FOLLOW THE MORNING STAR (11 page)

TR was lying in his bed watching the early morning light filter into his room when the door opened and in breezed a young blonde woman. This was a new one and she wasted no time on pleasantries.

‘Okay, TR, here we go. Day one of the torture,’ said the woman cheerfully as she flung back his covers. ‘Five weeks flat on your back is enough. Today we sit up. I’m your physiotherapist and you and I are going to become close buddies by the time we’re through, but never forget I’m the boss.’

‘Righto,’ said TR, grinning at the slight young woman with a smooth, short blonde pageboy haircut and hazel eyes. On her name badge was written
Jenni.

‘Do I call you Jenni or boss?’

‘You’ll be calling me everything under the sun before we part company,’ she laughed. Then, becoming more serious, she added,
‘You’re very lucky you haven’t had to have major surgery, but this is still going to be a long and painful process, TR. Your muscles are going to hurt like hell, your body is going to scream at you to stop and you think you’ll never be okay again. That’s all normal. But if you trust me and work with me, we’ll get there. I can work miracles if really pushed, buddy.’

‘Can you fix heads too? I wish I had my bloody mind back in place.’ For a moment there was a bitter edge to TR’s voice.

Jenni gave him a sympathetic look. ‘Look, TR, my philosophy on life and work is literally, one step at a time. Taking just one step is going to be a major achievement for you, so let’s work on that and see where we end up. And I’ve seen more than my share of miracles happen,’ she declared with genuine optimism and conviction.

‘I don’t want a miracle, I just want to be ordinary again. Is that going to take a miracle?’

‘No, just guts. Now, our first challenge is to sit up. I’m going to support you and when I lift I want you to try to raise yourself up.’

TR looked at her slim figure and small bones. ‘You’re not strong enough to move me or support me.’

‘They all say that. Come on now.’

What had seemed to TR to be a fairly straightforward matter suddenly became a major obstacle. He had no strength to move, none of his muscles wanted to respond, his head started spinning and his eyes wouldn’t focus properly. He was hanging onto Jenni for
dear life. She took a deep breath, counted and as she dragged him upright said, ‘Push up, TR’.

With enormous effort he managed to move as she pulled and he found he was sitting upright in the bed, whereupon everything went black and he fell back against the pillow.

He opened his eyes to find Jenni wiping his face with a damp cloth. ‘What happened?’

‘You passed out for a minute. Ready to try again?’

‘Slave-driver,’ he muttered, but was thinking to himself, ‘Christ, I can’t even sit up.’

Two more tries and he was in a sitting position. Jenni pushed pillows behind him. ‘Good one. Rest a minute and then I’ll explain and show you some of the very gentle, very basic exercises. Some are isometric, others are just tightening and releasing. Simple, but they will hurt because you haven’t been using your muscles, and you were obviously a fit man so you’ll probably notice it more. We’ll start with your good arm. We can also start working on the left side of your body as that is undamaged.’ She then demonstrated a series of finger and hand exercises, gentle head and neck movements and a series of arm exercises; the leg exercises would have to be done with assistance.

TR stared at her. This seemed ludicrous. That looks like pretty juvenile stuff, why don’t we start with the real stuff? I think I’m pretty tough.’ He paused. Why did he think that? Maybe he was a wimp who couldn’t stand pain or the sight of blood.

‘You think you’re tough, huh? Think you’re
just going to get out of bed and trundle down the hall? Okay, buddy, let’s try step two. Ill release this traction harness and lay that leg in plaster on the bed. You see if you can swing your body and good leg over the side of the bed and sit up.’

With his right leg now resting on the bedcover, TR attempted to turn to the left side of the bed and drop his left leg over the edge. The slight movement caused pains to shoot through his body and he felt he was going to faint again. He gasped in alarm and reached out to Jenni as a feeling of panic swept over him.

‘It’s all right, I’ve got you. Lean on me.’

‘No!’ shouted TR in frustration. He could feel his body start to shake and a ghastly feeling of nausea rose in his throat. ‘Put me back. Let me lie down.’

‘Nope, we’re sitting up. One . . . two . . .’ She had him in a firm grip and turned his upper torso towards the left. ‘Get that leg over the bed, TR.’

Supporting him with one hand behind his back, she lifted his good leg under the thigh and TR struggled with a leg that felt like some dead log. But then he was sitting on the edge of the mattress, the leg in plaster stretched along the bed, the other dangling over the side. He gripped the edge of the bed, wishing his other arm wasn’t bandaged across his chest.

