Dreamscapes

by Tamara McKinley

  Declan looked up at her and blew her a kiss before tugging at his tailed jacket and tweaking his bow-tie. With a signal to the musicians he led the procession into town. Drum and pipe, tambour, penny whistle, accordion and violin accompanied their slow, majestic advance. The horses stepped out, their great hoofs lifting the dust, their heads high as if they knew they were on show. The showgirls ruffled their skirts and showed shapely legs, the acrobats tumbled and cartwheeled in their white leotards, the jugglers threw balls and clubs and Declan’s powerful baritone soared above it all in song.

  The people of Charleville lined the street and watched in wonder as the children ran alongside the wagons and tried to catch the sweets Velda and the other drivers threw down to them. Men hung over the balconies and shouted ribald encouragement to the chorus girls, while the women admired the acrobats’ muscles and fluttered their handkerchiefs at Declan. The horses resting at the hitching posts propped and stamped at all the noise, and several dogs raced in and out of the parading feet, barking and snapping at the unusual sights and sounds. Patch snarled back, teeth bared, ready to see off these local intruders into his parade and show them he was no pushover despite the spangled ruff around his neck.

  The cavalcade came to a standstill in the centre of town, and Declan climbed up to join Velda on the wagon. With a flourish of his top hat he silenced the music, and the crowds. ‘Citizens of Charleville,’ he boomed from his stance on the buckboard. ‘It is our delicious design to declare our dedicated demonstrations for your delectation and delight.’ He paused, for timing was all in this business. ‘Our illustrious illusionist will illustrate his inimitable imagination and immeasurable insights into the mystic.’

  Velda grinned as the oohs and aahs rippled through the watching townsfolk. Declan never failed to capture his audience with his tongue-twisting Master of Ceremonies act. No one would ever know how difficult it was to find the right words and string them together, and then deliver them with such wonderfully rolling aplomb.

  As Declan stirred the audience into further rapturous applause, Velda gasped. The pain had suddenly returned, deeper now, like a vice around the lower half of her belly. Her hands trembled on the reins and she licked the sweat from her top lip. She could feel the rapid beat of her pulse, the lightness in her head and the overwhelming need to be out of the sun. She longed to lie down, yet she had to remain on the hard wooden seat in the debilitating glare of an Outback afternoon, for this was the only time they had to encourage people to part with their money. She was trapped; hemmed in by wagons and horses and people. She looked down at the others who were weaving in and out of the crowd as they passed out the flyers and balloons – it wouldn’t be long now, she kept saying to herself, but oh, how the minutes seemed to drag.

  Declan finally sat down to rapturous applause, and after a swift glance of concern at Velda, took the reins and led the procession to the wide entrance at the side of the Coronas Hotel. The cobbled yard echoed with the trundle of wagon wheels and the heavy clop of the horses’ hoofs, but the sun was low enough in the sky to be hidden by the tall building, and for this Velda was grateful. She was sweating, her pulse racing as the deep pains tore through her and made her catch her breath. She leaned on Declan as he helped her down and led her into the cool of the hall.

  ‘I should be getting the doctor,’ he muttered as he and Poppy settled her in a nest of pillows in a corner.

  She nodded. ‘I’ll feel better if you do,’ she murmured. ‘We don’t want to risk losing this baby too.’ She saw the pain flit in his eyes and forced a smile. ‘It’s probably only a false alarm, but it’s best to make sure, don’t you think?’

  Declan hovered, obviously torn between his duty to his wife and the needs of the troupe who were beginning to argue amongst themselves.

  Poppy folded her arms and looked down at her. ‘You don’t look right,’ she stated. ‘Better get the doc, mate, before she pops.’

  ‘Declan’s just going to find him,’ Velda said with a firmness that sent her husband striding out of the hall. ‘Clear off and sort those girls out, Poppy. They’re fighting again.’

  Poppy grimaced as she shrugged. ‘So what else is new?’ she said. ‘Silly cows don’t know when they’re well off.’

  Velda couldn’t help but smile. Poppy called a spade a shovel and didn’t give a damn for convention. ‘Make us a cup of tea first, Pops. There’s a mate.’

