She turned finally from the window and sat down at her antique desk. It was stuffed with programmes and fliers, letters from fans, conductors and fellow performers. Her life had been blessed, she realised. For although she had never known the happiness of rearing her own children, she had achieved almost everything she had wished for. She had Belvedere and Poppy’s grandchildren, a flourishing, satisfying career, and enough money to ensure a comfortable retirement. Yet it all seemed empty without being able to share it with her only child.
After a long time of thinking, she began to write the letter which she hoped would see the final dream fulfilled.
Chapter Fifteen
After years of pestering, Connor had finally been allowed to join in the brumby run. The experience surpassed anything he could have imagined, and he spent every available hour by the corrals as Billy Birdsong set about taming the wild and beautiful horses they’d rounded up. His grandmother complained he was never at home and his schoolwork was suffering. But he didn’t care. This was how he wanted to live; to be surrounded by the men and the sounds of a breaking yard, to be free in the great expanse of this wonderful country and a real part of the life on Belvedere.
When Billy brought the horse into the yard, Connor eyed him with longing. He wasn’t a particularly big animal, but he galloped into the ring as if he owned it. With a flowing mane and tail, the white blaze on his nose was startling against the chestnut coat. Yet Connor noticed he was a gelding and saw the brand on the rump. This wasn’t a true brumby – at some point he’d escaped from Belvedere’s yards and had run free with the herd.
The animal was furious at being caught and sought escape from the corral, kicking up the dust, pawing the air, screaming defiance. Connor sat on the railings and watched Billy. Horse-breaking was like a dance. A slow, almost sensuous interaction between determined man and reluctant horse, played out in the dust of the yard. The horse was all fire and defiance, the man a watchful, soft-voiced siren luring the animal into inevitable submission. Connor was spell-bound, and more detennined than ever to be a breaker like Billy.
Billy hadn’t taken long to reacquaint the gelding with the feel of a saddle on his back. He finally climbed on board and held the reins tightly as the animal fought him. The gate was opened and man and horse catapulted out of the yard. Connor watched the hectic gallop across the plains and waited. Sure enough, almost an hour later they returned, the horse trotting neatly over the rough ground, the Aborigine grinning widely.
Connor opened the gate and Billy slid from the gelding’s back. ‘Alonga you him,’ he said in his pidgin English. He grinned. ‘Reckon you and him alonga fine.’
‘You mean he’s mine?’ breathed Connor. He slowly reached out his hand and the animal’s soft nose nuzzled his palm. ‘Beauty, mate,’ he whispered. ‘Bloody beauty.’
‘Missus say you too big for pony,’ said Billy as he handed over the reins.
Connor smiled as the animal nudged his shoulder and tried to nibble his hair. He stroked the blaze on the proud nose. ‘I’m gunna call him Lightning,’ he breathed.
Fred strolled over as Connor led the horse from the breaking yard and walked him around the clearing. He pushed back his sweat-stained hat and mopped his brow. ‘Why aren’t you at school?’ he drawled.
‘School’s boring,’ replied Connor. ‘I’m nearly thirteen and I want to work with you and Billy.’
Fred smiled and the creases on his face wrinkled into deep crevasses. ‘Reckon you’ll be right,’ he drawled. ‘But it’s up to the missus. She wants you to be properly educated.’
Connor knew when he was beaten. Catriona and Gran had been adamant. He could start work when he was thirteen and not a minute before. ‘It’s not fair,’ he muttered, as he kicked the dirt.
‘That’s life, boy,’ said Fred cheerfully. ‘But there’s only a few more weeks to go before your birthday, so stop whingeing. Now go and fetch your sister from school.’
Connor climbed into the saddle and took up the reins. Lightning pricked up his ears and stamped the ground as if impatient to be off. Sitting high above the men, Connor felt a glow of pride. This was his first real horse, and what a beaut he was. Rosa would be really jealous. He wheeled the horse in a circle, and with a whoop of excitement let Lightning have his head. Together they raced across the open land towards the little town of Drum Creek.
