Читать книгу Stagestruck - Shelley Peterson - Страница 12

3

THE GHOST

“DON’T WORRY, ABBY,” reassured Mr. Wick. “He’s been here for years and has never harmed a soul. Which nobody knows, by the way. Don’t let on he’s a friendly ghost, Abby.”

“Why is there a ghost? How long has he been here? Were there plays in here and all that? Why was the theatre ever closed down, and when? Actually, who is the ghost and how do you know there is one?”

Mr. Wick chuckled. “One question at a time!”

“Well, then,” replied Abby seriously. “The first question is about the ghost. Who is it? Or who was it when it was alive? And why did it come here?” Abby was fascinated. She was talking to someone who actually knew a ghost. She wasn’t going to let this opportunity pass her by.

“You’re still asking more than one question at a time, but I’ll answer anyway,” said Mr. Wick with a smile. “His name is Ambrose Brown and he was a real person. He was an actor who for some reason preferred this theatre to any other. He was absolutely wonderful on stage. He had a commanding presence and played an amazing range of characters.”

“Did you know Ambrose Brown?”

“Sure did. He worked here for twenty years, as often as there was a part for him. He loved this stage. Said he wanted to be buried here.”

Abby’s eyes grew large. “And is he?”

“No. His family has plots in Mount Pleasant Cemetery. They buried him there.”

“Is that why he haunts this theatre? Because he wants to be buried here?”

“Could be. I’ve wondered that myself. But you can’t just dig up a body and move it. There’s a lot of paperwork involved and his next of kin won’t even consider it.”

“That’s too bad, but it might not help, anyway.”

“That’s the thing. How are we to know why he’s haunting us?” Mr. Wick’s brow furrowed. “He was devastated when we had to close the theatre down. It may have been the saddest thing that ever happened to him.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Because he died on closing night, after the final show.”

“Really? Can people die of sadness?”

“I honestly don’t know.”

Mr. Wick looked so sad himself that Abby changed the subject. “Why did you have to close the theatre?”

“It wasn’t making enough money to sustain itself. I’m not a rich man and I couldn’t afford to subsidize it.”

“When was it closed down?” Abby asked, absorbed by the story.

Mr. Wick scratched his head under his hat. “Must be fifteen years or more. Maybe close to twenty.”

“And you said the theatre ran for twenty years?”

“Yup, about that. Those were the days, Abby. I wanted to go into show business myself, you know, when I was a boy.”

“You?” Abby realized after she spoke how that must have sounded. “I mean, I always thought of you as Farmer Wick, not really showbiz, you know?”

Mr. Wick laughed, stopped, then laughed again. He laughed so hard, he started to scare Abby. Tears rolled down his face, which had grown quite red. Abby began to worry.

“Don’t look so, so, so alarmed!” he managed to sputter. “I can’t stop. Oh! Oh! I haven’t had such a good laugh in years. In the theatre days, people who came here were so refreshing, so jolly. We laughed like this all the time. I love actors. They’re mimics, they’re monkeys, they never grow old and cynical. They’re always hoping for the big break, and it’s always coming tomorrow. It’s always Christmas Eve, with big presents ready to open the next day. Oh, Abby, how I miss those days.”

Abby now feared that the old man would start to cry. She wanted to avoid that altogether. “Tell me why you built this place, forty years ago,” she said.

“That’s a long story.” Mr. Wick’s eyes misted over and a lovely smile crossed his face. “Gladys always said it was nuts to do it. She was my wife. But since I was a child, I had dreamed of acting in theatre.

“My father thought I was weird because I was interested in the arts, and tried to beat it out of me. He was a tough old goat, my dad. I gave up to keep the peace in the family. Became a farmer just like Dad.

“He was suspicious of me all his life, just because I wanted to bring life to the written word. He never understood why I wanted to create magic for people. Lights and illusion. I read about famous actors in England, who were honoured and knighted. Why couldn’t I get just a little respect at home?

“Anyway, with the money he left me when he died, I converted the barn into this theatre. Call it my own form of revenge, if you like.”

Watching Mr. Wick as he spoke, Abby saw the young man under the old farmer’s face. She felt his hurt, his turmoil over his father, and his great love for the theatre.

