-•✦--✦--✦•-
Saturday, May 1st, 1999 — Edwinstowe, Nottinghamshire, UK
It didn't take long before Erin and Ollie were ushered out and the tutoring session began in earnest. The Prices caught up properly then — news exchanged, gaps filled, tea consumed. Ollie was already sporting a light tan despite the fickle weather, marking his hard work. Erin looked far healthier than she had months before — it wasn't an easy thing to miscarry.
"How's Wilf been?" Erin asked eagerly.
"A bit stressed —"
"What? Why?" Erin cut in at once.
"Nothing serious, love. Just children being children." Gladys waved it off. "You met the girl beside him?"
"Yes — Estella. She seems lovely."
Gladys did not even bother to introduce her true name. Wilf would complain enough for both of them, and she could spare her daughter from hearing it more than once.
"She is. Wilfred doesn't see it that way yet. They've got a rivalry brewing. It's quite cute. Give it an hour and they'll be at each other's throats for the sake of dignity." Gladys arched an eyebrow.
Erin's eyebrows shot up too, prompting Gladys to recount the entire saga.
"I'm glad he's made a friend," Erin said once she had heard the tale.
"So am I," Gladys replied. "Now — shall we grab some late lunch before your flight?"
A good mother would never deny her family access to her recipes. Erin might not miss her mother in the abstract, but she would always miss a mother's food. That was almost the same as missing Gladys, wasn't it?
—✦—
Erin and Gladys bickered in the kitchen over important matters — which way to cut onions, how much spice and salt the broth needed, and the proper use of pots and pans. The words exchanged were sharp, but both women were clearly enjoying themselves. The banter carried them back to a distant time, when Erin had been a quick-tempered teenager. Gladys felt a pang of nostalgia for Erin at Wilf's age — sweet, soft-spoken, all gentle. Puberty had knocked that out of her. Now she was headstrong, stubborn even, but the love she carried more than made up for it.
Ollie looked like a boy awaiting a caning as he made half-hearted attempts at conversation with Clive. Giving away a true Welsh daughter to an Anglo-Saxon man had never sat right with Clive, and in the early days he had made sure Ollie knew it. Gladys remembered teasing them both mercilessly. That relationship had warmed up over time. But Ollie taking Erin's surname at the wedding had finally won Clive over completely. Years later, Clive spoke only well of his son-in-law, but men rarely shed old habits or admit they were wrong. So Clive still looked displeased, Ollie still sheepish, and football remained the only safe common ground for them to discuss. Soon, Prices would live together in Hanover Gardens — it might be a good entertainment to watch these two make conversation while living together. Surely there had to be a limit to how much footie you can talk about.
Once the men's conversation dropped to a low murmur and Aurélie stepped out to fetch the children, Gladys turned to serious topics at hand.
"Erin, love — how have you been?"
"I'm good."
"I mean — how are you doing?" Gladys pressed.
Erin caught the implication and paused before answering.
"It gets easier with time. We've put the idea on hold. It'll happen or it won't. No use crying over spilt milk," she said, smiling still.
She had always been like that — never letting the unhappy feelings show.
"That's good, love. It will happen, you'll see. For now, enjoy a bit of freedom. Are you ready for Italy?"
"I've been getting ready for more than Italy. We're putting the old place up for sale. Chester's always been too small, and our savings are eaten up by Ollie driving out to Manchester or Liverpool."
"You've made the decision then? Why so fast — and when will you move?"
"We've been circling the idea since Wilf went off to London, and it became serious when he extended his contract. Once we sell, we'll put down a deposit on a new place. Ollie can work on it beforehand, and we'll live with you three for a while. Hope you won't mind us."
"Mind? We'd love that. Why a new place, though? I thought Hanover Gardens was perfectly good."
"It is — just not long-term," Erin said, lowering her voice. "A property's come up near Vauxhall. The bidding starts at six hundred."
"My God — that much?" Gladys gasped.
Erin hurried on, suddenly nervous. "We bought for seventy-one and listed for one seventy-five. Ollie reckons it'll clear two hundred with the work we've done — the freehold's decent, with the garage and shed. It's a good time to sell. Prices are going mad everywhere."
"That also means it's a dreadful time to buy. Even so, you'll be taking on a mountain of debt."
"Ollie's selling half his share in the company. Terry was happy to buy him out. It's not massive, but it gives us some seed money to start in London."
"How much can that really be? I thought it was a small firm."
"It is, but they've got contracts all over Liverpool and Manchester — five crews now. Builders are struggling, but their business keeps growing. He hates letting it go, but you can't walk away and still draw profits. He's got it in his head that he needs to give something up."
"Doesn't sound very sensible. You've only just paid off the mortgage and now you're selling — what is it — trading assets for a bigger debt. How much was he making?"
"Four thousand a month from profits, not counting wages. But it's volatile. Bad margins and he loses money. He's always firefighting to keep things on schedule."
"Wilf said you two were struggling. This doesn't sound like struggling — Ollie's practically rolling in it."
Gladys eyed him with disbelief. Rough beginnings or not, family life had lifted him far.
"It's recent," Erin admitted. "We got carried away and went for treatments that were still a bit out of reach. Now that we've stopped trying, we'll recover."
"Ah, love." Gladys pulled her into an embrace.
Miscarriage left scars no one could see. There was no cure for it — only care, which Gladys gave freely.
Erin put on a brave face and stepped away, carrying on as though nothing had interrupted them.
"We can always sell if it goes wrong. Ollie's always wanted a place to do up — a doer-upper, he calls it."
"Wouldn't it make more sense to buy cheaper and trade up? Six hundred's extortionate."
