"Free to Fly" by Susan Row
"I'm not going to cry. I'm not going to cry," I muttered to myself under my breath. I bit my lip hard, almost drawing blood, determined not to let the tears escape. I wanted my vision to be clear. I did not want to miss a second of Helena's moment of triumph. More than a moment actually -
Down on the stage, the spotlight picked out Helena as she dropped a deep curtsey for the umpteenth time, surrounded by a carpet of red roses thrown on to the stage. She rose to her feet, smiling broadly, blowing kisses to the audience with expansive arm gestures. She was clearly enjoying this. And so she should, I thought. No-
realise her dream ... I fought back the tears again.
It had all been so different on that day more than two decades ago when she had entered my world. An inauspicious start in life if ever there was one. I was a sixteen year old schoolgirl Mum, living with my own mother in a tower block in a council estate in southeast London. Dad had died of liver cancer three years earlier as a result of years of alcohol abuse Helena was the result of a fling with a boy from the youth club, conceived in the back of his old banger, which was later set on fire by a rival gang on the estate. Helena
was born three weeks prematurely and had never been strong. Her father took no part in her upbringing, or indeed in either of our lives from the moment of her arrival. Mum and I did our best to give her the best start in life, and what she lacked in physical stamina and material possessions, she made up for in charm, cuteness and coquettishness. She was the apple of our eye.
When she was six, Mum saved up enough from her job at the local supermarket to take her to see The Nutcracker at the Royal Festival Hall. From that moment on, there was never any doubt in Helena's young mind as to what she wanted to do with her life. She was going to be a ballerina and wear pretty pink dresses and dance on the London stage as principal ballerina with the Royal Ballet. How do you explain to a fragile, six-
way out of reach? We didn't try. We let her dream. And Mum and I worked every hour we could to pay for those precious ballet lessons. And for a while, the dream remained alive. Helena excelled at ballet. When she was asked to play the lead at the end of year performance in the local church hall, she was so thrilled. And so were we -
I can remember vividly that bleak November day when the phone call came. It was Helena's headmistress. Helena had collapsed at school. She had been taken by ambulance to Guy's Hospital. She was still unconscious. I'd better get to the hospital as soon as possible. When I arrived, Helena was lying on the bed, eyes closed, her face deathly pale, hooked up to bleeping machines. Encephalitis, the doctors said it was. For us, the diagnosis was immaterial.
For days, I sat at her bedside, willing her to wake up. When she finally woke, she was paralysed, unable to speak, swallow or communicate in any way except through her eyes. I will never forget the look of terror in those deep, brown eyes as she lay there in that hospital bed, which had effectively become a living tomb. The place where her life as she knew it had ceased to be.
For two long years we nursed her at home. Day by long painful day we watched her lie there, a look of total desperation in those big, expressive eyes, her only means of communicating, other than the occasional squeeze of the hand -
there too. It would not take much to fan it into flame once again.
But those were desperate times. Slowly but surely, Helena began to regain her ability to swallow, then to speak, just a few words to begin with. Then she began to regain her movement, until she was able to get out of bed to sit in a chair. Eventually, we were able to take her out in a wheelchair. Finally, the day came when she rose to her feet and walked a few faltering steps unaided. From then on, progress was rapid and remarkable. I'll never forget the day some two and a half years after she had first fallen ill when she
asked me if she could resume her ballet lessons.
In spite of my misgivings, her original ballet dancer agreed to take her back, even though she was now considerably older than her classmates. In no time at all she was back dancing for all she was worth and taking the lead in the ballet school's productions. When her teacher asked me if I'd considered enrolling her at the Royal Ballet School, my heart sank. How does a single mother from a council estate afford a place for her daughter, however gifted, at the Royal Ballet School? The elegant lady with the delicate features
looked at me with an understanding look on her face.
"There are scholarships, you know, for the most talented pupils," she said pointedly, answering my unasked question. Six months later, Helena moved away from the cramped, suffocating flat of her childhood to live in the leafy country surroundings of the Royal Ballet School. The young bird had flown the nest, spread its wings and learned to fly. For her now, the sky was the limit.
I was brought back to the present as a hush descended on the auditorium. As I watched, Helena stepped forward to the front of the stage. Someone handed her a microphone.
"Thank you so much." Helena's clear voice rang out confidently, "I just wanted to say that there is someone here in the audience without whom none of this would have been possible. I wanted to publicly acknowledge the sacrifice that my Mum and my Gran -
— The End —