Dreamscapes

  Dreamscapes

  Tamara McKinley

  New York • London

  © 2005 by Tamara McKinley

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  e-ISBN 978-1-62365-563-1

  Distributed in the United States and Canada by

  Hachette Book Group

  237 Park Avenue

  New York, NY 10017

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, institutions, places, and events are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons—living or dead—events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  www.quercus.com

  Tamara McKinley is the author of more than eleven novels. She was born in Tasmania, but now lives in Sussex and Cornwall and writes full time. Her novels are both contemporary and historical, following the lives of Australian pioneers and those who came after them.

  Also by Tamara McKinley

  Matilda’s Last Waltz

  Jacaranda Vines

  Windflowers

  Summer Lightning

  Undercurrents

  Ocean Child

  Acknowledgements

  To Liza Hobbs, mezzo-soprano, with grateful thanks for her expert advice and the time she spent helping me with all the research into the opera. The emails and the glasses of wine were really much appreciated. I apologise for any mistakes – they are my own.

  To the Music Department Staff at Newlands School, Seaford, I give my thanks for lending me so many books from their library. They proved invaluable sources for my research into the operas I wanted to use in this work.

  Thanks also to Gary and Karen Stidder for their generous gift of tickets to Glyndebourne so I could see how it was done in real life. My thanks to all of the above for teaching me so much, and giving me the chance to discover what has become a passion for the opera.

  Contents

  Acknowledgements

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Epilogue: A Year Later

  Also Available

  Chapter One

  1921

  It was the height of summer and the six painted wagons slowly trundled along the winding, narrow, dirt track which cut through the heart of the Australian Outback. Each wagon bore the legend, SUMMERS’ MUSIC HALL, in bright red letters, and was pulled by a sure-footed shire-horse, whose chestnut coat and graceful plumed fetlocks gleamed in the sun. The troupe of travelling players had been together for over a year, and now they were heading for Charleville before turning north to spend the winter on the Queensland coast.

  Velda Summers sat on the buckboard next to her husband, and tried to ease the nagging pain in her back. The jolt and sway of the wagon was making her feel nauseous, and she couldn’t wait for the journey to be over. ‘How far is it now?’ she demanded.

  Declan turned his head to look at her, his expression concerned. ‘That’s the fifth time you’ve asked me this morning,’ he said in the warm Irish brogue so admired by his female audiences. ‘Are you not well, my love?’

  Velda put her hands over the burgeoning mound of her stomach. ‘I think the baby’s not liking all this jiggling about,’ she said with a pout. ‘And, frankly, Declan, neither am I.’ She looked back at him through her lashes and tempered her petulance with a wan smile.

  Declan’s smile was indulgent, his dark hair flopping over his brow as the sun glinted in his brown eyes. ‘We’re almost there, darlin’,’ he murmured. ‘Then you can rest while we get ready for the parade.’

  Velda gave a great sigh to let him know she wasn’t happy about it, and tried to find a more comfortable spot on the hard buckboard. She had no other option but to sit here and suffer, but even with a cushion rammed behind the small of her back, she couldn’t ease the nagging ache. She tasted the dew of sweat on her top lip and pulled at her dress. The thin cotton shift was clinging to her, and despite the broad-brimmed hat she always wore to protect her face from the sun, she could feel the onset of a headache.

  The heat of the Outback was all-encompassing. There was no escape, not even when they were sheltered from the fierce glare by surrounding trees. Flies and mosquitoes were drifting around them in clouds, and the eternal hiss and click of a million insects buzzed in her head. Her energy was sapped and she wilted like the pale green eucalyptus leaves that drooped overhead. How she missed the cool, misty mornings of her Irish home. The smell of rain on grass, the crashing of the sea against the black rocks and the pungent aroma of peat fires in the hearth.

  ‘You’re not regretting this, are you?’ Declan asked as he slapped the reins over the shire’s broad back in an attempt to quicken his pace.

  Velda dismissed the treacherous thoughts of Ireland, for they came only in moments of weakness, and she knew she would follow her man to the ends of the earth – even if it was as hot as hell and twice as uncomfortable. She smiled at him as she saw the naked love for her in his eyes. ‘Never,’ she breathed. ‘For how could I have let you come all this way alone?’

  He seemed satisfied with her reply and, after kissing her cheek, turned his attention back to the vista that was opening out before them.

  Velda looked at the empty miles of sun-bleached grass and blood-red earth and, despite her brave words, felt the return of the deep-seated fear that always lurked at the back of her mind. They were so far from civilisation – so very alone – what if something were to go wrong again? This Australia was an untamed place which instilled fear in even the most determined heart, and although she had Declan to protect and cherish her, there were moments when she wished with all her might they hadn’t come here.

