Dreamscapes Page 3

  The Great Dividing Range was a purple smudge on the horizon, the sky was clear, and as she stood on the stony outcrop overlooking the valley, she could hear the sound of rushing water coming from the nearby falls. Horses and cattle cropped at the long, yellow grass below her, the white fences stark in the sunlight. There was smoke coming from the chimney and a line of washing flapped in the warm breeze. She took a deep breath, fighting the tears that suddenly blurred her vision, and vowed that one day she would come back and never leave.

  She turned reluctantly away and followed her mother over the tumble of rocks and through the bush into the clearing where they had made camp the previous night. Sniffing back the tears and the disappointment, she swiftly helped her mother to finish loading the wagon.

  Declan Summers had already backed Jupiter, the lovely shire, into the traces and, with his black hair flopping in his eyes, was tightening the thick leather straps. ‘Kitty, me darling,’ he boomed. ‘I thought you’d deserted us.’

  She grinned as she heaved the last of the baskets into the back of the wagon. ‘Not yet, Da,’ she replied.

  He strode across the clearing, flung his arm over her shoulder and squeezed her close as he kissed the top of her head. ‘It’s glad I am that day’s far off,’ he declared. ‘For what would I be doing without my best girl by my side?’

  Catriona grinned as she buried her face in his shirt and breathed in the delicious aroma that was her father. Sharp-scented soap, tobacco smoke and hair oil – they were the very essence of the man she adored and although it had made her parents sad, at this moment she was glad they’d had no more children.

  Declan finally released her and, turning to look at the others in the travelling troupe of players, he strode into the centre of the encampment. ‘“Let us then, be up and doing,”’ he boomed. ‘“With a heart for any fate; Still achieving, still pursuing.”’

  Catriona was all too familiar with her da’s favourite Longfellow quotation. He said it each time they set out for a new town. Yet his voice never failed to send a shiver of excitement through her, for it somehow reinforced the adventure of their lives and momentarily swept away the longing to be still.

  There were only four wagons now and Catriona sat between her parents on the buckboard of the leading wagon as the slow procession left the encampment. The troupe was her family – an ever-changing, but depleted, family of men and women who shared her parents’ passion for everything theatrical. There were jugglers and musicians, singers, dancers, fire-eaters and acrobats – each of them willing to play many parts for the chance to shine in their particular skills.

  Catriona settled down for the journey, the pride in her family warming her soul. Da could sing and recite and work the audience into a frenzy with his complicated and clever introductions to the acts. Mam was a soprano, the real star of the show, and the only one who didn’t have to join in the chorus or help the conjurer.

  Catriona had learned very early on that she was expected to do her part in entertaining the audiences, and although she sometimes felt sick at the thought of going on stage, she’d learned the dances Poppy had taught her and could now, after much practice, get a decent tune out of the old piano that was strapped to the back of the rear wagon. Yet the thing she loved best was to sing along to the records she played on the heavy wind-up gramophone – and although most of the songs were from the operas and in foreign languages, Mam had explained enough of the stories behind the operas for her to understand the passion behind the music. It was her burning ambition to follow in Mam’s footsteps and take centre stage as a soprano.

  Catriona’s thoughts drifted and she yawned as the sway and jolt of the wagon took them further into the hinterland. She hadn’t had much sleep the night before, having been kept awake by the heated debate over whether or not to trade in the horse-drawn wagons for motorised trucks. It was 1931, and although times were harder than ever before because of the Depression, they were falling behind the times, and in her father’s opinion they were in danger of being mistaken for circus people – a completely different class of entertainer all together.

  The argument had raged around the camp-fire far into the night, and Catriona, curled up in blankets in the back of the wagon, could see logic in both sides of the debate. A truck would make the journeys faster, but would be more expensive to maintain than the horses. The old way had a charm about it, but the inconveniences they had to withstand would still be there, for they still wouldn’t be able to afford more than a tent to sleep in.

  There were few secrets in such a tight community, and Catriona knew the takings were down, the acts were getting stale and the troupe was in danger of diminishing further as each week passed and another act left to try their luck elsewhere. It was getting harder to fill even the smallest hall, for people just didn’t have the money to spend on entertainment. The Great Depression had a lot to answer for.

