Catriona sipped her tea and looked across at her friend. ‘I can only stay for a couple of hours,’ she said with regret. ‘I have to be in the recording studio tomorrow morning.’
Poppy nodded. Her hair was grey, she’d given up dyeing it a long time ago, and it was cut into a severe bob. Yet, at seventy, she still wore bright clothes and make-up and there were gaudy earrings flashing in the sun that poured through the window. She called them her props and felt naked without them. Her face and hands were brown from the hours she spent in the garden, and although Catriona could see how tired she was, she seemed still to have the energy of a much younger woman. ‘You’ll wear yerself out, with all that rushing ’ere and there,’ she said. ‘Don’t you ever get sick of it?’
Catriona thought Poppy was a fine one to talk considering what she did every day. ‘I hate leaving here,’ she admitted. ‘But I can’t imagine being in the same place for too long.’ She smiled at Poppy. ‘I was born to the life. It’s in my blood.’
Poppy chewed her lip. ‘It’s a different kind of life to ’ow it was in the old days,’ she said. ‘The opera’s ever so posh. How does a girl like you fit in?’
Catriona smiled. She would be forty-eight in a few weeks time – hardly a girl any more. ‘I found it tough to begin with,’ she said. ‘Some of the other girls at the Academy used to laugh at the way I talked and poked fun at my clothes and the fact Mam worked as a waitress. I just had to remember why I was there and where it might lead. I stayed focussed on who I was and the sacrifices that had been made to get me that far. I worked hard at my elocution lessons and soaked up all the education they could give me.’ She grinned. ‘I learned very early on that no soprano could sing with the flat vowels of an Outback urchin.’
‘But it ain’t changed you,’ Poppy muttered. ‘You’ve still got that sweet way with you, almost innocent, if I didn’t know any better.’ Her faded blue eyes twinkled with humour. ‘I bet them other girls are spitting tacks ’cos you done so well.’
Catriona studied her manicured nails and the rings that glittered on her fingers. ‘Over the years I’ve worked with most of them in one production or another. Not all of them carried on their careers, they got married and had kids and couldn’t do the travelling. But on the whole they were a fairly decent bunch once they were away from the influence of Emily Harris.’
‘I remember you telling me about ’er,’ Poppy said as she began to clear the table. ‘Right little cow by all accounts. Whatever ’appened to her?’
Catriona smiled. ‘She never did cure that break between her head and chest registers. Poor Emily. The last I heard, she’d become the leading light in an amateur Gilbert and Sullivan company her father set up and financed.’
‘How are you coping, Poppy?’ she asked after a brief silence. ‘Do the children still ask after Ellen?’
Poppy pulled a face. ‘I’m fine, the kids are fine. They don’t ask after ’er no more, and why should they? She ’asn’t written a letter or phoned in years, and Rosa was too young to even remember ’er.’ She folded her arms and glowered. ‘I reckon they’re better off without ’er.’
Their conversation was interrupted by the sound of galloping hoofs. Catriona pushed back her chair and rushed to the door. Connor and Rosa had returned from the local school on their ponies. Rosa leaped from the shaggy little animal and almost knocked Catriona off her feet as she flung herself into her arms. Connor, as always, hung back shyly, his hazel eyes wary.
Catriona laughed as eight-year-old Rosa tugged her into the house in search of the presents she knew Catriona had brought with her. The child was dark-haired and dark-eyed with an impish smile that was irresistible. Catriona looked back at Connor and smiled at him encouragingly. ‘I’ve got something for you too,’ she said.
Rosa was tearing off the paper with cries of excitement as the gangling youth quietly stood and watched from beneath the brim of his bush-hat. Catriona eyed him thoughtfully. He’d shot up over the past few months and looked very skinny – yet he seemed healthy enough, and she could already see the strength in his arms and hands. At twelve years old he was showing signs of the handsome man he would become. If only he wasn’t so shy, she thought sadly as she handed him the large parcel. That bastard of a father had a great deal to answer for – as did Ellen.
