Like the owner, the boarding house had seen better, more youthful days. It stood three storeys high, cheek-by-jowl with its neighbours in a long, dilapidated terrace that climbed up a steep hill and afforded a good view of the city from the attic windows. The rooms were cheaply furnished, but clean, and the five lodgers shared a single bathroom and ate their breakfast and evening meal downstairs the comfortable kitchen.
*
Catriona leaned on the window-sill and looked out over the roofs to the city. It was a clear, cold winter aftemoon and she could just make out the blue glimmer of the harbour. Yet, in this quiet moment she thought she could detect the hues of the Outback in the far distance, and could catch the scent of eucalyptus and pine and the dry, dusty aroma of dirt tracks. How she missed the freedom of the tracks, the sound of a wagon rattling over the ruts as the plod of the shires took them further and further into the wilderness.
‘Hurry up, Kitty,’ said Velda as she bustled about the room gathering up their coats and hats. ‘We’ll be late, and it’s a long walk.’
Catriona turned from the window and watched her mother moving about the small room they shared. Velda now lived her life almost in silence, as if afraid to speak in case once started she wouldn’t be able to stop. Yet she was always on the move – rushing here and there, never still, as if she was trying to escape something – trying to cheat time. She was too thin, her face lacked animation and her eyes were dull, and although she moved swiftly with her customary grace, Catriona could see the tension in her thin frame.
‘There’s plenty of time, Mam,’ she said softly. ‘We aren’t due to start our shift until six.’
‘I want to get there early tonight,’ she replied as she put on her hat and applied lipstick to her pale mouth.
Catriona shoved her feet into low-heeled pumps, pulled on the thin coat and reached for her hat. It was old and battered despite the cotton flowers she’d sewn onto the band, but it would have to do. There was little enough money coming in, without wasting it on luxuries. ‘We won’t get paid extra, so why bother?’ she asked as she searched for her scarf and gloves.
‘I’ve got something to discuss with the owner,’ said Velda mysteriously. ‘And the best time to do that is before the evening rush.’
Catriona watched as Velda tugged the counterpanes straight on the narrow single beds and smoothed the pillows before turning to the dressing table to tidy the few bits and pieces that lay strewn across it. Always tidying, fidgeting, smoothing and adjusting, Velda was driven. ‘What’s so important it can’t wait?’ Catriona asked.
‘I’ll tell you later,’ said Velda as she snatched up the cheap handbag and headed for the door.
Catriona realised she wouldn’t get anything more from her, and yearned for the easy way they’d once had with each other. The companionship and love they had once shared had been cast aside for an almost formal co-habitation. Yet the years since her father’s death had changed both of them, and Catriona knew this state of affairs would remain as it was. For Velda’s way of coping with tragedy had been to withdraw, and Catriona had been forced to put her own fears and nightmares aside and try to face the future with hope: for without hope there was nothing.
She looked back at the room they’d shared for almost a year and checked that the gas fire was out and the windows locked. It was a small room divided from the other half of the attic by a partition wall, and space was at a premium with the two beds, a hefty wardrobe, chest of drawers and a dressing-table filling every available inch. This claustrophobic space could never be home but it provided shelter, and that was all that mattered. She slammed the door and ran down the stairs to catch up with Velda.
Doris was, as usual, sitting in her over-stuffed chair by the window, and Catriona waved to her as they hurried down the hill towards the city. She liked Doris, and had spent many happy hours listening to the stories of her youth and the adventures of her seafaring husband. They were a welcome relief after Velda’s long silences.
Sydney was bustling and noisy from the trams that rattled down the centre of the broad main streets. Men and women hurried along the pavements, bundled against the crisp winter afternoon in coats and scarves. The Depression had hit Sydney, just as it had rocked the rest of the world, and its effect could still be seen in the many boarded-up windows and neglected buildings that had once been profitable business establishments.
And yet there was evidence that the bad times were coming to an end. Some of the businesses that had scraped survival were now taking on new employees, factories had begun to return to production and the hotels were at last beginning to fill again. Not everyone had lost their fortunes; in fact, for the canny few, it was a boom period, and the black market in cheap property, cheap labour and cheap liquor thrived.