“Why did you laugh so hard just now?” Abby gently asked. She didn’t want him to laugh again, or to cry, but she wanted to know.

He paused before he answered. “Because I have become my disguise. We all wear disguises, Abby, in one way or another. You made me see myself as you see me, and that’s not what I am underneath.”

“That wouldn’t make me laugh, Mr. Wick. It sounds kind of sad.” Abby examined her dirty, chipped fingernails. “And anyway, now that you’ve revealed your true self to me, I’ll always see you differently.”

“Will you? Good. You should always look for the person under the disguise, Abby.”

Abby nodded, wondering how many people had disguises. “Can we get back to the ghost? Is he friendly?”

“Absolutely. He keeps me company when I’m here and I always know where to find him. If he wants to be found, that is.”

“Don’t tell me,” said Abby, excitedly. “Second row from the back, second seat in, on the right side of the theatre when you stand on the stage looking into the seats.”

Mr. Wick stared. “You’ve met him? He showed himself to you?”

“Yes! Well, I didn’t see a person, really, only a sort of a light.”

“Then you have a special quality, Abby. Ghosts know.” His eyes reassessed her as he spoke. “And it’s called stage right.”

“What is?”

“The right side of the theatre. When you stand on the stage and look out into the house—that’s what you call where the audience sits—what’s on your right is called stage right, and what’s on your left is called stage left. And when you’re in the middle of the stage, you are standing at centre stage.”

Mr. Wick walked up to the stage and climbed the stairs. He stood in the exact middle of the stage. “You see? I’m at centre stage. If I go back a step or two, I’ve gone upstage. If I step forward, like this, I’ve moved downstage.” Mr. Wick stepped as he spoke, illustrating with his actions. He swung his right arm out.

“Stage right.” He swung out his left arm. “Stage left. Upstage, downstage, centre stage.”

Abby was transfixed. As she watched, Mr. Wick turned from a farmer into an actor. Not a sloppy actor, either. His motions were economical, his voice was clear and well-modulated, and his bearing made even this rudimentary lesson in stage direction fascinating. His farmer’s clothes were the same. What was different was underneath.

“If you upstage someone, that means you’ve forced an actor to look back at you by standing upstage. If his face isn’t visible to the audience, his importance in the scene is diminished. Ham actors are often guilty of this.” Mr. Wick illustrated this by becoming the upstager, and then the upstaged actor, looking away from the audience.

Cody’s head popped up from under a seat on the other side of the house, where he’d been hiding. He let out a low, rumbling growl of warning and bared his long, white canine teeth.

“Your coyote scares me, Abby,” said Mr. Wick softly as he backed away toward the stairs.

“Don’t worry. He’s like your ghost. You have to get to know what he’s all about. What he’s saying now is that someone is coming. And whoever it is is cautious and creeping around, making Cody suspicious.”

“So, Cody himself is no threat?” asked Mr. Wick as he cautiously moved off the stage and back to his seat beside Abby. “He’s not angry?”

“No, he’s being protective.”

“Good. So now we must find out who’s creeping around.”

“Right,” said Abby. “Why don’t I turn off the lights, and we’ll wait for him to come to us. We’ll have the advantage of surprise.”

“You are one brave girl, Abby Malone,” said Mr. Wick admiringly. “With a great sense of the dramatic.” He chuckled with pleasure. “I like your plan.”

Abby crept quickly over to the wall with the light switches and turned them off. The theatre was immediately pitch black. Abby felt her way back to sit beside Mr. Wick. They waited.

Hilary saw the lights go off. She had been about to open the door, but now she waited, unsure of what to do. It was windy and she was starting to chill in her wet clothes. Taking a deep breath, she pressed the thumb latch. The door opened. Now what? It was very dark inside, with the windows covered in thick black fabric.

“Hello?” she called feebly. “Hello? Abby?” Hilary called out louder with each word she uttered. She was gaining confidence, since nothing had sprung out at her. Yet, she thought.

Abby called out. “Who’s that?”

“Me. Hilary James.”

“Hilary? Mousie?”

“Yes. Is that you, Abby?”

