In those dark, troubled years following my mother's death, my nights were sometimes haunted by a dream where I somehow found myself walking back through those gates again. There it was before me, my old home, the windows glinting in the sunshine just as before. Everything looked exactly the same as it did in the good days, from the roses in the flower beds to the magnificent oak tree standing on the front lawn. And I was running, running, the chateau just ahead of me, running as fast as I could towards it. Alfie came bounding up to joyfully greet me and we ran on together. Breathless, I arrived at the front door only to find it locked. So I ran to the bay window which looked into the sitting room, and there was my mother, alive and unharmed, sitting in her favourite armchair, usually doing some embroidery or perhaps reading.

"Mother!" I called out to her, "Mother! It's me, Gustave! Let me in, please let me in!"

I pounded my fists against the glass, but she did not look up. Again and again, I shouted to her; again and again I beat on the window, but she could neither see me nor hear me. And then, I could see it all fading, the room, the house, everything... and I would wake to find myself in a very different home, a world away. I remember I would sob in frustration at the thought that she had been so near and I could not reach her…

I have mentioned this because last night I had that same dream, for the first time in many, many years. Only this time, the hands beating on the window were old and knotted... I woke with a start as the dream faded, to find myself trembling and sweating. Leaving my bed, I half-stumbled to the bathroom to splash cold water on my face and it was only then that I realised that it was my own 70-year old hands I had seen in my dream.. I had been in my present day body..

Somewhat composed now, I returned to my bedroom. But my wife was awake by this stage and she reached over to turn on the bedside lamp.

"Gustave, are you ok, dear?" she asked me sleepily, "You were muttering in your sleep just now."

"I'm fine," I told her hastily, as I got back into bed, "I just had a bad dream."

"A bad dream? Are you sure you're all right?"

I looked away from her.

"I-It was about my mother..."

"Oh, Gus…"

Without saying another word, she put her arms around me and pulled me close to her.

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

Why now? A psychologist would probably tell me that I'm still yearning for my mother, or perhaps my lost childhood, at a subconscious level. Everything has to be analysed nowadays, doesn't it? Well, I haven't the faintest idea about subconscious levels. And I'm a bit too old to be yearning for a bedtime story. But it's not a coincidence that I had that dream again now that I'm writing this account, and thinking about my mother far more than usual. So much of my life was centred on my father – my real father that is. To write about my mother, I must dig very deeply into my memory, occasionally filling in gaps, no doubt, where my memory fails me.

So many things I thought I'd forgotten! This is no mean achievement for someone who searches for his car keys for 15 minutes before remembering they're in his pocket, or who regularly gets to the top of the stairs and can't remember what he came up for. And now I wear my reading glasses on a chain around my neck, as I have misplaced them so often. Yes, memory can be very elusive, but I've a feeling I'm going to become one of those old coots who can describe events from decades ago but can't remember what he had for breakfast that morning. Oh well…

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

But I was not forgetful or old or any of those things on that day in the summer of 1907 when we made our way through Grouville, the village we knew so well, in a hired coach heading for Paris. I remember seeing the spire of St Martin's church which we attended every Sunday, sitting in the family pew as generations of de Chagnys had done. And I can also remember a little of that journey into town, which we made largely in silence, probably with occasional comments from Mother about the weather and occasional complaints from Raoul about the state of the road.

It was early and Paris was not too crowded yet. We could see people going to work, or setting up stalls, ordinary people going about their business. Mother was looking out of the window and fingering her engagement ring distractedly. She was so anxious lately and, looking at her ring I thought of Father proposing to her on the roof of the Opera house, in the old days. That got me thinking of something else, which I don't remember asking about before.

"Why do you never go to the Opera?"

Raoul averted his gaze to something out on the street and Mother blushed a little, which seemed a strange reaction to my innocent question.

"It's very expensive, dear, and we can't afford it any more," she told me quickly.

"But I mean before… You never went when I was little. You used to be an opera singer - don't you like it any more?"

"No, I do.."

"You go to plays sometimes, and recitals but never opera. You've never even taken me inside the opera house."

"Oh, well I lived there for a long time, so I got a bit tired of the place, I suppose. And I've never taken you there because.. well, I don't really know any of the-"

Just then, the coach jerked violently to a halt and I was thrown forward against Mother and Raoul.

"What is going on?" my father shouted to the driver, when we had composed ourselves.

"Sorry about that – stray dog ran in front of us, scared the horses. We'll be off soon."

And with Raoul's grumbling, all three of us forgot the previous conversation and soon we were disembarking in front of the imposing St Lazaire railway station.