The school was a sprawling wooden building surrounded by trees. A wide verandah ran along the front beneath a bull-nosed tin roof, and at the back the large paddock had been turned into a play area and sports field. The children didn’t wear a uniform, just the clothes they wore every day, which usually consisted of dungarees, moleskins or jeans. The Aussie Rules posts stood tall in the pale grass, the pitch marked out with lime. Swings, climbing frames and a basketball hoop were placed off to one corner. There were four classrooms, each furnished with simple desks and chairs, a blackboard and a large map of the world. Ceiling fans stirred the hot air in summer and in the winter there was a log fire in the hearth.
The School of the Air was still in place for the children who lived too far out on their isolated stations, but Drum Creek School catered for those who lived closer in. The children were mostly the sons and daughters of the people who owned the vast sheep and cattle stations nearby. They would be educated here until it was time for high school, then they would either go as boarders to the city schools, or finish their education with the School of the Air. The running of the school was in the capable hands of Mr and Mrs Pike, their spinster daughter and a young, very attractive woman who’d recently moved here from Adelaide to teach the youngest pupils. The single men in the area were highly delighted, and Mr and Mrs Pike wondered how long it would be before they lost her.
Connor slowed the horse to a walk as he neared the school. He was aware of the admiring glances of those he’d passed along the road, and couldn’t wait to show off to his sister. He came to the picket fence that surrounded the front yard and waited impatiently for the bell to ring. There was a mob of ponies hobbled under the trees – most of the children rode to school, making the long journey in the dark in both directions – but none could compare with Lightning.
As the first clang disturbed the stillness of that summer afternoon, the doors flew open and the children poured into the yard. The youngest ones raced out chattering like galahs as they ran around and restarted the games they’d been playing before lessons. The older children were quieter, but in no less of a rush to escape. The boys kicked a ball about and tussled with one another in the dirt before saddling up and riding towards home. The girls wound their arms around one another and gossiped and giggled as they cast admiring and envious glances at Connor and his new horse.
The yard was finally silent. Connor waited impatiently. As usual, there was no sign of Rosa. He was about to climb down and go and find her when she emerged from the schoolhouse, strolling arm in arm with her friend Belinda Sullivan. He gave a sigh of exasperation. ‘Come on,’ he yelled, making Lightning prick his ears and stamp his feet. ‘You’re late and Gran will be waiting.’
Rosa and Belinda giggled. The girls had become friends on their first day at school, and, although they were both dressed in oversized dungarees, there the similarity ended. Rosa was small and slender with closely-cropped brown hair which glinted chestnut in the sun. Belinda was taller, broader, perhaps even a little plump, and her wiry, dark curls had been restrained into long plaits. Yet they shared an adoration of horses, dogs and anything which got them dirty or involved mischief. They both saw the horse and came running. ‘Bloody hell, Con. Where’d you get him?’ breathed Rosa. ‘He’s a beaut and no mistake.’
Belinda stood there gazing up at Connor in mute adoration and Connor blushed. He supposed it was flattering to be the object of such passion, but actually it was embarrassing and he was glad none of the other boys were around to witness it. ‘Billy gave him to me,’ he drawled with studied nonchalance.
‘That’s not fair,’ snapped Rosa. ‘Why shou
ld you have a horse like that, when I’ve got to ride poor old Dolly?’
‘Because you’re still a kid,’ he said, firmly avoiding Belinda’s worshipping gaze.
‘I’m not,’ she retorted, stamping her foot. Her dark eyes were blazing, her little face quite red with fury. ‘I’m nearly nine.’
‘Not for six months, you’re not,’ he drawled. ‘Come on, Rosa. Get a move on. I want my tucker.’
‘Can Belinda come too?’
He glanced at Belinda. The kid was always staying the night and he was getting a bit fed up with her following him about everywhere. He shook his head. ‘Maybe tomorrow,’ he murmured.
‘Why can’t she come today?’ Rosa was being very annoying. ‘Gran won’t mind.’