"I said that. We saw places yesterday that he fell for straight away. 'Good bones, great area,' he kept muttering. He'll keep looking while I'm with Wilf, but I know he's made up his mind. Detached house, gated drive — tiny, but still. There's a garage too, barely big enough to sneeze in. The area's rough. Stockwell's got a reputation. The agent swears the pocket we're looking at is quieter — Portuguese families, more insular."
"For that money it ought to be posh. London's dangerous enough as it is. Even little old Chester has its problems," Gladys said pointedly. "It's far too steep, especially when you'll both be job-hunting."
"It's all up in the air. Ollie's talking to mates. We'll land on our feet — we always do."
"And what about you?"
"I don't know yet. I want something flexible — more time with Wilf. Ollie keeps nudging me towards estate agency. But we've cursed enough of them over the years. I'd hate to turn into the heartless bastard they usually are," Erin said with a grin.
"Oh, you'd be brilliant. Headstrong, impossible to refuse. You'll do just fine," Gladys said.
Conversations went on and all the adult Prices discussed about the prices of houses and true cost of time. Gladys couldn't help but feel that she was out of her depth with every single thing that the two men discussed about the house that Ollie was smitten with. But even she couldn't help feeling excited about the Italian and Georgian style house that even had Italian Cypress trees that apparently blocked it out completely from wandering eyes of the street. Welsh food sat well with everyone except Ollie, who was polite to the highest degree. Erin's gentle side came out as she made blissful noises. Good food lifted away the uncertainty and brought forward all the good things happening around them.
Gladys set aside some food for Aurélie to have for later. Wilfred wouldn't have food before his dancing session so close. As if they'd waited for the Prices to finish eating, footsteps and buzzing conversation drifted towards their lodge. This place was set up quickly and had no sound deafening at all.
"There they are," Gladys said, getting up to open the doors.
Erin was already up and running though.
"Estella and who is this?" Erin said as she opened the door.
"Maria Offermann, her — well, you must know all about it," Maria said with a glance towards her daughter.
"She's Dorothea's mother," Wilf cut in.
"Who's Dorothea?" Erin asked in confusion, looking around for an extra girl who wasn't there.
"Estella is Dorothea," Wilf grumbled.
"Oh! Hey Dorothea, sorry, I must have gotten confused."
"It's quite alright, Mrs Price — do call me Estella, I prefer that name while we're here." She gestured around.
Gladys was happy to see that Erin seemed to get that she preferred being called by her character's name. Her grandson might be thick, but her daughter had some social grace owing to her mother.
"We've got the cars, right? Let's go to the studio," Wilfred urged, confident look on his face.
"Why don't we have some tea first? We'll be terrible hosts to deny them some tea, won't we?" Erin pressed.
Wilf made a face but simply ushered in the Offermanns and Aurélie, who seemed all too entertained. At least Gladys would get to see some of that fire brimming between the two young actors soon.
Maria and Erin made friends faster than they'd even exchanged two sentences. They were both the right ages and had given birth to the two devilish children who made a fight of even setting out tea or telling stories about the set. Gladys noted that even with how Dorothea carried out her method acting, she had no issues discussing the production. That argument seemed to be won by Dorothea, who seemed to know everything about how a film was made.
Oddly, Wilf didn't even seem too mad about it. Call it a mother's instinct, but the boy seemed to have gained respect for the girl that he didn't have the day before. How peculiar.
"Ahem," Aurélie cleared her throat politely. "We have quenched our thirst, I believe there is a duel to be fought at ze dawn."
"It'll be a beating, I'm afraid. But you're right, of course. Let us make way," Estella spoke.
"What, no biting remarks?" Gladys teased the boy.
"I was just imagining how she'd take her defeat," Wilf said, but he'd missed a beat.
Wilfred was nervous! He'd never had that when it came to performing, and if he had, it was lost within months of arriving in London and being on a stage. Gladys couldn't keep the wide grin from her face — the boy had finally shrunk that big head on his shoulders.
—✦—
Less than ten minutes' drive away from the army training base was a small town of Edwinstowe. Biggest draw the town had was being in the Sherwood Forest area and the church. Clive had already scouted out the area and got a spot for Wilfred to sing at Sunday choir. Unfortunately, it seemed that the boy was flying off before he would join service. Poor Clive would have no happy memories about Nottinghamshire.
Tallest building in the town was the church and the largest parking lot seemed to be the car dealership, which the dance studio just happened to be next to. There were no classes going on just yet and the two kids were talking mad banter. That's how kids spoke these days.
Aurélie moved to the centre of the room, clapping her hands once as the two children finished warming up.
"We are gathered here today to se battre en duel — to fight a duel! Those are not my words, but the words of these two young actors and one very talented actress. How exciting is this?" She beamed, then flicked her wrist towards the adults. "Grown-ups, please take a seat at the back."
Wilfred scowled faintly at Dorothea being called talented, while the adults glanced around, momentarily perplexed by the complete lack of chairs.
"I do not mean real chairs," Aurélie clarified briskly. "It is an expression, yes? The rules are simple. I will play a song neither student has heard in advance. Each of you dances for a short time until I say switch — or stop. Remember, this is impro. If you repeat the same move too much, you forfeit your turn. Do we understand?" She fixed them both with a pointed look.
Two solemn nods answered her.
Wilf wore shorts and a sleeveless vest, while Dorothea stood in a pink leotard and white tights, leg warmers around her ankles. Both outfits on the children looked at least two sizes too small. Wilf had insisted it was important to show his lines, whatever that meant. It seemed even Dorothea seemed to follow that line of thinking.
"I will judge originality, musicality, and creativity — and of course technical skill. You may use any style you like, as long as it suits the music. I award a point for each round. We switch music every time. First to lead by two points wins. Understood?"