The Hyde Hotel stood squarely in Macquarie Street. It had once been a rich man’s mansion, with elegant verandahs and manicured Italianate gardens, but the owner had gone bankrupt and it had fallen into disrepair. After his suicide, the beautiful old house had been sold at auction for a pittance. Robert Thomas, the new owner, had an eye for the main chance. He pooled together the resources of his widespread family and went into business, with ambitions for making this the best hotel in the city. He was already well on the way to seeing that dream realised, for the hotel was always full, the dining room busy, and the newly refurbished cocktail lounge had become a popular meeting place for Sydney’s elite.
Catriona followed her mother along the side of the hotel to the staff entrance. She hung up her coat and hat, pulled off her gloves and scarf, and reached for the black dress, white apron and cap she had to wear in the dining room.
Her mother’s hand stilled her. ‘Don’t get changed yet,’ she said. ‘Come with me.’
Catriona frowned. Her mother was acting very strangely, and there seemed to be a pent-up excitement about her – an animation that had been missing for too long. ‘What’s all this about, Mam?’ she demanded as she was pulled into the staff cloakroom and steered towards the brightly lit mirror above the line of basins.
Velda pulled one of her dresses from the voluminous bag she was carrying. ‘Put this on,’ she ordered. ‘Then I’ll see to your hair and make-up.’
Catriona became aware that her mouth was open. She snapped it shut and looked at the dress her mother had thrust at her. It was Velda’s favourite, and her best, a memento of the early days when she could afford such things. ‘I’m not doing anything until you tell me what this is about,’ she said stubbornly.
‘You’ll do as I say and get a move on,’ snapped Velda as she tugged Catriona’s sweater over her head and began to unfasten the button on her skirt. ‘Mr Thomas is waiting, and you have to give a good impression of yourself.’
‘I’ve already got a job waiting tables,’ said Catriona as she stepped out of her skirt, lifted her arms and felt the soft chiffon drift down and over her body. It was cool and rustling, skimming over her hips and finishing above her knees in handkerchief points.
‘You weren’t meant to be a waitress,’ Velda snapped as she flourished a hairbrush. ‘You have a voice, a voice that should be heard, and Mr Thomas is a man of influence. He has the contacts, and will help get you noticed if this audition goes well.’
Catriona stood in silent terror before her mother as Velda brushed her long dark hair and fixed it into an elegant chignon. She saw the determination in Velda’s eyes, in the set of her mouth and in the quick, sure strokes as she applied powder, lipstick and mascara. There was no point in arguing when her Mam was like this.
‘There,’ Velda said with a nod of satisfaction. ‘Look in the mirror. Tell me what you see.’
Catriona turned and found a stranger staring back at her. ‘I see a woman,’ she breathed.
‘Precisely,’ muttered Velda as she fixed a string of beads around Catriona’s neck and clipped on matching earrings. ‘A beautiful young woman.’ She took Catriona’s arms in her cold hands and turned her to face her. ‘Mr Thomas has an important man with
him this evening, Catriona,’ she said fiercely. ‘Show him just how talented you are, and the world will be your oyster.’
Catriona stared at her mother in horror. It was as if Velda was putting her up for sale.
‘Don’t look at me like that,’ she snapped. ‘I haven’t spent my time coaching you for it all to come to nothing.’ She tugged the strap over Catriona’s slender shoulder and nodded with satisfaction. ‘Come on. We mustn’t keep him waiting.’
Catriona’s mouth was dry with terror as Velda grabbed her hand and pulled her down the long corridor towards the basement lounge. It had been years since her last stage performance, and although she had practised every day, she was so nervous she felt quite ill and was convinced she wouldn’t be able to utter a note.
The basement lounge ran the full length and breadth of the hotel. It was sumptuously decorated in black and white, with the odd splash of deep scarlet in the banquettes and chair cushions. Lit by a vast chandelier that was reflected in a multitude of mirrors, it was a glaring stage-setting, the likes of which Catriona had never seen.
