One Saturday morning, not long after my ninth birthday, I was sitting in the walled garden, happily engrossed in a book, with my beloved dog Alfie curled up at my feet. From behind me there suddenly came the sound of a throat being cleared. I looked around to see Raoul standing there.

"Gustave, I've decided that you should tour around the estate with me today. Also you are to come to the study with me and to the rent room. It will be no harm for you to start learning how the estate works."

My heart sank at his words. I was happy, my book was exciting; why couldn't I just stay here? But I did not wish to argue so I reluctantly followed him to the stables to prepare for our ride.

Visiting the tenants was not too bad; most were friendly and glad to see us. But later on, in the study – I had never been so bored! All that paperwork – letters, invoices, receipts, all the paraphernalia involved in running what was essentially a large business... It was not that it seemed difficult but everything in that room pointed towards a future I did not want.

Later on, after dinner, I sang with Mother for a while, which cheered me up a little. She asked me about my morning and seemed concerned by my unenthusiastic replies.

"Maybe you should spend some more time with your father, instead of with me? He's wanted to start teaching you about the estate for some time now. After all, when you go away to school, you'll only be home in the holidays."

Away at some horrible school, all alone..

"You're an intelligent boy; you will be fine you know. You'll learn all about what Louis's father does, and the other gardeners, how all the servants are paid.. All kinds of things." She stroked my hair, smiling at me.

"Must I?" I whispered, looking up at her.

She sat down in the chair next to me. "Your father has requested this, Gustave. And... and I think it is a good idea." She sighed and looked down at the carpet for a moment. "After all," she continued, raising her head again, "You will be the master here someday and you will be doing your father's job alone. And besides.. you will hardly still want to sing with your mother when you are a grown man!"

"Of course I will!" I gasped. The very idea!

She laughed softly. "Oh, Gustave, you will think differently when you are older. Well, that is enough worrying for one day. Why don't you go off and play, until it's time for bed?" Eagerly, I ran to my room to find my tin soldiers and the fort that I was building for them.

But the idea of becoming the Vicomte de Chagny still filled me with dread.

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

There was an incident around this time, in the autumn of my ninth year, which has stayed with me all my life. And I am definitely not proud that it happened, but I now understand to some extent why it did.

Raoul's two sisters – my supposed aunts – had married well; one had married an English earl and lived in Hampshire in the south of England. The other, Aunt Sylvie, had married another Vicomte and lived about fifty miles north of our home. She had a son, Richard, who was also an only child and was a year older than me. It was customary for us to visit each other at regular intervals and so we went to stay with them for a few days at this particular time. I remember sitting in the carriage looking out the window, trying to hide my reluctance and dreading the next few days in the company of my cousin.

I hated Richard. He was spoilt, selfish and a cruel, vindictive bully, who took pleasure in taunting me at every opportunity. And, just as I feared, from the outset of this visit he sneered, pinched and did everything to try and make me cry. He was not just cruel to me either – one of his favourite pastimes was to look for birds' nests in the small wood on their estate, just to steal their eggs and sometimes smash them. He kicked and poked the ginger tabby that I loved, threw stones at the dog and jeered his parents behind their backs. He filled me with dread and I hated him.

On the day in question, I watched in horror as he tripped up a maid who was carrying a pile of laundry to the scullery. He laughed as I tried to help her gather it all up. "Don't bother, Gustave, she's paid to do all that," he told me dismissively. My blood boiled, but what could I do? He was his parents' pride and joy, and they naively believed every word he told them. No doubt he would find a way to blame the poor maid.

Unfortunately it rained heavily on the first full day of our visit and we were cooped up inside, but Aunt Sylvie asked me to give an impromptu piano recital and afterwards I worked on my lessons. The following day the adults sent us outside to play while they strolled around the gardens together. Once they were out of earshot, Richard sullenly demanded to know why I had played "his" piano yesterday, which he only played under duress from his tutor.

"Aunt Sylvie said I could, because we couldn't go out to play." I protested.

"It's mine and I shall decide who plays it!" he snapped.

"I'm going back inside," I told him as bravely as I could. But a tight grip on my arm stopped me.

"Why not stay outside and play for a while? I know a game we could play – it's called Stuck-in-the-Mud."