"Yes!" Wilf said, far too keenly.
Estella simply dipped her chin.
"How cute is he?" Erin whispered, eyes twinkling.
"Very. But don't ever say that to him," Gladys murmured back.
"No, I won't. I'm his mother, I know how prickly he gets. I wish I'd brought the camcorder, though."
"We've got his audition camcorder in the boot," Clive said, perking up.
Erin turned slowly to Ollie, fixing him with a look.
"How about it, then? Go and fetch it."
Ollie sighed and headed for the door.
"I can't wait to see how much he's improved," Erin added, watching him go.
"I'd like that too," Gladys said. "Though you can only watch for so long before you get bored. Gilles doesn't like parents hanging about the studio either."
"If only he went to church half as often as he goes to dance class," Clive muttered, shaking his head.
"Oh, give it a rest, love. Wilf's never going to be religious."
"No one is these days," Clive grumbled.
"That's what my father used to say," Gladys replied mildly, "and yet churches are still standing, full enough on Sundays. Maybe you'll find a permanent church in Stockwell."
"There is one," Clive said flatly. "And it's Catholic."
Gladys sighed inwardly. Her husband hadn't had many victories lately. Perhaps his favourite supper would lift his spirits. With Wilf away for the day, she could even go to church with him — maybe follow it with a proper brunch and a date. It had been far too long since they'd spent any real time together.
Wilf and Dorothea both stretched and ran around until Ollie came in with the camcorder. Aurélie had cassettes ready to be played and the two mini rivals took each other's measure.
Is there some sort of tension coming from that side of the room?" Ollie joked.
"Yes," Erin and Gladys said together.
Clive shook his head, lips pressed thin. Maria covered her mouth as she giggled.
"When I point to you, you start dancing!" Aurélie called out, arm already poised like a conductor's baton.
The first cassette went in — some childish, new-age music Gladys had never heard before. Within moments it was already grating on her ears, the speed and frantic rhythm sending her blood pressure climbing. Dorothea slipped off her tap shoes and pulled on her slippers instead. Wilf looked surprised that they could switch shoes depending on the music, but he had already lost the advantage of speed. How fun would it be to see the boy try to tap along to this fast of a song?
Aurélie pointed both hands at Wilfred, who took a deep breath and a few moments before starting.
All the nervousness of being put on the spot seemed to drain out of him as soon as he made his first move. He was already backed up against the wall, close to the massive mirrors. Both elbows moved in and out like a chicken flapping its wings, while his legs hopped forward and his toes pointed inwards, outwards then hopped again. Movements complimented what his hands were doing and made the boy look tiny and large and tiny again. It was like a flower blooming, like the volume of the beat that seemed to increase in time. All the while the boy travelled towards the girl at the opposite end of the room. With one big step, he dropped his head, suddenly looking like a boy about to pick a fight, even his fists were clenched. His feet stopped and tapped sharply along to the music, then, on the next beat, he turned sideways and continued walking, elbows in and shoulders going up and down. His hands making aggressive gestures, nose wrinkled and still tapping along in impossibly weird way of walking that seemed to fit the music somehow. His expression hardened into anger to match the chaotic music, one hand swinging out to slap the air as he advanced.
Almost too soon Wilf reached Dorothea, he thrust both hands forward to stop himself — close enough to touch her, but not quite.
His hands began to move in tight circles, as if washing a car, wash on and wash off. His hands deliberately aiming every motion at the girl he had been butting heads with. He pushed against the air, stepped back, dropped to one knee, then exploded upright again. Turning sideways he rocked back and forth in quick, jerky motions, dropping down to become small, rising up to become big. Even as inept as Gladys was at dancing, she could recognise him moving backwards through the routine as he retreated. It felt like tap mixed with jazz, the kind she had grown up watching, but sharpened and made aggressive to suit the music.
"Is this hip-hop? God — he's really good," Erin breathed, leaning forward despite herself.
That made sense, maybe she wasn't the best at recognising this new type of dance. Gladys had to agree with Erin's comment — the boy had taken his lessons and learned them well.
Aurélie's finger traced circles in the air, copying the uneven spins Wilf was doing. It seemed to be the signal for Dorothea's turn, because the girl began to walk forward — no dancing at first. She moved like a model down a runway only each step came with a spring and confidence, feet falling perfectly on the beats of this godforsaken song. Her hands dropped gracefully at a diagonal to her sides while one foot lifted to a forty-five-degree angle, almost as if she was about to fall backwards. That pose seemed to almost go in slow motion before she launched into a spin.
She spun like a top. Her leg was fully extended at first, then drew in close to her body as she spun faster and faster. With one elbow up and down, it almost looked like the spinning top was about to tumble. On a beat Gladys could barely hear, Dorothea suddenly dropped low as the music slowed.
Only then did Gladys realise that the ballet pirouette mirrored Wilfred's uneven turns perfectly, replicated in another style. On cue, Dorothea sprang up from the floor by standing on one hand while her legs kicked out. An athletic motion Gladys had never seen before.
"What on earth was that?" Gladys asked, glancing sideways at Maria.
"It's a floor leap. I didn't teach her that, though," Maria said, eyebrows lifting.
Dorothea began blending ballet and contemporary dance, echoing Wilfred's movements while warping it inside out. Where Wilf had kept his movements tight and close to his body, she extended a leg far away in sharp kicks. Where Wilf had gone big and forceful, she drew inward, spinning into pirouettes or launching into other acrobatic movements Gladys didn't even have words for. Her dance carried her farther and farther from Wilfred until she reached her side of the room again — then she suddenly sprinted back towards her opponent.
Her diagonal run drew gasps as she leapt twice into the air, her legs stretching impossibly far with each jump.
