Dreamscapes

by Tamara McKinley

  Catriona didn’t know if she wanted anything to do with a lesbian agent. Her reputation was about to be damaged enough, and although she had worked with such women, she’d always felt uncomfortable in their company, and didn’t relish the idea of being represented by one. She hesitated.

  Brin seemed to read her thoughts, and he grinned. ‘Clemmie’s got three kids and a very handsome husband. She’s tough because she works in a man’s world – just as we all do,’ he added with a sigh.

  ‘Give me her number and I’ll call her.’ Catriona smiled up at him. ‘Thanks, Brin. You’re a sweetheart.’

  *

  Clementine Frost was tall and slim, with short brown hair, brown eyes and a determined air of efficiency. She was in her early thirties, and wore severely cut jackets and tailored trousers, softened by frilly shirts and large pieces of jewellery. Her make-up was flawless, her nails long and painted scarlet to match her lipstick. Catriona was pleasantly surprised to discover they struck up a rapport immediately.

  The office was like no other. It was a large, sunlit room in the basement of her family home, comfortably furnished with deep chairs and couches, expensive rugs and vases of fresh flowers. The doors at the end of the room opened out into a lovely garden, and she could see children’s swings and slides littering the grass.

  The two women faced one another across the coffee table. ‘You’ll have to complete the rest of Peter’s schedule,’ Clemmie said in her clear, concise voice. ‘But I don’t see any reason why I shouldn’t take you on once I’ve sent him a formal letter of explanation.’ Her dark eyes were appraising. She’d asked few questions as to why Catriona no longer wanted her husband to represent her, and seemed unconcerned about the future. ‘I’ve heard of you, of course.’ She smiled. ‘The reviews are wonderful. I’ll be delighted to take you on.’

  ‘Peter will sue me for breach of contract,’ Catriona said. ‘And then there’s the question of the divorce. Are you sure?’

  Clementine stood and smiled. ‘I think we’re both strong enough to deal with all that when the time comes,’ she said. ‘And should you need a good solicitor, I’m sure my husband can help you.’ She reached out and they shook hands. ‘Just remember you have a wonderful talent that will be your saviour in the end. I promise.’

  Catriona took Brin a huge bouquet of flowers and a box of his favourite chocolates to say thank you.

  *

  A week later she took a phone call from Doris. ‘You’d better come over,’ she said tearfully. ‘Your mum’s not at all well.’

  Catriona made her apologies to the music director and took a cab. The guilt was awful. She hadn’t been to see her mother since the night she’d left Peter – she hadn’t been well then – what if she was too late? Doris wouldn’t have phoned unless it was an emergency.

  She ran up the stairs of the boarding-house and into the room she had once shared with Velda. It was dark, the curtains drawn tightly against the bright sunlight. Velda looked very small in the narrow bed and the only sound was the terrible rattle and wheeze in her chest.

  Velda opened her eyes and Catriona was shocked by the weariness in them, the almost blank appraisal. ‘Kitty?’ Her voice was just above a whisper.

  ‘Yes, Mam. I’m here.’ She turned to Doris who had puffed up the stairs behind her, Mr Woo draped like a fur wrap in her arms. ‘Has the doctor been?’

  Doris nodded. ‘About an hour ago. He’s making arrangements to take her into hospital.’

  ‘What is it?’ Catriona demanded.

  ‘Pneumonia,’ said Doris with a sniff. Her mascara was running and her lipstick was smeared. ‘She never shook off that cold she had last winter, and her coughing has been something dreadful, but she refused to let me get the doctor sooner.’ She hugged the dog. ‘I did all I could, Catriona. She’s my best friend.’

  Catriona gave her a wan smile of understanding and then turned back to the ravaged figure in the bed. Despite all that had happened in her short life, Velda was still her mother and she loved her. As she sat there and filled the silence and the darkness talking about memories of the travelling troupe of players, she saw her mother’s beautiful violet eyes clear and become focussed.

  ‘Good days,’ she murmured. ‘We were so happy then.’

  Catriona kissed the fevered cheek and stroked back the hair that had once been so lustrous. ‘I love you, Mam,’ she whispered.

