Dreamscapes

by Tamara McKinley

  Poppy hung her coat in the hallway and kicked off her shoes. She rubbed her hair dry with a soft towel as she wandered barefoot around the apartment admiring the furniture, the fresh flowers, the deep carpets and enormous bed. She traced her fingers over the delicate ornaments and the crystal vases, and stood like a child at the window of a sweet shop when she opened the wardrobe doors that lined one entire wall of the bedroom and peeked inside at the rows of furs and silks. Catriona’s gowns were sheathed in linen, her shoes neatly paired in racks beneath them. ‘Bloody hell,’ she breathed. ‘You got more bleedin’ clothes than ’arrods.’

  Catriona laughed as she stripped off her suit and donned comfortable trousers and a silk shirt. ‘Most of that lot are for when I’m on tour and have to do the dinners and interviews with the backers and the press,’ she explained. ‘This is what I prefer to wear when I’m not working.’ She slipped on low pumps and draped a cardigan over her shoulders. ‘Come on, Poppy, let’s have a glass of champagne to celebrate our reunion. Then we can see about getting you into something more comfortable for the flight.’

  Poppy’s protests were ignored and as the champagne began to take effect, she entered into the spirit of things. After a long soak in a deep bath, frothy with exotic bubbles, she changed into a neat pair of tailored trousers, a silk jumper and smart jacket. Their feet were different sizes, so there was nothing Catriona could do about shoes, but Poppy couldn’t help but stand and admire herself in the pier-glass. ‘Gawd,’ she breathed. ‘I ain’t never seen nothing like it.’

  Catriona left Poppy happily experimenting with her make-up and quickly packed an overnight bag for both of them. It was a two-hour flight to Belvedere, and they wouldn’t be returning until the next day.

  Poppy’s initial excitement turned to fear as the little Cessna roared down the runway and took off into the night sky. ‘’ow can ’e’see where’s ’e’s going?’ she asked as she gripped the arm of her seat. ‘It’s as black as yer ’at out there.’

  Catriona explained about charts and radar and flight-plans, making it sound as if she knew far more than she did, but it had the right effect and Poppy began to relax. Two hours later they circled over Belvedere. The broad strip that had been cleared from the bush was lit by flares, and as they came in to land, Catriona could see a utility truck and two people standing beside it. She felt a thrill of excitement. At last she was on Belvedere.

  She led the way out of the little plane and was met by a man of average size and wiry build whose face was lined by the years of working in the sun. He wore moleskin trousers, a check shirt and scuffed boots, and there was a stained and battered bush-hat low over his brow. ‘Pleased to meet you at last,’ he drawled. ‘The name’s Fred Williams.’ He turned slightly and introduced the tall, slender Aborigine standing at his side who was dressed in a similar manner. ‘This here’s Billy Birdsong, my right-hand man.’

  She shook her manager’s hand and smiled up at him. ‘G’day Fred,’ she replied before turning to greet the silent Aborigine. She introduced Poppy who was clutching her handbag as if her life depended upon it. ‘We’ve come to have a look around,’ she said.

  Fred shoved back the sweat-stained Akubra and scratched his head. ‘Reckon you won’t see much tonight, Missus,’ he drawled. ‘What you think, Billy?’

  ‘Reckon Missus see more at sun-up,’ he replied. ‘No good in dark.’

  As Catriona hesitated, Fred made the decision for her. ‘Better come up to the house and get a feed. We got plenty of room here, so your pilot can bunk in with the boys. But I don’t knows about the homestead being suitable for city ladies,’ he said shyly.

  Catriona and Poppy exchanged grins and she assured him they were used to roughing it.

  ‘Billy’s missus has had a bit of a clean-up and changed the sheets. I’ll be in the bunkhouse tonight if you need anything,’ he said as he climbed into the ute and drove them out of the paddock and across the rough track to the homestead.

  The homestead was nestled in a sheltering arc of trees. The clapboard needed painting, but the screens over the doors and windows were in good repair, as was the verandah. The inside was a revelation. Welcoming in the glow of oil-lamps, it was nevertheless decidedly shabby and obviously the domain of a single man. There were few decorations, no curtains or soft chairs, just the bare essentials, and the lingering odour of horse and cattle.

