Dreamscapes

by Tamara McKinley

Genres: General Fiction; Sagas; Clean & Wholesome Romance; 20th Century Romance; Time Travel Romance; Western Romance

Synopsis

If you love Lesley Pearse, you're sure to fall for Tamara McKinley! Catriona was born into the world of show business, having made her first appearance on stage in her father's arms when she was only minutes old. And although life has never been easy for Catriona, it seems she's finally made her big break: her unique voice has captured the attention of a Sydney opera company, and the only place to go is up. But when scandalous secrets from her teenage years threaten to destroy everything she's worked so hard to achieve, she learns she will have to fight to keep her rightful place at the top.

Release date: August 29, 2013

Publisher: Quercus Publishing

Print pages: 432

Sample

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.

Declan looked up at her and blew her a kiss before tugging at his tailed jacket and tweaking his bow-tie. With a signal to the musicians he led the procession into town. Drum and pipe, tambour, penny whistle, accordion and violin accompanied their slow, majestic advance. The horses stepped out, their great hoofs lifting the dust, their heads high as if they knew they were on show. The showgirls ruffled their skirts and showed shapely legs, the acrobats tumbled and cartwheeled in their white leotards, the jugglers threw balls and clubs and Declan’s powerful baritone soared above it all in song.

The people of Charleville lined the street and watched in wonder as the children ran alongside the wagons and tried to catch the sweets Velda and the other drivers threw down to them. Men hung over the balconies and shouted ribald encouragement to the chorus girls, while the women admired the acrobats’ muscles and fluttered their handkerchiefs at Declan. The horses resting at the hitching posts propped and stamped at all the noise, and several dogs raced in and out of the parading feet, barking and snapping at the unusual sights and sounds. Patch snarled back, teeth bared, ready to see off these local intruders into his parade and show them he was no pushover despite the spangled ruff around his neck.

The cavalcade came to a standstill in the centre of town, and Declan climbed up to join Velda on the wagon. With a flourish of his top hat he silenced the music, and the crowds. ‘Citizens of Charleville,’ he boomed from his stance on the buckboard. ‘It is our delicious design to declare our dedicated demonstrations for your delectation and delight.’ He paused, for timing was all in this business. ‘Our illustrious illusionist will illustrate his inimitable imagination and immeasurable insights into the mystic.’

Velda grinned as the oohs and aahs rippled through the watching townsfolk. Declan never failed to capture his audience with his tongue-twisting Master of Ceremonies act. No one would ever know how difficult it was to find the right words and string them together, and then deliver them with such wonderfully rolling aplomb.

As Declan stirred the audience into further rapturous applause, Velda gasped. The pain had suddenly returned, deeper now, like a vice around the lower half of her belly. Her hands trembled on the reins and she licked the sweat from her top lip. She could feel the rapid beat of her pulse, the lightness in her head and the overwhelming need to be out of the sun. She longed to lie down, yet she had to remain on the hard wooden seat in the debilitating glare of an Outback afternoon, for this was the only time they had to encourage people to part with their money. She was trapped; hemmed in by wagons and horses and people. She looked down at the others who were weaving in and out of the crowd as they passed out the flyers and balloons – it wouldn’t be long now, she kept saying to herself, but oh, how the minutes seemed to drag.

Declan finally sat down to rapturous applause, and after a swift glance of concern at Velda, took the reins and led the procession to the wide entrance at the side of the Coronas Hotel. The cobbled yard echoed with the trundle of wagon wheels and the heavy clop of the horses’ hoofs, but the sun was low enough in the sky to be hidden by the tall building, and for this Velda was grateful. She was sweating, her pulse racing as the deep pains tore through her and made her catch her breath. She leaned on Declan as he helped her down and led her into the cool of the hall.

‘I should be getting the doctor,’ he muttered as he and Poppy settled her in a nest of pillows in a corner.

She nodded. ‘I’ll feel better if you do,’ she murmured. ‘We don’t want to risk losing this baby too.’ She saw the pain flit in his eyes and forced a smile. ‘It’s probably only a false alarm, but it’s best to make sure, don’t you think?’

Declan hovered, obviously torn between his duty to his wife and the needs of the troupe who were beginning to argue amongst themselves.

Poppy folded her arms and looked down at her. ‘You don’t look right,’ she stated. ‘Better get the doc, mate, before she pops.’

‘Declan’s just going to find him,’ Velda said with a firmness that sent her husband striding out of the hall. ‘Clear off and sort those girls out, Poppy. They’re fighting again.’