  ‘I love you too,’ she gasped. Her eyes widened as she looked over Catriona’s shoulder, and she lifted herself onto her elbow. ‘Declan? Declan?’ She fell back on the pillows, a smile on her face. ‘Ahhh,’ she sighed.

  Catriona grasped the lifeless hand as the eyes closed again and the awful rasping, gurgle fell into profound silence.

  Doris burst into tears and clattered downstairs. Catriona sat with Velda until the ambulance arrived. Her mother’s pain and mental anguish was over, and if there truly was a heaven, then she would be with Da now.

  Velda was laid to rest on a hot summer afternoon. The air was full of birdsong and the scent of newly mown grass and golden wattle. Catriona stood there after the ceremony was over and closed her eyes. The sounds and the scents were like the ones she remembered from her childhood. Velda was finally at peace.

  *

  The day after the funeral Peter Keary sued her for breach of contract. It took weeks and a great deal of manoeuvring by Clemmie’s husband, John, to get the amount he was claiming brought down to a reasonable sum. Yet she would have to work hard for the next three years to pay him off.

  The divorce took longer; but in the end he realised she didn’t care one way or the other about her reputation, or his. He finally gave in when he met another woman, and the photographic proof of his infidelity pushed things through quickly.

  Clemmie had proved to be a good friend, and when the news of the divorce was splashed all over the newspapers, she kept the reporters at bay and Catriona busy out of town. Yet, for all Peter’s threats, the dreaded scandal was almost instantly suppressed by War news. The Japs had bombed Pearl Harbor – the Yanks were joining in at last to help poor, beleaguered England – and Singapore had fallen. The War in Europe had spread to the other side of the world and there was real fear that the Japanese would invade the great empty heart of Australia.

  Catriona had never worked harder. With Brin and a small company of fellow singers and musicians, she travelled all over Australia to entertain the American troops who were in Australia for R&R, the Australian airmen of Broome and Darwin, and the ordinary people of the Outback who were struggling through a drought to survive without their men.

  From Darwin down to Adelaide, from Brisbane to Perth and back to Sydney, she covered the breadth and depth of the country she’d travelled most of her life. She performed in village halls and hotel bars, next to aircraft hangars and Nissen huts. She travelled by train and by car, and even on horseback to reach the isolated towns of Australia’s heartland – it was a powerful reminder of the years of the travelling troupe, and although she was exhausted, it gave her strength to carry on – for this was her heritage.

  Her repertoire was eclectic, from opera to musical hall and the popular tunes of the day, and soon her popularity had spread and she earned the soubriquet of ‘Outback Songbird’.

  When Darwin and Broome were bombed and Japanese subs were spotted in Sydney Harbour she refused to give in to fear. The spirit of Australia was strong, and although she only had her singing to help the war effort, she knew it brought comfort and a few moments of pleasure into the lives of the men and women who defended her country with such bravery. It was a small sacrifice to make, even though she missed her apartment in Sydney and was exhausted by the long months of travelling.

  As Britain and America won victory in Europe, the fighting intensified in the Pacific. It seemed it would never end. And yet the death of her mother, the divorce from Peter and the months of travelling had instilled in her a sense of freedom she had never known. If it wasn’t for the bureaucratic red tape, and th
e knowledge that her daughter remained firmly out of reach, Catriona would have enjoyed those War years.

  She spent all her spare time searching in dusty offices through reams of paper, had bribed and begged and asked questions in every town. She had even charged Clemmie’s husband to do what he could in his capacity of lawyer, but the heavy concert schedule meant she was rarely in one place for longer than a day, and with records and communications in chaos, it was impossible to make any headway.

  Peace was declared and the men began to return home. Catriona was the star of the welcoming home concert, and after singing an aria from Purcell’s Dido, she waited for the applause to finish and then introduced Bobby.

  The boy she’d trained with at the Academy was now a man – a man who wept at night over the terrible things he’d witnessed in Burma. And yet his spirit refused to be broken, and his music had become his saviour. The first, quiet notes on the violin stilled the audience, and as the tune was recognised they broke into a rousing chorus of ‘We’ll Meet Again’.

