Dreamscapes

by Tamara McKinley

  The Aborigine nodded. ‘Plenty tools. Fred fix ute now. Bluddy thing crook.’ He dumped the mail-bag on the kitchen table and studied her for a long moment. ‘Reckon you wait for somethin’ special, missus. Fair remind me of a chook on a hot tin roof.’ He laughed and shook his head as she tried to deny it. ‘Reckon you got fella. Wait him write.’

  ‘I should be so lucky,’ she breathed as he left the house and sauntered over to the barn. All the men she knew had faded away once she’d retired – talk about fame attracting the wrong sort of suitor. But, she reasoned, she couldn’t blame them. It took a special kind of man to live out here, and they were thin on the ground.

  She turned swiftly and tipped the mail out onto the table. It was a great stack, and working with swift familiarity, she began to sort them into piles. Fred’s were mostly store catalogues and animal auction brochures. There were letters for the men and several parcels. Cookie was obviously popular; he had a stack of letters, each of them written in the same hand in red ink. She raised an eyebrow as she caught the scent of perfumed paper. It would seem he had an admirer.

  There were comics for Rosa and catalogues for Connor and she set them aside. Connor was riding the fences and wouldn’t be home for a while. Rosa was due back from school at any moment, and was bringing Belinda with her as usual. The child seemed to spend more time here than at Derwent Hills, and she hoped Pat Sullivan didn’t mind. She grinned. Poor Connor. Belinda’s adoration hadn’t faltered, and he was so embarrassed by it he often took himself off and wouldn’t return to the homestead until she was gone. Perhaps that was why he’d been so keen to do the one job on the place every man hated?

  Her hand hovered over the two letters and her spirits plummeted. They were her latest attempts to reach her daughter, and like all the others had not been opened, merely returned to sender.

  Determined not to let this further rejection get to her, she scooped up the rest of her mail and put it aside to read later. Sorting out the other piles, she put them in the large shopping bags she kept specifically for the purpose, carried them across the yard and distributed them at the bunkhouse, the kitchen and Fred’s cottage. When she returned to the homestead Rosa and Belinda had already rubbed down their ponies and set them loose in the paddock, and were now tucking in to bread and jam.

  Catriona hugged Rosa and kissed her grimy cheek. ‘What on earth have you been up to?’ she asked as she made a fresh pot of tea. ‘You’re covered in dirt.’

  Rosa grinned and rubbed her hands through her short hair. ‘Me and Belinda made a camp in the bush, and some of the boys tried to take it over.’ She and Belinda exchanged glances. ‘But we showed ’em what for, eh?’

  Belinda nodded, her dark curls bouncing around her plump shoulders. ‘Reckon they won’t try it again,’ she said through a mouthful of bread and jam. ‘Rosa gave Timmy Brooks a black eye.’

  ‘Good on you,’ said Catriona cheerfully. ‘We girls have got to stick up for ourselves. As for getting dirty – it won’t kill you.’

  ‘See,’ said Rosa with an air of triumph to Belinda. ‘I said she wouldn’t make a fuss.’

  Catriona smiled and sipped her tea. Getting dirty and having tussles with boys was what childhood was all about. Rosa was a tough little larrikin – she would need to be in this modern world – so what harm was there in a dirty face? ‘Are you both looking forward to high school?’ she asked after they’d finished eating.

  ‘Yeah,’ they said in unison. ‘We can’t wait,’ babbled Rosa. ‘Only three more weeks and it’s the end of term. Are we going to Sydney for our uniforms?’ She didn’t wait for a reply. ‘Can Belinda come too?’

  ‘I’ll ask Pat,’ Catriona replied, trying not to laugh at the earnest expression on the little face. She saw the excitement and felt a tug of longing. It would be strange not to have them at her tea table during the long school terms away, but every mother in the Outback had to make this sacrifice if their children were to realise their full potential.

  She watched them run down the hall. Heard the slam of the screen door and the thunder of their feet on the verandah. They were growing up. Time was moving too swiftly, and before she knew it, they would be young women.