"That was a straight-leg grand jeté. I did teach her that one," Maria added, a note of pride creeping in.
Wilfred's dance had begun far away, travelled towards Dorothea, and ended where he started. Dorothea seemed determined to reverse even that. She finished with a pose where her torso dipped low and her feet curved outward and up. It was simple if you saw it, but impossible to describe — the English language simply did not have the words. That pose What Gladys did understand was that Dorothea had taken Wilfred's incredible dance apart piece by piece and rebuilt it as a taunt. Wilf's flushed, red face seemed to confirm that interpretation.
"She's very cheeky today," Maria laughed, folding her arms.
"What were those movements at the end?" Gladys asked, unable to stop herself.
"Passé port de bras, illusion to attitude derrière, into a penché fan, finishing with a fondu," Maria reeled off without pausing.
"That was absolutely no help at all," Gladys said flatly.
Maria only shrugged. It seemed every movement in dance had a French name that described it, and Clive looked irritated enough on behalf of every Price in the room.
"Blimey — Dorothea's incredible. Who knew kids could jump that high, flex so far or spin that fast?" Erin said, thoroughly impressed.
Gladys noticed the two men as well, both staring at the children in equal parts awe and surprise. How many times had they watched Wilf dance before? His simple theatre routines, a handful of sessions at Gilles' studio before parents and guardians were banned. Clive must have seen him about six months ago at the least, but Ollie's stunned expression told a much longer timeline. Being busy had its drawbacks — he had rarely been there to take Wilf to his classes in Chester and ever since he moved to London, there was not even that few to count. His impression on Wilfred would have been over a year ago, when the boy was just learning the basics. This boy in front of them was a dancer through and through.
The movements were elegant and restrained, yet completely free. His confidence and originality were impossible to miss.
And then there was this new girl, performing acrobatic moves no one else in the room except Aurelie could manage. The men looked shocked, impressed — and faintly embarrassed for having assumed it was just children playing at competition. These were children with more flexibility and explosive power than anyone had given credit for.
"One point to Estella! Score is one-nil." Aurélie declared, pointing and clapping.
A gesture which the surprised men copied, and even Gladys and the women had to join in to show their appreciation and support.
Wilfred's face darkened, he'd gone first and had his moves stolen, transformed, and improved. That was a beating and a lesson by the girl. Aurélie put on the next song quickly, her hands pointing to Estella. It seemed the winner of the point would start the next dance.
This song was one Gladys knew, I Love to Boogie by T. Rex.
Dorothea seemingly picked up right from where she left off, walking up to the centre room in a different type of walk, her hands touching the sky then falling down in time with each step. Turning sideways, she jumped up with her leg extended outwards, the other bent. Right as her arse hit the floor, she turned it into a back bend, kicking off with her extended leg to settle on a headstand. The move was so smoothly done that it felt jarring when she came to a still, with her legs swinging forward and backward. Then her feet started to curve, curl, shift in time with the music. Every beat made her pose shift, every shift was a new move. It was a finger dance being performed by legs.
When Gladys thought that there was surely no other pose that she could do, the girl pulled her legs together and kicked them up into the air. Right as they straightened out, her head came up to face forward. A handstand and a split in the air. This one dance move she knew, she'd tried it when she was a teenager. Here was a girl doing it with that tiny body. A move that she'd never pulled off. Dorothea held the pose only for a split second before dropping it and standing up again with a turn. These small embellishing movements seemed to fill in all the dead spaces between these hard moves. Even Wilf had done these small adjustments and flair gestures to make the dance busier and more effective. Perhaps, it was that musicality that Aurelie talked about.
Dorothea's legs kicked out to the left, to the right, while the hands complemented the move and suddenly she was pirouetting again. Only a few revolutions, she took the energy of the spin and started to walk away while turning. Angular momentum in place turned into real movement. Then suddenly she was sprinting again, hopping up for the same move she did before, the one that Maria called a grand jeté. Instead of doing it twice as before, she stopped to reorient herself and suddenly broke down into a happy, chaotic dance that normal people thought were good. It communicated that she was feeling the music and was beyond happy. She'd most recently seen such a thing when Chandler on the telly do it. A victory dance! Dorothea spun again and fell down to the ground to make another pose, then did a handstand which turned into her standing up with a flip.
"That's called a walkover! So smooth…" Maria exclaimed,
Without missing a beat, Dorothea did a front flip, landing with her knee extended and the other knee bent. Exactly in the opposite sequence of how she first went to the ground in this impro dance. The girl seemed to like her dance in symmetrical fashion, and Gladys couldn't help but agree that it was satisfying to watch.
Aurélie called for a stop and Gladys saw even more amazed adults making appreciative noises. Maria looked entirely too proud of her daughter.
"I called her Dorothea because my great-grandparents were Greek. It means 'gift of God'," Maria said, eyes misting.
"She dances like God gifted her legs," Gladys said, smiling softly.
"She'd be God's gift to me even if she had no talent at all," Maria replied. "But every day I feel like I chose the right name. Those were incredibly difficult moves to link together without mistakes — let alone make them look that smooth."
"She's lovely, she is," Erin added warmly.
The praise was cut short as Aurélie pointed sharply at Wilf.
He was still in his tap shoes, somehow looking more confident than before. Going second seemed to have given him time to form a plan. He set off at a run, hopping on one foot while the other flicked back, his arms swinging in opposition. He repeated the pattern as he carved out half a circle of the room, barely dancing at all — more like controlled momentum. The only resemblance of a dance was in his hands lifting up at an angle, head dropped against his shoulders.
"It's as if he wants to do a sissonne but doesn't quite know how to leap," Maria murmured. "So he's running with the arms set."