Now, I did not like the sound of this game, so I tried to push his arm away, but his grip was strong. He was big for his age and not very bright, but he certainly had a physical advantage over me and I was scared. Managing to pull away, I started to head back towards the house, but a sudden push from behind sent me flying into a muddy puddle which had formed in a small dip in the lawn. Wet, muddy and angry, I looked around to see Richard pointing and laughing at me.

"Ha, ha, you're stuck-in-the-mud! Looks like you've lost!" he jeered. Composing himself a little, he offered me his hand. Naively, I took it, but when I was half way to my feet he suddenly pushed me back into the puddle, laughing and jeering. Furious, I struggled to rise, as my cousin stamped his foot into the water, splashing me.

"I hate you! Why are you always so cruel? Just leave me alone!" I shouted.

But my voice wavered as tears started to form and upon hearing this, Richard continued to laugh at me.

"I'm going to tell," I whimpered, "I'm going to tell my mother and she will be so angry with you!"

The bully crossed his arms and sneered again.

"I don't care what your mother thinks. My father says she's just a common little whore from the Opera House and that she only married Uncle Raoul for his money. He says she probably had lots of men before her marriage-"

Anger rose from deep within me.. How dare he! How dare he!

"Your father could be anyone, he says. You're just the son of a whore-"

It was deep, deep in the pit of my stomach, rising like a volcano ready to explode. And explode it did. Before I could think about what I was doing, I had launched myself with a loud cry at the sneering boy, causing him to slip backwards on the wet grass, to his great surprise and shock, and now I was on top of him, hitting, punching, scratching.. All I could feel was utter, utter hatred and searing anger, all I wanted to do was hurt him. Badly.

"Don't EVER talk about my mother like that!" I bellowed. I could see sheer terror on his face but did not relent for a moment, all the repressed hatred I had for him spilling out. Before I could even think about stopping myself my hands were around his throat. I felt a strange satisfaction as his eyes widened in terror, and now I was pressing harder, harder…

"What on earth! Master Gustave, stop that at once! Oh my goodness!"

It was the maid that Richard had tripped up earlier, but her voice barely registered in my sea of anger. I heard running, the maid shouting, more voices… Somebody was pulling me off Richard, the gardener I think, but still I struggled, as the person holding me pinned my arms to my sides.

"What on earth is going on?" It was Uncle Francois… and the other grown ups were right behind him...

Everything was a blur then. I think someone helped Richard up, my uncle shouted at me, "How dare you do that to my son! Your own cousin!" and slowly, steadily, my anger began to dissipate as the gardener pulled me away from the scene.

"He was trying to strangle me!" Richard whimpered, tears streaming down his face. My aunt was almost hysterical, Raoul was shouting and in the middle of it all, there was my mother, her hands over her mouth, her eyes wide in absolute shock.

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

Divested of my wet, dirty clothes I was banished to my room in disgrace for the rest of the day. There I sat, tearful, shocked and utterly ashamed of myself.

After I changed into clean clothes there had been more shouting and accusations, and, of course, I'd been made to apologise to Richard, who, far from being his usual smug self, actually seemed genuinely scared of me. And those scratches on his face filled me with yet more shame at what I had done.

Even Mother was furious with me.

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

Now, much later, as I sat on my bed in a much calmer state of mind, I tried to make sense of it all. What on earth had come over me? That anger I'd felt – where had it come from? True, I sometimes got impatient when I trying to write my music, and my anger had been building up all day, but I had never, ever felt such destructive rage before. And Richard's accusation: "He was trying to kill me!" I looked down at the hands that had wrapped themselves around his throat. It had been as if my body did not belong to me, as if I'd had no control…

I was still brooding when I heard voices downstairs. It sounded like my mother and Aunt Sylvie.

"Christine, I know you are my sister-in-law, but you will simply have to do something about your son! I won't have this happening again, do you hear me? My poor boy was terrified! It's a good thing Colette saw them or-"

"Yes, I know Sylvie. I shall go and talk to him straight away."

There were footsteps on the stairs and then came a gentle knock at the door and Mother walked in without waiting for a response. She simply stood in front of the door at first, looking at me with an unreadable expression.

"Well, have you calmed down now?" she asked with unusual coldness. Meekly, I nodded.