  Poppy grinned, the freckles dancing across her nose. ‘Righto. Won’t be a tick.’ She marched off, skirts swinging, heels tapping on the wooden floor, voice raised above the gabble of the other chorus girls as she ordered someone to find the kettle and primus stove amongst the bags and baskets.

  Velda leaned back against the cushions and listened, eyes closed, as the dressing-rooms were lamented upon, the lavatory deplored, and space was fought for as boxes and baskets were unpacked. It was bliss to be out of the sun – to be lying down and apart from the chaos.

  Declan eventually returned, his expression grim. ‘The doctor’s out of town,’ he said, worry starkly etched in his eyes. ‘But he’s expected back at any minute.’ He took her hand and raised it to his lips. ‘It will be all right, darlin’, I promise.’

  The panic was rising. How could he be so certain? What if something were to go wrong? She felt the tears threaten and wanted to scream and shout and demand a doctor’s help – yet she knew that histrionics would get her nowhere this time. She and Declan were helpless in the hands of fate.

  ‘I’ll be fine,’ she said with as much firmness as she could muster under the circumstances. ‘Go and sort out the troupe. Poppy will look after me.’

  He kissed her cheek, hovered a moment more, then left her side as Poppy returned with her cup of tea.

  ‘Where’s the doc?’ she asked, the concern darkening her blue eyes.

  ‘Out of town,’ Velda grimaced. ‘I think it might have started for real this time, Pops.’ She grabbed Poppy’s hand. ‘Run back to the hotel and see if he’s on his way, or if there’s anyone else who can help. But don’t tell Declan until we know for sure this isn’t a false alarm. I don’t want him worrying any more.’

  ‘If you say so,’ Poppy replied, looking unconvinced.

  Velda nodded firmly. ‘Dec’s got enough on his plate – and you’ve seen how he is, Pops. He hasn’t a clue and will only panic.’

  Poppy plumped the cushions and turned away. Velda sipped her tea, and as the minutes passed, she began to feel a bit of a fraud. The pains had stopped as suddenly as they had started, and apart from feeling wrung out, there really wasn’t much wrong with her. Still, she thought, it would do no harm to have a doctor nearby in case things went all of a rush again.

  Poppy returned some time later, flushed and sweating. ‘The doc’s still out somewhere, but he’s expected back tonight,’ she said breathlessly. ‘I ’ad to run all the bloody way through the town to his ’ouse, but ’is missus is real nice and she says she’ll send ’im over the minute ’e’s back.’

  Velda digested this news and realised there was little she could do about it. At least the pains had stopped and they weren’t in the middle of nowhere, she reasoned. This time, she stood a better chance of delivering a live baby. Deciding she’d had enough of sitting around, and despite Poppy’s protests, she hauled herself to her feet. ‘Time I got to work,’ she said firmly. ‘Can’t be sitting around here when there’s so much to do, and I need to get my mind occupied by something else.’

  Declan turned from hanging the stage curtains. ‘You’ll stay there,’ he said firmly. ‘There’s nothing for you to do but look after yourself and our baby.’

  Velda argued her point, but it didn’t sound convincing even to her, and when Declan refused to listen she sank gratefully back into the nest of cushions. Yet, despite feeling pampered and at ease, it was with growing frustration that she watched the familiar routines of setting up for the show. She should have been helping with the props and the costume baskets – should have been stringing up the curtain
s and sweeping the stage – instead of which, she was lying here feeling as fat and indolent as a well-fed cat.

  At last the hall was ready. The hotel’s plush seats were placed in orderly rows and the red velvet curtains they’d found in a cupboard backstage looked grand against the pristine white paint of the hall. The footlights were a marvel of invention, already in place and linked to the hotel’s power supply which came from an enormous generator out the back – so much more sophisticated than the old gaslights they were used to.

  With everything in place, Declan and two of the other men turned their attention to his special rostrum. This was an old pulpit, found during the renovation of a country church and bought for a song – literally – for Declan had given a solo performance of his favourite arias to the circle of delighted women who were in charge of church funds, and who were only too willing to let him have the old pulpit in retum.

