He returned her scrutiny, his expression masking his thoughts from her. ‘Adieu, kind friend, adieu. I can no longer stay with you. I’ll hang my harp on a weeping willow tree, and may the world go well with thee.’
She watched him walk away, his shoulders square, his back straight, the walking stick swinging from an elegant hand that had seen little hard labour. He was an enigma – an intriguing one – but it wouldn’t be wise to trust him, for there was indeed something about Francis Albert Kane that didn’t add up.
*
Everything was ready for tomorrow’s performance and the camp had settled down to sleep. The wagon was long and fairly narrow, with a bed that pulled down each night taking up most of the width at the front. Catriona slept at the far end on a mattress surrounded by costume baskets and boxes. Beneath the wagon was a deep recess where the props and cooking utensils were stored, and above them, suspended from the wooden roof in muslin bags were the wigs and masks, too precious to pack away.
Velda snuggled up to Declan, it was cold at night out here in the high ironstone ridges, and she was grateful for his warmth beneath the blankets. Yet, as tired as she was, she couldn’t sleep. Her mind was churning with worry over their future, and even the arrival of such an august personality as Kane hadn’t brought hope. There was a two-pronged attack on their way of life. Not only was the Depression slowly killing them – draining them of energy and enthusiasm – the moving pictures had arrived, offering images of comedy and drama that were impossible to mirror on stage. It seemed that no one wanted to visit the Music Hall anymore.
She lay there in the darkness, her head cushioned by Declan’s arm, his fingers gently caressing her shoulder. There had been endless discussions as to what to do for the best, but it seemed there was only one answer. To give up the travelling life. To try and find work in the city theatres – even if it meant going into Vaudeville. She shuddered. No self-respecting artiste would stoop so low, and she’d rather sweep the streets than get into the company of common strippers and off-colour comedians.
As always, Declan seemed to sense her thoughts. ‘We’ll find a way,’ he whispered. ‘Perhaps Mr Kane’s arrival will be the start of better things.’
Mindful of Catriona sleeping at the other end of the wagon, she kept her voice to a murmur. ‘Mr Kane’s certainly very entertaining,’ she agreed. ‘It’s been a long time since we’ve laughed so much.’
He must have heard the doubt in her voice, for he pulled her to him and kissed her forehead. ‘He’s a born raconteur. I don’t know why he ever left the stage.’
Velda shifted in his embrace and pulled the blanket up to her chin. She could see the panoply of stars through the chink in the heavy curtains at the end of the wagon and hear the wind in the trees. ‘What’s his story?’ she asked when she’d settled again.
Declan chuckled. ‘They all have one, don’t they?’
He was silent for a moment and Velda wondered what he was thinking. A lot of the men and women who had travelled with them over the past eleven years had done so because they were escaping something – or someone. It was a fact that a lot of the players had secrets and it was accepted and not questioned, as long as they proved their worth and didn’t bring disgrace to the company. But Kane was different, and Velda was finding it hard to place him.
‘We had a long talk when we went to fetch the water from the sheep station. He’s from England, of course, with an accent like that he couldn’t be from anywhere else.’ Velda heard the smile in his voice. ‘He came out here several years ago with a touring company and when he was offered a place with a Sydney theatrical company, he stayed. He’s worked in all the best theatres, lucky beggar.’
Velda shifted in his arms and looked at him. ‘Then why is he in Lightning Ridge?’
Declan shrugged. ‘It’s like he said. He got the mining bug and decided to try his luck. By all accounts he did well in the goldfields, and thought he’d come here and see if his luck held.’
‘So why does he want to join us?’ Velda persisted. ‘If he’s got money why doesn’t he go back to the city?’
‘I didn’t ask him. You know the rules, Velda. A man is entitled to privacy – we never pry.’
Velda was far from satisfied. ‘Poppy doesn’t trust him,’ she muttered. ‘And neither do I. He’s not one of us.’
Declan shifted on to his elbow and looked down at her. ‘He’s an actor – and even has the theatre programmes to prove it. But the best thing about him is that he has money in the bank and will not be asking for wages all the time he is with us.’