  *

  It was late and she’d finally got the girls to turn out their light and stop talking. Walking into the lounge, she saw the stack of letters and poured herself a gin and tonic. With the stereo turned low, the sweet voice of Callas soothed away the cares of the day. She set aside the two letters that had been returned unopened and began to read through the rest.

  Clemmie and John were on a cruise – they were always away now Clemmie had no clients to manage. There were letters from fans which had been forwarded from her recording company, and news bulletins from the Academy she’d set up in Melbourne. They wanted her to present the prizes at the end-of-year concert, and she made a note in her diary. There were postcards and letters from friends still working in the theatre, another appeal from the charity she patronised, and a reminder she was due at the dentist at the end of the month.

  Two very important looking letters remained. One turned out to be an invitation to attend the opening of the Sydney Opera House where she would be presented to Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth. The other was a formal declaration from Her Majesty’s Government. Catriona Summers was to be honoured with the title of Dame in recognition of her work in the field of opera. The ceremony would take place privately before the opening ceremony.

  ‘Bloody hell,’ she breathed. She flopped back in the chair, and read it again. It had to be a joke. A Dame! How preposterous! Dames were men dressed in drag for pantonime, not skinny little women who just happened to have enough balls to get onto a stage and sing their hearts out. How Poppy would have laughed.

  She drank deeply from the glass and read the letter several times more. The seal at the bottom looked genuine enough and the letter-heading seemed right. Perhaps this wasn’t a joke after all? It was a sobering thought – and a tremendous surprise. Yet, as she sat there in the soft lamplight and listened to Callas singing one of the beautiful arias from Tosca, she seemed to remember Clemmie wittering on about something months ago. Catriona hadn’t really been listening, she’d been engrossed in final rehearsals for her London finale, and thought Clemmie was merely talking about seeing Buckingham Palace – not receiving an honour from there.

  ‘Strewth,’ she breathed. ‘It’s really happening. I’m going to be a Dame of the British Empire.’ She giggled and put on a plummy accent. ‘How frightfully spiffing. One will have to watch one’s ps and qs now, my gel.’ Giggling even more, she poured another drink. ‘Cheers,’ she said as she lifted it in salute to her portrait above the fireplace. ‘Legs up and laughing, girl. I bet you never thought this would happen when you were having your fling with Rupert Smythe-Billings.’

  Catriona wanted to tell someone. But, as always at times like these, there was no one around. The telephone was linked to the two-way radio, and within seconds the whole of the Outback community would know, but this was too precious a gift to squander. She wanted to tell someone special. Rosa was asleep and Connor was camping out overnight somewhere on Belvedere’s hundreds of thousands of square acres. Poppy was long gone and Clemmie was abroad. That left Pat Sullivan who would be asleep, and it wouldn’t be fair to wake her after the long, tiring day she’d probably had.

  Her gaze fell on the returned letters and her spirits tumbled. If only she could tell her daughter. She sank back into the chair, the stark reality of her situation quenching her joy. Did those in charge of such honours know about her past? Did it matter to them, would it make a difference? Perhaps she should write back and decline the offer? But that would merely cause gossip and speculation. What to do, what to do? If only Clemmie was around, she would know.

  Catriona walked over to the two-way radio and made the connection. There was a slim chance Clemmie and John’s holiday was over. The post was erratic out here, and the letter was dated weeks ago. As she waited for the operator to put h
er through, she drummed her long nails on the polished pine. Her impatience was making her edgy. ‘Please let her be there,’ she whispered. ‘Please, Clemmie. Pick up the bloody phone.’

  ‘Hello?’ The voice was distant, almost lost in the white noise of the telegraph wires.

  ‘Clemmie?’ Catriona gripped the phone.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ The voice was sharper now.

  ‘I got a letter from England,’ she said. She had to be careful, there were no doubt many ears listening in. ‘It’s terrific news, but I need your advice.’

  ‘Oh, good,’ replied Clemmy. ‘I was expecting to hear from you sooner than this. Did you also get the invitation to the opening?’

  ‘Yes. But I can’t accept either.’

  ‘Why ever not?’

  ‘I can’t say much, the line’s too open. But you know why not, Clem.’ She paused and listened to the hum and buzz of the static. ‘Susan Smith,’ she said finally.

