'Hello' I had said to the man at the door, who looked surprised to see me. I was fourteen and my mum had just picked me up from the airport and then popped to the shop. I regularly went to Italy or Germany for lessons and concerts. It was all so important to me, I had never really thought about the money.

'Is your mum there love?' He said. I didn't like the look of him. The sunlight glistened from tears of sweat on his brow and his shirt hung out at the back. He clutched a pocket book in his damp mitt.

'No, sorry' I said. He didn't look like the type of dude I wanted to chat with. I smiled and went to close the door, his foot interrupted.

'Where is she?'

'Out'

'Out where'

'Whoever you are, I would move your foot before I slam this door on it.' I suppose I was rude and he looked angry.

'Just tell your mum, that Mr Johnson was here to collect and yet again I haven't got any money. If she wants to keep you, in your nice little house, she's needs to pay up pronto'. He suddenly looked pleased with himself. 'Got the message?'

'I will be sure to pass your lovely message on Mr Johnson' I smiled at him as I saw my mum drive past as she noticed that he was turning to leave. I could hardly miss her; that clapped out lime-green Volvo. Kermit, my friends called it. But after that day, I was never embarrassed to be in it. She told me she was sorry and cried that night. I thought of all the extra lessons and constant trips and cried too. It was normally only Dad that she cried about. She worked three days a week in a craft shop. She loved the craft, hated the shop. Mr Johnson never came around again, but when I was going to a posh party after my first part in an opera, I asked to borrow my grandmother's necklace and she cried again.


'Another time, sweetie' I squeeze Rodney's hand and get up to prepare myself on my own. He understands. He always understands.

'Last twirl, darling before you go.' He moons and I spin, Queen of the Night scowl. 'Queen of the night bitch. Queen of the fucking night. You look beautiful darling, femme fatale.' He rubs his hand together, 'do me proud'.

As the curtain closes, the audience explodes in a harmony of cheers and applause and for a moment our fractured lives seemed linked in a spiritual communion. The ginger couple embrace as Mr Hathaway, bolt upright, puts his fingers in his mouth to whistle. And then he beams at me, his eyes singing. Mrs Hathaway cannot see a thing, as everyone stands in front of her. But, it does not seem to cross her mind to complain, all four feet ten of her stands, just smiling and crying. Until finally she gathers herself and squeezes my arm, as Olivia having taken her final bow asks for a microphone and the audience gradually shushes itself into submission.

And as I look at her as she reigns the thanks on the audience, the orchestra and company, I see her in David's arms and think how proud he would be 'da-da-da-da-da-da-da-da-da-da.'

'And, special thanks to Rodney for keeping me smiling and my father, god rest his soul.' Olivia continues. 'But, most of all, most of all, I want to thank my mother who without her help, love and endless support……………'

I can hear the sirens. The Doctors. The wailing. And I feel the light shining in my eyes.

Mrs Hathaway lets go of my arm and sinks to her chair as her husband turns to me.

'Your mamma loves Queen of the Night' someone shrieks. And an olive skinned woman, of about my age, in a red dress, accepts Olivia's invitation onto the stage and they embrace before the lady is presented with a bouquet of flowers.

'Three cheers for my beautiful mother' shouts Olivia. And with each cheer my head is violently thrust into pools of water. And I can only just see the lady curtsy through my drowned eyes. 

Mr Hathaway puts his hand on me. I can see his lips moving, but I can't seem to find his words.

And the sights and sounds roar and storm about me. The wood cracks and a great sea sheet covers everything.


Lashes of water, wailing, she won't stop, it's breaking. 'Can you hear me Miss Roane?' He's sailing, don't stop now, 'you're shaking'. 'It will only be for a little while', my baby! 'What's wrong with her Reginald'? How dare they? 'I can find anyone ….if you can pay me'. 'I'm sorry Miranda.' She's taken! 'Can you hear me Miss Roane?' Please save him! 'It was a sculpture not a boat' 'you're crazy.' 'It's for your own safety'. Where is she? 'I'm afraid it was suicide', not David. 'Just leave her alone Maude.' She's amazing. I want to see her, 'you must try dear', 'The adoption is final,' 'you'll stay there'. 'A voice of an angel' 'a death wish' I can't stop her crying, please help me. 'You need to snap out of it', get away from me!  'We can't leave her alone…..with a baby.'

