Read Online Echoes of the Dance by Marcia Willett - Free Book Online

with supper.
    It had been such a happy day. After a late lunch of cold roast ham, potatoes cooked in their jackets in the Esse and some of the local Davidstow cheddar, they’d all walked with Kate down to the ford to see her off. Daisy had sat on the broken wall of the old bridge with her legs dangling, watching the dogs playing in the transparent, peat-stained water below, whilst Kate and Roly talked privately for a moment. Sitting there in the hot sunshine she’d become unusually aware of the shapes and the spaces all about her: the rounded feathery trees and the humped, dense furze bushes; the stark rocky dome of the high down and the curve of the stony track; all outlined in a swooping scribble against the high roof of a cerulean sky painted with cloudy smudges and white streamers.
    Daisy found that she was trying to find a physical movement to describe the glory of it . . . Suddenly, perched there on the bridge, she’d executed a port de bras , a swift graceful arm movement, and gasped as the pain rippled in her lower back. She’d waited for a moment, catching her breath. Carefully she’d turned round, edging her feet back onto the bridge and standing up gingerly. Kate had already climbed into her car and Roly was coming back towards the ford.
    He’d glanced at her, frowned a little, and suggested that it was time for a rest. She’d nodded, grateful that he wasn’t going to make a fuss, and they’d separated in the yard.
    Now, feeling much better, she looked over the few delicacies with which she might tempt him and went quietly down the little stone staircase. In the yard she paused: music drifted from the house and a contralto voice was singing.
    Daisy went on a few steps, listening intently, strangely attracted to the music. She looked in at the door. Roly was stretched full length on a long sofa beside the fire, legs crossed at the ankles, hands clasped loosely over Uncle Bernard who lay across his chest. She felt certain that he was not asleep but she moved very quietly towards him and sat down opposite, still enchanted by that voice and by the music that made her think of the sea. Bevis came to her, putting a tentative paw upon the cushion. She encouraged him up beside her, his heavy head in her lap, glad of his company whilst she strained to hear the words that filled the quiet room.
    As she listened the song changed from a gentle slumber-song, that reminded her of the ebbing tide in a safe harbour, to a passionate and almost religious intensity; and now an evocative, lightly scored quadrille was giving way to a musical storm that was almost Wagnerian in its magnificence. Daisy simply gave herself up to it. Images filled her head: sea-birds lulled by gentle waves; tall grey walls of water, foam-topped, advancing on cold stony shores: the warm, limpid seas of the coral reef; a stormy, livid ocean crested with wild white horses.
    When it ceased Daisy was almost breathless. Roly opened one eye and looked at her.
    â€˜What was it?’ she asked, forgetting everything but the music and the voice that had touched her so deeply.
    He smiled and sat up, still clasping Uncle Bernard. ‘Elgar’s Sea Pictures ,’ he answered. ‘The singer is Janet Baker. Wonderful stuff.’
    â€˜Sea pictures,’ she repeated dreamily. ‘You can just see them, can’t you? The movement and the rhythm of the tides.’
    â€˜They’re about love too,’ he told her. ‘You must read the sleeve. You might know some of the poems. Did you learn much poetry at the school?’
    She chuckled. ‘I was thinking of that just now,’ she admitted. ‘Mim was very keen for us to be able to quote great chunks of the stuff. She started us very young and we hated it. There were set pieces for auditions: children’s parts from Shakespeare’s plays and bits like that. Although the elocution and acting classes weren’t really her concern, Madame always had