“Yes! Just a minute, I’ll get the lights. Don’t move or you might stumble.” Abby was at the switch within seconds and the theatre was bathed in light. “That’s better, isn’t it?” she said, grinning.

“Much better. Thanks, Abby.”

The two young women smiled at one another. In the two years since they’d last met, Abby had grown taller and filled out. They were the same height now, and of similar builds.

“It’s good to see you,” said Abby. “It’s been a while.”

The older girl nodded. “Since the steeplechase, I think. Just a minute, what is this?” Hilary took in her surroundings. She looked around, amazed. “Holy! The old theatre! I heard about this when I was a kid.”

“Yes!” confirmed Abby. “Oh, and this is Mr. Wick, the man who owns it.”

Mr. Wick had risen from his seat and was making his way up the aisle to the girls. He put out his hand for Hilary to shake.

“Robert Wick,” he said.

“I’m Hilary James. Pleased to meet you,” said Hilary as she took his hand.

“I’ve heard all about you, young lady. You and that sensational beast of yours. You made us all proud.” His blue eyes glittered in his smiling face. Abby could see that it was sincere praise.

“Thank you,” said Hilary. “I’ve heard about you, too. From my grandmother, Joy Featherstone.”

Robert Wick blushed. “Well, I’ll be. Joy Drake. She’s talked about me?”

Hilary grinned. “She said you were the one that got away.”

“She didn’t! Well, that’s nonsense. She turned my head from the moment I spied her. She was a little young for me, that’s all. I was in my last year of high school when she started grade nine.”

“Four years difference doesn’t seem much now, though, does it?” commented Abby slyly.

“You stay out of this,” said Mr. Wick. “You girls are ganging up on me. It’s not fair.”

They all laughed, happy to share a joke and ease the tension.

“Now that the threat of a monster is over, girls, I must be on my way. The rain seems to have stopped, so you can get home dry.” He looked fondly at Abby. “It was nice to see you again, Abby.”

“I feel like I’ve met you for the first time, Mr. Wick.”

He smiled. “I guess you have, too.” He turned to Hilary. “Take care of that horse of yours, young lady. And say hello to your dear grandma for me.”

“I will,” Hilary promised. “She’ll be pleased.”

Robert Wick doffed his cap and started to leave the theatre, feeling much younger than when he’d arrived. He remembered his shotgun just in time. “Oops. Can’t leave this old thing lying around. Loaded or not.” He smiled at the girls and waved goodbye.

“What do you make of that?” asked Abby once the door had closed. “I can’t imagine Mr. Wick having romantic feelings, but did you see him blush when you mentioned your grandmother?”

Hilary nodded. “I know what you mean. Grandma told me that he was a heartthrob in high school.”

“A heartthrob?” Abby laughed. “It’s hard to imagine him making any hearts throb, but he’s very nice. He wanted to be an actor, or at least be in show business. Can you imagine that?”

“Grandma said he was a good actor, too. But hang on.” Hilary reached into her pocket. “I forgot to call my mother. Everyone’s worried about you being out in the storm with the two mares.”

“You came looking for me?” Abby asked.

“Yes.”

Abby was struck by Hilary’s kindness. “But you could’ve been hit by lightning!”

“No kidding! It was awful. And all along, your horses were warm and dry and you’re in here chatting it up with Grandma’s old heartthrob.” She chuckled. “My mom’ll call your mom, and they can all stop worrying.”

Hilary turned on the phone and dialled. It was answered after one ring. “Hi, Mom . . . I’m fine . . . Abby’s fine, the horses are fine, everyone’s fine . . . At the old Wick farm . . . Yes, we’re in the old theatre . . . No, never, but I remember you and Dad talking about it . . . We’re on our way . . . Don’t worry, the storm’s over. We’ll be okay . . . Yeah, my cell was off the whole time . . . Mom, I just forgot to turn it on. I’m sorry . . . Love you, too. Bye.” Hilary pressed the off button, shaking her head. “Once a mother, always a mother. I’ve been away for four years, and as soon as I’m home, she worries.”

“I think that’s kind of nice.” Abby opened the door and looked out. “It’s sure cleared up.”