  This edifice had been cushioned with kapok and covered with the deepest red velvet. Thick gold braid had been stitched decoratively onto the velvet and great tassels dangled from the sides. Once it was heaved into place on the edge of the stage, Declan would use it to introduce the acts and entertain the audience, his gavel at the ready, his convoluted script word-perfect.

  Velda’s anxiety grew as there was no further word on the doctor’s progress. Yet there was nothing she could do about it, and when she was finally allowed to move from her nest of cushions and was made comfortable backstage in an ancient wicker chair, she kept her mind occupied by mediating in arguments, helping to tie laces and, with her friend Poppy, generally keep the peace.

  Night fell swiftly in the Outback, and lights were switched on as the excitement grew and their audience began to trickle in to take their seats. The orchestra was small, but skilled, and with the combined efforts of the accordion, the drum, piano and the violin, they soon had their audience clapping along in time to their favourite tunes.

  Velda had helped as best she could in the dressing-room – a tight squeeze with so many people jostling for elbow-room – and had fixed broken fans, stitched laddered stockings, sorted out fights amongst the girls and generally tried to keep order. Now she was tired, the pain having returned in unrelenting waves which threatened to overwhelm her. Yet she knew she must keep going and not let anyone see how bad it was – the show had to go on and the players must not be distracted. If the worst came to the worst, then she’d slip out during the performance and get help in the hotel, for Poppy had assured her the doctor was on his way.

  The excited buzz of conversation grew as the lights dimmed and the curtains were pulled back to reveal Poppy and the five other dancing girls doing their high-kicks. The rest of the troupe was waiting in the wings. The show had begun.

  Velda was finally alone in the dressing-room and she listened to the music, and the thud of the dancers’ feet on the wooden stage. She could smell the dust of the hall, the pungent odour of camphor and greasepaint and the perfume of the women in the audience. Her heightened senses picked out a bum note played by the violinist, the missed cue by the leading chorus girl who should have come in two chords earlier, and the slap of the ceiling fan which stirred the humid air to little effect.

  Declan’s voice reverberated to the rafters as he did his speech from the Scottish play, and Velda sank back in the wicker chair gasping with the pain. It was a vice, squeezing ever more strongly, taking her breath away, leaving her in a void where no sound could be heard, nothing could be seen or experienced but the core of agony.

  The fear was deep and unremitting. She should have gone to the hotel earlier and asked for help – should have heeded her body’s warnings and not put her unborn child at risk for the sake of a performance. She tried to call out, but the audience was laughing and clapping and her voice was lost. Breathing sharp, shallow breaths, she struggled to her feet and edged her way from the stifling room into the narrow corridor which led to the wings. If she could catch someone’s attention, then she would be all right, she kept telling herself. If not, then she would just have to get on with it alone and hope she could reach the hotel in time.

  ‘Stupid,’ she gasped. ‘How stupid not to get help sooner.’

  The girls came running off the stage and nearly knocked her over. ‘Velda?’ Poppy caught her arm and just managed to keep her on her feet.

  ‘It’s started,’ Velda hissed. ‘Go and get help. Quickly.’

  Poppy took charge as she always did in moments of crisis. She was a sensible girl, with very little talent, but with stunning good looks, a superb figure and sweet nature. She glared at the other five girls and started whispering rapid instructions. One of them ran out into the darkness heading for the hotel, and the others helped Velda back into the dressing-room. A makeshift bed was laid out on the floor, using old curtains, pillows and pilfered sheets Poppy had hidden in her costume basket.

  Velda knew Poppy had the acquisitive nature of a magpie and was past caring where the sheets had come from. The pain was deeper now, coming in wave after wave. Her waters had broken and she knew she must give birth soon. As she sweated and strained and waited for news of the doctor’s arrival, she could hear Declan introducing Max and his little dog. The sound of his voice soothed her a little and she struggled to keep her cries soft so they wouldn’t spoil his performance. She could do this, she told herself. She could do this without him.

  ‘Where’s the doctor?’ she gasped as she held on to Poppy’s hand.