Connor’s face came alight when he saw the saddle. It had been hand-tooled in Spain, the pommel decorated with silver. It was an expensive gift, but Catriona had no idea what else to give him – boys were always difficult to buy presents for.
‘Thanks ever so much,’ he breathed, his eyes shining. ‘Can I try it out now?’
Catriona nodded. ‘Of course,’ she said.
Rosa lifted out the dresses and the dolls and shrieked with delight. ‘Look, Gran,’ she yelled. ‘She’s got real hair and eyelashes, and has even got knickers!’
Catriona joined in the laughter, then went to stand on the verandah to watch Connor. He was getting a bit big for that pony, she realised, as he settled himself in the new saddle. So much so, he no longer used the stirrups, but let his long legs dangle past the fat little pony’s belly. She would have to have a word with Fred and see if he could find another one.
Connor turned and smiled at her, a slow, sweet smile of deep affection that squeezed at her heart. How she loved these children; how she wished they had been hers. She pulled the cardigan around her and folded her arms. She was getting sentimental in her old age and would just have to accept they were Poppy’s children and she shouldn’t spoil them so much.
Poppy made a fresh pot of tea, and while the children were occupied with their presents, she told Catriona how well Rosa had been doing at school. ‘She’s a brain in ’er ’ead, that’s for sure,’ she said firmly. ‘Though Gawd knows where she got it.’ There was a pride in the gleam of her eyes and in the tone of her voice as she went on. ‘She passed all her exams with flying colours. Her teacher reckons she’s one of the brightest students she’s ’ad for a long time.’
‘And Connor?’
Poppy shrugged. ‘He ain’t no brain-box, but that don’t mean he ain’t clever,’ she said defensively. ‘He’s good with ’is ’ands, thinks things out until ’e’s got it right.’ She sipped her tea, her arthritic fingers gnarled as they clasped the cup. ‘He’s already talking about leaving school. Reckons ’e wants to be an ’orsebreaker.’
‘But that’s dangerous work and he’s far too young,’ protested Catriona. ‘You must persuade him to stay on at school. It’s important he gets a proper education.’
‘You try telling ’im that,’ said Poppy. ‘The boy’s only got one thought in ’is ’ead, and that’s ’orses.’ There was a long silence, then her quiet voice drifted like a sigh. ‘You can’t blame him, Kitty. Connor knows an ’orse will never let ’im down. They ain’t like people.’
Catriona had a lot to think about on her flight back to Sydney.
*
Harold Bradley died in his sleep shortly after his seventy-fifth birthday. He was laid to rest in the little cemetery on the Atherton Tablelands beside his wife. Charles Bradley, his son, had to clear the house and divide up the few items of value between himself and his sisters. The house would have to be sold, for Charles had been given promotion and was due to relocate to Sydney where he would take over an investigative team as Chief Inspector.
He walked through the almost empty rooms, thinking of the hours he’d spent here with his father. The relationship had been a solid one, and he hoped his own son, Tom, felt the same way about theirs. The boy was shooting up like a weed, and in a few weeks time he would turn thirteen and start at his new high school.
He smiled as he sat down on the old rocking chair his father had placed long ago on the verandah. This was Dad’s favourite place, and as the rockers complained against the floorboards, Charles could see why. He looked out over the tops of the trees and down into the valley, and although he was excited about the move to Sydney, he knew he would miss the peace and beauty of this tropical nor
th. This was God’s Own Country; the place he’d known all his life, the home he’d returned to after the War. He’d picked up the pieces of his life here, had married and had a son. Sydney’s noise and bustle would seem alien.
Charles sat there until the sun began its final descent and the sky turned to fire. Then he picked up the box of papers and turned the key in the door for the last time. He walked down the path and through the gate and climbed into his car. Placing the box on the seat beside him, he wondered why he’d kept these particular bits of paper. They were mostly old diaries and account books, and out-of-date files relating to ancient cases his father had found interesting. They were probably only fit for burning.