  The jolt of the wagon brought her back to the present and Catriona glanced over her shoulder hoping for one last glimpse of the magical valley. But it was out of sight, behind the trees and the rocky incline, and she had only the vibrant images in her head to keep the dream alive that she would return one day.

  They reached the outskirts of Lightning Ridge the following afternoon and set up camp in a clearing. There was no theatre here, so tomorrow’s performance would take place in the open. But they didn’t expect to do very well, for they had learned on their travels that the opal miners were a poor lot and feeling the pinch – just like everyone else.

  Lightning Ridge was an isolated community of makeshift dwellings made out of canvas, old kerosene cans and anything else that was found lying around the place. There were mules and horses and a strange collection of carts surrounding each deep pit. Mullocky heaps littered the ground, and the air was sharp with the sound of rusting wheels and pulleys bringing the dirt and silica up from below ground. This was a world of men, of hope and shattered dreams – a world of suspicious glances and sullen faces that watched as the troupe settled beneath the trees some distance away from the main mining area.

  Catriona helped with the horses before turning her hand to unpacking the costumes and rehearsing the latest song and dance routine Poppy had devised for her. It was a strange place, this Lightning Ridge, she thought as she went through the familiar steps and tried to concentrate. It smelled funny too, but Da had said that was because of the sulphur pools that lay so green and mysterious amongst the ironstone rocks. There were no rivers here, no billabongs or creeks – just scrub and bare rock with tufts of spiny grass clinging to life amongst the cracks and fissures. Yet, looking beyond Poppy out over the valley, Catriona could see miles of empty grassland, with wildflowers adding a dash of vibrant colour to the soft green of the stands of trees and dark red of the earth.

  ‘Kitty. Keep yer mind on yer feet,’ said Poppy crossly. ‘That’s the third time you’ve done the wrong step.’

  Catriona was sick of practising. She knew the steps and would perform them properly when it came to the show. For now she wanted to be free – to run along the ridges and explore the sulphur pools. She folded her arms and pouted. ‘I’m fed up,’ she said.

  Poppy hooked her hair behind her ears. The abundant shock of peroxide blonde had been recently cropped into a fashionable bob which had been permed into corrugated ridges, the fringe flopping into the blue eyes. ‘Don’t expect it’ll matter much, anyways,’ she sighed. ‘This place ain’t exactly the Windmill.’

  Catriona loved hearing about the London theatres and knew how easy it was to get Poppy sidetracked. ‘Did you ever dance there?’ she asked, giving up all pretence of rehearsing. She perched on a nearby rock and grimaced at the leathery taste as she drank from the water-bag.

  Poppy grinned and mopped the sweat from her face. ‘Of course,’ she replied as she perched next to Catriona and took a swig from the bag. ‘But only once. The manager found out I’d lied about me age.’ Her grin was wide. ‘I was a big girl even then, if you know what I mean.’ She
cupped her generous bosom in her hands and gave it a jiggle. ‘But someone sneaked to the manager that I was only fifteen and ’e sent me packing.’ She pulled a face. ‘They ’ad rules, you see, and I was supposed to be at school, not prancing about in me knickers in front of a load of men.’

  Catriona’s eyes widened. ‘In your knickers?’ she breathed. ‘You mean you had no clothes on?’

  Poppy tipped her head back and laughed. ‘That’s right, me duck. Bare as a baby’s bum – well, the top-half anyways. There were only a few feathers and spangles between me and pneumonia. You’d never believe ’ow cold those dressing-rooms were, and the draught on stage was something awful – fair whistled up yer …’ She seemed to realise how young her audience was and fell silent. ‘They was good days,’ she murmured finally.

  Catriona tried to imagine Poppy in feathers and knickers, prancing up and down a big stage. She bit her lip, holding back on the giggle that was threatening – for surely this was just one of her tall stories? ‘You don’t regret coming out here, though, do you, Poppy?’

