At sixteen I left home to attend a theatre school and train as a dancer. Within a year the course I was on had folded and we dancers were shifted onto the adjacent year’s Musical Theatre course, where the entry age had been eighteen. In effect, this meant that my fellow students were now at least two years older than me. As a teenager, that’s a big age gap. 

It was a good college and a good course, but for me the move was probably nothing short of a disaster. I had a natural affinity for poetry and the rhythms of prose. I could act well enough, memorise lines easily, but I really couldn’t hold a tune.  And on a Musical Theatre course that was always going to be a problem.

At the time I truly believed I was tone deaf. I wasn’t. Not many of us are. Researchers estimate less than 5%. Tone deaf is  a widely misunderstood concept that implies a fundamental and unchangeable trait. Whereas, for most of us, not being able to hold a note is really just a matter of confidence and a little training of the musical ear. At sixteen, I didn’t have either. 

I'm happy to say that things have changed. Either that or I’ve stopped caring; a huge benefit of growing older and wiser. Take a look,  for example, at this picture of me and my good friend Becky belting out karaoke on my 40th birthday. 

Bex was one of those original dancers, someone I’ve known since I was sixteen. Nowadays she’s a great Pilates teacher and if you live in London area you can find find her website here. I strongly believe that a rigorous physical training at such a young age, stays with you. The body remembers. But that’s a whole other blog …

And if that photo didn’t convince you maybe this will. 

It’s a screenshot of my results from this super-fun test at Tone Deaf Test

So, if like me, you’ve always harboured a belief that you can’t sing,  I urge you to go ahead and try the test. Even if it only gives you the confidence to belt out tunes in the shower, that’s enough to raise your happiness level.

Sceptical about that? Read this from How Stuff Works

Anyway, I digress. Sort of. You opened this blog to find the story behind the story. So here it is  …

In the final year of college, our Christmas production was Cinderella. But of course, my singing voice wasn’t anywhere near strong enough to be considered for the lead role. In fact, all through those two years of musical theatre I hadn’t succeeded in breaking out of the chorus. Once again,  I wouldn’t be going to the ball. But bearing a physical resemblance to the student who was Cinderella, I really was assigned the role of stand-in. And it really was my job to run across the stage at midnight dressed in rags. 

I vividly remember the day the cast-list was posted. This was way before the internet, so when I say posted, I mean pinned up on a noticeboard, everyone craning to see what role they had landed.  I remember tracing through the names and I remember  the hard lump in my throat as I understood again what I’d been assigned. And then I remember the afternoon spent on the hill next to Guildford cathedral, crying. I was eighteen. I felt humiliated and insignificant. Defeated and utterly depressed at the realization that all those dreams I’d left home with two years earlier had already evaporated.  

For the sake of brevity, let’s fast forward here, thirty years. 

Above my desk, I have a piece of paper which says: 

‘Moments define a life, they are lived at body temperature, there is nothing cool about them. They are your times; you were on the face of the earth and in trouble or in love.’

 (I wish I knew who wrote that, but I can’t remember and I can’t find the source now. If anyone does know, please leave a comment on a SM link.) 

Now those tears, up on that hill, weren’t cool. They were hot with anger and shame and frustration. And the moment was remembered. 

This is the real story behind the story then. That feeling of humiliation that I felt so keenly as an inexperienced, rather gauche and still immature eighteen-year-old. Yes, moments retain their heat. 

I don’t want to paint this as all bleak. The role, surprisingly enough, came with a silver lining. I was a bullet back then. Small and slender, zipping across the stage at pace, and stage wings (those spaces at the side) are tight and small. Someone had to catch me before I hit the wall. Step up A, my first ever boyfriend. Never mind that eighteen months previously he had broken my heart, dumping me over the phone during the Easter holidays. (Another moment that retained its heat,  and that I briefly visit in another short story LINK:  CURTAINS.) The truth was, I was still holding a candle for A.  I’ll never know if he was for me, but every night of that run he was there, ready to stop me hurtling into the wall and I’ve always remembered how his arms felt. Yes … moments retain their warmth. 

If you’ve read stand in Cinderella, you’ll know that all this barely resembles the narrative. In a way, that’s beside the point. I wanted to take that never forgotten moment and use it. I knew it contained enough heat to get the engine of the story started. Everything that follows is a sacred communion between writer and page, and that really is a whole other blog. 

Yes, yes, but what else is true?! I hear you ask. Does it matter? For the sake of this blog, perhaps it does. I have, after all, promised you the story behind the story. 

So, the character of Toni is true (but not the name). And growing up, I attended school with a girl whose sister had Downs Syndrome. (Revealing this does not in any way spoil the story if you haven’t yet read it.) I hardly knew the sister, but I do remember the childhood feelings of mistrust and the natural aversion, bordering upon repulsion, we all had for someone so palpably different. 

When I say we, I include myself and all my childish contemporaries. I mean children. 

Kids can be mean. Especially to those who are different. Maybe it’s an innate survival instinct, and as none of us had a sibling, or indeed knew anyone like Toni, she was very different. 

On a lighter note, the real-life Toni, did go on to live a long and productive life. She did have a job and she did live with her mother all her life. 

And it’s true that my mother knew her also. And all those messy public hugs that the story contains? Rather wonderfully, those are true too. 

Here’s the link if you haven’t read yet and I sincerely hope you enjoy. 

Oh, and keep singing! 

 Buy this story, stand in cinderella here