  It was a song made famous by Vera Lynn, and the most requested among the boys she’d entertained over those terrible years. As Catriona sang and the audience joined in with gusto, she was overwhelmed by the emotion that ran through the Sydney Town Hall. So many of the boys were injured, not only in their bodies, and yet, tonight, they had a chance to momentarily put all that behind them and rejoice in their home-coming.

  A rousing chorus of ‘Waltzing Matilda’ followed and she was joined by her fellow performers on stage. Bobby grinned at her as he played his violin, the sweat running down his face, and Catriona grinned back. It was quite like old times when they used to jam in the refectory.

  The audience seemed reluctant to leave and the concert finally broke up as the sky lightened. Catriona and Bobby stepped out of the stage door and spent almost an hour signing autograph books and posing for photographs. They eventually made their escape as the sun breached the horizon, and went their separate ways. Bobby to his wife and baby, Catriona to her lonely apartment.

  *

  Catriona was exhausted, and she asked Clemmie to give her a few months break so she could recuperate.

  ‘Can’t do that,’ said Clemmie as she waved a contract at her. ‘You’re going to London.’

  ‘I thought London was flattened?’

  Clemmie shook her head. ‘Battered, but never bowed. The bulldog spirit lives on despite Hitler.’ She grinned. ‘A bit like you and me, really,’ she declared.

  Catriona grinned back. She suddenly didn’t feel at all tired. ‘So, what’s in London?’

  ‘You’ll be studying at the Opera School of the Royal College of Music for a few months, and then you’ll join the Covent Garden Company and make your international debut at the Royal Opera House.’ She looked down into Catriona’s delighted face. ‘You’re on your way, Kitty,’ she said proudly.

  *

  The following years passed in a blur. The Royal College of Music was far removed from the Sydney Academy, and she worked harder than ever to hone her skills to perfection. As the new year of 1949 began, Catriona celebrated her twenty-eighth birthday before her debut on the London stage.

  She had found the sheer size and glamour of the enormous Royal Opera House overwhelming, for there had been nothing to match it back home. Despite the rationing and the hardships, the bombed-out sites and sheer devastation of the blitz, it seemed nothing could stop the British from pampering the arts. The scenery was magnificent, the orchestra huge, the lights and costumes bringing a magic to the whole experience that she would remember for ever. But the full power of the Opera House was seen from the stage. Tier upon tier of red velvet seats, and the rich gold decoration on the ceiling and around the walls were enhanced by the lights, the atmosphere and the music. It was breathtaking.

  She was to sing the lead in Bizet’s Carmen. The rehearsals had been going on for weeks and she was comfortable in the part, yet her legs were trembling so badly as she waited in the wings, she accepted a tot of whisky from one of the chorus to steady her nerves.

  The orchestra had tuned up and the conductor had been applauded. A hush fell over the audience as the heavy velvet curtains drew slowly back as the prelude began. Catriona took a long drink of water and tried to use the nervous energy in a positive way. She had sung arias from this opera before – had been on stage before – but she knew how important this debut was, for if it went well tonight her career would finally be set. She smoothed back her hair which had been left loose to fall to her waist and checked that the large gold hoops in her earlobes were fastened securely. Ruffling the scarlet and orange flamenco skirts she adjusted the red peasant blouse that drooped from her bare shoulders and then wriggled her toes. It had been her idea to play Carmen without shoes, but the damn floor was freezing.

  The bell chimed out from the cigarette factory and the chorus girls pushed their way on stage. Catriona took a deep breath and steadied herself. As the shout ‘Carmen’ went up, she gathered her skirts and darted across the bridge and down the steps into the square, the crowd parting and making way for her. She flashed an insolent glare at the men pressing around her. ‘Love you?’ Her tone was scornful. ‘Perhaps tomorrow. Anyhow, not today.’