Velda stared at him. ‘And you don’t think that’s just a little too convenient?’
Declan rested back on the pillows and pulled the blanket up to his ears as he turned on to his side. ‘It suits our purpose for the moment,’ he mumbled into the kapok. ‘You shouldn’t be so suspicious, Velda. The man has a right to lead his life in any way he wishes, it’s not for us to question his motives.’
Velda was far from satisfied, but she had to bow to Declan’s decision. Perhaps Kane would indeed prove a blessing – but her instincts told her otherwise.
*
The show was scheduled to begin at eleven o’clock in the morning. The stage was a square of flattened earth, the audience would sit on blankets in a semi-circle before it. Sheets of tarpaulin and old velvet curtains hung from surrounding trees to give the impression of wings. Declan’s pulpit looked shabby in the bright sunlight as it stood to one side, and the old piano which was standing in the back of a wagon was out of tune, but the depleted cast, despite their gloomy mood, were dressed and made up, ready to perform.
The time ticked away and Catriona watched her father check his pocket-watch a dozen times before the first of their audience trickled in. They were a strange sight, these men who lived on The Ridge. Thin to the point of emaciation, their ragged clothes bore the dirt and sweat of their work in the deep opal mines that pitted the ironstone Ridge. Their hair was long and unkempt, their beards straggling down to their chests looking for all the world as if they’d never seen sight of soap and water. They came in ones and twos, their eyes downcast and suspicious as they paid their pennies and took their places.
‘Bloody hell,’ muttered Poppy. ‘I seen more life in a bloody corpse.’
‘Then, my dear, we must liven them up.’ Kane smiled and twirled his walking stick. ‘I’ve already done my part by selling them the last of my beer, so come on girls, show them what you can do.’ He looked across at Declan who nodded to the pianist.
At the first note the three girls ruffled their skirts and with wild whoops they danced on to the stage and began their routine of high kicks and twirls.
Catriona glanced at the miners. The sight of the girls had indeed dragged them from their stupor, and one or two of them were clapping in time and grinning. Kane’s supply of beer had already been snapped up, and this was adding to their enthusiasm. As long as things didn’t get out of hand, she thought. She’d seen what happened when the audience was drunk before, and didn’t want to witness it again. Things had turned nasty and fighting had broken out, and Da had had to wade in and rescue some of the girls.
When the girls finished dancing Declan introduced Max and his little dog. There were jeers of derision and calls for the girls to return. Max left the stage halfway through his act and left the jugglers and acrobats to take his place. But the audience would not be appeased. The drink was beginning to take its hold, and they didn’t want to watch the song and dance man, neither did they want to listen to Velda and her voice was drowned by whistles and shouts and ribald comments.
She came off stage and took Catriona’s hand. ‘You won’t be going on stage today,’ she said urgently. ‘It might turn nasty. When your da’s finished his recitation, he’s putting the girls on again. We’re to load up and be ready to leave the minute they’re finished.’
Catriona helped her mother pack up the wagon and draw Jupiter back between the traces. Velda hid the meagre takings in a ti
n and bundled it in between the folds of the costumes she’d already packed, then she climbed up on the buckboard and took the reins. ‘Get inside,’ she ordered. ‘And don’t come out until I say so.’
Catriona sat in the back of the wagon and peeked through the curtains. The girls were back on stage, but apart from Kane and Da, the other players had quietly packed up and returned to their wagons. Da’s pulpit was being hefted onto the back of a wagon, the two men struggling with the weight, sweating from the heat and exertion as the girls drew out their performance to play for time. Dust was kicked up by their feet as they swung round, their skirts lifting enough to give the watching miners a glimpse of shapely thigh and well-turned calf. Whistles and cheers encouraged them on and on, and Poppy darted anxious glances across at Declan, waiting for the signal to leave the stage and run.
Declan looked around him and saw all was ready. With a nod to Kane, the two men strode forward onto the earthen stage. This was the cue the girls had been waiting for and they swiftly left for the wagons. Declan tried to restore order as the mood turned ugly and the miners got to their feet, cursing and shouting that they’d been cheated out of their money.