  Clemmy laughed. ‘Don’t be daft,’ she said. ‘They don’t care about all that. They just want to reward you for the sterling work you’ve done over the years. And for the money and time you’ve given to your Academy and all the other charities you’ve set up and supported.’

  Catriona felt light-headed. ‘You’re sure?’ she persisted. ‘I would hate to have it snatched away again.’

  ‘It won’t happen, darling. You’ve earned it.’ She chuckled. ‘Dame Catriona Summers certainly has a ring to it. Congratulations. Now will you let me get some sleep? I’ll ring again in the morning.’

  Catriona cut the connection and turned back into the room. She was excited and nervous, thrilled at the news – yet beneath that joy was the deepest sorrow. Her daughter would never share this moment. Would never know how much she was loved and missed. Catriona picked up the letters, and cradling them to her chest, burst into tears.

  *

  Rosa stared into the shadows cast by the moon. She didn’t know what had woken her, but something had. She lay alert and listening. It was probably just a possum on the roof, she decided after a while. But it was a nuisance, because now she was wide awake and needed to go to the bathroom. Throwing back the covers, she climbed out of bed.

  As she pulled open the door she heard a sound that at first she didn’t recognise. She glanced over her shoulder at Belinda. Her friend was buried beneath the covers, her breath deep and even in sleep. Rosa tiptoed out of the room and crept down the short hallway. There was light pouring from the open door of the lounge. This was where the sound had come from.

  Easing along the wall, she took a peek. What she saw made her want to cry out – to rush into the room and offer comfort – but something in the way Catriona was crying stilled her. Her tears were streaming down her face, but there was little sound from her as she huddled over some letters, rocking back and forth as if they were something to be protected. Whatever could it mean? Rosa bit her lip. She shouldn’t be here. Shouldn’t be prying. Yet she couldn’t move, for she was fascinated by what Catriona did next.

  The old tin trunk had stood beside the desk ever since they had moved into the house. It was a treasure trove of clothes and gloves and shoes which Catriona had allowed her and Belinda to try on. There were programmes and sheet music and letters from fans as well as photographs of Catriona in the roles she’d sung, but Rosa had never been left alone with the trunk, and now she understood why. It was Catriona’s hiding place for the most private of things.

  As Rosa stood in the shadows beyond the door, she watched her unlock the trunk and carefully place the letters in the bottom. She held her breath as the key was hidden behind the large clock on the mantel. Then had to race back to her bedroom as Catriona turned and headed for the doorway. Her pulse was racing and she was having trouble trying to keep her breathing muffled as she dived beneath the covers and feigned sleep. She heard Catriona’s footsteps in the hallway. Heard them stop outside the door she hadn’t had time to close. After a long moment of silence in which she was certain Catriona would find her out, the door was closed and the footsteps moved on towards the kitchen.

  Rosa was far too excited to sleep, but time seemed to drag as she waited for Catriona to go to bed. Belinda was still asleep, and she was tempted to wake her. They shared everything, and this was a real mystery. Yet, as she was about to give her a poke, she drew back. This was private, she decided. Catriona’s secret must be kept.

  She crept out of bed again and opened the door. The light had been switched off in Catriona’s bedroom, but it would be best to wait a bit longer just to make sure she was really asleep. She was a little fearful, for if Catriona caught her messing about with her trunk she’d really cop it. Yet, laced with the fear was the sense of adventure. Rosa swiftly went to the bathroom and climbed back into bed to wait.

  The time ticked away and as the clock in the hall struck eleven, Rosa finally decided Catriona had to be asleep by now. She tiptoed down the hall and listened at her bedroom door. She could hear steady breathing. With her own heart banging, and her breath ragged in her throat, she crept into the sitting room and climbed on a chair to reach beneath the clock. The key was small and glimmered coldly in the moonlight as she turned to face the trunk.

  It was a mysterious presence, lying in wait for her, its very silence a magnet for her curiosity. Rosa’s legs were trembling, and she plumped down on the couch, her gaze fixed to the rusting metal and the weathered leather straps. Time was passing, the chance of getting caught more likely by the minute. Yet, in a way this only sharpened the anticipation, for she might never have the opportunity again.