  ‘I’m thirty-two years old, luv, ’course I’ve got some regrets, and this bloody place is just too big and empty for a girl to handle.’ She looked around her before gazing back at Catriona and sighing. ‘Reckon it’ll soon be time for me to go back to the cities, luv. Getting a bit old for all this.’ She waved a slender arm which seemed to encompass their isolated surroundings. ‘I ain’t never goin’ to set the world alight. And if I don’t watch it, I’ll be too old to get a man and have babies.’

  Catriona felt a lump rise in her throat. Poppy had been a part of her life – had helped her come into the world and become her closest friend. She was like another mother as well as her best friend, and the thought of her leaving was unbearable. ‘You’re not really leaving, are you, Poppy?’ Her voice was plaintive, echoing her emotions.

  The blue eyes were distant as they gazed out over the miles of empty land. ‘We all got to make difficult decisions, luv, and I ain’t never gunna find my Prince Charmin’ out ’ere.’ Then Poppy put her arm around Catriona and gave her a cuddle. ‘No worries, darling,’ she said, her Cockney accent still as strong as ever after her years in Australia. ‘I ain’t gunna leave without warning you first.’

  Catriona nestled in the warm embrace. Poppy was so dear, and she couldn’t imagine life without her. ‘I don’t want you to go,’ she mumbled. ‘I won’t let you.’

  Poppy held her away and looked deeply into her eyes. ‘I need something more than this, Kitty,’ she said softly. ‘I want an ’ome, a man and babies.’ She gave a harsh cough of laughter. ‘And I ain’t gunna get one traipsing about the back of beyond in a flaming wagon.’

  Catriona shivered. Poppy sounded as if she really meant to leave. ‘But where will you go? What will you do without us?’

  Poppy stood and ran her hands down the thin cotton dress that barely covered her knees. ‘I’ll manage,’ she said with a sigh. ‘I’ve been managing since I was your age – so there’s no need to worry about me.’ She held out her hand and drew Catriona to her feet. ‘Time to rehearse once more before your da gets back and tears us both off a strip for wasting time. Come on.’

  Catriona saw a new purpose in the way Poppy walked. A new determination in her manner as they went through the routine, and as the day progressed, she began to see that Poppy had to be allowed to choose how she lived her life. She was being selfish in wanting her to stay, she realised. Yet it was hard to think of her somewhere else – hard to come to terms with the fact her family was rapidly being depleted.

  Declan returned from the miners’ camp where he’d been handing out the fliers. He was accompanied by a stranger. A tall, fair-haired man in a top hat, carrying a silver-topped cane, the stranger had a pleasant smile on his handsome face as he was introduced to the gathered troupe.

  ‘This is Francis Kane,’ Declan explained. ‘He’s going to show us where to collect fresh water.’

  ‘Good afternoon, fellow travellers.’ He swept off his hat with a flourish before turning to Velda. ‘Francis Albert Kane at your service, dear lady.’ The stranger bowed low over her hand and kissed the air above her fingers.

  ‘Kane’s an actor,’ explained Declan to the bemused gathering.

  ‘Alas, dear boy, I’ve been caught by the fever of the opals in these less than salubrious surroundings and my career has faltered.’ He settled the fine top hat once more on his fair head. ‘How I yearn to tread the boards again.’

  ‘If you don’t mind hard work, simple food and very little pay, you’re welcome to join us,’ offered Declan.

  ‘Dear boy.’ Kane stood with his hands clasped over his heart long enough to ensure he held centre stage in the circle of players. ‘It would be an honour.’

  Catriona watched him. Not only were his ways flowery and over-enthusiastic, he spoke in an accent she’d never heard before. It was as if he was trying to talk with his mouth full of plums.

  Poppy must have read her thoughts, for she leaned towards her and hissed behind her hand. ‘He’s a Pom. And a toff at that, unless I’m mistaken.’

  ‘He’s funny,’ giggled Catriona.

  Poppy looked towards the newcomer, her expression thoughtful. ‘There’s something ain’t right, though. What’s a bloke like ’im doin’ out ’ere?’ She shook her head. ‘Reckon ’e needs watching – and that’s a fact.’

  Catriona shrugged. Poppy was always suspicious of new people joining the troupe, and she liked the way this man was making everyone laugh. ‘If Da likes him, then that’s good enough for me,’ she said.

