My coaching work began in earnest. It was hard work and unbearably humid in the studios – a typical Queensland summer – but I loved it. The ceiling fans went at full speed and the windows were wide open. It reminded me of the heat in Miss Hansen’s Rockhampton studio, with the cattle trains rolling by. Now we were in Brisbane’s cosmopolitan city centre. Things were different, yet the same. I was very happy.
I became totally immersed in my work and loved being in the studio working in tandem with Li. We had been the best partnership on stage all those years ago and now we were creating a new kind of partnership. I was sharing Li’s vision for what Queensland Ballet could become and what it could do for the arts, not just in Queensland but in Australia and beyond. We would talk long into the night about how he could realise his vision. That vision – for the company to reach for the stars – was intoxicating.
Our first theatre season was to be in April, with Ben Stevenson’s acclaimed Cinderella as planned. Ben came to help us stage it for the first time. Even at the age of seventy-seven, he was still so inspiring and dramatic. The dancers had never seen anything like his choreography and worked hard. We were both really touched by Ben’s generosity and energy. His time coaching our dancers reminded us again and again just how much he had influenced us as artists at Houston Ballet.
Cinderella was a sellout months before its opening. It was a huge hit. Queenslanders were swept up in the magic and the production was met with rave reviews. It was very special to have friends and family from Melbourne fly up to support us.
When Li had been planning the season and told me he was going to stage an annual production of Ben’s The Nutcracker, I was excited. I knew Queensland would love it. It was one of the best productions I’d ever danced, because of Ben’s flowing choreography and storytelling. Li wanted it to have a brand-new design.
‘Can we afford it?’ I asked him. ‘A new production is going to cost a fortune!’
‘I know, but we have to have a beautiful production if we’re to have any chance of making it an annual tradition,’ he said, his eyes twinkling at the challenge.
First, he had the rest of the year’s program to stage. We were still glowing from the public’s reception of Cinderella, and were further elated when ticket sales for Giselle in June, Elegance – a triple-bill program – in August, and The Nutcracker in December also sold out in advance, breaking all records in Queensland Ballet’s history. Queensland was falling in love with Li just as Houston and Melbourne had done.
Sometimes, I worried that he would get sick from exhaustion, as he worked long days and nights and most of the weekend. ‘Remember how you told me that this would be a marathon, not a 100-metre dash?’ I reminded him one time.
‘I know, but the opportunities won’t wait. We may have to think that this is a 100-metre dash as well as a marathon,’ he winked.
Some people thought that Queensland Ballet’s phenomenal success was due solely to Li’s star power, but they couldn’t have been more wrong. Yes, his fame from Mao’s Last Dancer no doubt helped, but the key to the company’s success was his vision and his team’s hard work.
‘Mary, we’re living a dream,’ he said. ‘I don’t want to wake up one day and realise that it remained a dream. We’ve got one chance to make this dream as big and as exciting as we can.’
That’s what kept us going.
As for Sophie, she had settled in to her new job and her confidence seemed to be returning.
‘I love it at Hear For You,’ she told me over the phone one day. ‘It’s my lifeline, so you mustn’t worry about me any more, I’m happy now. I’m with people who understand me. It’s so good! I truly believe this program makes a difference in young people’s lives, and I just want to keep doing it.’
It was the most passionately I’d heard her speak, and she wasn’t done yet. ‘That is so good, Sophie!’ I said. ‘And how’s it going in the apartment?’
‘Oh, it’s fine . . . I must tell you about Meg, though,’ Sophie rushed on.
‘Who’s Meg?’
‘Meg Aumann. She is my colleague at work and she’s just brilliant. And guess what? She’s deaf and doesn’t speak, she only signs, and she’s so happy signing.’
‘I thought Hear For You was only for oral deaf people like you, Sophie?’
‘It’s both. Her role is the same as mine but for Auslan only, so we basically do the same kind of job. I manage the oral program and she manages the signing one. She’s very supportive, not like the people at my last workplace.’
I was thrilled for Sophie. I knew how difficult it had been for her in the previous workplace. She told me Meg had been showing her how to navigate her way through social situations, at work, in meetings and on the phone.
‘And I’ve started learning how to sign properly in Auslan. Meg’s helping me. I’m going really well. Remember that Australia Day party I went to with Pip Russell? Maybe I didn’t tell you, but it was really great for me.’
‘Tell me about it, darling,’ I said.
‘Well, everyone there was hearing-impaired, and most of them were around my age. All of them could speak and sign, and the most amazing thing was that everyone there understood what it was like to be deaf at a party. Lights were on, there was no thumping music, people repeated when someone missed out or asked to repeat what was being said. Pip is the first person to invite me to a party that I didn’t want to leave.’
I was delighted to hear the sunshine in her voice, even if a shadow passed across my mind and I wondered where this might lead. But how could I not be happy? Parties in the past had been torture for Sophie. Thumping music always drowned out conversations, jokes and laughter, and lip-reading in the dark was impossible. This party had been a breakthrough for her, and a further boost to her confidence.
The conversation was an awakening for me, too. I realised I’d been becoming increasingly uneasy about Sophie, about how we’d brought her up – how all these years I’d driven her down the oral path, desperately wanting her to be a part of our world, and how it was such a struggle for her as she was always an outsider. Could Sophie have communicated better and missed out less with signing? If she had learned Auslan before going to university, would she have fared better? Was she starting to regret that now, not signing earlier, I wondered. Would we lose her to the deaf world if she decided signing was a better way for her to communicate? Had we made a dreadful mistake in imposing our views on her? Had it all been too much for her? Should I have been more sensitive to her feelings?
After so many years, these questions still niggled at me, but despite my misgivings, I said, ‘Well, that’s wonderful, darling. Whatever makes you happy makes me happy too.’ What else could I say?
‘You’ll have to learn it as well, Mum – and Dad, Tom and Bridie too!’
‘Hmm, maybe . . .’ I found myself saying. ‘For now, just enjoy your life without me on your back!’
We both laughed then, but I couldn’t stop brooding about the future. In the end I called Louise for reassurance.
‘Mary,’ she said, ‘this is perfectly normal. Sophie has become very empathetic towards other hearing-impaired people. Her life has been a constant battle. She’s been one of the lucky ones, having so much support from you. But it must be a relief for her not to have to listen and speak all the time.’