Belinda solved Connor’s problem by leaving to fetch her fat little pony. When she returned she gave Connor a sweet smile and waved goodbye.
‘Hurry up,’ Connor muttered to his sister.
‘All right, all right,’ snapped Rosa before she stomped off, saddled Dolly and urged the shaggy little pony into a shambling trot in an effort to catch up with him.
It was only an hour’s ride to the cottage, and within minutes Rosa was pestering him to let her ride Lightning. He resisted for a while, before giving in. He could never refuse his little sister anything, and although she was a pain in the rear, he loved her. With the pony trotting along behind them on a leading rein, and Rosa in the saddle in front of him, they rode home to the sound of Rosa’s cheerful chattering.
He brought Lightning to a halt as they reached the house. The door was shut and he could smell burning. Swiftly climbing out of the saddle, he tied Lightning to the fence and hurried up the path. Rosa slid down to the ground and followed him.
Connor raced through the front door and skidded to a halt. The house was full of smoke. ‘Stay there,’ he ordered Rosa. He pulled the neckerchief up over his mouth and nose and fumbled his way into the kitchen. ‘Gran? Gran, where are you?’ he shouted through the coughing fit. The smoke was dense and tasted metallic. It was difficult to breathe and his eyes were stinging. He blindly found his way across the room and flung open the back door and the windows.
‘Gran!’ shouted Rosa from the front door. ‘Where’s Gran?’
Connor could see very little but as the smoke cleared he felt a great wave of relief when he realised Gran wasn’t in the kitchen. But where had she gone? She was always here to give them tea after school. He looked wildly around the kitchen as the smoke poured out of the open door and window. The source of the fire was a saucepan which had been left on the range to burn dry. He grabbed a cloth and pulled it off the heat before dumping it in the sink and pouring water over it. The pan was ruined; there was a large hole in the bottom and the remains of a charred stew were glued on the inside.
‘Where’s Gran?’ Rosa’s eyes were huge in her little face as she appeared in the doorway.
‘I don’t know,’ he muttered. ‘Come on, let’s get out of here.’ He took her hand and led her onto the back verandah. Rosa was coughing fit to bust and he could hardly breathe, let alone get rid of the horrible taste of that burning pan.
As they stepped down into the garden, something caught his eye through the drift of smoke. He looked again, the feeling of something not being right growing stronger. ‘Better stay here,’ he told Rosa as he hurried down the steps and ran to the washing line at the far end of the garden.
The freshly laundered sheets flapped and snapped over the tiny, still figure like great beating wings, the wooden pegs strewn around her, the basket upended.
‘Gran?’ He rushed to her, but even before he’d touched her, he knew she was gone.
Rosa screamed and he swiftly turned and pulled her into his arms, shielding her from the awful sight of their grandmother’s open mouth and staring eyes. ‘What’s wrong with her, Con?’ sobbed Rosa. ‘Why’s she lying in the garden?’
Connor tried to soothe her, but her screams and her sobs brought back the horror of his childhood and he had to fight his own tears. ‘She’s in Heaven, Rosa,’ he murmured finally. ‘She’s gone to sleep with the angels.’ He looked up at the flapping sheets. They reminded him more of the great wings of an unnamed predatory bird, but he would keep that thought to himself. Rosa was frightened enough.
Rosa clung to him fiercely. ‘You won’t go to Heaven, will you?’ she begged. ‘You promise you won’t disappear?’
‘Of course I promise,’ he said, his voice unsteady as he struggled to stem the tears and be strong for her. Yet his heart was breaking, and as he picked his little sister up and carried her away he realised he was all she had. It was time for him to be strong – to be a man – to look after her and keep his promise never to leave her.
*
Catriona was in Brisbane preparing for Tosca. It would be a full opera, staged in the open on the South Bank to celebrate Australia Day. The rehearsals had been going on for three months, and there were another two weeks to go until the final full dress rehearsal.