  Poppy shrugged. ‘He might sound like an actor, but there ain’t no one I know dresses like that – especially out ’ere.’

  Catriona grimaced. She was bored with this conversation. ‘It’s up to Da. I’m going for a walk,’ she muttered. ‘Catch you later.’

  She clambered down the steep incline to the valley floor and began to hunt for berries in the tangled bushes that grew beneath the slender trees. She watched in delight as the brightly coloured birds squabbled and swooped and jostled for purchase on the overhanging branches. They reminded her of Poppy and the chorus girls who shared a wagon, for they wore brightly coloured plumage even when off the stage, and never stopped chattering and complaining.

  She carried the berries back to camp and helped to finish preparing the last of the vegetables before tipping them into the large pot of goat stew that was simmering over the camp-fire. Along with the damper bread and potatoes baking in the ashes, they would eat well tonight. This area abounded with feral goats, and the song-and-dance man had caught three. The other two had been skinned and salted and were now hanging in the back of his wagon.

  Da was still off somewhere with Mr Kane, and Mam was settling down to do some mending while the light was still good. The horses had been hobbled and were cropping at the poor grass under the wilting stands of trees. The camp was strangely quiet, with most of the occupants preparing for their performance the following day. Even Poppy and the girls were busy sorting their costumes, their voices muted for once as an air of hopelessness hung over then all.

  Catriona was an only child, brought up among adults who treated her as they treated one another – yet she rarely felt the need for other children’s companionship. She was a quick learner, an avid reader and day-dreamer. Poppy was her closest friend, even though she was the same age as her mother, and she’d learned a lot about life from her during their long, whispered conversations in the back of the wagon. Some of it surprising, some of it rather shocking, but always related in such a humorous way Catriona could only laugh and suppose it was all tall tales. Yet she enjoyed her own company best and seeing everyone else occupied, she decided to fetch a blanket and her book and slip away again and find a sheltered, private hollow where she could read in peace.

  Leaving the camp, she found a quiet spot beneath a spreading tree that was out of sight of everyone. Stripping down to her knickers, she kicked off her shoes and socks and lay on the blanket and wa
tched the dappled shadows drift over her naked chest and stomach. A breath of air sifted into the hiding place, making it wonderfully cool after the heat of the long day, and she stretched and yawned with pleasure. Now she knew how cats felt when they were contented.

  Her imagination grew. If this had been water, she would be a mermaid, with a long silvery tail which she’d use to carry her to the dark green, cool depths of the ocean. She’d never seen an ocean, except in story books, but Da had told her what it was like and she could imagine how it must be.

  Sensing she was no longer alone she was startled from her daydreams.

  The silhouette of a man stood close to her on the bank, the sun at his back, masking his features. It was an unfamiliar silhouette and it made her shiver.

  Catriona instinctively sat up and curled her arms around her knees. ‘Who are you?’ she demanded as she squinted into the sun. ‘And what are doing here?’

  ‘The name’s Francis Albert Kane.’ His words rolled from one to another in the rich, rounded tones she’d heard back in the camp. ‘Actor and raconteur of the English stage at your service, mademoiselle.’ He bowed from the waist, his top hat flourished in the same expansive gesture he’d used before.

  Despite his friendly demeanour, she felt uneasy. The years of dressing and undressing in front of the others had erased any shyness, but lately she’d become aware of changes within her body – and her nakedness in front of this stranger made her blush. ‘Turn your back while I get dressed,’ she ordered.

  He picked up the cotton dress and handed it to her before he turned away and regarded the view. ‘Haste thee nymph, and bring with thee jest and youthful jollity.’

  Catriona regarded his back as she quickly pulled the dress over her head. He was tall like her father and, she guessed, of a similar age. But, apart from the obvious need to quote poetry at any opportunity, and the theatrical way he had of talking, there the likeness ended. She went to stand beside him and looked up into his face. He was fair and blue-eyed, with a neat moustache and goatee beard, and as Catriona studied him, she realised his suit looked new and his shoes were polished. Poppy was right. It was strange attire for an opal miner, even if he was a resting actor.