Still smiling, Wilf stopped, threw his knees and hands upwards, then dropped to one knee, kicking the other leg back. From the side, his arms formed a blunt T-shape.
"That's a split leap — but he's not jumping. Oh," Maria said, comprehension dawning.
Wilf was responding to Dorothea and issuing his own challenge. Dorothea had filled her turn with trick after trick, all height and flexibility. He answered by echoing her shapes while keeping himself grounded, refusing the air altogether. It was not that he lacked the ability — Gladys knew better. She had scolded him often enough for spinning, flipping or tumbling around the house. She'd been warned repeatedly by Gilles about mats, mattresses, and broken bones.
Grinning now, in stark contrast to Dorothea's face of concentration, Wilf clasped his hands behind his back and began tapping in place. He stepped forward, arms loosening into a side-to-side sway. A small jump — then a soft landing in plié — he tipped as though about to fall, turning it into a run, arms held neatly at his sides in ballet form. The half-moon run returned, hands lifted, this time clockwise. He finished by spinning as he walked forward, each step accompanied by a half turn.
"That's a piqué, poorly done of course — and he's tapping at the same time," Maria said, surprise breaking through.
The boy was tapping all along — Gladys had barely noticed it herself. How he managed to keep it going while turning, running, and slipping between different styles was beyond her. It went on, Wilf deliberately performing half-passable ballet steps while his tapping grew more intricate. The clicks and clacks sped up as the ballet grew increasingly dreadful.
Maria kept murmuring about how impressive it was — and how cheeky.
Wilfred had taken Dorothea's idea of deconstructing dance and added a layer of pure insolence. He was mocking her for choosing overly complex movements by dancing badly on purpose, while simultaneously proving his skill by tapping through it — something that ought to have been impossible.
Was this the move Aurélie had mentioned — the one they had both apparently struggled with for days? If so, the boy had mastered it already.
Maria continued to explain, pointing out which steps Wilf was intentionally botching and how he was stripping the complexity into simple shaped moves effortlessly. Gladys liked dancers — the kind that appeared in the black-and-white films the cinemas used to show. Musicals and tightly choreographed dance pictures had once filled British screens. Fred Astaire was a big one and her boy was dancing as smoothly as that brilliant man. Even so, she lacked the technical understanding to fully grasp what she was seeing.
Maria's commentary bridged the gap. Slowly, the Prices began to understand the level of competition unfolding before them. For all Maria's confidence in her daughter, it was clear both children were exceptional — matched far more closely than anyone had expected.
Dorothea's expression darkened, colour rising sharply in her cheeks.
Would these two actually come to blows before the duel was settled?
"Point for Wilfred! One-one, tied," Aurélie announced, lifting her hand towards the boy.
"Estella, try not to repeat the same tricks," Aurélie continued. "You lost that round on originality, though your contemporary work was exceptional. Fewer tricks — more musicality, please." She paused only briefly before turning. "Wilfred — excellent creativity, and well done using the Billy move."
The pride on Wilf's face vanished instantly at the mention of the name.
Gladys made a mental note. She would bring it up later. Whatever this Billy move was, it had clearly struck a nerve. Gladys would find the root cause to why the boy looked suddenly ashamed.
The next song was one she'd heard all over London, every store seemed to play it on loop.
Barbie Girl by Aqua.
Wilf groaned, he didn't like the song one bit.
Aurélie pointed at Wilfred to start. Boy only took a moment before drawing on his confidence. A sudden creepy smile appeared on Wilf's face and never left it. Literally. In fact, the boy had his arms frozen in front of him, legs wide apart, no movement at all. Suddenly stiff as a plank. A second passed, then two, nothing changed. Birds tweeted on the song and suddenly Wilf started to move as if he was a robot, his head tilting sideways and arms waving in awkward motion which was answered by the lyrics.
♪Hiya Barbie!♪
"He's moving like a Ken doll!" Erin pointed out the obvious,
♪Hi Ken!♪
♪You want to go for a ride?♪
♪Sure Ken!♪
♪Jump in!♪
Smile still wide on his face, the boy made wide sweeping turns in order to walk around the place. It looked unnatural and very much doll like, it was the way girls moved their barbie dolls, turning them with each step instead of trying to mimic real walking motion. The first few lines of the lyrics went by just like that, but when Ken on the music said the words and the beat changed, Wilf was quick to dance.
♪Come on Barbie, let's go party!♪
Wilf's hands scissored up and down, while his back went forward, backwards, and sideways in the way the plastic dolls moved. It was the victory dance but interpreted by a plastic doll. It matched the beats and the moves were eerie, with the boy's face and eyes completely stuck on the same Ken doll smiling expression. Not even a blink on his face, just a stretched smile plastered on his face. For all of how uncomfortable and stiff it looked for Wilfred to move as if he had no joints, all of his movements were on beat. But most of all, the dance took everyone by surprise and laughter filled the room. Ever-so-serious Estella was laughing alongside Aurelie, giggling even.
Robot Barbie-doll moves continued with the boy twirling and turning and somehow pulling off a ballet pirouette with such stiff limbs. Once he stopped, he used the lyrics to play out the dance.
♪ You can brush my hair ♪
Wilf's hand brushed back and forth over his hair.
♪ Undress me everywhere ♪
His hand pulled at his vest to expose some skin, once, twice, in beat to the song.
♪ You're my doll, rock'n'roll, feel the glamour in pink ♪
Doll moves started up again, turning wide and ending in a new pose with his elbow bent, hand extended.
♪ Kiss me here, touch me there ♪
His hand went back and forth to his lips, making a kissing gesture.
♪ Hanky, panky ♪
Boy even slapped his bottom with plastic movements.