  Fred poured them a cup of tea from the pot that was standing on the vast range, and then hurried off to get some food from the cookhouse. Billy had slunk off into the night, and they were alone.

  ‘Blimey,’ spluttered Poppy as she tasted the tea and added more sugar. ‘This tea must’ve been stewing for hours.’

  Catriona took a sip and grimaced. Setting the cup back on the table she took a long moment to look around her property. She felt at home here despite the clutter and neglect and she was imagining how it might look once she’d moved in.

  The homestead was quite small, with only two bedrooms and this room which served as lounge, office and kitchen. There was no bathroom, only a shed out the back – the dreaded dunny – a dark and evil-smelling edifice which instilled fear in those not used to such a primitive arrangement. There was obviously no mains water or electricity, and the bath was a tin tub hanging on the wall outside the back door. ‘I know I said we were used to roughing it,’ she murmured. ‘But I think this is going a bit far.’

  Poppy grimaced. ‘You make do with what you got,’ she muttered. ‘You’ve been spoiled, Kitty. Got outta the ’abit.’

  Catriona knew she was right and was a little ashamed at how fussy she’d become. ‘I reckon if I extended south and north and added a proper bathroom and lavatory, it would be a little gem,’ she said as the ideas began to flow thick and fast. ‘A good generator would provide electric light and hot water, and some decent furniture would make it cosy.’

  ‘Not much point if you ain’t gunna be livin’ ’ere,’ muttered Poppy.

  ‘I will eventually,’ she replied. ‘But I’m sure Fred would appreciate a proper bathroom and decent lighting. I’ll talk it over with him when he comes back.’

  Fred returned with a hefty supper of cold mutton, pickles and potato. He seemed to like her ideas and promised to look into the cost and let her know. He left for the bunkhouse and the two women settled into the narrow single beds of the spare room.

  After a long night of reminiscing, they were still groggy when they were woken at sun-up. Fred had arrived with an enormous breakfast of steak, fried potato and eggs. Catriona and Poppy looked at one another and tucked in. Never had breakfast tasted so good.

  Fred lent them his utility and with a roughly drawn map of Belvedere, they set off. The Station was enormous and it would be impossible to see everything on this first visit, yet Catriona breathed a sigh of deep contentment as she steered the jolting, bouncing utility over the rough ground. This was her home now, and even though it could do with rather more than a coat of paint, she had the feeling that when she finally retired and came to live here, she would find the peace she’d been looking for ever since that terrible night back in 1934.

  The little house on the edge of the property was really no more than a shack, she realised with disappointment as they drew up in front of the weed-filled garden. But it looked sturdy enough, and the roof was good. She led the way through the gate and up the steps. There was no key, for what was the sense of locking a house in such a remote spot?

  ‘Pongs a bit,’ said Poppy in her down-to-earth way. ‘Let’s open these shutters and get a bit of fresh air in ’ere.’ She slammed back the shutters and the light streamed in. ‘Blimey,’ she breathed. ‘I liked it better in the dark.’

  Catriona nodded as her spirits plunged. The floor was rotten, the stone hearth was crumbling, and possums had made a nest up in the rafters. The single living room was littered with all sorts of junk and the previous owner had left behind his broken furniture. The kitchen area was off to one side of this main room and consisted of an old range th
at hadn’t seen a rub of blacking in years, and a stone sink so stained with rust and filth it was good only for throwing out.

  The second room wasn’t any better. An old iron bed was leaning against one wall, and there was a filthy mattress on the floor which she suspected had become a very cosy home for countless generations of mice. The ubiquitous dunny was out the back, but at some point someone had set fire to it, and all that remained was a charred wall and a blackened pan.

  ‘Looks like the swaggies have been using this place,’ muttered Poppy as she picked her way over the rubbish in the backyard and kicked at a couple of empty beer bottles. ‘Still, a bit of elbow grease should see it right.’

  ‘You reckon it could be lived in then?’ Catriona turned to face her.