Poppy grimaced as she shrugged. ‘So what else is new?’ she said. ‘Silly cows don’t know when they’re well off.’

Velda couldn’t help but smile. Poppy called a spade a shovel and didn’t give a damn for convention. ‘Make us a cup of tea first, Pops. There’s a mate.’

Poppy grinned, the freckles dancing across her nose. ‘Righto. Won’t be a tick.’ She marched off, skirts swinging, heels tapping on the wooden floor, voice raised above the gabble of the other chorus girls as she ordered someone to find the kettle and primus stove amongst the bags and baskets.

Velda leaned back against the cushions and listened, eyes closed, as the dressing-rooms were lamented upon, the lavatory deplored, and space was fought for as boxes and baskets were unpacked. It was bliss to be out of the sun – to be lying down and apart from the chaos.

Declan eventually returned, his expression grim. ‘The doctor’s out of town,’ he said, worry starkly etched in his eyes. ‘But he’s expected back at any minute.’ He took her hand and raised it to his lips. ‘It will be all right, darlin’, I promise.’

The panic was rising. How could he be so certain? What if something were to go wrong? She felt the tears threaten and wanted to scream and shout and demand a doctor’s help – yet she knew that histrionics would get her nowhere this time. She and Declan were helpless in the hands of fate.

‘I’ll be fine,’ she said with as much firmness as she could muster under the circumstances. ‘Go and sort out the troupe. Poppy will look after me.’

He kissed her cheek, hovered a moment more, then left her side as Poppy returned with her cup of tea.

‘Where’s the doc?’ she asked, the concern darkening her blue eyes.

‘Out of town,’ Velda grimaced. ‘I think it might have started for real this time, Pops.’ She grabbed Poppy’s hand. ‘Run back to the hotel and see if he’s on his way, or if there’s anyone else who can help. But don’t tell Declan until we know for sure this isn’t a false alarm. I don’t want him worrying any more.’

‘If you say so,’ Poppy replied, looking unconvinced.

Velda nodded firmly. ‘Dec’s got enough on his plate – and you’ve seen how he is, Pops. He hasn’t a clue and will only panic.’

Poppy plumped the cushions and turned away. Velda sipped her tea, and as the minutes passed, she began to feel a bit of a fraud. The pains had stopped as suddenly as they had started, and apart from feeling wrung out, there really wasn’t much wrong with her. Still, she thought, it would do no harm to have a doctor nearby in case things went all of a rush again.

Poppy returned some time later, flushed and sweating. ‘The doc’s still out somewhere, but he’s expected back tonight,’ she said breathlessly. ‘I ’ad to run all the bloody way through the town to his ’ouse, but ’is missus is real nice and she says she’ll send ’im over the minute ’e’s back.’

Velda digested this news and realised there was little she could do about it. At least the pains had stopped and they weren’t in the middle of nowhere, she reasoned. This time, she stood a better chance of delivering a live baby. Deciding she’d had enough of sitting around, and despite Poppy’s protests, she hauled herself to her feet. ‘Time I got to work,’ she said firmly. ‘Can’t be sitting around here when there’s so much to do, and I need to get my mind occupied by something else.’

Declan turned from hanging the stage curtains. ‘You’ll stay there,’ he said firmly. ‘There’s nothing for you to do but look after yourself and our baby.’

Velda argued her point, but it didn’t sound convincing even to her, and when Declan refused to listen she sank gratefully back into the nest of cushions. Yet, despite feeling pampered and at ease, it was with growing frustration that she watched the familiar routines of setting up for the show. She should have been helping with the props and the costume baskets – should have been stringing up the curtains and sweeping the stage – instead of which, she was lying here feeling as fat and indolent as a well-fed cat.

At last the hall was ready. The hotel’s plush seats were placed in orderly rows and the red velvet curtains they’d found in a cupboard backstage looked grand against the pristine white paint of the hall. The footlights were a marvel of invention, already in place and linked to the hotel’s power supply which came from an enormous generator out the back – so much more sophisticated than the old gaslights they were used to.

With everything in place, Declan and two of the other men turned their attention to his special rostrum. This was an old pulpit, found during the renovation of a country church and bought for a song – literally – for Declan had given a solo performance of his favourite arias to the circle of delighted women who were in charge of church funds, and who were only too willing to let him have the old pulpit in retum.

