Gerry wouldn’t do this for just anyone. He’s not even really sure he’s all that keen to do it for Melanie. But the letter was very polite, and it is kind of a big deal, and his mother isn’t telling him he can’t. So he’s showered and brushed his hair and tied it back in a queue, reluctantly pulled out some of the clothes his mother bought for him that he hasn’t outgrown yet, and is now taking the time to shine a pair of shoes he’s pretty sure used to be his father’s.
“Gerard,” his mother calls, and he knows he doesn’t have time to wait any longer.
“Coming,” he calls back, straightening and hoping he’s done the polish better than he did his hair the first time. He grabs the cap he pretty much never wears anymore, jams it on his head, and heads down into the shop proper.
Standing with his mother is a distinguished older gentleman with white hair and an impressive mustache to match, wearing a pair of tailored black pants, a crisp white shirt, a long black coat, a silk top hat, and white gloves, leaning on a black cane with a silver head—all extremely high quality, but at least thirty years out of date. He studies Gerry, then nods approvingly. “You’ll do. Come on, laddie buck, the cab’s waiting and we have two more stops to make first.”
“Behave, Gerard,” his mother remonstrates, unnecessarily, but he’s not surprised she did it.
“Yes, Mum,” Gerry says obediently, and follows the old man out the door.
Sure enough, there’s a black cab idling at the curb, and the driver jumps out to hold the door for them. They slide in, the old man gives the address, and they’re off.
“Thank you for inviting me,” Gerry finally says, politely.
The old man looks at him sideways with a twinkle in his eye. “Wouldn’t do to leave you out, would it now? Besides, I’m going to need you to run up to the houses and get them out here. Don’t think I can get up again before we get to there. And hold these,” he adds, passing over four rectangles of cardstock. “I won’t have the hands for it.”
Gerry is only too happy to comply. When the cab pulls up to the first stop and idles at the curb, he hurries up to the door of the flat and knocks. It’s only a moment before the door opens and exposes Martin, wearing the button-down shirt and nice trousers he got this year for his chorus concerts, still so new the starch hasn’t washed out of them yet, along with his Norfolk jacket and hat. His face is still red from a recent scrubbing, and he looks a bit breathless.
“Hi,” Gerry says. “You ready to go?”
“Yeah, I already said goodbye to Mum.” Martin steps onto the porch, pulls the door shut, and tests the knob to make sure it’s locked, then pats his chest, obviously feeling for the key on its lanyard beneath. Satisfied that it’s there—Gerry assumes, anyway—he turns to face Gerry, then frowns at the sight of the cab at the curb. “Is the alleged car not running?”
“You didn’t think this was Mum’s idea, did you?” Gerry grins. “Come on. We’ve still got to pick Neenie up.” He grabs Martin’s hand and rushes him down to the cab.
Martin gasps in delight as soon as the door opens and he sees who’s inside. “Granddad!”
“You were expecting maybe Prince Phillip?” Alastair says gruffly, making Martin giggle. “Come on, then, the doors open at six-thirty and there’s still another stop to make.”
Martin hastily climbs into the car; Gerry follows, and the cab makes its way to the next address. Once again, Gerry climbs out and heads up to the door. This time, it’s Roger who answers.
Gerry touches the brim of his cap and puts on an exaggerated Cockney accent. “Evenin’, guv’nor. Is the young miss ready to go?”
Roger laughs. “Gerard, you look wonderful. Just a moment.” He turns back into the house and calls, “Melanie! It’s time to go!”
“Coming!” Melanie calls from somewhere inside. A moment later, she appears at the door in an outfit that’s obviously been purchased just for this—a straight satin dress the color of the autumn leaves with huge flowers printed all over it, a pair of glittery silver Mary Janes, and a purse to match. Her hair is pinned back with a pair of silver rhinestone-studded combs, a pearl necklace nestles at the base of her throat, and she’s definitely wearing lip gloss, if not actual lipstick. She doesn’t seem to notice Gerry, instead blinking at her father, who’s wearing a ratty sweatshirt with the name of a university on it and a pair of threadbare jeans. “Dad, I thought you said we had to dress up fancy.”
“I said you did. You just assumed I was going, too.” Roger chucks Melanie’s chin lightly and turns to Gerard. He tries to look stern, but there’s a twinkle in his eye as he says, “Have her home by midnight, young man.”
Gerry sweeps his hat off in an exaggerated bow, then holds out his arm to Melanie. “Come, my lady. Your chariot awaits.”
Melanie rolls her eyes and swats at him, but takes his arm and lets him lead her to the cab. She checks in surprise when he opens the door and she spies the two people already in the backseat. “Martin? Oh—Mr. Koskiewicz, how—”
“Climb in, you two,” Alastair interrupts. “Come on, come on, we don’t have all night.”