♪ You can touch, you can play ♪
Wilf moved back into a robotic pirouette and ended it by dropping the whole doll act altogether. Ballet moves came in one after another, this time with all the smoothness and grace the boy had been developing for the past year. Another quick pirouette on one leg was drawn closer into his body to spin faster and faster. He started to sprint just like Dorothea had done earlier, turning with each step until he leaped off his left foot. His jump in the air seemed to bring him up high, and while turning, he did a split, then suddenly he landed with his back to the audience and on his right leg.
"Saut de basque with a split," Maria gasped.
It looked as though Wilf meant to end it there. He threw his arms up into a final pose — then, just as the moment stretched, he carried on. From the held position came powerful travelling steps and turns, finishing in a jump where his legs clapped together mid-air, the movement fluttering like a butterfly's wings. He struck another pose, then broke into a run — one turn, two — and leapt again, another split suspended in the air. This time he held the ending pose, refusing to let it go.
Aurélie took the cue and pointed crisply at Dorothea.
"Cabriole," Maria said, recovering her breath. "He tried for a double but only got one. The tap shoes won't help — you can't curl your toes to click properly. Still, that flamenco finish was spot-on."
"Dorothea's starting," Erin said sharply, cutting through the sudden swell of murmurs.
Dorothea answered with simplicity. No doll-like stiffness, no acrobatics — just an upbeat song matched with buoyant movement, elegant and clean, shaped to fit closely to the lyrics. It was a beautiful dance. Yet Gladys sensed even Dorothea knew she could not top Wilf's improvisation in the round. The performance lacked conviction, as though the decision had already been made.
Aurélie did not let it run long.
"Stop! Point to Wilfred, Two-One. Wilfe leads. Match point." she signalled, ending the music.
This time, Wilf made no effort to hide his pride.
Gladys found herself wondering at the difference. Had he been embarrassed before — winning by parody, by mockery? Or did those Billy moves carry some meaning she could not grasp?
"Wilfred is exceptional," Maria said, eyes fixed on the proud boy.
"He's improved so much," Erin added.
"That saut de basque was very advanced," Maria continued. "It demands real leg power and core strength — children struggle with it. He could attend the very top ballet schools."
"He's that good?" Erin sounded genuinely taken aback.
"Not the best I've ever seen," Maria said — then paused, eyebrows shooting up. "But he's still in tap shoes."
"He'd be better in slippers, then?" Ollie asked.
"Almost certainly," Maria said without hesitation.
Ollie and Erin exchanged a look, pride blooming openly between them. Gladys felt it too. Maria was not the only one blessed — Wilf was rare talent. She had not watched him dance in months, and in that time he had improved by leaps and bounds.
Wilf always claimed he was bad — because that was what he heard in feedback. Gladys' eyes narrowed as her thoughts returned to Gilles. The Frenchman rarely praised the boy and demanded relentlessly high standards. His ballet lessons were expensive, always one-on-one. Wilf had never danced alongside other children his age.
Was Gilles shaping an exceptional dancer in silence, setting the bar so high that Wilf believed excellence was merely the average? How evilly genius. Gladys couldn't help but let a laughter escape.
"That was very creative, Wilfe — very good," Aurélie said. "Dorothea, it is good to recognise when you are lost. The creativity in Wilf's dance was exceptional — probably never been done quite like that before. Dorothea, make sure you take the next point."
Dorothea nodded, solemn and focused.
The next song began — Dock of the Bay by Otis Redding.
At once, the dancers made opposing choices. Wilf kicked off his tap shoes and slipped into a ballet slipper, while Dorothea calmly traded her slippers for tap shoes.
Wilfred began, moving slowly, almost lazily. Maria murmured that it was contemporary — not unlike what Dorothea had done earlier. To Gladys, it looked like one of those interpretive dances she had never quite understood. How a style could borrow from everything and still manage to look the most self-important and pretentious of all styles was beyond her.
And yet, something caught her.
It was not the difficulty of the movements — the controlled lifts, the careful balance — but the feeling underneath them. Wilf danced more and more, yet never travelled. He stayed rooted, circling himself, never committing to a step in either direction.
♪Look like nothing's gonna change
Everything still remains the same
I can't do what ten people tell me to do
So I guess I'll remain the same, yes♪
It was the picture of a life spent waiting. A man sitting still as the years slipped by.
Gladys did not like it, she couldn't tell why. It just seemed touch too tragic. The dance and song combined to make her feel a hollow sadness. Wilf seemed sad too, as if he feared the life of such normalcy the lyrics sang about. The life of most people, really. He seemed to want none of it, but he displayed it all the same.
"Estella," Aurélie called, pointing.
The song carried on. Dorothea answered with soft, measured taps, at first barely audible, echoing the slow beat. Unlike Wilf, she moved — but always returned to the same place. When the lyrics looped back around, her taps quickened, brightening the rhythm, lifting it into something lighter than the song itself.
♪I left my home in Georgia
Headed for the 'Frisco bay
I've had nothing to live for
Look like nothin's gonna come my way♪
She was pushing against the meaning of the lyrics.
Her turns brought her back again and again to the same spot — living life on the dock — but her movement told a different story. A life not endured, but enjoyed. Always returning home, always making the most of where she stood, always enjoying the journey, not the destination. She was a bird that migrated but always came back to where she first roosted.
Gladys watched, surprised by how clearly that imagery landed. Dorothea had taken the emotion of the song and turned it on its head. In doing so, she gave the audience hope — and, more importantly, built a connection.
That was what Wilf had missed. For all his technical skill, he had danced inward, sealed off from the room. Sealed off from sharing the tragedy together.
"Point to Estella. Two-all. Tied," Aurélie said, confirming Gladys' interpretation.