The two girls walked through the mud and old straw toward the shed. The mares nickered to them as they approached.

“They’re hoping we found food,” chuckled Abby.

From the stall at the back of the shed came a deep, booming neigh and the crash of a hind hoof on the wall. “Dancer!” called Hilary. “Don’t be so impatient.”

Three horses, two riders, and one coyote set off toward home. Miraculously, the sun was starting to peek out of the drifting clouds, causing the whole wet world to twinkle and shine. There was a vivid rainbow, its colours enhanced by the angle of the sun as it dipped lower in the western sky. The girls rode quietly for a time, taking in the beauty around them.

“Are you riding much?” Hilary asked.

“Maybe three, four times a week. Moonie likes to go out hacking, and I’ve started training Leggy.”

“She’s two now?”

“Just.”

“What are you doing with her?”

“I’ve taught her to lunge on the line both ways, and she’s picking up voice commands. Walk, trot, canter, and whoa. She’s smart.”

“Are you driving her?”

“I’m just starting. Mr. Pierson helps me. He swears it’s the best way to train them. He likes it better than lunging because there’s no chance of damaging her joints.”

“By the circling, you mean? Stressing her knees and hocks?”

“Uh huh,” Abby nodded. “I attach a lunge line to each side of her halter and run them through her tied-up stirrups. Then I walk behind her, and Mr. Pierson walks at her head. I steer her with the lines, and he makes sure she doesn’t get confused. Soon, I’ll do it on my own.”

“When are you going to get up on her?”

“I’ve already laid across the saddle with Mr. Pierson leading. Mr. Pierson wants to be sure that she’s not going to buck before I sit up on her. And once she understands about being ridden, we’ll leave her until she’s three before working her every day. He keeps telling me there’s no rush, but I get impatient.”

Hilary laughed. “I know what you mean. You’re lucky to have Mr. Pierson helping you.”

Abby nodded vigorously. “He’s the best. He helped me train Moonie.” She patted the mare’s neck.

“The Piersons must be getting old.”

“Close to eighty, I think. But neither one is slowing down much.” Abby considered this. “Well, Mr. Pierson’s got arthritis, but he says that’s life.”

The little entourage moved companionably across the terrain. They followed the old deer path through the lower meadows and up the hill toward the high field. The Wicks had kept sheep there until the coyotes ran the foxes out of their dens and took over the area. Foxes rarely go after healthy lambs, but coyotes find them tempting when the rodent and rabbit populations get scarce. They finally became enough of a problem to force the sale of the remaining sheep.

Abby noticed Cody sniffing the air and looking around carefully. He’d best stay close, she thought. Cody was trespassing. He’d be an easy target for a family of wild coyotes intent on defending their territory. Especially now, when the pups were young. Also, Abby had heard that old leg-hold traps were sometimes still found up here.

“Hilary, can I ask you a question?” Abby asked.

“Sure. Fire away.”

“How’s Sandy? It’s none of my business, so please . . .”

Hilary laughed. “He’s fine. And we’re still engaged. Is that what you meant?”

“Yes. I’m glad. You seem so perfect together.”

They rode along in silence, each thinking her own thoughts. After a while, Hilary spoke.

“Have you ever thought of showing?” she asked.

“Show jumping?” Abby was surprised. “Not really.”

“Why? You’re a natural. It wouldn’t take much to teach you how to get around the ring. It’s timing and getting into the jumps right. It’d be fun for you. A challenge.”

“Moonie’s never done it. She’s only done cross-country, but I know she could learn.”

“How about Dancer?”

“Dancer?” Abby stared at Hilary. “You’ve got to be kidding!”

“No. I wouldn’t joke about something like this, and I wouldn’t ask just anybody.” Hilary looked at Abby, hoping that the younger girl would be interested. “I’ve been thinking about this a lot. My mother called me last Thursday, scared out of her wits because Dancer jumped the big stone wall. That’s why I came home this weekend, in the middle of exams and everything. I really think he’s bored, and if you’re willing and have the time, you could be the solution to the problem. Do you want to try?”

“For sure you’re not joking?” Abby croaked.