Obviously bewildered, Melanie complies. She and Gerry are still small enough that they can—more or less—share the passenger seat as Alastair gives the driver yet another address. Once they’re moving, Alastair leans around Martin to speak to Melanie. “I hear you’ve been taking dance lessons, Melanie.”
Melanie’s cheeks burn cherry red. “Yes, but—I didn’t start soon enough. I’ll never be a real ballerina. Not like—” She stops, suddenly looking like someone has stepped on her heart. Gerry gives her hand a squeeze.
“But you enjoy it?” Alastair presses. “The ballet, I mean, not just taking the lessons.”
“Oh, yes!” Just like that, Melanie’s face lights up again. “It’s beautiful. The dancers are so pretty. And it’s hard, too.”
With that, she’s off and running, pouring out dance terms and names and dates with an ease that tells Gerry she could teach a class on the topic if she could organize her thoughts in a linear fashion rather than jumping from point to point as she makes connections. He can follow along well enough after knowing her for more than a year, and he knows she and Martin are at least on similar if not identical wavelengths, but he has his doubts about Alastair. Still, if the old man can’t understand what she’s rambling about, he gives no sign of it.
“So that’s why you have to start ballet really, really young,” Melanie concludes at last. “If you wait too long, your bones grow the wrong way.”
“Or the right way,” Gerry says under his breath. Not quietly enough, though, because Melanie hits him again.
Alastair huffs a laugh, making his mustache ripple a little. “Oh, that reminds me. Brought these for you to wear tonight.” He passes a box across Martin’s lap to Melanie. “Go on, open it up. We’re almost there.”
“Almost where?” Melanie asks distractedly as she lifts the lid off the box. Her eyes suddenly widen as she sees what’s inside. “To wear?”
“Well, you can’t go out in short sleeves on a night like this, you’ll catch your death,” Alastair says. “Go on. There should be a pair of gloves underneath it, too.”
Gerry glances over Melanie’s shoulder. Folded on the top of the box is something soft and furry—a stole. His mother has one for when she meets really important clients, which doesn’t happen often. “Here, let me help you,” he offers. It’s a little awkward to take the stole out and drape it over Melanie’s shoulders while they’re crammed in the back of a cab, but he gives it his best shot.
Melanie strokes the fur briefly, then reaches into the box again and pulls out a pair of long white kid gloves. When she pulls them on, they go all the way up to her elbows. Alastair nods approvingly, then reaches into his pocket and produces four more gloves, of the more normal variety. “Brought a pair each for you lads as well. Not sure how they’ll go with your outfits, but there we are, what?”
Surprised, Gerry accepts a pair and pulls them on; Martin does the same. Somehow, Alastair has managed to size them perfectly. Melanie takes in everyone’s outfits and asks, “Where are we going?”
The cab rolls to a stop in front of a stark concrete building lit up against the night sky. People are streaming in the doors, most of them dressed to the nines…and also, Gerry notes, most of them older couples.
Martin squints up at the sign above the door. “The Royal Festival Hall?”
“Sorry it can’t be the Royal Opera House,” Alastair says apologetically. “But it’ll be under renovation for another two years yet. This one’s a bit more modern…well, it’s younger than I am at any rate. Still, should be just as good of a show, what?”
Melanie looks around her as she waits on the sidewalk, and Gerry notices her unconsciously straighten her posture a little. Alastair comes around, his top hat back on his head, and bows formally, if a bit stiffly, to Melanie. “I hope you’ll permit me to escort you in.”
“Thank you,” Melanie says, resting her hand a little nervously on Alastair’s arm. She shoots a glance at Martin, who gives her a gap-toothed grin and a thumbs-up, then looks up at Alastair with a smile. “I would be delighted.”
Gerry falls into step with Martin behind the two of them as they head up to the entrance. In a low voice, he asks, “Did he tell you what we were going to see?”
Martin shakes his head. “He might’ve told Mum, but all he told me was that we were taking Neenie out for her birthday and to put on my ‘finest feathers.’”
Gerry, who knows a bit more than that—but not much—hums in agreement. He’s not sure how fine his feathers are, but for Melanie, he’ll strut his stuff.
A uniformed usher waits at the entrance. Alastair nods to Gerry, who steps up and presents their tickets. The usher punches them and returns them to Gerard. “The cloakroom is to your left. The stairs are just ahead, or the lift is beyond the cloakroom. Enjoy the show.”
“Thank you,” Alastair says gravely. To Melanie, he adds, “Would you like to keep your stole on you during the performance, or check it?”
“I’d—I’d like to wear it, thank you,” Melanie says. She’s looking around in a mix of bewilderment and awe. “What are we here to see?”
For an answer, Alastair leads them over to another usher, this one a pretty woman holding a stack of programs who smiles broadly at them. “Is this your first trip to the Royal Ballet?” she asks.