Wilf stood there, disappointment and confusion flickering across his face.
Natalie Cole's "This Will Be" filled the hall, its echoes ringing through the empty studio.
Dorothea launched into her own brand of contemporary. She began on the floor — rolling, folding in on herself, stretching out again — before spinning sharply into a pose. She rose while turning, the movement flowing straight into a pirouette. Within seconds the song lifted into something brighter, and Dorothea seemed to have been waiting for it. Her tempo increased naturally, each phrase gaining momentum as the jazz elements burst through, saxophone ringing clear. Her feet seemed to dance with the music, like swords parrying and attacking.
Emotion had become the battleground, and Dorothea claimed it fully. She pranced across the space, ballet leaps melting into turns, then breaking into contemporary shapes. She danced as if she were lifting the room itself, energy spreading outward. One by one, smiles blossomed over the adults. She darted past Gladys, hands beckoning her along, then doubled back to plant a quick kiss on Maria's cheek before spinning away, light and unrestrained.
Gladys felt her foot tapping before she realised it, a smile tugging free.
The song promised everlasting love, and Dorothea danced like a girl who believed in it completely — like a princess waiting for her prince, like first love felt without doubt. Gladys drifted closer to Clive and slipped her arm through his. He smiled softly and drew her in. The room felt warmer for it. Connection to the audience, yet again proving its power.
"Wilfe," Aurélie called, pointing.
The boy tried. Ballroom steps, classical shapes — but without a partner, the dance fell flat. He seemed to realise it mid-move and shifted again, portraying longing instead, another note of quiet tragedy, another dance that didn't match the tone of the room. It lacked the joy Dorothea had flung so freely into the space. It lacked what they were all feeling.
"Point to Dorothea. Three-two. Match point," Aurélie announced.
Another song followed — guitar and drums rolling in, rhythm thick with heat.
"I love Des'ree," Maria said. "It's Fire — by Des'ree and that other bloke."
Dorothea moved slowly now, rhythmic and controlled, tapping gently to the beat. It was simpler. She did not know the song well enough to fully let loose.
Wilf sensed the opening.
He dipped his chin, turned his head to the side, and began tapping in time with the bass.
"Is this what I think it is?" Ollie murmured.
"Of course it is," Erin said, laughing.
The slow, sultry beat suited him perfectly. No fedora, no glove — but every ounce of attitude. He slowed the movements, burned through the rhythm, turning Michael Jackson's sharpness into something smoother, darker. Spins lingered. Steps oozed confidence. It did not strike as deeply as Dorothea's dance full of emotion, but intrigue had a pull of its own.
"Point to Wilfred. Three-all. Tied again," Aurélie said. "I've only prepared ten songs. If you want victory, now's the time."
Time seemed to stretch as the duel dragged on. A point to one, then the other — margins too narrow to separate them. Wilf's face tightened with each round. When Dorothea claimed another match point, something in him snapped awake.
He went for a hail Mary.
Acrobatics spilled out one after another — leaps, flips, a tumble that sent him spinning three full rotations before he landed clean. It was all the best moves and tricks he'd learned over the year. The mastery of aerial skill won him the point, but he staggered back afterwards, breath ragged, and that cost him the next round.
Another match point to Dorothea.
Wilf looked pale.
Gladys watched as they danced through It's Alright by Huey Lewis & The News, It's Not Unusual by Tom Jones, even a burst of classical ballet number that she knew not. Both children stood panting by the end, sweat-slicked foreheads, faces full of concentration.
The score sat at five to four, Dorothea leading and on verge of a win.
The best Wilf could hope for now was a draw — a thought that had never once crossed his mind before this moment.
"I only put the last song in because it was funny and we had room for one more," Aurélie said, a cheeky smile tugging at her mouth. "This decides everything."
The opening notes struck, and Gladys recognised the song at once. She had been given the CD by the artist herself. Wilf groaned, his pale face flushing red with irritation.
Gladys owned a copy of the album signed by Cher. She had handed out gifts to cast and crew at the wrap party — what was meant to be a quiet gesture had turned into a full-blown signing event. Best of all, she had been given an open invitation to the tour, due to arrive in London that October. Backstage pass and everything!
She couldn't wait.
Aurélie might have chosen the song to needle the boy, but Gladys was far too intent on seeing how the two young prodigies would interpret it.
Dorothea began with her back to the room. Pose followed pose, sharp and deliberate, before the dance burst into life. It stirred memories of old vaudeville — travelling performers passing through Welsh towns — yet the modern edge called back to the West End shows she had attended with Clive. Wilfred had the bright idea to watch all the shows in the West End. Few were barred to him.
Chicago, in particular, was one that Wilfred was denied from attending — it was all about sex, vice, and danger. Most importantly, women dancing in stockings and underwear.
Dorothea leaned fully into the style that Chicago had employed. Burlesque blended with vaudeville and jazz. According to what Maria murmured beside Gladys, anyway.
♪Well, I know that I'll get through this♪
The bridge arrived, wordless music played. Dorothea shifted cleanly into ballet.
"Hourglass, split leap, floor, handstand, walkover, fondu, tumble, penché, à la seconde into pencil turn, grand jeté, cabriole, entrechat quatre," Maria muttered, breathless.
Gladys was almost as impressed by Maria doing a play-by-play commentary — though almost was giving it too much credit. The girl in front of her had brought up all her energy into scoring that last point available. Move after move connected and combined elegantly with technical skills far surpassing all that she'd displayed before. The emotion burned cooler this time. — Dorothea had decided to win on the account of her skill rather than her connection with the audience.
"That's my girl!" Maria shouted.