  ‘Yeah, why not? It’s better than some I’ve seen.’

  ‘If I get the builders in to do the repairs and add on another two rooms and a proper bathroom, do you think you and your Ellen could live here?’

  Poppy’s eyes were bright with tears and hope. ‘Oh, Kitty,’ she breathed. ‘I never meant … Of course we could.’ She looked back at the mean little shack as if she was being offered a palace. ‘It could be a really nice little place,’ she murmured. ‘But what would we live on, Kitty? We’re too far away from anywhere.’ She shook her head, the sadness in her eyes tugging at Catriona’s heart. ‘It’s kind of you, but we can’t,’ she finished.

  ‘Yes you can,’ said Catriona. ‘The town’s not that far away and I’ll make sure there’s a ute here for you so you can go back and forth whenever you like. And there’s the vegetable garden; you could make something of that as well.’ She hesitated. ‘It will mean Ellen leaving her husband,’ she murmured. ‘Do you think she will?’

  Poppy nodded. ‘She lives in fear of ’im. We both do.’

  Catriona took Poppy’s hands and looked deeply into her eyes. ‘Please let me do this for you, Poppy. Please say you’ll bring Ellen and the baby here out of harm’s way.’

  ‘They’d be safer ’ere without that bastard around, that’s a fact,’ she murmured. ‘But why would you want to do this for us, Kitty? We ain’t charity cases, you know, and I never came to you asking for any of this, and …’

  Catriona silenced her with a hug. ‘This isn’t charity,’ she said firmly. ‘This is taking care of my own.’ She gently eased from the embrace and looked into Poppy’s eyes. ‘You were like a mother and a sister to me. You looked out for me and took care of me and loved me without reservation. Now it’s my turn to take care of you and your family. Please let me do this for you, Poppy. I so very much want to.’

  ‘Only if you let us pay rent,’ said Poppy stubbornly. Her eyes were bright, her face alive with hope and excitement.

  ‘Righto,’ conceded Catriona. ‘But not until you’ve found a job and got the garden going. Then we’ll come to some arrangement.’

  Poppy nodded and could barely contain her excitement as she linked arms with Catriona and they took a stroll around the property. They finally came to a halt at the bottom of the neglected vegetable garden and stood looking out at the magnificent view of hills and trees and endless pastures. Cattle grazed and horses stood beneath the wilga trees as white cockatoos screeched and brightly coloured rosella’s darted back and forth to the water-trough.

  ‘This is a good place to bring up a kid,’ sighed Poppy. ‘My grandson, Connor, will thrive here.’

  Chapter Thirteen

  Catriona returned to Sydney with Poppy, and six months later the little family moved into their new home. Catriona flew out with them and was astounded at the change in the place. The shack was clean and weatherproof, and twice the size, with a large generator to supply hot water and electricity. The garden had been dug over, the grass cut and the look on Poppy’s face was a picture as she stood at the gate and stared.

  Catriona glanced at Ellen and they exchanged an indulgent smile. Ellen was so like her mother at that age that Catriona found it difficult not to call her Poppy. But the girl seemed contented enough to live out here in the bush – even though Poppy had had to use a great deal of persuasion to make her leave her husband – and at two years old, Connor was a delight.

  She took the little boy and held him on her hip. His hair was dark and brushed into a cockscomb, and his hazel eyes stared back at her so fixedly she wondered if he was trying to decide who she was. She felt a heart-swell of emotion as he gave her a cheeky grin and she thought of her own baby and the shock of dark hair that had peeked from the blankets, and handed Connor back to his mother. It was a bit late to get sentimental – she would have no more babies.

  *

  Harold Bradley had retired six years ago and was living with his wife in a small cottage in the rainforest which surrounded Kuranda. He spent his days working in the vegetable patch out the back, and his evenings on the verandah with his pipe. The war years had been fraught with worry for his son, but the boy had returned unharmed and was now the local policeman in Athertonshire. Harold was proud his son wanted to follow in his footsteps, and looked forward to the evenings when Charles joined him on the verandah and discussed the current cases.