  She grinned at the men in the chorus and began to sway slowly to the rhythm of a habanera as she sang ‘L’amour est un oiseau rebelle’. She had become Carmen. Beautiful, wilful and dangerous, she moved around the stage as lithe as a panther, her violet gypsy eyes and flowing hair all part of the attempted seduction of Jose.

  The performance finally reached its climax and the lights dimmed as the curtains closed on thunderous applause. Catriona was helped to her feet by the lead tenor who played Jose. He was a handsome man, but vain, and Catriona had been avoiding his advances for weeks. Yet tonight she let him kiss her. The adrenaline was flowing. She was still Carmen.

  As she took curtain call after curtain call and the stage was smothered in the red roses the audience threw to her, she knew she had finally achieved her dream. How proud her parents would have been to see their daughter take her place on the world’s stage and achieve the adulation of such an audience. If only they were still with her, she thought as they finally let her leave the stage. But their spirits would remain with her always – watching over her – giving her strength.

  The next eleven years firmly placed Catriona Summers as an international diva. She sang the part of Floria Tosca at La Scala in Milan, Princess Turandot at the Metropolitan in New York, Mimi at the Grand Opera in Paris and Manon Lescaut at Covent Garden. She travelled to Spain and South America as well as the United States and now and again returned to sing in the smaller venues of Sydney, Melbourne and Adelaide.

  It was 1960 and Catriona had returned to Sydney after a triumphant debut at La Fenice in Venice where she’d sung the complex and exhausting title role in Handel’s Alcina. She was thirty-nine.

  Clemmie, John and Brin met her at the docks and drove her to the apartment by the river. She owned the whole building now, and after a complete overhaul, it was a luxurious hideaway from the bustle of her busy life. She loved being here, but her schedule rarely allowed it, so Brin had moved into the downstairs and kept an eye on it for her.

  Brin, as flamboyant as ever, presented her with flowers. He was well past sixty, but still worked in the theatre. He adored Catriona, and the feeling was mutual. ‘Welcome home, darling,’ he cried as he kissed her hand. ‘Now, I must rush – matinée performance – you know how it is.’

  ‘He doesn’t change,’ murmured Catriona. ‘Darling Brin. How he would have loved Europe.’

  ‘You look well,’ said Clemmie as John poured them all a drink. ‘I wish I could keep my figure like that.’ Clemmie had just turned fifty-four and had put on weight, and although it rather suited her, she felt it had made her look matronly.

  ‘You shouldn’t have retired,’ replied Catriona as she slipped off the stiletto heels and wriggled her toes. ‘You know you only get bored when you’ve no one to boss abo
ut but me.’ Clemmie had closed the agency, but was still managing Catriona. Catriona grinned at her friend to take the sting out of the words and let her know she was only teasing. ‘As for keeping my figure, I eat like a horse and sweat like one during rehearsals and performances. When I retire I’ll probably get to be the size of a house – or at least a small barn.’

  They all laughed and Catriona curled her legs beneath her on the couch and began to relax for the first time in an age. ‘Of course sex has something to do with it,’ she added quietly in the silence after the laughter. She giggled as John blushed. ‘You’ve no idea what a rush it is to perform on stage in front of so many people. The music, the lights, the sheer passion of the opera is a wonderful aphrodisiac – you’d be surprised at the amount of times I’ve had to step around a couple doing it in the wings.’

  ‘And you?’ Clemmie glanced across at John who beat a hasty retreat into the other room. ‘Have you found anyone special?’

  Catriona pulled a face. ‘There was a lovely artist in Paris. He painted that portrait over there.’ She glanced at the painting and could almost feel the sensual tension emanate from it. ‘We made love in his studio – it was extremely satisfying – but then the French know all about sex. The only problem was, it was damn draughty in that attic and I nearly caught my death.’

  They giggled like two schoolgirls.

  ‘I also had a brief fling with an Englishman, but he lacked imagination when it came to the bedroom, and although he had a title and pots of money, I knew I couldn’t keep up the pretence for the rest of my life. Far too exhausting.’

  Clemmie looked at her with wide eyes. ‘My God, Kitty, it’s like the united bloody nations. I know it’s the sixties, with free love and flower power, but I never thought you …’