“No, Abby, I’m not.” Hilary smiled broadly. “First let’s see if you get along, that’s important, and then we’ll talk about it. Can you come over tomorrow morning around ten?”

Abby couldn’t speak. She could only nod.

Samuel Owens had his second crystal tumbler of Scotch at his side as he searched the landscape with his binoculars. As he looked, he made mental notes of the land he would purchase to complete his view. The Casey land, of course. This will be fun, he thought. Testing his charm on a lady, especially a beautiful and vulnerable lady, would be a thrill.

The small dump of a place next door was an embarrassment. He’d look after that tomorrow. It was only an acre, and the woman living in the shack with her cats would be easy pickings. Hardly worth his time.

And the Wick farm. He could clearly see the high field. Only a part of it, mind you, but his goal was clear. He would own every piece of land along Saddle Creek that he could see from any window in his house. It had become his mantra.

The Wick farm had been for sale, he knew. Owens wondered if it was still on the market. If it was, he’d snap it up cheap. That was another call for the morning.

He found himself looking for Dancer again.

Owens put his binoculars down with a jerk. He must forget about Dancer; that piece of no-good trash in a horse suit! He scowled. He couldn’t waste time imagining the wretched animal all over the place, running through the woods, then up on the Wick’s high field just moments ago with two other horses. He had better things to do!

He hadn’t thought of Dancer in a long time. Perhaps coming home had restimulated that obsession. He decided to take action. He would concentrate on his new goals, not his old goals. He would not wait another minute. He would visit Helena Casey this evening, and put Dancer completely out of his head.

“Walter!” he hollered, ringing the bell. “Walter, get out my grey flannel pants, the yellow paisley ascot, and my navy cashmere blazer. I’m going out!”

“I’ll leave you here, Abby,” said Hilary, as Abby’s farm came into view.

“Thanks for walking me home.”

Hilary smiled. “It was fun.”

“And thanks for coming out to find me. I might have needed help.”

“It was a nasty storm, all right.”

Abby and Hilary waved their goodbyes, and Abby continued along the road. “Don’t forget, Abby,” Hilary called back. “Tomorrow morning!”

Abby yelled, “I’ll be there!” and grinned broadly. She looked around for Cody. He was nowhere in sight. Abby hadn’t seen him since the Wick’s sheep field.

She could not get the thought of riding Dancer out of her mind. She’d never even allowed herself to dream of it. Dancer! Mousie James herself had asked her to ride him. Amazing. She shook her head. Too amazing!

Since Abby was a small girl, the legend of Mousie and Dancer had grown bigger each year. The team was almost mythical to the legions of young riders in Caledon and the surrounding areas. The powerful, dangerous stallion with only one rider.

There were many stories circulating about Dancer, some fact, some fiction. Gossip about the money offered for him and turned down. Rumours about his tempestuous disposition. Stories about people who’d tried to ride him and got hurt. Abby hoped that she wouldn’t be another of those. If the fall didn’t crush her, the disappointment would.

After untacking and grooming Dancer, Hilary went into the house. Her mother was on the phone. She covered the mouthpiece with her hand and said, “Hi, honey! I’m on the phone with your grandmother.”

“Tell her I want to talk to her,” said Hilary, smiling.

Christine nodded. “Mom, come visit. We’ll put our heads together. Mousie wants to talk to you. Bye.” She passed the phone to her daughter.

“Grandma!” she said.

“Hi, beautiful. I hear you went out on a rescue mission. Well done! How’s everything?”

“Fine, now that the sun’s out and everyone’s safe. It’s hard to believe there was ever a storm! Grandma, I just met someone who remembers you, shall we say, fondly?”

“Fondly, Mousie? Am I to start guessing, or are you going to tell me?” “You have to guess, but I’ll give you clues. First clue, he loves theatre.”

“Christopher Plummer?”

“You know Christopher Plummer?”

“No. Next clue.”

“Very funny. Clue number two. He thought he was too old for you.”

“Are we talking about my visits to the old age home?”

“We’re talking high school days, and that counts as clue number three.”

“Then I think I know. Theatre plus high school equals no one else but Robert Wick!”

“Bingo! Three clues. Not bad.”

“Where’d you see Robert?”