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

The journey to Cherbourg passed off easily enough. I had brought a book to read – Jules Vernes' 20,000 Leagues Under The Sea. The endless scientific jargon and sea life classifications were a little dull but the idea of travelling beneath the sea was a fascinating one and I was quickly engrossed.

"Imagine, Mother, being able to travel like that! All the things you would see!"

"Yes, it does sound like fun, doesn't it? Where are the characters off to now?"

Cherbourg was busy and noisy, with so many ships and steamers coming in and out. "Stay with us, Gustave," Mother told me firmly, taking my hand. The ticket hall was boring, with a lot of waiting around. But finally we were walking towards the gangplank that bridged the short gap between the quayside and our waiting ship, the Persephone. It was so exciting!

And soon we were in our staterooms. We were going to sleep and eat and live on this beautiful ship for ten days and at the end of it – Coney Island and Phantasma! Mother fussed around with our luggage, Raoul complained that he had no valet and that the porters were useless, and I explored our rooms, longing to go up on deck. I could recall just one sea voyage before this – visiting Aunt Gabrielle and Uncle Robert in England when I was about four. We had sailed from Calais to Dover and that vaguely remembered journey had taken mere hours. This would be an adventure!

"I'm going to get some air," Raoul snapped, and headed towards the door.

"Why don't you take Gustave with you?" Mother asked him, with a hopeful tone.

"Maybe later," he grumbled and left the room before she could argue. I felt a slight pang of disappointment, yet again.

"Let's go up on deck and wave goodbye to France, shall we?" she asked me cheerfully, and I eagerly took her hand and went with her to the promenade deck.

Soon, the anchor was lifted, the boilers were burning away, the propellers were whirring around – and we were off! So many bystanders too – some photographers, a few reporters, family and friends of other passengers… The latter group were waving to us all, and though they were all strangers, Mother and I waved back happily. We just stood at the railing as the port slipped from view and watched the Normandy coastline get smaller and smaller.

"We need to go back inside now, my dear. I have to protect my voice". So we headed back to our staterooms, with France behind us now, and a new exciting country ahead.

My euphoria did not last long. The English Channel was rough and choppy and I was soon green in the face. My first night on board was spent being sick into a bowl as Mother rubbed my back and sang to me.

"Look!" she told me, taking something from a drawer, "We have Hans Christian Andersen travelling with us!"

She must have slipped the book into her suitcase at the last minute as a surprise for me. But even my favourite stories could not cheer me up. The next day was not much better, but by dinner time I felt a little better and soon I had my "sea legs" as they say. We crossed the Celtic Sea and stopped at Queenstown in south west Ireland but a grey mist prevented us from seeing much.

Soon we surrounded completely by the Atlantic.

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

Raoul spent most of his time in the bar, despite Mothers' pleas. The two of us played card games in our sitting room, and went up on deck for fresh air regularly. We chatted to other passengers who were also going to stay in New York. And of course, Mother practised her aria.

"I'm quite nervous about this, Gustave", she confided one day, "I haven't sung in public in so long, and this is the first time I'll have to sing in English!"

"I'll help you," I told her. So she recited the words as I followed them in the libretto, which Mister Y had sent to us along with his letter, and I helped her with the English pronunciation, as necessary. It irritated Raoul to hear her sing, so he stayed away as much as he could. Her English was improving. She sometimes used to join me for my English lessons with the professor and now I helped her with the phrases that she would need, like "Thank you very much for your hospitality" and "It is such an honour to be performing here in New York".

"I wonder why the "h" in "honour" is silent but not in "here"?" she mused aloud.

"I'm not sure. The professor always said English was a strange language".

I had brought my English grammar book with me and we studied it together, trying to get to grips with the many inconsistencies. Little did I know how useful that "strange language" would become in my life!

All this talk of arias and singing got me thinking about the Opera House again. Whenever Mother described her life there, she always spoke of it as a beautiful building, at least on the inside. But she never went to visit her old friends there. I asked her at some point in the voyage if Meg and her mother still lived there, but she seemed evasive. "I think they moved away, dear, around the time I got married. It was all a long time ago and now I have you to keep me busy anyway!" Then it was time to go for breakfast or some other meal and I forgot about it again.

One afternoon Raoul allowed me to accompany him up on deck. He seemed less brusque and impatient than usual and even told me some stories about his time in the Navy. I listened intently, feeling hopeful. After a while I asked him about Phantasma but he told me he knew nothing about it.

"Grandmother wouldn't come because she thinks America is a horrible, vulgar country. But I don't think it will be, do you, Father?"

"I don't know, Gustave, this will be my first time there too."