It reminded Gladys of red-faced men roaring at football matches. She could hardly blame her. Her daughter was an exceptional dancer and every round, she was proving herself to be better than the last assessment they'd had. Grandmother's instincts led her to seek out Wilfred.
He stood utterly blank.
What was going through his mind, she couldn't say. Had he given up?
"Wilfred. Your turn!" Aurélie said.
The words snapped him back. He had slipped into his tap shoes again. Backed into defeat, he began simply — knees turned inward, hands clamped to his head as though the noise were too much. The dance centred on tap, layered over a loose disco rhythm. With every phrase, the footwork sharpened. Taps quickened. Legs kicked wide.
Fifteen seconds in, the colour had returned to his face.
Gladys felt it then — Wilf had stopped trying to win.
He was simply enjoying the music.
Five songs in succession had drained him. No energy left for acrobatics. So he tapped. Jazz steps, flashy footwork, rhythm for rhythm's sake. The tension slid off him as the combinations grew more complex.
"Irish tap," Maria murmured.
Wilf crossed his legs tightly, joy breaking through. Ballet slipped into tap, tap into contemporary, jazz into ballroom — everything he had shown that day folded together into something strangely seamless. Irish tapping again, then a jumping turn. He dashed into the sequence he had mocked earlier — the Billy move — this time executing it cleanly, openly.
He was grinning now, radiant, even on the brink of defeat.
The dance became chaos — tap melting into ballet and snapping back again. Wilf played games with the rhythm, answering himself in opposing styles. The song ended before he did.
He carried on a cappella.
He rose onto his heels, stomping out a beat, then rolled smoothly onto his toes without losing time. A small hop — suddenly he was balanced on the side of his foot, the other tapping against his heel. Gladys and Erin burst into laughter. Had it not been so funny, they might have worried for his ankle.
Rapid taps followed. Wilf dropped into a squat and launched into something that looked suspiciously like a folk knee dance.
More laughter filled the room.
"Ukrainian Hopak," Maria said, hand clapped over her mouth.
Wilf rose from the squat, spun on his heel, and finished in a deep curtsy.
The room erupted.
Applause, cheers, whoops — it was finally over.
Two children, shaped by devoted mothers and demanding teachers, stood beyond reproach. Talent in this room was overwhelming. Erin and Ollie were holding hands, pulling faces at each other like love-sick teenagers. Gladys had always believed children were the future — Erin was proof enough — but this felt bigger still. Maria and Erin had given birth to these two kids with so much talent. How far could they go? It was almost scary to think about what fame would do to them.
She'd talked to Julie Andrews, Judi Dench, Maggie Smith, Joan Plowright, Cher, Franco Zeffirelli. Out of these women, only Julie and Cher were at a level of fame that they had trouble going around places.
These two would be stars, perhaps at the level of these two icons.
The thought made her eyes sting. Fame was frightening. But their gift deserved to be seen. Their skills would influence so many people and give the joy that they'd given to their family today.
Dorothea walked towards the boy in front of her. Wilfred followed after. They came to stand face to face at the centre of the room. It had seemed cute before, how they both took it so seriously. Now, she felt the fool for not taking it seriously enough. This was indeed their dignity on the line.
"Ahem," Dorothea said, clearing her throat. "Before Aurélie calls out the winner, I will offer you the chance at a draw. A gentlemanly offer, as it were."
Wilfred had none of the grace or the prim Victorian speech that Estella displayed.
"Because you'd lose? You cheated anyway. I've seen Flashdance. You nicked half of it." Wilf accused.
Gladys couldn't help but chortle. Boy really couldn't accept a loss, could he? What was even the point of denying a draw, which was guaranteed even if he won that round. She will never understand boys and their foolishness.
"It was inspired by it, sure. But it was very much improvised. Your accusation is rich coming from you though…" Dorothea said with a cheeky smile. "You've copied moves from Fred Astaire, and Aurélie said you did the Billy move. Is he another dancer you copied?"
Wilf's righteous indignation faltered in an instant. Stammering, he tried to speak, but Aurélie came to hold a hand between the two bulldogs.
"Wilf — do you accept the draw, or shall I score the round?" she asked calmly.
He looked around the room — every face watching him. His shoulders sank. Before he could speak, Dorothea cut in again.
"In the event of a draw, I expect you to honour my wager. As I will honour yours."
Wilf's nose scrunched up, but then the boy shook his head as if shaking off bad thoughts. A cheeky smile blossomed on his face.
"That's a deal. Estella." Wilf said, extending a hand.
Dorothea seemed taken aback for only a moment, but she smiled as well. Boy was finally calling her the name she wanted to be called by. It only took a dance duel. Gladys sighed inwardly. What had Wilf wanted if he won? Gladys didn't remember.
"Then it's decided. I was not needed. The winner of this duel was no one. But both have won their prize. Isn't that exciting?" Aurélie said, her feet hopping up and down in excitement.
"What does Wilf get?" Erin echoed her thought.
"I… don't know," Gladys admitted.
"He asked for respect," Maria said, laughing through tears.
"Well, they'll have to respect each other now," Erin said, shaking her head.
"That might be exactly what the boy needs," Gladys replied quietly.
She kept her eyes on the two children, now talking awkwardly to one another, comparing moves and explaining why they had chosen certain styles. Friendship had never come easily to Wilf. He respected almost no one — save Henry Harrison, who was nothing but trouble. Dorothea might be exactly what he needed — someone as skilled as he was, someone he could not look down on, someone who could challenge him without cruelty.
Happy faces ringed Gladys. The Price family had gathered once more and made another joyful memory — one captured on film, ready to be revisited whenever they wished. Next time they came together, it would be in London.
In the autumn of her life, Gladys found herself quietly looking forward to what lay ahead.