  The silence of the house surrounded her and the images conjured up by Catriona’s storytelling began to parade before her. They were silent, fleeting images, recalling a time and a place that Rosa could have no knowledge of, yet they seemed so familiar, so welcoming, she couldn’t resist them. She knelt and undid the buckles. The straps fell away and she wrestled with the key in the padlock. It turned finally and the lid creaked open.

  She stilled, tense and listening for any sign that would mean she’d been discovered. But all she heard were the familiar creaks and sighs of the house. She rested on her heels and looked at the trunk. Her mouth was dry, her throat so tight she could scarcely breathe.

  Sheets of music, old programmes and publicity photographs lay inches deep over a sheet of muslin. The pungent smell of mothballs made her eyes water as she sifted through the music sheets and set them to one side. The photographs were professionally done, some in black and white, some in colour, showing Catriona from her early twenties and on through to the end of her career. The programmes mirrored those Catriona had stored in her desk, and were printed in many different languages. From La Scala in Rome, to Paris, Madrid, London, Sydney and Moscow. Rosa had seen them before and hastily set them aside.

  Beneath the programmes and assorted clutter lay the newspapers. They had been rolled firmly and secured with rubber bands that had perished over the years. Rosa glanced at the headlines, and as the abdication of the King, the declarations of war and the Coronation of the Queen didn’t interest her, she put them on the floor. With trembling hands she slowly drew back the sheet of muslin.

  The dresses were old friends, and as she took each one out, she remembered the stories behind them. The dark red, velvet ballgown was the one Catriona had worn for her portrait. Rosa drew it out of the trunk and held it against her. She could still catch the memory of Catriona’s perfume and the dusting of talc in the cloth. Draping it over the arm of the chair, she pulled out the next. It was purple silk, shot with blue and green with a full skirt and glittering crystals stitched around the neck. An elegant black dress followed. Catriona had said it was made by Dior, but that didn’t interest Rosa. She was impatient to find the letter.

  There was another Dior dress, a Chanel suit, and a cocktail dress by Balmain. Long, white kid gloves had been carefully wrapped in draw-string bags, and frothy, laced lingerie had been folded away between sheets of tissue paper. As Rosa carefully laid t
hem on the couch, she felt her pulse begin to race. For there, shimmering in the lamplight was the wedding dress that Catriona had refused to allow them to try on. She hardly dared touch it now, for it was the most delicate, beautiful thing she had ever seen. The lace was old, and it swept in layers from the shoulders to the floor in a slender waterfall of seed-pearls and diamante.

  As she held it close, she thought she could hear the music of a church, could almost smell the flowers and feel the trembling excitement of the young bride as she walked up the aisle. Catriona must have felt like a queen that day, she thought. I know I would have. I wonder if she’ll lend it to me when I’m a bride?

  She realised she was wasting time. With the wedding dress carefully draped over the back of the couch, Rosa reached into the trunk and found dainty satin shoes and white gloves. As she lifted out the gossamer veil she discovered the single yellow rose. The petals were dry now and brittle, the scent faded. Something about that fragile rose reached out to her and she experienced a pang of sadness. Why, she wondered, had Catriona kept it?

  Her hand stilled over the letters. Some had been tied in ribbon, others stuffed into large brown envelopes and marked FAN MAIL. She set them aside, glanced towards the door and after a momentary hesitation, drew out the final packet of letters. Her fingers trembled as she plucked the pink ribbon which tied them together. She could feel Catriona’s vibrancy fill the room, could almost hear her voice warning her not to pry.

  She threw the letters back into the trunk, as if by this swift action she could silence the voice in her head. Catriona trusted her. She would be furious if she discovered what Rosa was doing. Rosa ran her fingers through her hair. Catriona’s presence seemed to be at her shoulder. She glanced around, fearful she’d been caught out and although she was alone, Catriona’s spirit seemed to be in everything around her. Her life before she came to live on Belvedere was scattered across the floor and in the trunk. Her life now in the very fabric of the walls in this room, and as Rosa eyed the oil painting above the fire-place, she could have sworn those violet eyes were watching her. Catriona’s enigmatic smile unfaltering, the gaze steady and accusing.