of these girls would end up in the same school together at the end of the summer – just another daunting realisation that his daughter was becoming a 'big girl'.
The three girls giggled when their instructor, Celina, reminded them that dancers do not run, that they glide, and it was then that Claire spotted her father. Her face broke out in an excited grin an she bounced for a moment, waving at him. He raised a hand back but she barely saw it before she rushed to stand at the bar with the other girls, casting her eye through to the neighbouring studio in awe of the older dance class taking place at the same time. Their exchange had been momentary but it had been enough for her to realise that her father was there, watching her, seeing her dance, and that had made her smile.
And to see her smile, he thought, was worth suffering Matilda Randall's company for.
"And did you see my spinning? I think I'm good at spinning..."
Claire continued to babble excitedly as Patrick turned the key in the lock, opening the front door and letting her run into the hall ahead of him. He crouched down to help her with her coat, which apparently she was too excitable to do herself, and she continued to recall all the events that he'd actually watched intently.
"And Miss Celina said that at Christmas we can do a big show and lots of people can come and watch and our mommy's and our daddy's can all come and watch," she continued, but she stooped abruptly, her face turning in the direction of the kitchen with her nose sniffing in the air. "Sketty! Sketty! Sketty!" she chanted loudly, jumping on the spot. Patrick smiled at her pronunciation of the word 'spaghetti' and followed after her as she ran down the hall chanting "Mommy's cooking sketty!" at the top of her voice.
He loved these moments of domesticity. He wouldn't ever have imagined he'd be able to do this, walk into his home with his child, watch as she eagerly jumped into the arms of her mother. The two of them hugged as he walked past them with the mail in his hands, kissing them both briefly before taking over watching the dinner with one hand and using the other to awkwardly open the mail, so that his wife and daughter could talk about the ballet session. Nothing could possibly feel as right as these moments, he thought.
As he stirred through the bolognaise sauce that Violet had made from scratch, he didn't think about how exhausted his was from his early afternoon appointment, even though he'd had to cut it short to pick up Claire, or how much he wanted to have a nice hot shower, get into some more comfortable lounge clothes and relax in front of a movie for the night. In fact, he didn't think about anything. He just took in the blissfully normal world around him.
Dinner simmering gently on the stove, the radio was playing some kind of chart hit that he'd heard before but couldn't recognise by name, it sounded like the kind of song that Claire would hum along to though, as it didn't really seem like Violet's kind of song. Claire was showing her mother how she did her twirls and her jumps, mispronouncing the real names for them. Violet made the exaggerated sounds of amazement that she knew Claire adored. The kettle was also boiling on the other side of the room, as it always was when Violet heard his key turning in the lock, two cups and saucers of tea, one with extra sugar, for Violet, already stood by the kettle with a new carton of milk.
Normal, his head agreed with his initial view.
Perfect, his heart corrected.
"I'm glad you had fun," Violet smiled, as Claire's ballet story finally ended at the same time as dinner had done. Violet stood to clear the plates but Patrick got there first, allowing the two of them to continue. "Maybe next week Mommy will come, if Daddy has to work?" she suggested.
Claire's eyes lit up at the thought. "Really?"
"I'd love to," Violet nodded.
"Because everyone else's mommy's were there," she pointed out. "Daddy was the only daddy there."
"I had the joy of meeting Matilda Randall," Patrick told his wife as he lifted her plate from in front of her. He laughed as she cringed at the mere idea and took the plates over to the dishwasher, loading them in.
"Perhaps she can have you," she teased him.
"Well," he smiled, pressing a kiss to her hair. "She did have some fantastic recipes..."
He had to duck when a coaster came flying towards his head.