The way Melanie’s face lights up, they won’t need the ones on the stage. Martin, too, looks suddenly delighted. Alastair smiles down at them both, then tips Gerry a wink. “Thought my only granddaughter deserved a nice night out for her birthday. Four programs, please.”
Now Melanie’s face is a rosy pink, which goes well with her dress, honestly. She accepts one of the programs without looking at it, and Gerry notices the fingers of her other hand tighten a little on Alastair’s arm. Once they all have their programs and thank the usher, they move in a group over to the elevator. An usher stands outside it, but when Gerry presents their tickets, he allows them inside and presses the button for them, presumably to keep their gloves immaculate. They step out onto the second floor and confront a fourth usher. Again Gerry shows their tickets, which the usher—an older woman this time—examines carefully. “Ah, our guests in Box Five. Right this way, sir.”
Gerry is fairly certain that, save for wherever royalty sits when they attend shows here, they have the best seats in the house. The box is small, with only four seats, so they have it to themselves, but it has an excellent view of the stage, as well as the crowd below. Alastair escorts Melanie to a seat, then eases into the one on the end, removes his hat, and—to Gerry’s surprise and Martin’s obvious delight—presses the top of the hat so that it flattens into a pancake. He hands it to Martin. “Put that under my seat, will you, lad? Can’t bend that far.”
Martin obediently slides the hat under his grandfather’s seat, then hesitates before taking the seat next to Melanie. Gerry happily takes the end seat on his other side and looks down at his program. “Coppélia?” he queries.
“Oh!” If Melanie gets any more excited, they’re going to have to tie her to her seat to keep her from bouncing over the railing. “I’ve always wanted to see this one!”
“What’s it about?” Martin asks, opening his program.
“Um, I don’t know,” Melanie confesses sheepishly. “But I’ve heard it’s beautiful, and the music is lovely—you’re going to love it, Martin.”
Alastair laughs, but not in a mean way—more fond and indulgent. “I think you’re all going to love it. It’s a composer you won’t be familiar with, and you’re going to appreciate the choreography—and I think you’ll enjoy the story,” he adds, leaning forward to look at Gerry.
Gerry flips through his own program until he finds the synopsis and begins reading it aloud. “‘Based on the story Der Sandmann by Ernst Theodore Amadeus Hoffmann, Coppélia tells the story of Swanhilda, a young maiden, who saves her true love Franz from death at the hands of the nefarious Dr. Coppélius…’”
Melanie and Martin both listen attentively as Gerry reads, even though they could easily read it themselves. Both of them read fluently and well, but honestly, they all have fun listening to one another read sometimes…as long as it’s something they can trust. He doesn’t think one of the Fourteen has anything to do with a ballet program of all things.
Alastair is right. The story is exactly up Gerry’s alley, a delightfully creepy story with a tiny bit of the supernatural to it, but with a happy ending, if he understands the synopsis right. He makes a mental note to look up the story later. Turning the page, he begins reading about the composer, then the choreographer. He’s about to start reading the cast biographies when the lights dim. Melanie instantly sits up straight and faces the stage, leaning forward a little in anticipation.
The orchestra begins to play while the scene is set, and then the curtain rises at last. The whole theater bursts into applause, and the ballet proper begins.
From the very first solo—presumably the Swanhilda mentioned in the program—Melanie is absolutely enraptured. Martin, while still watching the dancers, has his head tilted slightly to one side to better hear the music. As for Gerry…well, it’s not difficult to follow the story, even though it’s all acted out wordlessly, but he finds his attention drawn to the figure in the window more than it should be. He genuinely can’t tell if it’s an actual automaton or just a dancer doing an excellent job at pretending to be one, which is a compliment to either the ballerina or the prop designer. The costumes are lovely, but not at all what Gerry expected. He’s never been to a ballet before—Melanie’s only just started taking lessons, and she hasn’t had her first recital yet—but he assumed ballerinas wore leotards and frilly skirts of tulle. These dancers wear long skirts and frilly tops, and the male dancers are in ordinary pants and shirts. They’re fantastic, of course, and they work for the scenes—and the skirts do swirl out into almost flat discs when the girls spin fast enough—but it’s just so far from what he expected that it throws him. At least momentarily.
He brings it up, tentatively, during the first intermission, and Melanie shakes her head at him in despair. “Those are tutus, Gerry, that’s just a romantic tutu instead of the classical one.”
“Oh.” Gerry leafs through his program, looking for the list of dancers to see if he can figure out if the doll in the balcony is a real person or not. She’s just so…uncanny.
Alastair suddenly makes a noise of surprise and leans forward. Martin starts nervously and begins to get up, but Alastair waves him back to a sitting position. “I’m all right, Martin. Just thought I saw someone I recognized, that’s all.”