Yet he was reluctant to destroy what was left of a way of life his father had stood for. He remembered well his stories about the old hotel and the missing Englishman, and had even been up to the old place to have a look around. It was a shell now, but Charles had long realised the unsolved mystery of the people who’d once lived there had niggled at his father right up to his death.
He sat in the car and stared out at the gathering darkness. The hotel might be crumbling, but the memory of it still possessed the power to make him shiver. Rumours had abounded, and like all rumours there was some kind of truth behind them. It was said the house was cursed, and on his last visit there, he could believe it was.
The house had originally been built by a rich farmer back in the 1800s. He was a Scotsman who’d made good and wanted to play the Laird. The work was almost finished and he was inspecting the building when the enormous chandelier he’d imported from Europe suddenly dropped from its moorings. Death was instant.
It was discovered later that the beam hadn’t been strong enough to support it, and Charles suspected the builders of cutting corners for profit. Yet it did indeed seem as if the house was cursed. The Scotsman’s son and wife moved in shortly afterwards. She’d been reluctant, and when her husband was found dead at the bottom of the stairs, she become convinced that the curse was real.
Charles thought it was probably just a tragic accident – some families attracted bad luck like a magnet. But the house was sold several times in quick succession and it seemed no one wanted to stay there for more than a few months. Then Demetri bought it, lavished money and time on the place and turned it into a hotel. Yet the Russian, his friend Kane and the woman and child had simply vanished. Was there really a curse on the place, or an even darker explanation?
Charles turned the key in the ignition and eased the car down the narrow street. He was a realist, not one to be swayed by rumour and speculation. Yet he hated loose ends as much as his father had done. With the advance in technology and communications over the last few decades, perhaps there was a chance, finally, of unravelling the truth. It would be a fine, last gift to his father’s memory to solve the case once and for all.
*
By 1969 the laws on adoption had changed radically, and after long years of searching, Catriona was to finally learn what had happened to her daughter. Clemmie sat with her as she went through the sheaf of papers John had so carefully compiled. ‘Take your time,’ she said. ‘There’s a lot to go through, and, I warn you Kitty, not all of it pleasant.’
Catriona nodded. ‘I’m in such a state I don’t know how I feel about anything,’ she said as she looked at the papers before her. ‘I’m excited, nervous, apprehensive and dreading what I might find out.’
Clemmie patted her hand. ‘Sounds like stage-fright to me,’ she said softly. ‘Remember what your voice coach always tells you before a performance. Use the energy in a positive way, it will give you strength’.
She smiled back at her friend and, after taking a deep breath, began to read.
The hospital records showed that her tiny baby had been kept in the hospital until she gained weight and began to thrive. Six weeks later she was placed in the orphanage next door. Catriona’s heart ached with sadness as she realised how close she’d been to her and yet she’d had no way of knowing. Velda had lied to her when she’d told her the baby was already with her adoptive parents.
The child had been called Susan Smith, a plain, common-sense name that gave no hint of her character or personality, or any clue to her background. She was at the orphanage for eighteen months. The matron’s reports said she was sickly and always crying. Prospective parents wanted plump, laughing babies, and she despaired of finding a home for her.
Catriona remembered how empty her arms had felt in those first few months, how the void in her life echoed and her dreams were filled with the presence of a child with laughing eyes and plump little hands. If only she’d been given the chance to hold her, to look after her and love her, surely then her little girl would have thrived?
Susan was eventually adopted by a middle-aged couple who ran a vast cattle station, south of Darwin, in the Northern Territories. She lived with them for ten years, and then tragedy struck. ‘Oh, my God,’ breathed Catriona as she picked up the newspaper cuttings. There had been a terrible bush-fire and Susan had been rescued by a drover who’d been awarded for his bravery. Her adoptive parents were both dead, and Susan was alone again. With no family to take her on, she was sent back to the orphanage.
‘Poor little girl,’ murmured Clemmie. ‘She must have been so alone and bewildered.’
‘It makes my heart ache to think about it,’ whispered Catriona. ‘We were both alone but kept apart by bureaucracy and red tape. If only things had been different.’