  Tears blurred her vision and she bit her lip as she thought of the lonely little grave they had left behind a year ago. Her first baby had come too fast and had not survived long enough to draw breath. They would probably never pass that way again, and her tiny son’s resting place would be obliterated by the elements and the encroaching bush, until there was no sign he had ever existed.

  She blinked back the tears, fighting to maintain a stoic disregard for the onset of loneliness and the yearning need for her mother. Her choice had been made and she’d
married Declan, knowing she would never see the shores of Ireland again. For this had been their adventure, their search for a new life and perhaps even fame and fortune. It was too late now to regret anything.

  The sun was high in the sky as the cavalcade entered the clearing in the bush and the troupe began to set up camp. Charleville was less than two miles away and they had to prepare for their Grand Parade. This would be their chance of drumming up business, of handing out fliers and giving the audience a taste of what was to come if they paid their twopenny entrance fee.

  Declan lifted Velda from her high perch and gently set her on her feet. ‘I’ve put some pillows and blankets under that tree,’ he said. ‘Go and rest while I try to knock some order into this company of rogues.’

  Velda stroked his face, seeing the fear for her and their unborn child in his eyes.

  ‘Did I ever tell you how much I love you?’ she murmured, her earlier petulance forgotten.

  ‘Many times, my darling,’ he replied against her lips. ‘But I will never tire of hearing you say it.’

  They kissed, his embrace gentle as the baby moved between them. Then he was gone, striding into the circle of wagons, throwing orders to all who would listen, his rich, deep tones reverberating in the stillness of their bush surroundings.

  ‘Blimey, ’e don’t ’alf go on,’ grumbled Poppy as she took Velda’s arm.

  Velda smiled as she eased her back. She and Poppy were both twenty-two, and the little Cockney dancer had become a good friend over the twelve months they’d been together. ‘He just wants everything to be ready,’ she murmured.

  ‘Let’s get you settled then. You look fair done in.’

  Velda silently acknowledged she was out of sorts. ‘I wish I had even half your energy, Poppy. Doesn’t the heat ever get to you?’

  The peroxide blonde hair shimmered in the sun and the freckles danced across her nose as she laughed. ‘When you’ve lived through twenty winters in London you’re only too pleased for a bit of warmth. Can’t get enough of it.’

  They picked their way over fallen branches and through the long, crisp grass to the trees overhanging the rivulet of water which meandered a tortuous path through the surrounding scrub and gurgled over shiny pebbles. With Poppy by her side, Declan’s lilting, musical voice soothing her fears, and the close proximity of Charleville easing Velda’s concerns, she could at last relax. This child would be born in a proper bed, with a doctor in attendance; they had the money, for these outback towns were starved of entertainment and the locals had come flocking to their performances.

  She took off the broad-brimmed straw hat she’d decorated with silk roses and scarlet ribbons, and shook out her long black hair, leaving it to tumble almost to her waist. It was cooler here by the water, the sunlight dappled by the cascade of drooping eucalyptus branches. There would be no more performances from her until this baby was born, and it was lovely to sit idly by and let the others do all the work. Yet she couldn’t quite dismiss the tug of longing to be with them, for she was a performer, a soprano, and she would miss not being on stage tonight, would miss the applause, the footlights and the excitement of playing to a new audience.

  ‘I know what you’re thinking,’ muttered Poppy as she helped Velda get settled on the blankets. ‘But you ain’t gunna be on that stage for a while yet, so you might as well ’ave a kip and enjoy being a lady of leisure for a change.’

  Velda squeezed her hand. ‘Thanks, Pops.’

  Poppy grinned, and without the usual thick make-up, she looked about sixteen. ‘Better get on, or I’ll ’ave yer old man yelling at me again.’

  Velda watched her run back to the wagons, and smiled. Poppy was never still, and despite the skinny frame, seemed to possess the strength and stamina of a cart-horse. Declan had long since realised Poppy was a law unto herself and had given up trying to organise her.

  Resting back on the pillows, she kicked off her shoes and dipped her feet in the icy water and watched the now familiar bustle of the camp as they prepared for the parade. Poppy was bossing the girls around as usual, her strident Cockney voice and raucous laughter echoing through the surrounding bush. The jugglers, musicians and acrobats were rehearsing and Max, the comedian and dog trainer, was sorting out his props. Patch, his little terrier snuffled in the long grass, tail whipping back and forth in excitement at all the different scents.

  Velda smiled as Patch caught sight of her and ran, tongue lolling to be petted. With one black eye and another patch on his rump, he was aptly named. She patted his head and eventually pushed him away. He was too energetic for her today.

