Authors: Lynne Wilding
Vanessa could not sleep. She should be able to because the performance, the backstage party, then the vigil at a restaurant in Soho until the morning’s first edition reviews came out, should have exhausted her. The reviews were good. Better than good; they had been excellent. The newspapers’ hard-to-please theatre critics, male and female, had waxed lyrical in their overall praise of the production, and especially the performers. That should have made her relaxed and happy but, confusingly, she was unable to fall asleep and she knew the cause. It wasn’t the reviews or her performance. Drifting in and out of her consciousness was a particular face, a very interesting face that belonged to … Bren Selby.
Why? What was it about Bren that made him so memorable? She scarcely knew the man, and though he was attractive, he wasn’t the most handsome man in the world. But something — his ruggedness, the air of well-being, his congeniality, the no fuss attitude when compared to other men of her acquaintance — had an obvious appeal. Ohhh, she reprimanded herself, she was being silly. He probably wouldn’t call her, he was probably only being polite. Though, if he did call, how would she react? Right now she had no idea.
You’re an idiot, Vanessa Forsythe. Why are you allowing yourself to lose sleep over something so trivial?
She unscrewed her eyes, opened the lids and glanced at the bedside clock: 4.32 a.m. Aargghhh! Irritated by her foolishness, and dog-tired, she thumped the pillow several times, sighed and repeated over and over, ‘Go to sleep, go to sleep … go to sleep.’
Bren had been to London twice before so for his first date with Vanessa he hired a compact car and they drove to Lower Slaughter, a pleasant village not far from London, for lunch. He already knew that to see her he’d have to work in with her stage commitments — six nightly performances and a matinee on Saturdays. All the while his heart was telling him to go fast, but his head was saying the opposite; go slow, don’t try to rush a woman like Vanessa or he’d end up blowing it.
Over a traditional ploughman’s lunch and a pint of beer at the Bald Stag Hotel, they talked, and talked, then, despite the crisp, winter’s day — spring
was around the corner, so the Montgomerys assured him — they went for a walk. Suitably rugged up in jackets, scarves and hats, they strolled arm in arm around the picturesque village.
‘You know, if I wasn’t an Australian, I wouldn’t mind being English,’ Bren said as he peered into the many-paned window of an antique-cum-bookshop. ‘I love the old buildings here, the sense of history.’
She laughed. ‘And if I wasn’t English, I think I’d like to be Australian. I loved Australia, the vastness, the freedom, the sunsets — God they’re wonderful. I’m not sure why, but I felt at home there. I’m sure there’s no other place on Earth like the outback.’
‘You’ll have to come back then,’ he said quietly, with a sly look in her direction.
‘I intend to, when the opportunity arises. As we speak,’ she confided, ‘Kerri is negotiating with a British and Australian film consortium on a role for me in a movie being made next year in South Australia.’
‘I see. So, tell me, do you see yourself as a movie star or a stage actress?’
‘The stage will always be my first love, but Kerri says I’d be crazy to knock back any movie making opportunities that come up, providing they’re suitable. The pay and the exposure, providing the movie’s made well, is too good.’
‘Do you see yourself doing something else one day, something away from the stage perhaps?’ The second question was asked casually, but Bren held his breath as he waited for her answer.
‘Honestly, Bren, I don’t know.’ His question made her think about David, about the plans they’d had
for her to scale down her stage career to be a wife and eventually a mother. She stifled an internal sigh. That was history now and … remembering … could still bring about a melancholy mood. ‘Who knows what the future might bring? At this point in my life, well, I’m keeping my options open.’
‘You are wise, Vanessa Forsythe,’ he responded with a chuckle. He appreciated her honesty and her answer implied that she wasn’t wholly fanatical about her career. Such knowledge gave him reason to hope.
They gravitated to a park which bordered a small river that wended its way around the village’s perimeter, and because a watery sun had deigned to shine on one of the painted benches, they sat to take in the scene. By a bend in the stream — it was really too small to be called a river — stood a two-storey mill with a water wheel. The mill was very old with its rough cut, lichen encrusted greyish stone walls. And beyond was a single arch stone bridge that spanned the stream, its supports laden with dark green ivy. The couple waved to an occasional holiday barge operator as the craft passed, heading west to Cirencester, Oxford and beyond. In this part of the world many streams had, in bygone days, served as waterways to transport goods to larger towns and to London.