Momentarily distracted, Gerry peers over the edge of the balcony. The crowd is almost a complete blur to him; he can’t really make out individual faces. “From all the way up here?”
“Yes, well, that’s why I wasn’t sure.” Alastair eases back into his seat and smiles at the three of them. “Well, are you having fun so far?”
“It’s wonderful,” Martin says rapturously. “Do you think the library will have more of Léo Delibes’ music?” He stumbles a little over the pronunciation of the name, but considering he’s only really just starting to learn French, he does fairly well.
“I’m sure it will,” Gerry assures him. “We can go next weekend and take a look. And you were right—I’m really enjoying the story so far.” He nudges Melanie and adds, “What are you thinking, Neens?”
Melanie has been studying her program, but she looks up at Alastair with an odd look Gerry can’t quite parse out. Softly, she asks, “Did you mean that?”
Alastair frowns slightly. “Did I mean what? That I wasn’t sure what I saw?”
Gerry wonders that, too, but Melanie shakes her head. “No, I mean…downstairs. When you were talking to the usher. You—you said you were celebrating your granddaughter’s birthday. Did you really mean that, or was it just an easy story?”
Alastair’s expression clears, and he smiles warmly. “Of course I meant that, you young rip. All three of you are my grandchildren so far as I’m concerned, and I don’t say that lightly. Martin loves you both, and I can see why. And of course I wanted to bring my granddaughter to see a proper ballet for her birthday.”
Melanie’s face turns pink again, and she smiles. She doesn’t have to say a word. Gerry knows that whatever happens during the rest of the ballet, she’s just been given the best gift possible.
The lights begin to dim and the orchestra begins playing again, and they settle in for the second act. This one opens on a darker stage, with several people—Gerry thinks—seated around the stage. When the gaggle of girls run in, though, he realizes they’re all life-sized dolls. And he still can’t tell if they’re props or people. When the first one begins dancing after being wound up, he’s none the wiser.
In fact, despite the comedic aspects of this act—in particular Swanhilda imitating Coppélia and pretending to have come to life while simultaneously tormenting the doctor—Gerry is a bit unsettled. If these are automatons, they’re extremely well done…and if they’re people, they’re doing far too good a job of sitting still when not activated. It’s not until the end of the act when Swanhilda activates all of them so she and Franz can escape that they break their typical patterns and he can be fairly certain they’re people.
Fairly.
The lights come up for a second time, and Alastair relaxes and smiles at the three of them. “One more act to go. Why don’t you three go use the restroom so you can make it through?”
Martin half-rises from his seat. “Will you be okay?”
“I’ll be just fine,” Alastair assures him. “Don’t forget your tickets. You likely won’t need them, but just in case.”
Gerry distributes the tickets, hands Alastair the fourth, and shepherds Martin and Melanie to the main hallway to find the washrooms. There are long lines in both, longer for the ladies’ room—as usual—but Martin gives Melanie a hug and assures her they’ll wait for her.
Since Gerry doesn’t actually have to use the restroom, he slips away after Martin disappears through the door and wanders the hall for a bit, looking at the things for sale. He doesn’t have any money with him, but he might get some ideas. Unfortunately, all he gets is a bit turned around, and it takes him a while to find where Martin and Melanie are waiting for him. At least they don’t seem anxious; they’re having an intense discussion about something.
“—be able to meet them?” Martin is asking as Gerry joins them.
“No, I think that costs extra,” Melanie says regretfully. “But it would be so cool—and maybe I can send a note, do you think?”
“To the performers?” Gerry asks. He offers Melanie his arm, and then takes Martin’s on the other side to escort them back to the box.
Melanie’s eyes sparkle more than her shoes. “I was looking at the program and, oh, Gerry, one of the soloists went to school with Mama.”
Gerry blinks. “What, like they shared a desk or—”
“No, their ballet school. Mama was a professional dancer before she married Dad.” Melanie looks down at her feet briefly. “The last role she played before I was born was Swanhilda.”
Gerry wonders how he never knew that, but all he can think to say is, “No wonder you’ve always wanted to see this then.”
He momentarily thinks he’s looking at the wrong box when he sees a woman slipping out of it, but no, he realizes, she must be the one who’s got her boxes mixed up, that’s pretty clearly Box Five. He escorts Martin and Melanie back to their seats. Martin instantly tenses. “Granddad? Are you okay?”
“Just fine, laddie buck.” Alastair dabs his eyes with his handkerchief and folds it neatly, then tucks it back into his jacket. “Just a bit of a coughing fit is all. Well, are you ready for the happy ending?”
Melanie, as she settles back into her seat, beams up at the rest of them. “I don’t need to see a happy ending on the stage,” she confides. “It can’t get any happier than this.”