‘Then there was Hank the Yank.’ She giggled again. ‘It’s true what they say, one yank and they’re off.’ They fell about laughing and when John poked his head around the door and glared at them it only made it worse.
‘So,’ said Clemnmie once they’d calmed down. ‘You haven’t found Mr Right? You’re leaving it a bit late, Kitty.’
Catriona shrugged. ‘I’ve been married and that didn’t work. I’ve been a mother and that didn’t work either.’ She smiled at her friend in whom she’d confided so many years ago and who never passed judgement. ‘Don’t worry about me, Clemmie. I’m having fun, and when I get too old and past it, I’ll retire to the Outback and live out my days warm with the memory of the men I’ve loved.’
‘That reminds me,’ said Clemmie as she leaped off the couch. ‘John has some really good news for you.’ She hunted through the briefcase he’d been carrying and finally pulled out a sheaf of papers. ‘Belvedere came on the market.’ She waved the documents in the air with a flourish.
Catriona stared back at her. ‘Belvedere?’ she breathed. The excitement rushed through her and she was on her feet. ‘How, when? Has John put in a bid?’
Clemmy grinned. ‘As John and I have power of attorney over your business affairs while you’re out of the country, we signed the deal three days ago. It’s yours, Catriona.’
She took the documents and sat down with a thump. Belvedere had been a dream, an almost impossible dream that had been with her since childhood. Now she held the deeds in her hand. Her dream had become reality.
Chapter Twelve
There were still no theatres large enough in Sydney – or anywhere else in Australia – to stage a full opera or ballet. But in the 1950s, Goossens, the Director of the Conservatorium, began to pester the government to build a concert hall large enough to do so. The Sydney Opera House was an enormous project and caused discomfort to the government, stirring up scandal and rumours of shady dealings. It would take another thirteen years before Goossens’ dream would come to fruition. Therefore, Catriona would be performing the role of Violetta in La Traviata in the Conservatorium.
She hurried out of the rehearsal hall and huddled beneath an umbrella. The rain was coming down so hard it bounced off the pavement and soaked her stockings. There wasn’t a cab to be seen and she was beginning to wish she’d driven in that morning. As she stood sheltering from the rain, she was startled by a voice at her shoulder.
‘Catriona?’
She turned and looked into the faded blue eyes of a stranger. The woman was, she guessed, in her sixties. She had no umbrella, was poorly dressed and her thin coat was soaked through, yet there was a certain pride in the set of her shoulders, a determination in the line of her mouth that seemed strangely familiar. ‘Yes?’ she replied, uncertain as to why this woman had approached her. She didn’t look like an opera fan and Catriona suspected she was after money.
‘You don’t recognise me, do you?’ she asked, her mouth turning down, the eyes sad.
Catriona looked at the lined and weary face, at the badly bleached hair and smudged make-up. ‘I’m sorry,’ she muttered as she took a step forward to the edge of the pavement and quickly scanned the street for a sign of a cruising taxi. ‘I think you’re mistaken.’
‘No,’ said the woman forcibly as she reached out and grasped Catriona’s arm. ‘It’s you what’s got it wrong.’
‘Let go of my arm,’ said Catriona, now thoroughly disturbed by the intensity of this woman’s expression. She’d heard of crazed fans, but that sort of thing happened to Elvis Presley, not opera divas. ‘I don’t know you, but if it’s money you’re after, here’s a couple of dollars.’ She scrabbled in her handbag and held out the coins.
The coins were ignored, but the intense gaze remained fixed on Catriona’s face. ‘Strike a light,’ the woman breathed. ‘I never thought I’d see the day when my little Kitty were too grand to speak to an old mate.’
Catriona froze. She recognised that voice, but it couldn’t be. She ignored the taxi that had pulled up at the kerb – ignored the blast of his horn and the accompanying shout – for her attention was fixed to that pair of pale blue eyes. Recognition dawned as she finally saw beyond the bleached hair and the roughly applied makeup. ‘Poppy?’ she breathed. ‘Poppy, is it really you?’
‘Yeah,’ she replied, digging her hands into her pockets. ‘Not a pretty sight, I know, but it’s me all right.’