The floor was highly polished, the small tables and gilt chairs by the dance floor looked inviting, and the velvet banquettes set around the walls offered an intimacy for those who wished a degree of privacy. A piano stood to one side of the tiny stage which had a backdrop of black velvet that had been stitched with crystals to catch the light and give the impression of a night sky.
Catriona froze in the doorway as she saw the man sitting at the piano, and the two men who had risen to greet them. She couldn’t do this. She was too young, too inexperienced, just too scared. She wanted to run, to turn away and hide in the labyrinth of corridors. But it was too late. Mr Thomas was shaking her mother’s hand, was introducing his friend, his voice coming to her as if from the depths of the sea in a muffled, incomprehensible monotone.
She realised she was being closely watched by the second man, and as she looked into his face the fear began to ebb. He had kind brown eyes and sandy hair and his smile was encouraging.
‘Peter Keary,’ he said as he took her hand. ‘Delighted to meet you.’
Catriona looked up at him, her smile hesitant. He was handsome, but old, at least thirty. What did he expect of her?
‘And just how old are you, Catriona?’ he asked.
‘Eighteen,’ interrupted Velda. ‘Come along, Catriona. We’ve kept these gentlemen waiting long enough.’
Before Catriona could protest at the lie, Velda bustled her across the dance floor to the piano, and, pulling out some sheet music she gave it to the pianist with detailed instructions. Mam had obviously been planning this for a while – the aria from La Bohème had been her practice piece for weeks. She glanced back over her shoulder. Mr Keary and Mr Thomas were seated at a banquette, their cigar smoke drifting above their heads as they talked quietly to one another. ‘I can’t sing opera here,’ she whispered feverishly.
‘You can, and you will,’ hissed her mother.
‘But I’m only fifteen,’ Catriona protested. ‘I’m not even allowed in this sort of place.’
‘Who said anything about singing in a cocktail bar?’ snapped Velda as her fingers tightened around Catriona’s arm. ‘This is an audition for Mr Keary. He runs the best theatrical agency in the city,’ she hissed with a flush of excitement colouring her face. ‘Now get on that stage and show him what you’re made of.’
Catriona was propelled forward by a sharp nudge in the small of her back. She stood there in the bright lights, almost frozen with fear. Then she heard the first bars of the beautiful aria and her terror ebbed away. She closed her eyes, centring her thoughts on the music and what it meant to her, and as she began to sing she was transported into the world of the tragic Mimi and her lover, the poet Rodolfo.
As the final notes drifted into silence, Catriona stepped back from the edge of the stage and dipped her chin. The sad, sweet story of the tragic lovers, and the passion needed to sing the aria echoed something deep within her. Yet it was draining – had her performance been good enough?
The silence grew and she finally looked up. Surely it hadn’t been that bad? As she was about to flee the stage she saw Peter Keary rise slowly to his feet. With incredulous wonder she saw the tears glistening on his cheeks as he moved across the dance floor and captured her hands.
‘Beautiful,’ he breathed. ‘Incredible to find such understanding and depth in one so young.’ He held her away from him as he looked at her. ‘You are the perfect Mimi,’ he breathed. ‘Small, frail – it’s as if Puccini wrote his opera just for you.’
‘So you’ll represent her then?’ Velda was immediately at her side, ready to do business.
‘When she turns eighteen,’ he murmured, his brown eyes shining with humour as he wiped his damp cheeks with a snowy handkerchief.
Velda protested and he waved away her lies. ‘She’s too young,’ he murmured as he looked into Catriona’s eyes and smiled. ‘Her voice might be mature, but there’s a long way to go if this young lady’s potential is to be fully realised.’
Catriona was warmed by the lilt of his soft Irish voice. It reminded her of Da. She smiled back at him, for here was someone who understood what the opera meant to her, someone who had seen beyond the child and discovered the strength of her passion for the music. ‘So, what now?’ she asked shyly, the excitement making her tremble.