‘John’s done a lot of digging.’ Clemmie smiled. ‘He’s getting a bit doddery now, but it’s become a bit of a thing with him. He’s appalled at how the institutions kept their files so secret. But at least it keeps his mind active, even if the rest of him is falling apart.’
Catriona smiled at her friend before returning to the records. Susan Smith had not been adopted again. No one wanted to take on a ten year old, especially in the middle of a war. So she was placed with a series of foster parents, who found her wilful and headstrong, even though she was exceptionally bright, and when the time came for her to take up the scholarship to a private school and leave the fostering system, she did so without a backward glance.
‘That’s the last of it,’ sighed Catriona. ‘I’ll probably never know what happened to her.’ She made a swift, mental calculation. ‘She’ll be thirty-five now. A woman in her own right, probably with children of her own.’
Clemmie nudged a thin stack of neatly typed pages towards her. ‘I told you, Kitty. John’s not the sort of man to be beaten by the authorities and the lack of information.’
Catriona read through the pages and when she’d finished she looked back at Clemmie, her smile wide, the tears running down her face. ‘He’s found her,’ she breathed. ‘At last I can talk to her.’
‘No,’ said Clemmie sharply. ‘That wouldn’t be wise. She has her own life now. The past must stay where it belongs. She probably thinks you gave her away because you didn’t want her. Lord knows what they told her at the orphanage or when she was with the foster parents.’ Clemmie put a consoling hand on her arm. ‘She won’t want to see you, Kitty, believe me. And I won’t let you get hurt any more.’
‘But I have to try,’ insisted Catriona as she began to pace the room. ‘Don’t you see? I can’t just let her think I abandoned her willingly.’ She rammed her hands into the pockets of her trousers. ‘I have to talk to her, have to make her understand I had no say in the matter, that I was just a kid myself.’
Clemmie looked back at her in horror. ‘And how will you explain she’s the product of a rape? Do really think telling her something like that will make her feel any better about herself? It’s hardly something to boast about.’
Catriona was in a whirl of indecision. ‘But to have come so far, to be so close to her after all this time – I can’t stop now.’ She poured a large whisky into a glass and took a sip. ‘I don’t have to tell her everything,’ she said finally as Clemmie’s silent disapproval began to get to her. ‘I’ll just say I was a prec
ocious child and got pregnant after a fling.’
‘She’ll think you were a tart,’ said Clemmie stiffly. ‘You were thirteen, remember.’
‘So, I’ll lie. Make up a story.’
‘Not the best way of starting a relationship,’ said Clemmie gruffly.
‘Why are you playing Devil’s advocate?’ she shouted in frustration.
Clemmie stood and put her arm around her, holding her tightly as the sobs tore Catriona apart. ‘Because I love you,’ she murmured. ‘Because you’re the best friend I have, and I don’t want to see you hurt yourself, or your daughter.’ She drew back from the embrace and tucked the long strands of dark hair back from Catriona’s face. ‘You might not be able to talk to her, Kitty. But there are other ways.’
Catriona blew her nose and wiped her eyes. She drained the whisky and set the glass on the low table next to the brightly coloured sheets of paper John had included in his folder. She picked up the series of photographs and drank in the sight of this young woman she’d known only at the moment of her birth. ‘You’re right, as always,’ she murmured. ‘What would I do without you?’
The two women hugged and Clemmie finally left the Sydney apartment so Catriona could prepare for the evening. But Catriona had no intentions of performing tonight. She telephoned the Conservatorium, and for the first time in her career put on a gruff voice and said she was suffering from a bad throat. The producer wasn’t happy about it, but he could get stuffed; she’d not missed a performance in thirty-odd years, and it was about time she took a night off. Besides, she reasoned, she had more important things to think about and her performance would have been marred.
As the darkness settled and the lights came on all over Sydney, she stared out at the magnificent building that was slowly emerging out of the rubble and decay of Circular Quay. The opera house was almost finished, and it would be a triumph of design and imagination – so very different from the old Town Hall and Conservatorium. How she envied the sopranos and contraltos who would make their debuts there.
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