Catriona flung her arms around her, ignoring the rain-sodden coat that was soaking her cashmere jacket, and the make-up that was probably marking the pale mink on her collar. This was Poppy, her friend, her surrogate mother, her partner in mischief and risqué stories. How awful she hadn’t recognised her, but how wonderful to see her again.
They finally drew apart, the tears running down their faces, mingling with the rain. ‘We must look a right sight,’ sniffed Poppy as she dabbed her face with a none-too-clean handkerchief. ‘And I’ve ruined yer lovely coat, an’ all.’
Catriona could smell her cheap perfume in the mink, and could see the dampness spread through the expensive cashmere, but it didn’t matter. ‘A good dry-cleaner will sort it out,’ she said swiftly as she sheltered them both under her umbrella. She linked arms with Poppy and drew her along the pavement. The taxi had gone screeching off to find another, more willing, passenger. ‘Come on, let’s get out of the rain and have a cuppa.’
The milk bar was warm, the windows cloudy with condensation, and the smell of brewing coffee and hot meat pies made it all the more welcoming. There was a bustle about the place, with most of the tables occupied by office workers and women weighed down with shopping and children. Pop music blared from the juke box and a couple of teenagers were smooching in the corner.
They found a vacant table at the back of the room where it was a little quieter, and settled down. Divested of the ruined three-quarter length jacket and sodden umbrella, Catriona smoothed the fabric of the shantung suit she’d had made in Singapore, then checked her make-up in the small mirror from her handbag and re-applied lipstick.
‘Blimey,’ breathed Poppy as she struggled out of her dripping coat to reveal a cheap cotton dress that had faded from too many washes. ‘You look just like yer mum. The dark hair and violet eyes are just the same, even down to the cleft in yer chin.’
Catriona put her things back in the crocodile handbag and snapped the clasp shut. ‘Thanks, I’ll take that as a compliment,’ she said. She was feeling awkward suddenly, unsure of how to speak to this Poppy. Her delight in seeing her again was tempered by the knowledge their lives had taken very different directions. What on earth did they have in common any more?
‘How is Velda? I ain’t seen or eard of ’er since I left the troupe. I was ’oping she’d be with you today.’
Catriona leaned back on the slippery plastic bench. ‘Mum passed away at the beginning of the War,’ she said softly. ‘She hadn’t been well for some time, and when she got pneumonia, she wasn’t strong enough to fight it off.’ At the memory of her mother’s last few hours she had to blink away the tears. ‘She didn’t live long enough to see all her ambitions for me fulfilled. She was the driving force behind my career, you see. I wouldn’t have done all that I have without her.’
Poppy looked down at her swollen red hands which were tightly clasped on the table between them. The nails were bitten and the varnish was peeling. ‘I’m sorry to ’ear that,’ she murmured. ‘I’d ’ave liked to ’ave seen ’er again.’ She looked back at Catriona, her faded eyes bright with unshed tears. ‘And yer dad?’
Catriona swiftly told her of the tragedy that had befallen her father and skimmed over the time she and her mother had lived with Kane in Atherton. She had no intention of telling Poppy everything. The years as her confidante were long gone, and it would serve no purpose. ‘Mam and I left Kane and eventually came down to Sydney. We lived in a boarding-house on the other side of town and worked in the dining room of one of the big hotels. She arranged for me to audition for an
agent, and the rest, as they say, is history.’
‘I never did trust that bloke, Kane,’ said Poppy as she sat back in her seat and folded her arms across her skinny chest. ‘Something funny about ’im. I remember telling Velda I thought ’e was a queer.’
Catriona didn’t reply and there was an awkward silence between them after the waiter left their order on the table. As they sipped their tea and ate the toasted tea-cakes, Catriona took the opportunity to observe Poppy more closely.
She had aged badly, there was no doubt about it, and it was hardly surprising she hadn’t recognised her. Poppy looked weary, lined with some unspoken troubles and had obviously not thrived since leaving the troupe. Yet there was still the same outrageous spark in her eyes which told Catriona that whatever had befallen Poppy, she hadn’t given up on life entirely.
‘You’ve changed,’ said Poppy as if she’d been reading Catriona’s thoughts. ‘But then we both have.’ She sighed. ‘And you talk ever so posh.’
‘Years of elocution lessons,’ said Catriona with a grin. ‘But the vocabulary I learned from you has come in handy on many occasions.’