  ‘He’s still up country,’ replied Poppy, her usually cheerful face stern with worry. ‘It’s a good thing I ’elped me mum with all ’er sprogs, so I knows what to do. Come on Velda. Just tell me when you’re ready for the big one, and we’ll have this little bugger born in no time.’

  Velda gathered all her remaining energy and with one great heave, felt her child slither from her. Falling back against the makeshift bed, she had only one thought. ‘Is it breathing?’ she asked as Poppy cut the cord and swiftly bundled it into a towel.

  As if in reply, the baby let out a lusty yell and waved its fists in the air, kicking tiny, chubby legs in protest at being so rudely disturbed. The protest didn’t stop as Poppy washed and cleaned and tidied up.

  Velda’s tears were hot on her cheeks as she reached for her child. The pain and fear were forgotten as she held the wriggling, protesting little being in her arms and looked down with a heart-swell of such emotion she would have been hard pressed to describe it.

  The thunder of feet down the passageway heralded Declan’s arrival. ‘I heard a baby crying,’ he said as he fell to his knees and gathered his wife and child into his embrace. ‘My darling, darling girl. Why didn’t you tell me?’

  ‘And stop the show?’ She grinned. ‘Never – we have a tradition to keep, remember?’

  Declan gently took the baby from her and cradled it in his arms. ‘Then the tradition must be properly fulfilled,’ he said, the tears sparkling in his eyes and running unheeded down his handsome face.

  Velda knew what he was going to do, and struggled to her feet. Waving away all protests from the girls, she took his arm and, leaning heavily against him, walked with him back into the wings. With a nod of encouragement, she slumped against the solid old walls of the country hall and watched as Declan strode out on to the stage. Without a doubt, she thought, I belong with this man – and now we are complete.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ boomed Declan as he stood in the foot-lights and held the tightly wrapped baby up to show the audience. ‘I give you Catriona Summers. The new star of Summers’ Music Hall.’

  Chapter Two

  ‘Kitty, will you be hurrying up, girl? We’re leaving.’

  Catriona, startled from her day-dreams, looked up at her mother and blinked. She had been so lost in the beauty of her surroundings she had forgotten everything else. ‘Do we have to go, Mam?’ she asked. ‘I like it here.’

  Velda Summers gave her a swift hug, enveloping her in slender arms and the fragrance of her flowery perfume. ‘I know, acushla, but we
have to move on.’ She drew back and held Catriona at arm’s length as she smiled. ‘We’ll come this way again, Kitty. But you know how it is.’

  Catriona sighed. She’d been born in the dusty dressing-room of a country hall during one of their performances. Her cradle had been a costume basket, her home a brightly decorated wagon, her life – all ten years of it – spent following the dirt tracks that crisscrossed the great Australian Outback.

  Another town meant another show – an endless circle of tramping the tracks, of rehearsals and costume fittings – of being regarded by the townspeople as an outsider, a gypsy. Her friends were the men and women of the troupe – her education overseen by her Da, who made her learn great reams of Shakespeare and expected her to perform them on stage once she was old enough to understand the importance of playing to an audience.

  She’d been born to the smell of greasepaint and sweat and the travelling life, but every now and then she longed for peace, for silence and the chance to remain in one place for more than a few days without the accompanying racket of showgirls and artistes. The idea of school, of friends her own age was enticing, but she knew it was only a dream for, as her parents had often told her, people such as them were not meant to live a commonplace kind of life – she was a star of the stage, and necessarily stood apart from mere mortals.

  Catriona looked into the violet eyes with their thick black lashes and wished she could tell her mother her thoughts. Yet she knew that if she did, Velda would dismiss them as childish day-dreams, the wish for something not yet experienced that would only disappoint if it was tried. ‘When will we come back?’ she persisted.

  Velda shrugged her elegant shoulders. ‘Soon,’ she murmured, her thoughts obviously elsewhere. She reached for Catriona’s hand. ‘Come on. Or the wagons will be leaving without us.’

  Catriona stepped to one side, avoiding the outstretched hand. She wanted to look one last time at the homestead which nestled deep in the great valley below her. Sheltered by stands of eucalyptus, and surrounded by outbuildings, it looked cosy and welcoming – looked like home.