From World Stages to the Theatre of War - Blog Tour and Book Excerpt for "Dance of the Earth"

BOOK EXCERPT:

DANCE OF THE EARTH, ACT 2

A little about Rose’s son, Walter, as a boy.

Mother, when she came in, removing her gardening hat, was remarkably gentle.

‘Walter,’ she moved forward to hug him. ‘We’ve a lot to talk about. Dora, refreshments, I think.’ Dora nodded and hurried to the kitchen as Mother led him by the hand towards chairs stacked with things to pack. They moved aside a pile of cushions and settled not quite side by side, not quite facing each other.

‘I am moving, Walter. This will be a big change for us both. You will not be coming with me.’

Her eyes were not cruel. She was stating a fact he must absorb. Against the sounds of Dora pottering in the kitchen and gushing water filling the kettle, Walter listened to things he could never have imagined.

‘You are not my child, you see.’ Mother sat very straight, hands folded on her lap. ‘Arthur, Father, was your father but I am not your real mother.’

Mother was quickly at his side, holding him steady.

‘Oh, I have done this badly. I don’t mean to hurt you. I didn’t know how best to talk about this.’ Mother’s hands were trembling as much as his own. ‘I’m sorry this is all a shock.’ She settled back in her chair and crossed her hands on her lap. ‘Now that you are twelve, you are old enough to absorb some of the truth of the world. I must tell you, no matter how painful.’

He felt a skittering in his ribs, his heart no longer keeping strict rhythm. That same heart that Mother – the woman by his side – had told him must be especially protected after Scarlet Fever. His lips clamped shut.

‘Take a deep breath, Walter. Breathe deeply. You’re very pale.’

She drew her chair closer, their knees almost touching.

‘When you were a baby, no more than nine months, you came to live with us – we have a photo from then.’ That same framed family photo – Mother sitting, a baby (him) on her lap, Father standing, one hand on her shoulder – had taken pride of place on Father’s desk, in the small room he called his office. Was it packed away? Put aside now? He would check later. ‘That photograph was soon after we had moved here from our old house in Esher. A fresh start in Leatherhead, only several miles away, both with good train services into London for Father. No one suspected you weren’t mine.’ Mother stroked her stomach, biting her lower lip.

‘Who?’ He squeaked, cleared his throat, before repeating, ‘Who is she – my real mother?’

‘I never met her. But yes…’ Mother paused as Dora coughed discreetly, holding a tray with cups of tea and sandwiches. ‘Just place it down.’ Seeing Dora looking around for somewhere to leave their luncheon, Mother – still Mother, surely – instructed, ‘The floor will do.’

Once Dora left, Mother took a breath. ‘She was a performer – music halls.’ Her lips pressed tight.

An image of a lithe acrobat flashed before his eyes, followed by a pretty songstress. ‘A singer…?’

‘A dancing girl!’ Walter felt a drop of salivary venom hit his cheek. ‘A cheap kind of girl. Don’t ask me where she danced. I never asked, and your father didn’t say.’

Cheap. The word sounded nasty. Nothing he associated with Father, or Mother. Or him!

‘Your mother found it hard to cope, and as we didn’t have children…’ a blotchy patch coloured Mother’s neck, ‘…your father requested that I…that I become your mother.’

Before Walter could think what to ask, she spoke quickly, as if releasing a secret held tight for far too long. ‘I tried, but your father sinned. I did my Christian duty. I did my best.’

Duty? Is that what he was to her?

They stared at Dora’s tray, neither of them inclined to eat or drink.

‘Shall we go into the garden, Walter.’

Walking back and forth along the paved path edged with lavender and well-kept borders, Walter came to understand something of her struggles, and in those moments of loving her a little more, came a loathing for Father. How could he do this to her? Then: how could Father do this to him?

Under an apple tree he dropped to the grass, legs curled tightly into his stomach.

‘We’ll talk later.’ Mother lightly squeezed a shoulder, then left.

After the sobbing subsided, Walter rolled onto his back and through blurred eyes stared upward to where soft clouds broke up the gentle sky. He recalled Peter Pan standing legs astride, hand on hips, saying with bravado, “Don’t have a mother.” Might he find that special place for lost boys? “Second to the right and straight on till morning.” But he was no longer a little boy on the edge of Neverland.