He gazed off into the distance for a while and I wondered what he was thinking. He hardly ever had a proper conversation with me these days but perhaps now, away from home, he would be a bit nicer to me and Mother. Perhaps.

We went down to dinner together. As usual a pianist was playing softly in the corner and we looked at the elegant looking passengers in our dining room. There were many wealthy and famous people on board but they seemed embarrassed around us and did not pay us much attention. Word had spread and that seemed to irritate Raoul. At the end of the meal, the pianist approached our table and Raoul got up to greet him. However, he walked straight over to my Mother instead.

"Miss Daae! I heard you were on board! Why, this is such an honour. I am also from Paris and have heard so much about you. I understand you are making your American debut in New York soon?"

He was very polite and charming, and Mother quickly introduced him to Raoul and me.

"Oh, forgive me, you are Madame de Chagny, of course, not Miss Daae" he apologised sheepishly. Despite this, Raoul was soon bored of the conversation and made his excuses, heading in the direction of the bar. Soon the pianist also excused himself, as he was finished for the day and wanted to return to his cabin.

"Why has Father gone to the bar again? Doesn't he want to spend time with us?" I asked sadly, as we got up from the table.

"He just needs some time alone after everything that's happened. I just wish he wouldn't drink so much. Never mind, darling, let's go back to our stateroom and I'll tell you a few stories before bedtime."

"Will you tell me the one about how you and Meg sneaked all that food into the dormitory and had tummy aches the next morning?"

"I think you'll have a tummy ache, with the size of that dessert you've just eaten!" she teased, and we headed off together.

I woke much later that night, to the sound of raised voices in the bedroom next to mine. I thought it had been part of my dream, but sadly it was real. Raoul seemed to be singing out of tune.

"You see?", he demanded, his speech slurred, "I can sing too! We could do a duet!"

"For heavens sake, keep your voice down!" Mother was telling him anxiously, "Gustave is next door-"

I did not hear any more for I dived under the covers and put my hands over my ears. It'll be all right I told myself, clutching my stuffed bear. Mother will get all that money for singing in the concert and we'll go home and everything will be just as it was before..

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

There was not much to see up on deck, just water, so I spent most of my time playing, reading or working on my English. We had a brochure that Mister Y had sent us, probably after Mother wrote to accept his invitation, which told us all about Phantasma in more detail, and I was fascinated by the pictures. The two of us sat on the promenade deck on one of the sunnier days and looked through it together.

"Look! A roller coaster! Can we go on that, Mother? Please?"

She looked at the picture doubtfully.

"I don't know, Gustave, it looks very dangerous. Does that little train go all the way to the top of that big structure?"

"Yes, and then you go down the other side, really fast! Doesn't it look like fun?"

"I'm not sure.. And what does that Ghost Train do?"

"You go on another little train, only it stays on the ground this time, and you go around a dark hall filled with scary things – ghosts, skeletons… It says here it's the scariest train you'll ever ride!"

"I'm not sure about that either…"

"We'll go on it together, it'll be fine, Mother! Perhaps Father will come too. I wonder if Mister Y built all those things? He must be so clever if he did. Will we meet him, do you think?"

"I'm sure we will. It's his park after all, and we are his guests. But I'm sure he's very busy, so don't keep pestering him with questions. Because, knowing you, you will want to know how every single thing works!" She tickled me and I chuckled.

"We'll have a good time in Coney Island won't we, Mother?"

"Of course we will, darling. After the concert, we will have a proper holiday, the three of us, together. Maybe your father will take you around the park and go on those rides with you. It would be nice if you two could spend some time together."

I settled back against my mother's shoulder and thought of this mad, exciting place we were going to. It sounded like nothing else I had ever known.

OOOOOOOOOOOOO

"Look, Gustave! It's the Statue of Liberty! It's just like you showed me in the brochure."

We were both standing at the rail, trying to catch our first distant glimpse of New York. It was the biggest statue I had ever seen, and I could see why it was so famous – it was the first thing that immigrants saw as they approached their new country. I was proud of the fact that it had been a gift from France and that it was designed by a Frenchman. Our smaller version paled in insignificance beside this giant. I thought of the poem I had read about it where she tells countries to keep their "storied pomp" and give to her "your huddled masses yearning to breathe free". Are we still the storied pomp I wondered.

"Ellis Island can't be far away now. That's where the Immigration Hall is," Mother explained. I groaned. More waiting around. We had to return to our staterooms then, to get ourselves ready, but before heading inside I stole another glance at this new, exciting city and wondered how far Coney Island was from the docks. Soon we would be there... soon…