Sighing, she walked over to the bed and I made room for her to sit next to me. She sat for a few minutes, fidgeting, looking at the floor, sighing again. Then she turned to me decisively.

"I don't understand it, Gustave. You have never been in a fight before, never! You're usually such a gentle boy.. What on earth came over you today? Remember we are guests in this house and you have behaved very badly. I am so ashamed of you."

I bowed my head, unable to look at her in my shame.

"I don't know Mother. I just felt so much hate and anger.. It was.. it was like there was a monster inside me. Right here" I pointed to my stomach. She buried her head in her hands and murmured something I could not hear.

"Why?" she asked. I could feel a little of that anger returning.

"Because he pushed me over twice and laughed at me! And – he called you a whore, Mother!" Then I added quickly, "That's a bad word isn't it?"

I was not sure what a whore was but I was vaguely aware that it was not a nice thing to be. "Yes, it is" she replied softly. I told her everything that had happened, and she listened patiently.

When I had finished, she closed her eyes and took a deep breath. "You must listen to me, Gustave. It doesn't matter what people say to you or do to you. Nothing gives you the right to hurt people like that, nothing. Do you understand me?" She put her hand under my chin and made me look at her. "Do you?"

"Yes Mother" And I truly did.

"I don't want you fighting with anyone, ever again" she continued firmly.

"But it's not fair. They shouldn't call you names like that. And I know how Grandmother talks to you sometimes."

Hastily she tried to reassure me. "Sometimes you have to be around people you don't like when you're an adult. I don't always like everyone I meet but I can't very well attack them like that, can I? And neither can your father, or anyone else for that matter. You will need to be able to get on with all kinds of people when you're the Vicomte."

My heart sank and I could not keep my thoughts to myself any more.

"But I don't want to be a Vicomte! Father will make me go around the estate with him again, won't he? I don't want to learn about it! I just want my music! Why can't I go to the Conservatoire and study music?"

Suddenly she cupped my face with her hands and I could see she was on the verge of tears. "I know darling. I know you don't want the estate. I've always known you wouldn't want it."

I stared at her, shocked. "You know? But why don't you tell Father?"

"Don't you see?" she sighed, gesturing helplessly. There's nothing I can do; nothing either of us can do. It's your destiny, like it was for all the eldest boys in the de Chagny line. But it won't be so bad you know."

I looked away sadly, but she continued, "Perhaps you'll go into the Navy first, like Father. You might have all kinds of adventures, travelling around the world. And even when you're the vicomte, you will still have your music and your books; you'll always have those. Just think, you can hold musical evenings in the chateau and invite all your friends!"

"And you can sing for me!"

At this she laughed, but there was a hint of sadness in the laugh too. "Yes, perhaps…"

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

Life continued in its normal pattern when we returned home, but it was clear that Raoul was drinking far too much, both at home and elsewhere. When he was politely barred from his club, it sent him on a downhill slope with no end in sight. This led him to begin frequenting Paris' seedy taverns – he was not desperate enough to drink in the village hostelry. He would come home roaring drunk, usually shouting and complaining that his dinner wasn't on the table – it had been thrown out hours ago when he didn't appear. He would shout at Mother and the servants, and now Grandmother began spending more time at her apartment rather than endure her drunken son.

One night I could not sleep because of toothache and I badly wanted my mother. So I crept along the landing to my parents' bedroom, carrying my bear by one paw. Just before I entered, I could hear tossing and turning from within and then came Raoul's muffled voice: "No, please, I can't breathe, I can't breathe!" Startled, I froze. There was a gasp and then I could hear my mother's sleepy voice trying to soothe him, just as she often did with me. I sat down and leaned against the door, amazed that adults can have nightmares too.

"You haven't had that dream in a long time, darling," she was saying now.

"I could feel that damn rope around my neck; it was all so real. It felt like we were back in that-"

"Raoul you're safe now, it was just a dream. Go back to sleep."

Back where? Had someone tried to kill Raoul once? So many things I did not understand…

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

I turned ten in the spring of 1907 and we were already on borrowed time, had we but known it. Raoul was not just drinking now; he had become a well-known gambler too, which led to his spending even more time away from home. The estate farm was not doing well and when he tried to raise the rents, the tenants (like all true Frenchmen) practically rioted. "We're not paying more rent to pay for your gambling debts!" they shouted at him whenever he passed by. I did not like accompanying him on estate business any more and thankfully he did not force me.