Poppy grinned. ‘Glad to know I done somethin’ right. Ain’t nothing like a good swear-up when yer pissed off.’ She became solemn again. ‘I’ve been following yer career in the papers. I was sorry to read about the divorce, but you’ve done well, Kitty. I’m proud of yer.’
Catriona pushed her plate aside. ‘And what about you, Poppy? How did your life turn out?’
Poppy laughed, but there was little joy in it. ‘You ’ave to ask?’ she said. ‘Look at me, Kitty. I ain’t exactly an advert for success.’ Her expression was sad as she fiddled with the spoon in the saucer. ‘I’m sixty-one, Kitty. An old woman who’s worn out with struggling. I work in the kitchens at the Sydney Hydro Hotel, and I live in a room right at the top that ain’t big enough to swing a cat.’ She grinned, her good mood fleetingly restored. ‘If I ’ad one,’ she added. ‘But they don’t allow pets.’ She rapped the spoon on the saucer. ‘The only good thing is I never ’ave to worry about feeding meself. The ’otel gives me bed and board as part of the wages.’
Catriona’s heart went out to her as she remembered the pretty woman who’d been so excited about her adventure into the unknown. Poppy would have been in her mid-thirties then, she realised. ‘What happened, Poppy?’ Her voice was low as she reached out to still the busy hands.
‘The usual,’ she muttered with a shrug. ‘I met a bloke and ’ad a bit of fun. We was working together in a factory in Brisbane, and I was still a bit of a looker meself back then. I fell hook, line and sinker. He was a good-looking bastard, with a charm about him I couldn’t resist. I got pregnant, he shot through and I was left on me own again.’
She looked back at Catriona. ‘I don’t want you feeling sorry for me or nuffing,’ she said sternly. ‘I always was a sucker for a pair of brown eyes, and I knew what I was doing. I just hadn’t planned on him shooting through like that and in nineteen thirty-two it was a real disgrace to get into that kind of trouble and have no man around.’
Catriona could imagine all too easily how Poppy would have found it a struggle. ‘What did you do? Life couldn’t have been easy, not with a baby to look after.’
‘I got on with it. Well, you do, don’t you?’ she replied philosophically. ‘I left Brisbane and come down ’ere, found another job in another factory and worked right up to the birth. Ellen was born on the Saturday, and I went back to work on the Monday.’ She grinned. ‘I was lucky it were over the weekend, ’cos I didn’t lose any pay. My landlady was real nice and offered to baby-sit in exchange for me doing her washing and ironing.’ She shrugged. ‘I managed.’
‘And then?’ Catriona was finding it hard to imagine what life must have been for Poppy with no support, no family to help.
‘I stayed at the factory right through the War and out the other side until Ellen was old enough to find work herself. Ellen’s a good girl, hard-working and clever with ’er ’ands. She got a good place with a dress designer and was just beginning to do well when history repeated itself,’ she said with a scowl.
Catriona sighed. The tale was all too familiar and her heart went out to her old friend.
‘Ellen met Michael and got pregnant, but at least she got ’im to marry ’er.’ She grimaced. ‘Not that it did her any good,’ she said. ‘He’s a right bastard.’
‘I’m sorry, Poppy,’ sighed Catriona. ‘It sounds as if you’ve had it really tough.’
‘Yeah,’ she said flatly. ‘It ’as been tough, but you know me, never give up, that’s my motto.’
Catriona heard the brave words, saw the brittleness in her determined smile and the tears in her eyes which betrayed the heartache inside. Poppy was obviously struggling to maintain her pride, and any offer of help would be seen as charity. And yet Catriona wanted to help, needed to help. Poppy had once been a good friend. ‘Is Ellen here in Sydney?’
Poppy nodded. ‘She’s living in a unit down in Kings Cross with ’im and the baby. It’s a rough place, Kitty – not somewhere to bring up a kid – but it’s all they can afford on his wages as a potman in the pub.’ Her smile wavered and didn’t quite make it to her eyes. ‘Reckon ’e drinks most of what’s in them barrels, and when ’e’s ’ad a few, ’e ain’t good to be around.’
‘You mean he’s violent?’ Catriona sat forward and clasped Poppy’s fingers. ‘Tell me what you want me to do to help.’