Catriona watched, her pulse racing, her mouth dry as the men formed an angry phalanx around her father and Kane. Then Kane raised a hand and the glitter of silver sparkled in the air. As one the men began to scrabble in the dirt, fighting and jostling to retrieve the coins.
Unseen and unheeded, the two men made their escape. Kane to his fine chestnut gelding, Declan to the safety of the buckboard. ‘Go,’ he shouted above the noise. ‘Go before they realise what we’ve done.’
Catriona was thrown to the floor of the wagon as Velda slapped the reins across Jupiter’s broad back and the big horse broke into a gallop. The costume basket scratched her arm and she felt the bruising thud of something hard hit her leg, but the thrill of it all, mixed with the fear they might be caught meant she felt little pain. And yet, as the hectic flight eventually slowed to a more leisurely and sedate plod along the Outback track, she realised her way of life was indeed coming to an end. It was no longer a case of if it would happen, but how soon.
Chapter Three
There was a sense of defeat hanging over them as the two wagons rolled along the wide dirt road which ran through the tiny settlement of Goondiwindi and disappeared beyond the horizon. Goondiwindi was an Aboriginal name – it meant the resting place of the birds – yet Catriona wondered if the troupe would ever find a resting place where they were welcome. With the advent of talking pictures, and the lure of the bright lights of the cities, the troupe had dwindled further during the months following the disaster of Lightning Ridge. They could no longer compete with the marvel of the flickering screen that brought a whole new, exciting world to the Outback people and the audiences numbered so few it was hardly worth the effort to unpack and rehearse.
Catriona sat between her parents and tried hard to lift her spirits by finding something hopeful in the random collection of ramshackle buildings that made up Goondiwindi. The Victorian Customs House looked fine enough, but its appearance was incongruous against the dusty shacks which passed for shops and feed-stores. A wooden church stood in a weed-strewn yard, its timbers weathered, the windows boarded up. The only sign of life seemed to come from the hotel where, by the sound of breaking glass and much shouting, there was a fight in progress.
She heard her father sigh as he brought the horse to a standstill. ‘It’ll be right, Da,’ she said with forced cheerfulness – the deep-seated hope that she was to be proved right making her voice unsteady. ‘If there’s a hotel, then at least we’ve got a chance of an audience.’
Declan Summers’ eyes were dark with worry, his brow creased in a frown as he watched the brawl spill through the hotel doors and out into the street. He steadied Jupiter as he shied from the violent scuffle, and coaxed him across the street to the water trough and out of harm’s way. ‘There’s nothing here for us,’ he said almost to himself. ‘Look at the posters. The moving pictures are due to arrive tomorrow. They won’t want to be spending their money on us.’
‘That’s defeatist talk, and I won’t be having it,’ retorted Velda. ‘We need the money to get to the coast, so we have to persuade them we’re worth a few pennies.’ She climbed down from the wagon, brushed the dust from her dress and tucked a few stray wisps of hair back into the knot at her nape. ‘Are you coming with me, Declan, or do you propose to sit up there all day?’
Declan’s smile was wan, but he seemed to gather strength from her unusual burst of determination and his shoulders weren’t quite as slumped as he joined his wife in the dusty street. ‘Would it not be better to let them finish fighting first?’ he enquired as he collected his top hat and dusted it down with scant enthusiasm.
‘Not at all,’ she said firmly. ‘What they need is a wake-up call. Don’t you agree, Mr Kane?’ She looked up at the Englishman who was still astride his dusty horse, silently pleading with him to take charge.
‘Indeed, Mrs Summers,’ he replied, his eyes squinted against the sun as he watched the half-dozen men wrestling and throwing punches. He turned in the saddle after a swift glance at Declan. ‘Poppy. Break out the drum and anything else you can get a tune out of. It’s time to let this godforsaken place know we’ve arrived.’
Poppy grimaced. ‘Righto,’ she replied. ‘But I ain’t getting down off this wagon until the dust settles.’