'You will be detained under Section three', 'she's not eating.' You'd think I was crawling all over the ceiling.

'Can you hear me Miss Roane?' You don't know him. He loved us too much. 'She's not moving'. 'I don't know what I can say, it's been eight years' 'you left her alone, what were you thinking?' 'Can you hear me Miss Roane? 'She does not know you', 'just give me the money and I'll tell you'.

The fragments haunting and shifting, the dash on the rocks fast approaching. 'Can you hear me Miss Roane?' GIVE ME MY BABY.

Why won't anyone help me? 

'Can you hear me Miss Roane?' 'Can you hear me Miss Roane?' 'Miranda, can you hear me?'

'Madam, can you hear me? Are you okay?

I breathe.

The curtain is closed and the last of the audience wriggle away like tadpoles towards the bright lights above the exit.  The piercing blue of the eyes of the theatre attendant, dance around a catamaran smile, great sails of teeth. 'Are you okay? Can I get you a glass of water?'

'I'm fine, I am so sorry, I drifted away for a moment. Such a performance!'

'Yes, my sister was in the orchestra, they were really quite good weren't they? Very enthusiastic, I thought.'

''Yes.' I smile back, I find bare approval is generally what people want. Her sails flap in my face as she ushers me towards the door.

In the foyer Olivia's majestic image gleams out from posters, t-shirts and programmes, and as I relive her performance in my mind, I try to ignore the tentacles that pore all over them. Windswept, I am cast out into the street. Taxis speed away as faces sneer at me from their port-hole windows as the city flickers and rages.  I want to be at home. Olivia's songs become distant against the sounds of sirens, engines and the blustering beat of clashing coins.

But, I can hear the gulls. And the taste of salt stings my mouth. 


'Miranda Roane?' the delivery man says, as he places the box at my feet at the door.

'Yes, If you could just bring it through to the lounge, it's the first door on the right' I say, causing a scowl to appear on his face as he re-lifts the box. It is a new stereo. I moved four weeks ago to be closer to Olivia and the old one has stoically refused to work ever since. The cd goes in, it appears to register, but as soon as you press play it shakes violently, like a ship in a tornado. It must have been bumped in the removal van.  I so much want to listen to Olivia's new cd 'Olivia Allegri's Arias.' 'Allegri' these stage names are funny. I guess it makes her sound more opera!   The new stereo has even got one of those mp3 docking stations, I wonder if she will be able to show me what that is all about?

'Sign here' the box deposited, a pen and receipt are thrust at me.

'Thank you' I say, the slam of the door confirmation that he would have taken no notice if I had tried to solicit some kind of civility.

I check my watch as I walk to the kitchen to peer at the apple pie through the oven door.  I pull my chair in front of it, I like to see when it is perfectly golden, just the way she likes it.  Squinting through the frosted glass, the pie crust poking out of the dish looks like an island spied through the fog on the horizon with a maritime telescope. I hope that she has time to come over tonight, she is just so busy! But I like to have something special in, just in case.

Her performance last night was just fantastic. I don't think I have had so much fun in a long time. The atmosphere was incredible.  When her voice pounded out through the smoke on the stage with all that vengeance boiling in her heart business and she appeared knife in hand, diamonds and black fury, she scared us all to death. My Olivia, who would have thought it?  She was quite a different person. Mad. Possessed in her art. Sublime.

I often wonder how David thought she would turn out, when he swaddled her in his arms and sang. He would stare at her so deeply. He never said, but I think he knew she would be special. There was this intense connection between them and somehow I think she still feels that and remembers him. It was like he understood her miracle. And as I sit here gently rocking on the chair he made, of course I dream about all us being together. Olivia would laugh, as he would sing her words back at her, in that silly lovely voice, and we would talk and talk, really interested in listening in what the others were saying. Engaged with life.  It can feel like the important things slip away with the tide sometimes, but in moments like this I remember that he is always really with us, and the memory of him affects us every day.

I look at my palms, as I feel a small prick of a tiny splinter amid the rose print that is already beginning to fade. I guess it was only a matter of time before their thorns got to me. I can't quite see it, so I get up and stick my hand under the tap to soothe the sting and hope that the torrent will wash the wood away. But, as the flow surges and cascades through my fingers and belts against the sink, I suddenly feel queasy.  The taste of salt.

GIVE ME MY BABY.

'Can you hear Miss Roane?'

'Miranda, can you hear me'?