“At his farm. There’s a theatre in his barn. It’s incredible.”

“It is, isn’t it? How’s he look after all these years?”

“Probably all right once he’s cleaned up.”

“You could say the same for me. Isn’t his farm for sale?”

“Yes. Apparently it’s been on the market for ages.”

“Hmm. You know, I might come take a look. I need a new project. I was talking to your mother about that just now. Things are far too boring around here, and I’m not ready for Florida.”

“You’d buy a run-down old theatre, Gran?”

“Give me one good reason why not.”

Abby was getting a little worried. She’d brushed down the horses and watered them, and Cody had still not appeared. The last time she’d seen him was in the upper Wick field. She turned from the shed toward the house. She’d ask her father to drive her back to Wick Farm to look for him.

Cody! The small grey coyote jumped the fence and barrelled over to her. Abby reached down to pat him, and Cody licked her hand. He wiggled all over with excitement. Abby kneeled and hugged him.

“Good boy,” she cooed, rubbing his ears. “Clever boy. You came the long way, didn’t you, and stayed away from the wild coyotes. I’m so happy to see you.” Relief flooded over her, and the empty feeling in her stomach disappeared.

With Cody safely at her side, Abby stood and surveyed the field where her horses grazed. She sighed with contentment. The grass was soaking wet, and shone a vibrant emerald green in the fading light.

The horses stayed at Merry Fields, the Piersons’ farm, for the winter because it had a barn. Her father had built a loafing shed and repaired all the fences so that Abby could bring them home for the summer. Some day the Malones would rebuild their barn, which had burned down two years earlier, and Abby would be able to have them with her all year. Mr. Pierson said he loved taking care of them, but Abby knew that mucking out and lugging water was becoming more and more difficult for him.

Abby thought about the Piersons and how they’d helped her through all the trouble she’d had two years ago. Her father had wrongfully been sent to jail, Abby was having problems at school, and her mother was drowning her sorrows in alcohol. Mr. and Mrs. Pierson had been her dear and loyal friends throughout, her support when she had nowhere else to turn. It all seemed so long ago, Abby mused.

Moonie and Leggy peacefully grazed in the front field. Abby leaned on the fence and admired them. Their coats, one mahogany and one copper, shone in the light of the setting sun. Abby took a deep breath, relishing the sight.

“Beautiful, aren’t they?” asked a cheerful voice with an Irish lilt.

“Dad! You startled me!” Abby turned to look into the handsome, smiling face of her father. Slimly built and agile, Liam had passed his athletic genes on to his daughter.

“I’m glad you got home safely, Abby my dear.” His green eyes twinkled as he spoke. “That was a storm and a half. Your mother was worried about you.”

Abby smiled at him. “I was fine. We found shelter at Mr. Wick’s.” Her face lit up. “Dad, there’s a theatre in his barn! It’s terrific. Did you know there’s a ghost in it? Mr. Wick told me about him. His name is Ambrose Brown and he was an actor who loved that theatre and wanted to be buried there.”

“I remember Ambrose Brown. Your mother and I went to several plays there before you were born. He was great. Very funny, and very moving, too. They say he died unhappy.”

“Why, Dad? Because the theatre was shutting down?”

“There was more to it than that, but I really don’t recall. Something about unrequited love. Maybe your mother will remember. Oh, yes. That’s why I came out. Your mother asked me to tell you that dinner’s ready. You can ask her about Ambrose Brown right now.”

“Oh, Dad! The best thing of all—Hilary James wants me to ride Dancer!”

Liam’s eyes widened. “Goodness!” He was cautious. “Is it safe?”

“I’ll find out. I’m going over in the morning.”

Liam was stern. “You be careful, my girl. He’s not a toy. He’s a big, strong stallion, and he’s dumped more people than any horse I know.”

“Don’t worry, Dad. I’ll be careful. I’m a good rider. You told me yourself.” She grinned at him, challenging him to contradict his own words.

“You are, indeed.” His face softened. “A chip off the old block, if I say so myself.”

Abby and Liam Malone linked arms and turned toward the red-brick century home. It seemed to welcome them, even beckon them, as they walked up the path to the kitchen door.