  He was enjoying retirement, and would have been content but for the nagging sense of having left certain things unresolved. The mystery of Kane’s disappearance with the woman and child had never been explained. Neither had the whereabouts of Demetri, for the Russian had never returned to his hotel.

  Harold had made a copy of the missing persons’ report and brought it home on the day he retired. It was in a drawer in the bedroom, and every so often he would take it out and read it. Yet he knew it was a cold case, for Edith had passed away shortly after coming to see him, and the rest of the staff had seemed to be in ignorance. The hotel had never re-opened, and the military had taken it over during the war as a hospital. Now it was empty and crumbling, the rainforest slowly taking it over.

  He sat on the verandah, the pipe smoke drifting in the humid air as he thought about that file. He’d discussed it with Charles, but his son was far too busy to open such an old case. The War had disrupted all their lives, records had been destroyed or gone missing, men had disappeared in the battlefields of Europe and Asia, and women married and changed their names. It would be like searching for a needle in a haystack.

  ‘Grandpa?’

  Harold was snapped from his thoughts and he looked down and smiled at the small boy who was tugging at his trouser leg. ‘Tom,’ he said as he picked him up and settled him on his knee. ‘Shall I tell you a story about a Russian and an Englishman and the curious incident of the vanishing silver?’

  Tom Bradley nodded. He loved it when Grandpa talked about the things he did when he was a policeman like Daddy. One day, he decided, he too would wear the same uniform and chase after robbers.

  *

  With the little family settled and thriving, and Fred and Billy Bird-song keeping an eye out for them, Catriona returned to her busy schedule. She left Australia and was soon immersed in the season of Verdi operas that were being held in Rome. This time she had kept her promise and taken Brin with her despite his advancing age and frailty.

  Catriona’s fortieth birthday was celebrated in Rome. She and Brin had been there for almost a year now, and the Verdi season was at an end. They would be leaving tomorrow for a year in Paris, before travelling to London for her brief appearance as Manon in a special gala for Queen Elizabeth. From London she would fly to New York to sing in Tosca, then return to Sydney to record an album of Puccini’s most popular arias. Her reputation was firmly set as one of the finest sopranos of the age, and she knew her voice had never been richer or more pure.

  Yet her success had been marred by Brin’s increasing frailty. He’d loved their time in Rome, and she’d made sure he saw all the usual tourist haunts. But she soon realised he wasn’t up to helping her any more in the dressing-room and she’d hired another dresser so he could rest. Brin maintained an almost nonchalant disregard for his state of health, and refused all medical help. But Catrio
na could see he’d lost a great deal of weight and she didn’t like the look of the strange sores on his face and hands that no amount of salve could cure.

  Catriona could stand it no longer. She went against his wishes and paid for the best medical advice in Rome. But none of the doctors could fathom what was wrong with him, and they offered varying diagnosis. There had been hints that his questionable lifestyle had probably contributed to his illness, and that he had simply lived too well and his body had worn out. There seemed nothing anyone could do.

  The last performance was over and after briefly joining in the party, she left and caught a taxi back to the apartment she’d rented on the outskirts of the city. She didn’t have the heart to celebrate when Brin was obviously so ill.

  He was fast asleep on the couch when she let herself into the apartment. She stood and looked down at him for a long moment, remembering what a good friend he’d always been, and how he’d made her laugh at his outrageous stories, how he’d known better than she what clothes suited her and would spend long happy hours browsing in the shops for just the right dress. He’d always been there for her, and now it was her turn to look after him.

  Perhaps, in Paris, she would find a doctor who would know what was wrong with him?

  She gently drew the blanket over his shoulders, switched off the table-lamp and went into her bedroom. Taking off her clothes, she showered and pulled on a silk wrap, then sat down to read the letters from home.

  Clemmie was well and had become a grandmother for the first time, so her letter was full of the new baby. John had written separately with news of the changes in the adoption laws, and Catriona’s hands trembled as she quickly scanned through the letter. The changes, he told her, meant she had access to some of the records. But she would not be permitted to gather enough information to contact her daughter. He had already written to the authorities and he hoped he would have some news very soon.