He had some new "friends" now, which he started to bring home for card games. I did not like these horrible men with their loud voices and cocky demeanour. Nor did I like the way they looked at Mother and the way they made remarks about her to each other in low voices, before bursting into raucous laughter. "Come and join us, lad!" they demanded regularly, but I refused. Thankfully I had my lessons to distract me from their behaviour; indeed, I was never as grateful for Latin verbs in all my life. The maids refused to bring their drinks into the room where they were playing cards and so one day Mother bravely tried to bring the tray in as quickly as possible, but they jeered loudly and even asked her to join them. "You can sit next to me, sweetheart!" one of them leered, which gave rise to even more laughter.

"I do not want those men in this house again!" she told Raoul later, behind a closed door. Wanting to get away from this atmosphere, I ran upstairs and played alone in my room until dinnertime.

"They love each other," I kept reminding myself, "They used to play together on the beach at Perros. They love each other.."

Lessons with the Professor sometimes took place against a backdrop of raised voices and my poor tutor would hastily relocate our lesson to the front lawn, or somewhere else out of earshot. Servants would hover around the kitchen and complain about their master, even when I was present, sampling the cook's latest gateau or dessert. Berthe would usually make some signal for them to keep quiet but I could hardly blame them for grumbling when he spoke to them like they were something he had stepped in.

He would come home from his gambling trips more sullen than ever and he hated when I asked him anything. Most of his communication to me involved phrases such as:

"Don't leave your toys lying around."

"How on earth would I know how to fix a kite?"

"For heaven's sake, can't you just leave me in peace?"

It broke my heart to hear him talk to me like this. Mother could offer no solutions or explanations.

"Why is Father always angry with me? I only asked him if he had a good trip."

"He's probably just tired. Don't worry, everything will work out for the best, dear", she would reply with her usual forced smile and that phrase became a cliché in our home.

Paintings started disappearing off the wall. Some of the servants left. In fact, at the end, we had just two left – Berthe and Adele, one of the maids. Berthe had no living family and Adele came to us from an orphanage. Neither had anywhere else to go and, sadly, that was probably the only reason they stayed with us. The estate went to rack and ruin, all in a few months. Raoul could not summon up the energy to keep it going, even when he was sober.

Then, it happened. He went off on another trip. This time to Monte Carlo, which I knew little about, but Mother begged him not to go and cried after he left. That very day, Professor Chapelle told me that he would be leaving his position in a week. He enjoyed teaching me, he insisted, but "circumstances" had changed and he would not be employed by my family beyond next Friday. He looked downcast and I was sure that Raoul could no longer pay him – in hindsight I am almost sure that this theory was correct.

At the end of that final lesson, which I remember nothing about, he shook my hand warmly and wished me well, telling me to always keep reading. He even set some maths and English exercises for me to do, "to keep that brain ticking over". I watched him walk down the long driveway, his shoulders stooped, his pace slow, until even his familiar grey hat was out of view.

I never saw him again.

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

The day that my stepfather returned, Louis and I were throwing sticks for Alfie to chase after when we saw a brougham cab make its way along the drive. The carriage was still here but the driver had left weeks ago and Mother and I took the public coach into town on the few occasions that we could afford it. I did not realise then how much of our future was resting on that trip. I watched a haggard looking man step down from the carriage – and then realised that it was Raoul.

I will never forget that day.

"All of it? You can't mean that, Raoul, you can't!"

I was hurried away from that closed door by Adele, but I badly wanted to know what was happening. All through that day there were shouts coming from the study, doors banging, the sound of my mother crying. At one point I heard Mother shout "I'm just glad Papa isn't here to see this, it would have broken his heart to see how you turned out!" And still she tried to pretend, even with red eyes and puffy cheeks.

"Everything will work out for the best" she told me gently, yet again.

Slowly, the truth dawned on me. My father had gambled away all our money and had even sold his pocket watch to pay for his train ticket home. He did not leave his bedroom for days and Mother slept in one of the spare rooms. I have never felt so helpless. All the times she had comforted me and now I tried to be of some comfort to her. I played lively tunes for her to try and cheer her up, but to no avail.