  The wagons had been washed down, with water lifted in buckets from the stream, and now the green, red and yellow paintwork glittered in the sun. The white masks of comedy and tragedy gleamed like ghosts against the dark green paint, reminding the troupe they were following an ancient heritage – a heritage which had shifted and changed over the years – yet one that still enthralled those who played their part in it.

  The horses had been fed and watered, then groomed until their chestnut coats and white manes gleamed in the sun. Feathered headdresses were fixed to their crown-pieces, brasses to the thick collars, and strings of tiny silver bells dangled from the scarlet blankets on their backs. Patch danced on his back legs, showing off his glittery ruff, his piratical patch giving him a raffish air as he sought admiration from each of the players.

  There was an air of pent-up excitement among the men and women of the troupe as costumes were taken out of the trunks and brushed down. In this babble of chatter and laughter, top hats and shoes were polished, and feathery fans wafted to rid them of the dust that seemed to cling no matter how well they’d been packed. Heavy make-up was applied, frills and feathers adjusted and stockings checked for ladders. The props were inspected for any damage, and the fliers they’d had printed in the last town were divided up amongst the troupe to be handed out during the Grand Parade.

  Velda eased her back against the cushions. The ache had ebbed into a niggle, and she was feeling drowsy, lulled by the dappled shadows and the chuckle of the water. It was bliss not to be in that wagon, not to be jolted and jarred and thrown about.

  She sighed with sleepy contentment. The chorus girls chattered and bitched as they ruffled their brightly coloured skirts and jostled for a place in front of the one long mirror. Paste jewellery shot darts of fire in the sun, feathered headdresses swayed and dipped as they bent their heads and fought over lipsticks. They reminded her of the local birds, all bright plumage and squabbling tail-feathers, flitting here and there, never still.

  The sharp rap of drums woke her and she sat up, startled. She hadn’t meant to fall asleep, and by the look of things, the parade was ready to march into town.

  ‘Stay here and rest,’ said Declan as he squatted down beside her.

  ‘Not on your life,’ she insisted as she grabbed her shoes and struggled to her feet. She looked into his eyes, so loving, so kind, she couldn’t resist kissing him. ‘The show must go on, remember?’ she teased. ‘And as I’ve never missed a parade yet, I don’t intend to start now.’

  He looked uncertain, but she took the decision out of his hands by marching barefooted through the grass and clambering up into the wagon. The sleep had done her some good, and the pain had disappeared. Taking the reins, she looked down at him and grinned. ‘It’s showtime,’ she said. ‘Let’s go.’

  Charleville was a crossroads of the outback, with tracks that had been laid down by the early pioneers and explorers. The streets were broad and dusty, a leftover from the days of the great bullock droves when thirty oxen would pull the enormous drays loaded with bales of wool through the town on the way to the markets in Brisbane. It was a wealthy town with a hotel on every corner. These hotels catered to the needs of the stockmen and drovers who came with their mobs to the tiny Victorian station, where the animals would be sent east by train.

  Surrounding the town were several hundred thousand acres of good grazing land and forests which
were fed by a myriad number of underground streams and deep billabongs. Wool and beef were king and the Outlanders were rich after the Great War. Their money had provided wooden walkways and shops, two churches, a police station and a racecourse.

  The finest of the hotels was the Coronas. Built to cater for the aristocracy of the Outback – the graziers – it was a graceful Victorian edifice with a shady verandah that overlooked the hitching posts and main thoroughfare. The dining room was panelled and beamed with the finest oak, the tables laid with snowy linen and polished silver beneath the crystal chandeliers which had been imported from France.

  The reception hall was a hushed temple of comfortable chairs, tiffany lamps and highly polished floors. Upstairs, the luxurious bedrooms had their own bathrooms – an innovation which still caused wide-eyed awe amongst the locals – and opened out onto the broad balcony that ran the width of the hotel. From here, the graziers could sit in cane chairs in the shade, and smoke their cigars as they drank beer and whisky and looked down over the little town they were so proud to call their own. Several of these rooms were on permanent rental so these outback aristocrats and their families could come into town whenever they wished and be assured of a decent bed for the night.

  The Coronas Hotel was a famous landmark, and the hall at the back of the hotel was a popular venue for parties and dances, and it was said by those not in the know, that it was often the scene of debauchery and loose morals. This hall was long and wide, with a stage at one end, and would be the travelling players’ theatre for a few days.

  They were now on the edge of town and Velda experienced the old familiar surge of adrenaline as she sat with the reins in her hands and waited for the signal to lead the parade down the main street. Runners had already been sent ahead to advertise their arrival, and the sense of energy and nervous excitement was rising to fever pitch as the horses sweated and tossed their plumes, Patch danced in circles, and the players adjusted their costumes and made ready.