‘Gawd,’ she sighed. ‘Am I that obvious?’ When Catriona didn’t reply, she gently withdrew her hands and reached once more for the empty cup. ‘I need to get ’er outta there,’ she muttered. ‘He’ll kill ’er one of these days, I knowl ’e will.’
Catriona’s first instinct was to write a cheque and hand it over, but she knew Poppy’s pride, however dented, wouldn’t allow her to take it. She also knew it would bring her no satisfaction to do such a cold-blooded thing. Poppy needed more than money. She needed peace and her own home, needed reassurance that her little family were safe.
They sat in silence as the waiter brought them fresh tea. Catriona’s mind was working fast. The germ of an idea began to grow. When the waiter had left and Poppy had revived from the hot, fragrant brew, she began to put the idea into words. ‘Do you remember when we were going through Drum Creek, Poppy? I must have been about nine or ten, and I fell in love with a property down in the valley.’
‘Yeah. Yer mum weren’t too impressed, I remember, ’cos you kept on and on about leaving the life and settling down there. What about it?’
‘I bought it six months ago,’ she replied. She smiled as Poppy’s eyes widened and began to sparkle again. ‘I’ve not had the chance to go down there and see it again, but I can remember it as if it was yesterday.’
‘A bit risky buying a big place like that without giving it the once-over,’ said Poppy. ‘If you ain’t plannin’ on living there, ’ow you gunna run it?’
‘I’ve hired a manager,’ she explained. ‘He’s experienced and came with excellent references. He’ll run it until he retires and by then I’ll have probably retired myself and settled down.’ She stirred the tea and took a sip, thinking carefully of how to put her idea into words that Poppy wouldn’t dismiss out of hand. ‘There’s a lot of land,’ she began again. ‘The homestead’s probably in need of work if the agent’s details were correct, but there’s good outbuildings, a bunkhouse and cookhouse and all the usual barns and shacks. On the edge of the property, and nearest to the town, there’s a small house and garden that used to be accommodation for the last owner’s son. It’s empty now.’
She let the words hang in the air between them, and watched the different fleeting expressions shadow Poppy’s eyes. ‘The house is basic, and not in very good order,’ she finally went on. ‘But it’s close to the main track into Drum Creek, and there’s a big area out the back which the owner’s son used as a market garden. He evidently did very well selling his produce in the town.’
‘Sounds nice,’ said
Poppy with studied indifference.
Catriona reached across the table and took her hand. ‘Why don’t we go there and explore, Poppy? I’ve been longing to see it all again, and it would be such fun if you came with me.’
‘I got a job to go to,’ she muttered. ‘Can’t be gadding about with you all over the bloody place, and anyways, what about them re’earsals? You ain’t got time to bunk off.’
‘The performance is a month away,’ replied Catriona being rather liberal with the truth – it was in fact in three weeks’ time. ‘I can quite easily take a couple of days off,’ she added adventurously. The conductor would be furious, not to mention the baritone who had a reputation for being pedantic about the timekeeping of any soprano who worked with him, but it would all be worth it if Poppy agreed to come with her.
She watched her face and saw the shadows in her eyes. Poppy was wavering, tempted by the chance to leave the city for a while, but would her pride allow her to accept the offer Catriona was planning to make? She didn’t know. She just hoped she hadn’t pushed her too far too soon. All she could do now was wait.
‘If I was to come,’ said Poppy finally. ‘I’d be paying me own way.’ She looked squarely back at Catriona. ‘How much is the fare from ’ere to there, anyways?’
‘Nothing at all,’ replied Catriona. She held up her hand to silence the protest. ‘I have my own small plane,’ she explained. ‘It will take one telephone call to the pilot I use, and we can leave whenever we want to.’
‘Blimey,’ breathed Poppy, eyes wide in wonder. ‘How the other ’alf live.’
Catriona smiled. ‘It hasn’t all been silk knickers and mink collars,’ she said. ‘I’ve had the bad times too, you know. So what do you say, Poppy? Want to risk it?’
‘Too bloody right,’ said Poppy as she gathered up her coat and cheap plastic handbag. ‘I wouldn’t miss this for the world.’
Catriona took Poppy to her apartment and after phoning Poppy’s boss and telling him she was unwell and staying with her until she recovered, she made the necessary calls to her agent, her conductor and the pilot. She would leave the baritone to the conductor; they understood each other and had the same taste in flamboyant clothes and pink gins.
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