‘That would be a nice, leisurely holiday.’ There was a note of wistfulness in Bren’s voice.
‘It’s supposed to be. Ronnie Ashton, an actor friend of mine, owns a barge moored in a canal off the Thames. He rents it out during the tourist season for an obscene amount of money. He’s tried talking
me into using it in the low season, such as now.’ Vanessa looked at him. ‘If you’re interested, I could talk to Ronnie.’
The suggestion was tempting but Bren didn’t want to go anywhere or do anything that didn’t include Vanessa. ‘Maybe later on.’
‘You haven’t told me much about yourself,’ he asked, changing the subject. He wanted to know all he could about Vanessa, more than what he’d read about in magazines. ‘What was your childhood like?’
Her reply was endearingly honest. ‘Poor. My father, like my grandmother, was an actor but roles were few and far between, even though he was very good, according to Gran. When Dad had no stage work he would do anything to bring in money. Labouring on building sites. Once he took a job as a shoe salesman, but he hated dealing with people’s smelly feet!’ She made the appropriate grimace. ‘He worked as a travelling salesman too, and would paint houses or do people’s gardens. Dad was prepared to have a go at anything to make enough to keep us together.’
She stopped for a couple of seconds to gather the right words. ‘My mother, Rosa, developed a health problem, asthma, when I was little. She was used to the dry, hot climate of Madrid and after a while she couldn’t dance anymore. Dad became the sole provider. We could only afford a cramped, cold water flat in Brixton — you may not know but it’s a pretty tough suburb. I went to school there too.’ Vanessa screwed up her eyes and brought her hands across her chest, hugging herself as if she was suddenly cold.
‘The flat was like an ice chest, even with the heat on and, sometimes we couldn’t afford coal for the fireplace. Still,’ a ghost of a smile lifted the corners of her mouth, ‘no matter how miserable the flat was, my parents were happy because they had each other.’
‘They met when Dad was doing a stint working on stage as a magician’s assistant. My mother, Rosa del Rios, came across from Spain with the Bartoleni Flamenco Dancing Troupe. Both were appearing at the same theatre in Margate during the summer.’ She smiled at him. ‘They were so in love … Gran used to tease them about their kissing and cuddling, but I remember that I thought it was terrific.’
Intrigued by her tender tone, he asked, ‘Why did she tease them?’
‘Gran’s husband, my grandfather, walked out on her when my father turned six. She never forgave Hector Forsythe for abandoning them. He came crawling back ten years later and got short shrift.’ She shook her fair head. ‘Gran was not a forgiving woman. She said Grandfather only came back ’cause he was sick and wanted her and his son to look after him.’
‘Sounds like a tough lady.’
‘She was when she had to be, but never with me. I was staying with Gran when my parents were killed in a train crash — Dad had got work in a stage production in Glasgow and Mum went with him. Kind of a short holiday for them both. The train crashed head-on into a freight train. Sixteen people died.’
Bren made a sympathetic murmur. ‘Losing them both at the same time must have been awful for you.’
‘It was. I don’t know what I’d have done if it hadn’t been for Gran. Welfare wanted to put me in an orphanage but Gran insisted she could care for me. She did.’ The smile she gave him turned radiant as the reminiscing continued. ‘Through her I learned so much about acting and stagecraft. She was my first and best drama teacher and when she thought I was ready, she introduced me to Kerri.’
‘You don’t have any other relatives?’
She shook her head. ‘No one in England, and in Spain my mother was a rare, only child. I’ve a few distant cousins on the maternal side, they’re scattered about Spain. I’ve never met them but we still exchange Christmas cards. That’s all.’ She gave him a quizzical glance and said, ‘That’s enough about me. What about you, Bren?’
He shrugged at her. ‘My life reads like an open, and not very interesting book. Apart from boarding school and time at university, I’ve spent my life in the outback, on Amaroo.’
‘No girlfriends, sweethearts?’ she teased.
‘A few. I was engaged twice but neither arrangement worked out.’ Thank goodness they hadn’t otherwise he wouldn’t be here talking to her, watching her, falling more in love with her as every minute passed. ‘I’ve a brother, Curtis, you almost met him in Darwin, and a sister. Lauren’s the youngest, she’s married to Marc, who manages a station, Cadogan’s Run. They have three boys. Then there’s my mother, Hilary, and my father’s brother. Uncle Stuart — he’s mega wealthy — lives in Broome with his family …’
‘How I envy you. It must be wonderful to have a big family, people to be with at Christmas, and birthdays to celebrate together.’