‘It’s back to school for you, Catriona,’ he murmured. ‘A special school where you will learn all there is to know about singing.’
‘We can’t afford special schools,’ snapped Velda. ‘Catriona needs to work.’
‘I will pay,’ he replied with a firmness that belied argument.
‘And what exactly do you want in return?’ Velda stood before him, arms tightly folded around her skinny waist, her expression arctic.
‘I expect nothing until she has graduated. Then I will represent her.’ He smiled then, took Catriona’s hand and bowed low over her fingers. ‘I will make you famous, Catriona Summers. And one day, we will conquer the world.’
Chapter Ten
Catriona arrived at the Conservatorium in a high state of tension and excitement. At last she would be going to a real school. At last she would mix with other people her own age. Yet she was fearful. What if Peter Keary had been mistaken and they didn’t think her voice was good enough? What if she didn’t fit in? She was very aware of her cheap coat and dress, of the scuffed shoes she’d whitened earlier. Her gloves were darned and her hat homemade; surely they would take one look at her and decide she wasn’t right for them?
Peter seemed to read her thoughts, for he gently took her elbow and steered her to the back of the building. ‘You look lovely,’ he assured her. ‘And once we get you through this audition, I’ll take you shopping.’
‘I don’t need you to buy me clothes,’ she said gruffly.
‘Let’s call it a loan,’ he replied with airy nonchalance. ‘For once they hear you sing, they can’t fail to make you a star.’
Catriona’s confidence wasn’t as high. ‘Who will be at this audition?’ she asked as they reached the door.
‘John and Aida, of course, are the principal tutors and much respected in the world of opera, the principal of the Conservatorium and the board of directors, but don’t be frightened of them. Think of them as just another audience, and with your background that should be easy enough.’
Catriona had a fleeting memory of Lightning Ridge and Goondiwindi. She shivered as they entered the long, dark corridor and the door slammed behind them.
‘Listen,’ said Peter.
They stood in the gloom, and Catriona lifted her chin. She could hear music, lovely music: a piano concerto drifting through the sound of sopranos, contraltos and baritones going through their warming-up exercises. Her pulse began to race. Soon, if all went well, she would be a part of this. The nervous excitement made her mouth dry.
Peter smiled as he led her into a large room that was empty but for a grand piano and embroidered s
tool. ‘You will have an hour to warm up. I’ll come and fetch you when it’s time.’
Catriona took off her hat and gloves and shed her coat. The room was warm, the heat coming from heavy radiators that stood against the white walls. Long, elegant windows looked out over a walled garden, and in the distance she could see the rooftops of the houses up in the hills. She carefully folded her coat and put it on the windowsill along with her hat and gloves. Walking over to the piano, she ran her fingers over the smooth, polished wood before touching the keys. The tone was wonderful, clear and resonant – so different from the old piano she’d learned on – even better than the one in Demetri’s hotel.
She pushed away the thought of Demetri. That was her old life, and if she was to survive her new one, then it was time to concentrate. She ran her fingers over the keys. Remembering her mother’s hours of tuition, she sat down and began to play. Her fingers were clumsy at first, but as she heard the sounds of others practising, she grew in confidence. As she began to go through the scales, her voice gathered strength until it echoed up to the high ceiling.
It seemed only minutes later when Peter opened the door. ‘It’s time,’ he said.
She followed him up the stairs to another great room. This one had the same long, elegant windows, but was far from empty. A long table had been set up at one end, and there were ten people sitting behind it. At the other end of the room was a stout woman sitting at a piano. Catriona bobbed a curtsy to the adjudicators. She could hardly breathe and her hands were moist as she clutched them behind her back. Peter had taken a chair to one side of the room and he nodded at her in encouragement.
‘How old are you, my dear?’ asked the bearded gentlemen who sat in the centre of the ten judges. He peered at her over his half-moon spectacles.
‘Fifteen and a half, sir,’ she replied, her voice breaking with nerves.
He leaned aside and spoke quietly to the woman beside him before returning his gaze to her. ‘And what are you going to sing for us?’
Dreamscapes Page 18