This continued for a week. Another picture disappeared, this time from the drawing room. Some of Mother's jewellery disappeared from her dressing table, including the silver butterfly brooch that she loved. Her husband had substantial debts from a couple of gambling houses and had run up a large bill in several Paris taverns. In fact he had more creditors than he could have imagined. None of Raoul's family was willing to help – they all thought that he had brought this misfortune upon himself. There was no regular income from the estate anymore and bills kept arriving. On one of the days during that week, some rough looking men appeared at the front door, demanding to see "the master". Raoul managed to send them away, but he looked visibly shaken afterwards.

"I didn't know" he insisted weakly, collapsing into an armchair. "They kept increasing the stakes. They were goading me on, buying me drinks… I didn't know they'd send those men around, not to the house…"

"We'll find a way to pay them, Raoul" she promised, but we had no idea how.

At the end of that terrible week, Adele brought in the post as usual. More demands, more angry letters… But there was one letter which stood out. It was addressed to Mother and the postmark was a place called Coney Island. A letter from America, judging by the stamp.

"Who could this be from? I don't think I even know where this place is," she mused.

I watched as she read it, her bewilderment growing. "It's from someone calling himself Mister Y," she explained, sipping her coffee. But as she read the next part, she had to put her cup down as she might have dropped it in her astonishment.

"He owns an amusement park in this Coney Island place and would like me to appear as the star turn in the.." she faltered here, "the end of season show at his theatre!" She just stared at the letter, unsure of what to do or say next.

"He wants you to sing? That's great!" I exclaimed. But she did not seem so sure.

Neither did Raoul or Grandmother, who had come to visit for some reason. Possibly to gloat, but that's my cynical side coming out again.

"Some stranger writes to you out of the blue and asks you to sing one song for a huge amount of money?" the old lady scoffed, "Some American vaudeville owner?" She sneered at the word "vaudeville".

"The letter is written in perfect French," Mother remarked, "Very formal and polite. He seems to know us, somehow, and he knows that I'm a soprano singer."

Grandmother winced at this reference to her daughter in law's former career.

"There's something not quite right about all this, if you ask me," she commented drily. Of course, if we had listened to her all our lives would have been completely different.

But what else could we have done? We needed the money badly. Raoul's creditors were not patient people and this sounded like the perfect opportunity for Mother to begin her career again, as well as solving all our money problems. We scraped together the money for a passage to America, with the money acquired through selling the paintings and jewellery, and I looked up New York in my atlas and tried to find out all I could about Coney Island. A travel agent in Paris who specialised in trans-Atlantic crossings gave Mother and I some brochures about this famous resort so I sat under the great oak tree on the front lawn and devoured the photographs and amazing descriptions of the various amusement parks. I could not wait to get to New York and this place called Phantasma…

The rest of that summer passed. I still had Alfie, of course, and Louis as well. His father had stayed on as the sole gardener and received a small wage from our rapidly dwindling savings, and this was only a temporary arrangement. Everything rested on this trip, on this one performance. If all those debts could be paid off, everything would be fine. Just one song, one performance, that was all..

Mother seemed more optimistic now and even took me on picnics in the grounds. She also helped with the household chores, which her husband was not completely happy about. With no more lessons, I had far more free time, but I still liked to read and play the piano, which Mother had refused to sell. Raoul even considered sending me to the local school, along with Louis and the other children of the parish, which he had never done before.

That last day is still clear in my memory. We would be travelling to St Lazare in a hired coach, the driver receiving payment when we returned. When We Returned. It was almost our family motto by now. From there, a train to Cherbourg and on to America. I can still recall that last journey down the sweeping driveway, looking back at the chateau, with the windows glinting in the sunlight, and trying to take everything in. If I'd known what was ahead, perhaps I would have tried to remember even more... Louis ran alongside the coach, Alfie barking at his heels. He would be looking after my canine friend while we were away.

"Have a good trip!" he shouted, waving frantically.

"Thanks! See you when I come home!" I shouted back, whilst leaning out the window. We left him behind soon after that and the last time I ever saw him was when we swung out of the gate and I looked back one last time, to see him off in the distance, still waving.