Kane handed out the penny whistles and the tambourines and propped the big bass drum on the buckdboard in front of Catriona. ‘Let’s see how hard you can hit that,’ he encouraged with a smile.
Catriona grinned as she beat the drum enthusiastically. She’d learned to like Mr Kane during the past six months. He made her laugh, and his stories were so enthralling she would sit for hours listening to him, forgetting the time and the work to be done. Mam and Da seemed to like him too, and as they relied on him even more now the troupe was so depleted, she had pushed aside her doubts and Poppy’s obvious dislike of the man, and decided to make up her own mind about him.
At the sound of the ragged music, the fighting came to a confused halt. The hotel doors were flung open and bleary eyes rounded in astonishment at the sight and sound of the remnants of Summers’ Music Hall.
Catriona watched as Kane shook the tambourine and made his horse prance in circles among the bewildered men who only a moment before had been beating seven bells out of each other, and who now scurried away from the flashing hoofs. She grinned as she continued beating the drum, for Poppy had decided to join in the fun and was now doing the can-can, skirts lifted high, long legs and jewelled headdress flashing in the sun. It never ceased to amaze Catriona at the speed with which Poppy could slip into costume, for only minutes before she’d been wearing a cotton dress and sensible shoes.
Max carried the ageing Patch as Kane led the way, coaxing his horse up the wooden steps and through the hotel door, stooping to avoid the overhead beam. Catriona jumped down from the wagon and steadied the old man as he shuffled after Kane. Max was well past retirement age, and so was Patch, but Catriona knew she and the others were his only family and none of them had had the heart to leave him to the mercies of any of the old folks’ homes they’d passed during their travels. The women stayed outside the hotel bar – it was an unwritten law that no female should enter the hallowed grounds of such a male-orientated den of iniquity – but they stood in the doorway, their worries for the future momentarily forgotten as they watched the fun.
Kane brought his horse to a standstill at the bar. ‘For the price of a glass of beer, we bring you entertainment,’ he said into the stunned silence. ‘For these few coppers we will bring you the delights of Paris and the Moulin Rouge,’ he swept his arm out to indicate Poppy who was standing in the doorway and ruffling her skirts. ‘The delights of The Bard.’ Declan bowed. ‘And the Songbird of the South, Velda Summers.’ Velda dipped a curtsy, her cheeks reddening beneath the impudent stares of the men in the bar.
The
silence was profound, the tableau before Catriona frozen in this one moment of time which would decide their fate. Kane’s horse shifted and snorted and lifted its tail as it deposited a pile of steaming dung on the dusty floor.
The collective trance was broken as the circle of men stepped back. ‘You’ll clean up that flamin’ mess, mate, and clear off out of it,’ shouted the red-faced barman. ‘Bringin’ flamin’ horses in ’ere. Whatever next?’
Poppy pushed through the door and, disregarding the horrified glares, flounced up to the bar. ‘That’s lucky mate,’ she said, chucking the barman under the chin. ‘In fact, this is your lucky day all round. Now, ’ow’s about giving us a chance to entertain you?’ She turned and flashed a grin at the astonished audience. ‘Looks like you could do with something to cheer you all up, and it won’t cost more than a few pennies.’
‘Flamin’ gypsies,’ muttered the barman. ‘Worse than flamin’ Abos.’ He folded his arms over his chest. ‘I ain’t having no painted tarts prancing about in my hotel. Clean that up and get out, before I set me dogs on the lot of yer.’
‘I ain’t no tart,’ shouted Poppy. ‘I’m a theatrical.’
The barman leaned over the bar, his fat red face close to Poppy’s. ‘Whatever you choose to call yerself, it still comes down to the same thing. If it’s whoring you’re after, then we can come to some arrangement – otherwise you can clear off with the others.’
Catriona saw the spirit go out of Poppy, and it was in that moment she realised they had reached rock-bottom. For Poppy could always find something to smile about, could always dredge up the energy to give an argument or wheedle her way in or out of things. This time she was struck dumb, and Catriona could see the tears glisten on her rouged cheeks as she turned and fled.
Dreamscapes Page 4