Bren thought about his mother and wasn’t so sure it was wonderful, then he glanced at his watch. ‘Hell, it’s 3.30.’ He got to his feet and pulled her up in front of him. ‘We’d better be getting back. You’ll want to rest before tonight’s performance, won’t you?’
Impressed by his thoughtfulness, she kissed him impulsively on the cheek. ‘Guess so. I’ve enjoyed today. Thank you.’
‘Thank you!’ He grinned back at her. ‘Could I impose and invite you to supper after the show?’ He raised an eyebrow at her. ‘Or does Kerri frown on that sort of thing?’
‘She probably will but,’ she wrinkled her nose cutely, ‘we’ll do it anyhow. And tomorrow night, after the play I’ll take you out, to meet my friend, Melody. She manages one of the best disco-nightclubs in Soho.’
As they walked back to the car, Bren issued another invitation. ‘My friends, the Montgomerys, would love you to come for Sunday lunch. That is, if you don’t have anything special on.’
‘Not this weekend. I’d love to.’
From that day on Bren spent as much time as he could with Vanessa, monopolising every spare hour whenever he could get away with it.
Sometimes they did ordinary things, like shopping or just walking along the path that bordered the Thames, or wandering through Hyde Park or Kew Gardens.
Bren’s ongoing worry that she’d get tired or bored with his company, didn’t eventuate and, as each date led to another, he got the chance to know the real Vanessa, not the stage and public persona she donned for the media and theatre-goers. He wasn’t a worldly man but he knew one thing: because of her experience with David — the unhappiness it had caused — he would have to win her trust before he could win her heart.
D
espite his broad-rimmed hat, Curtis shaded his eyes from the glare of the sun as the chopper, an expensive McDonald Douglas MD Explorer, circled twice before setting down on the runway next to their own chopper. Damn, and several unkind thoughts sprang to mind straight away as he recognised the craft. His uncle hadn’t bothered to learn how to fly so he employed a pilot to swan him around, wherever and whenever he wanted. Well, he thought dourly, the old moneybags could afford it. Their seasoned but well-maintained Cessna they used for checking the herd and travel to and from Kununurra and Darwin was parked in the cavernlike tin shed, affectionately called the hangar.
So … dear Uncle Stuart was deigning to pay Amaroo a visit. He didn’t have time to entertain rellies, there was too much to do and who knew when Bren would be back. His brother should be here doing his share, not leaving it all up to him and Reg, not gallivanting overseas to chase Vanessa what’s her name! Boots dragging in accordance with his level of enthusiasm, he walked towards the chopper.
He watched Stuart exit from the chopper and wave. The pilot got out on the other side, as did another person. Curtis gave a low whistle through his teeth. She was back, Nova Morrison, Reg’s prodigal daughter. Those swaying hips, her cheeky look-at-me saunter, was Nova’s trademark walk, and one he’d recognise anywhere. He rubbed the two-day-old stubble along his jawline as he thought, how long had it been since she’d been at Amaroo? Two years, maybe longer.
‘Hello,’ he shouted to them over the chopper’s diminishing whine and mentally put aside the list of things he’d planned to do today. He would be lucky to get half of them done now. Fixing a welcoming grin to his lips, he continued on towards them.
‘Ooohh, Curtis.’ Nova ran the last three metres between them and hugged him exuberantly. ‘You haven’t changed one bit,’ she purred. ‘You’re still the handsomest Selby, you know.’
Curtis gave a deprecating laugh. ‘And you’re still an outrageous flatterer, Nova. How are you doing?’
‘Very well.’ She preened herself against him, standing as tall as she could, which brought her up to the middle of his chest. ‘I brought my degree in Arts-Science to show Dad, proof it was worth what it cost him. Since uni I’ve been working my way around, doing casual stuff, waitressing, bar work, hospitality receptionist shit, you know. In Sydney, Perth, and more recently, Broome.’ She glanced towards Stuart. ‘Bumped into your uncle in Dampier Street and he offered me a lift home.’ Nova’s smile showed a set of perfect teeth. She smiled a lot when she was talking to a man. ‘I said yes ’cause I thought it time for a visit.’
‘Hi, Curtis,’ Stuart greeted his nephew. They shook hands. ‘You know Rolfe Weston, my pilot?’