After the audition he told me with excitement, ‘I got in!’
I cried, knowing he was determined to go. ‘I’m happy for you,’ I assured him, but my heart was breaking.
In the first months after he left London I felt like half of me was missing. On a few weekends I flew to Amsterdam and caught the train down to The Hague to spend time with him. He was working with Jiří Kylián, one of the best choreographers in the world at that time. I was always excited to hear how well he was doing, but was often lonely without him. So it was wonderful to see Brig and Jo, who each came to visit me a few times. On one visit, Jo and I, with Matz, took a trip to Paris and Brussels, and then to Amsterdam. My brother Matt and a friend of his also came to London and stayed with me for a few weeks.
Ballet was broadening my horizons and I had a thirst for more. I went to the theatre whenever I could and read as much as I could. When we toured internationally, I read the most famous authors of that country to provide an insight, and on Sundays at home I’d go to Leicester Square with friends to see the latest films – movies that offered a window to the world and to key events in history, like Gandhi and Chariots of Fire. We’d go to see symphony orchestra performances and stage plays. I saw Children of a Lesser God, Mark Medoff’s play about the hidden world of deafness, at St Martin’s Theatre. I was struck by the impressive lead character played by Elizabeth Quinn. I would learn a lot more about that hidden world in the years to come.
While Rudolf Nureyev was a part of London Festival Ballet between 1977 and 1984, he took his production of Romeo and Juliet all over the world. He was such a superstar that he could choose which company he wanted to perform with. The company’s international touring took me to places I had only ever seen on a map. After our sold-out shows in Australia and the USA, we went to France and Italy, then South America and, lastly, Turkey. The experiences I gained from these tours were so educational.
Rudolf was riding high. His brilliant standard was influencing ballet, particularly male dancers. Yes, he was tough and demanding and a stickler when it came to perfection, and sometimes you would weep, thinking you would never achieve what he wanted. But he did recognise our efforts and always tried to show us a good time when we were away, as if to say thank you for giving every performance our best.
In Paris, after we danced Romeo and Juliet at the Palais des Sports, he took some of us, including Scottie and me, to Maxim’s, once considered ‘the world’s most famous restaurant’. Many celebrities had dined in the Art Nouveau building on rue Royale, including Maria Callas, the Duke of Windsor, Brigitte Bardot and Barbra Streisand. And there we were, the dancers of Festival Ballet, with none other than Rudolf Nureyev! The restaurant had red velvet everywhere and little seating alcoves – very sophisticated and very French.
In Italy we went to Macerata, an ancient walled city on the east coast across from Rome, to perform in the Sferisterio di Macerata outdoor arena. It was a unique setting but the performances didn’t start until nine o’clock after the summer sun had gone down. It was still very hot on the stage even late at night. We couldn’t believe how fast our pointe shoes got soft in the heat. We would be groaning with tiredness as we performed The Sleeping Beauty, which was rather a long ballet. By the time we finished it was well past midnight.
Rudolf took us to see a Wagnerian opera at the same venue before our performances. It was a treat to experience the atmosphere, and invaluable to get an idea of what the audience could see when we were performing.
In Turkey in late 1982, we performed Giselle in the outdoor amphitheatre Cemil Topuzlu in the centre of Istanbul and Rudolf asked me to be Myrtha, the Queen of the Wilis. It was a bigger role than when I’d danced in the group of Wilis back in my first two years with the company. Rudolf was dancing the lead role of Albrecht, with Eva Evdokimova as his Giselle. She was delicate in her sorrow, and they were brilliant together. Afterwards, Rudolf hosted a party for us overlooking the Bosporus Strait. The next day, we had time off to go to the markets – a wonder of colour and noise, and tourists haggling over bargains.
The role of Tatiana in John Cranko’s Onegin was another breakthrough moment in my life orchestrated by John Field. We were one of the first companies to perform the ballet outside Stuttgart, where it had originated. I was unsure whether I would get the chance to perform the role, as it was usually given to a much more experienced ballerina. I was a young woman of just twenty-five playing a much older woman with a huge range of emotions. John believed in me and I was grateful for the challenge. The reviews were rewarding: ‘Mary McKendry was brilliant as Tatiana,’ wrote internationally renowned dance critic Ann Nugent in The Stage.
In 1984 Houston Ballet happened to be performing at Sadler’s Wells at the same time as we were performing at the Coliseum. Ben Stevenson had been their artistic director for eight years by then. John Field had an ongoing relationship with Ben Stevenson, a former Sadler’s Wells Royal Ballet and Festival Ballet dancer. Ben had moved to the USA in 1971, where he became co-director and choreographer first with Washington’s National Ballet and then with Chicago Ballet. Since being appointed artistic director of Houston Ballet in 1976, he’d been doing some exciting things: expanding the company’s repertoire by acquiring the works of the world’s most respected choreographers, commissioning new works, staging the classics and choreographing original works. As soon as I heard he would be in town, I decided to go and watch the company rehearsing.
I had to sneak out from the Coliseum at lunchtime so as not to create suspicion – loyalty to the company was everything. It wasn’t far from St Martin’s Lane to Sadler’s Wells in Islington, and I was able to get into the auditorium while they were rehearsing. I sank low in my seat as I didn’t want anyone to know I was there. It was magic. I saw straightaway that the company had a wonderful energy and artistry, led by a Chinese principal dancer. During their break, to my surprise, he came and sat beside me. I thought he looked familiar and I wondered whether he was one of the three boys I saw in China who had mesmerised me with their eyes and arms when they did their traditional dance.
‘Hello, Mary. I’m Li.’ He extended his hand and I hesitantly shook it. So much for going incognito. ‘I really enjoyed your performances in Cinderella and Four Last Songs,’ he told me.
‘Thank you,’ I replied.
He tried to strike up a conversation, but I was having none of it as I was so nervous at having been discovered. Finally, he left. He struck me as a bit overly friendly, although he did have a lovely smile. I hoped he didn’t think me rude.
I got back to rehearsals just in time. I’d missed my lunch, but no matter: I’d seen what I wanted to see and that was the most important thing.
I had the opportunity to work with Ben in 1984 when he was invited back to London to stage his Cinderella and Four Last Songs. He took an interest in me and gave me corrections, which I loved. With his cultured English accent and razor-sharp wit, some dancers found him quite intimidating, but I took to him straightaway. He chose me to do one of the most exquisite pas de deux of my life in Four Last Songs. It was a defining time, during which I refined my technique and body line. Ben was very artistic and talked a lot about emotion. He had flair and I found him incredibly inspiring.