Carol’s Column

Every dancer's mum shall have her day

TODAY is the first day that things are back to normal in this household.

There's no more tension, stress or strain.

Everyone's smiling again.

And all because our only unmarried daughter of nine has completed her ballet exam.

It started a few months ago when we received a letter in the post.

Like most official-looking documents, it was formidable.

*Dear Mrs Lazar*, it said, *Your daughter's examination is to be held on Monday July 5 at the Dutch Reformed Church Hall, Parkhurst. She is to be there no later than 12.30pm. Please return the accompanying envelope to me immediately with the candidate's name, address and an 8c stamp. Attached is a list of requirements which the candidate must bring with her to the examination as well as her uniform. Thank you.*

Then followed a long list of requirements and an instruction in large, capital letters that each article must have the candidate's name.

Which was fine except how do you sew a name on to elastic bands (not bobbles but ordinary elastic), hair clips (no silver clips to be used), hair pins (at least 12), hairnets (the same colour as the candidate's hair with an elasticised base), safety pins etc?

Being a fine, supportive family, we greeted the news of Nicky's impending ballet exam with enthusiasm.

"Isn't it exciting," I bubbled at breakfast the day the letter arrived. "You'll be doing a ballet exam — why, who knows, perhaps you'll even make Pact or the Royal Ballet one day."

My daughter was wide-eyed. They always are at the age of nine. It's only when they reach their teens that cynicism sets in.

"Mummy, it means a lot of sacrifice," she said. "I'll have to practise. Pat says my hand movements are ugly, my feet are lumpish and I spring like a kangaroo." She signed. "There's so much to do in such a little time."

As the exam drew nearer, the tension increased.

Nicky disappeared for hours in the playroom with Licquorice the Labrador, Candy and Henry — our dogs.

We'd hear the strains of 'Swan Lake' and 'Grease' coming from behind the shut door. Nobody was allowed in while Nicky was practising.

One day, I peered through the window to see our aspiring ballerina leaping and bounding across the floor, her every movement followed by six canine eyes, their tails beating in time to the music.

I asked her about it afterwards.

"Why do you take the dogs into the playroom when you practise?" I said hesitantly. I didn't want her to think I was inquisitive.

"Mummy, every ballerina needs an audience," she replied. "And the dogs are quiet while I dance. If I ask you to watch you clap the whole time. Daddy falls asleep and my brothers are disgusting. They just laugh."

Life in the Lazar household began to revolve around ballet.

I phoned Zaria Dagnell.

"Listen, I don't want to sound an alarmist," I whispered hurriedly over the phone. "But Nicky has taken to pas de chating all over the house. I can't get her to leave the table without a curtsey and whenever I call her she arabesques towards me. I'm worried."

Zaria was sympathetic. "Relax, Carol," she said. "It's twice as bad in this house. Georgie is hopping everywhere on points and she and Natalie have taken to doing everything in step. The other day I asked them to throw their washing in the laundry basket and it took them half an hour as they danced a pas de deux with a shirt.

"You've only got Margot Fonteyn in your house. I've got Alicia Markova and Dawn Weller and they both want to be in the spotlight at the same time."

Meanwhile down the road, Daphne Topping was having similar problems. "I can't get Tanya to do her homework," she confided confidentially. "She spends her spare time jetéing round the kitchen."

There was drama and despair after each ballet lesson.

"Pat says I'm not long enough. I must stretch up, up and away."

"Why does Nicky make like a giraffe the whole time?" asked Jamie one day. "I think her neck's growing too fast."

I looked at my daughter. Sure enough, her neck seemed at least half a metre longer.

Every day I heard about fellow dancers Lisa, Carey, Zing and Roanne.

Each and every one of them was more talented, brilliant and sure of themselves than Nicky.

And a new phrase made itself known in the house.

Every sentence that Nicky said was prefaced by: "Pat says . . ."

For example: "Pat says my hands are dead," or "Pat says my feet are like lead," or "Pat says I hunch."

Now, no mother likes being told that she has a hunched up daughter with lead feet and dead hands. I was getting distinctly twitchy.

And then came the ultimatum.

"Pat says we must have lycra leotards with V-necks, pink shoes and clean ribbons and the shoes have to fit perfectly."

It will suffice to say that I made seven trips to the ballet shop to change things that were not perfect, much to the horror of the woman behind the counter who took to hiding among the woolly leg-warmers whenever I appeared.

I know that the other mothers had similar problems. It seemed that every little girl in Johannesburg was taking a ballet exam on July 5.

And then came the day.

Like a cluster of sheep we assembled at the hall accompanied by our well-scrubbed daughters.

Outside the dressingroom we compared notes.

"I found it almost impossible to stick nametabs on to the hairnets," said one mother.

"As for the clips," said another.

Inside the dressingroom, pandemonium and chaos reigned.

The little dancers flittered and fluttered, chitted and chatted like a bunch of animated tulips.

There was not one torn pink stocking, not one scuffed shoe, not one worn ribbon to be seen.

And in the middle of this Degas scene, with ribbons flying, tape flashing, scissors clicking, sat ballet mistress Pat, calm, collected and smiling.

Smiling at a moment like this?

What calm, what fortitude, I thought to myself as my knees knocked together in fright.

And then the gaggle of mothers, flapping and fussing as only mothers can do.

"This is terrible," said one. "I can't take the strain."

"I don't know how I'll pass this exam," said another.

"The tension's unbearable," said the third, "I feel so nervous."

And then the fourth — an old salt obviously — produced from her wicker shopping basket, a cask of wine and some glasses.

Inside the hall, our ballerinas tripped though their paces while outside we were fortifying ourselves with rosé wine and becoming more cheerful by the minute.

It was just as well the exam lasted only half an hour.

None of us had eaten that morning, we'd been too tense. After 10 minutes of quiet imbibing we were all happy.

By the time our daughters emerged from the examination hall, we were decidedly tipsy.

"Phew," sighed Georgie and Nicky together, "Thank heaven's that's over, we made so many mistakes," then, catching sight of the wine, "we're so thirsty, can we have a sip."

"Good heavens, no!" we hiccuped in unison.

It is a mother's duty to set a good example to her daughter.

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