This edifice had been cushioned with kapok and covered with the deepest red velvet. Thick gold braid had been stitched decoratively onto the velvet and great tassels dangled from the sides. Once it was heaved into place on the edge of the stage, Declan would use it to introduce the acts and entertain the audience, his gavel at the ready, his convoluted script word-perfect.

Velda’s anxiety grew as there was no further word on the doctor’s progress. Yet there was nothing she could do about it, and when she was finally allowed to move from her nest of cushions and was made comfortable backstage in an ancient wicker chair, she kept her mind occupied by mediating in arguments, helping to tie laces and, with her friend Poppy, generally keep the peace.

Night fell swiftly in the Outback, and lights were switched on as the excitement grew and their audience began to trickle in to take their seats. The orchestra was small, but skilled, and with the combined efforts of the accordion, the drum, piano and the violin, they soon had their audience clapping along in time to their favourite tunes.

Velda had helped as best she could in the dressing-room – a tight squeeze with so many people jostling for elbow-room – and had fixed broken fans, stitched laddered stockings, sorted out fights amongst the girls and generally tried to keep order. Now she was tired, the pain having returned in unrelenting waves which threatened to overwhelm her. Yet she knew she must keep going and not let anyone see how bad it was – the show had to go on and the players must not be distracted. If the worst came to the worst, then she’d slip out during the performance and get help in the hotel, for Poppy had assured her the doctor was on his way.

The excited buzz of conversation grew as the lights dimmed and the curtains were pulled back to reveal Poppy and the five other dancing girls doing their high-kicks. The rest of the troupe was waiting in the wings. The show had begun.

Velda was finally alone in the dressing-room and she listened to the music, and the thud of the dancers’ feet on the wooden stage. She could smell the dust of the hall, the pungent odour of camphor and greasepaint and the perfume of the women in the audience. Her heightened senses picked out a bum note played by the violinist, the missed cue by the leading chorus girl who should have come in two chords earlier, and the slap of the ceiling fan which stirred the humid air to little effect.

Declan’s voice reverberated to the rafters as he did his speech from the Scottish play, and Velda sank back in the wicker chair gasping with the pain. It was a vice, squeezing ever more strongly, taking her breath away, leaving her in a void where no sound could be heard, nothing could be seen or experienced but the core of agony.

The fear was deep and unremitting. She should have gone to the hotel earlier and asked for help – should have heeded her body’s warnings and not put her unborn child at risk for the sake of a performance. She tried to call out, but the audience was laughing and clapping and her voice was lost. Breathing sharp, shallow breaths, she struggled to her feet and edged her way from the stifling room into the narrow corridor which led to the wings. If she could catch someone’s attention, then she would be all right, she kept telling herself. If not, then she would just have to get on with it alone and hope she could reach the hotel in time.

‘Stupid,’ she gasped. ‘How stupid not to get help sooner.’

The girls came running off the stage and nearly knocked her over. ‘Velda?’ Poppy caught her arm and just managed to keep her on her feet.

‘It’s started,’ Velda hissed. ‘Go and get help. Quickly.’

Poppy took charge as she always did in moments of crisis. She was a sensible girl, with very little talent, but with stunning good looks, a superb figure and sweet nature. She glared at the other five girls and started whispering rapid instructions. One of them ran out into the darkness heading for the hotel, and the others helped Velda back into the dressing-room. A makeshift bed was laid out on the floor, using old curtains, pillows and pilfered sheets Poppy had hidden in her costume basket.

Velda knew Poppy had the acquisitive nature of a magpie and was past caring where the sheets had come from. The pain was deeper now, coming in wave after wave. Her waters had broken and she knew she must give birth soon. As she sweated and strained and waited for news of the doctor’s arrival, she could hear Declan introducing Max and his little dog. The sound of his voice soothed her a little and she struggled to keep her cries soft so they wouldn’t spoil his performance. She could do this, she told herself. She could do this without him.

‘Where’s the doctor?’ she gasped as she held on to Poppy’s hand.

‘He’s still up country,’ replied Poppy, her usually cheerful face stern with worry. ‘It’s a good thing I ’elped me mum with all ’er sprogs, so I knows what to do. Come on Velda. Just tell me when you’re ready for the big one, and we’ll have this little bugger born in no time.’

Velda gathered all her remaining energy and with one great heave, felt her child slither from her. Falling back against the makeshift bed, she had only one thought. ‘Is it breathing?’ she asked as Poppy cut the cord and swiftly bundled it into a towel.

As if in reply, the baby let out a lusty yell and waved its fists in the a