Catriona picked up her handbag and smoothed the creases from her shift dress. Linen was always a mistake. Brin had warned her often enough, but she’d seen the dress in the shop window and hadn’t been able to resist. She eased her feet in the high-heeled shoes – they were pinching, and she couldn’t wait to get back to the apartment and soak in a hot bath.
She left the rehearsal rooms and climbed into her car. The drive to the rented apartment wasn’t long, but she was tired and for the first time in her life, felt her age. At least she would have a break for a couple of days, she thought as she weaved through the afternoon traffic and headed north into the suburbs. And when the final dress rehearsal was over she would have two more days off before the first performance.
She swung the car through the automatic gates and parked outside her apartment. It was a low-rise block of apartments with a patio area overlooking a swimming pool and pleasant gardens. She stepped into the cool hallway and closed the door behind her. Kicking off her shoes she picked up the mail, padded into the lounge and collapsed on the couch.
The sound of children playing in the pool drifted into the apartment and she closed her eyes. Tosca was the most challenging of the operas, very dramatic, dark and full of passion; and although she’d sung the part to great acclaim and was considered to be the greatest Floria of her generation, the hectic schedule was proving too much, and after so many years in the business, she’d lost her hunger.
She opened her eyes at this startling realisation. Was that why she felt tired all the time? Why her voice was beginning to lose some of its tessitura– its texture and clarity? She stood and walked over to the window and drew back the heavy curtains to let the sun stream in and give her a view over the pool. The changes in her voice were subtle, so subtle that, so far, only she had noticed them, but she knew. She could hear it every time she struggled for the perfection that had once been so effortless. ‘How long have I got?’ she breathed.
She left the window and padded into the kitchen and made a cup of tea, but her mind refused to be still. A life on the stage was precarious at the best of times – she’d been lucky – but just how long could she maintain her status? There were other divas taking centre-stage now: the electrifying Callas in America, the regal Joan Sutherland from Australia, as well as the stunning New Zealander, Kiri te Kanawa, who’d just made her first recording after being at the London Opera Centre.
She sipped the tea and stared into space. She was still a diva; still respected, loved and sought after. But how long would that last? She was almost fifty, and because she’d started so young, her voice would soon fail her. Then what? The idea of retiring scared her rigid. What would she do? How would she spend her time? Belvedere was her home, the place she yearned to be when she was away from it. But she was realistic enough to realise Belvedere was far removed from the bright lights of the city, another world from the drama of the opera and the excitement of travelling the world. How long would it be before she tired of the endless space, the sm
all population and the day-to-day grind of life on a cattle station?
Perhaps she could commute? Her money had built a new academy in Melbourne, and supplied scholarships for the poorer students, and she could teach and nurture their talents. But then again she would miss the cut and thrust of performing, the adrenaline of standing on a huge stage in front of an appreciative audience. She could record or make guest appearances, of course, but that wouldn’t satisfy her at all. Catriona had always believed in all or nothing. If she retired, then it would be the end – it had to be – for she was damned if she would turn into a deluded diva who carried on into old age accepting the charitable offer of any part available because she couldn’t bear the thought of not performing.
Catriona blinked and snapped out of her gloomy thoughts. She wasn’t past it quite yet. She was about to star in Tosca, her most famous role and they wouldn’t have offered it to her out of pity. She was just tired and needed a rest. Tomorrow was another day, and as it was a break in rehearsals, she wondered if she might fly over and visit Poppy. It would be good to see her again; the last trip had been fleeting.
The letters lay on the table where she’d thrown them, and she sifted through until she came to something that looked interesting. The large envelope was addressed in an unfamiliar hand, and had been re-directed from the Sydney apartment. She tore it open.
Her own letter fell out. It was still in its envelope, but it had at least been opened. Catriona’s hand began to shake. There was no accompanying note. Catriona stared at the handwriting, wondering if her letter had been read right through, or whether it had been glanced at and ignored. But the very act of returning it was a powerful message. Her daughter wanted nothing to do with her.
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