‘Don’t let me go, Jenni, I’ll go over.’ He felt he was going to topple forward and fall onto the floor; but worse, he knew he was going to
be sick. He started to retch and Jenni had a bowl and a towel in front of him straightaway. When his chest stopped heaving she wiped his face again and dried it with the towel, putting the bowl on the floor.

‘This is normal too, I suppose,’ managed TR, feeling shaky and woozy again.

‘Yep. Now we have to reverse the whole process and get you back down again.’

It was agonising. When he was finally lying back down again, he took deep exhausted breaths as Jenni rehooked the traction apparatus. ‘I feel like a steamroller has gone over me.’

‘That’s me,’ chuckled Jenni.

‘Heck, I’m sorry for being sick and fainting and all. This is bloody dreadful.’

‘You did fine, TR. Most guys scream and swear and shout they can’t do it, to leave them alone, the first time. And then they throw up and pass out. You were a model of decorum in comparison. You pass with flying colours. Next we’ll have a go at those so-called juvenile exercises.’

‘Not now, not now,’ sighed TR. ‘Let me rest.’

Jenni picked up the towel and bowl. She looked down at TR thinking what a handsome man he was. She knew he’d been a rodeo champion and visualising him on a horse made her think he must have been a real heartthrob on the riding circuit. She gave him a cheerful grin. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow. I know you’ll be looking forward to that! See ya, TR.’

TR gave her a small smile and closed his eyes. Getting up on his feet and taking off was not going to be as easy as he’d thought. He was
overcome by piercing pains that racked his body and slowly he reached for the buzzer to call the nurse and ask for a painkiller. All he wanted to do was sleep and not be aware of his pain.

As he slowly drifted into the drug-induced oblivion, he muttered, ‘Oh God, put me out of my misery. I don’t think I can hack much more of this.’

Chapter Eight

The cars arrived together, gliding into the underground carpark beneath Bali Hai. Tony Cuomo, George Bannerman and his sidekick quickly went to the lifts and pushed the button marked
Penthouse.

The valet let them into the apartment where Dina handed them each a glass of champagne. ’Make yourselves at home on the terrace, Pappa will be with you in a moment.’ She smiled to herself. Cagey old showman that he was, Alfredo liked to make an entrance. Now, where the hell was Colin? Her father would not be pleased at being upstaged by Colin’s late arrival.

As she poured herself another glass of champagne and reached for one of the hors d’oeuvres made by the housekeeper, the doorbell chimed and Colin was ushered in, looking rather flustered. He went to her and kissed her cheek. ‘Sorry I’m late.’ He gave no excuse. ‘Where are the others?’

‘On the patio waiting for Pappa. And just where have you been, Colin?’

Colin took the caviar cracker from her fingers, popped it into his mouth and grinned at her. ‘Miss me then? As a matter of fact, I’ve been busy. So, Dina, what’s this little gathering for? It’s not a party.’ Colin gave her a shrewd look but Dina shrugged.

‘Something to do with horse racing. I’m really not interested. Now that you’re all here, I’ll tell Pappa. I’m going out, but I thought we could go out somewhere nice for dinner later.’

‘Okay.’ Colin picked up his drink and headed for the terrace.

An hour later Alfredo leaned back in his chair, surveying the sunset over the marina. ‘So, we are all clear on how this will work? George, you’re sure the horse is a good one?’

‘Yeah, yeah. No sweat. But we’ve got another horse if this one’s not up to it. I’m pretty sure it is though. Just needs a good trainer to bring it up to full potential. The Hamilton outfit at Guneda is the joint. Nobody will know it’s there or see it and gossip. And they are bloody good trainers.’

‘But I understood TR Hamilton had an accident . . .’ interjected Tony Cuomo.

‘His son Tango is running the place; he’s supposed to be good too,’ said Bannerman.

Colin looked thoughtful and twirled his empty glass. ‘If he’s anything like his old man, he’ll be bloody good.’

‘That’s right. You know TR well I assume, him being married to your sister?’ said Tony Cuomo.

‘We don’t have much contact,’ said Colin curtly. ‘It’s probably best he doesn’t know I’m connected with the horse.’

‘Let’s run through the logistics once more,’ cut in Alfredo smoothly. ‘Tony, you have spoken to the jockey?’

‘Si. He wanted a larger cut but, after a little persuasion, he is now prepared to be more reasonable.’

‘George, the horse is your responsibility. It has to beat the favourite,’ smiled Alfredo. ‘Even though we will be giving it a little help. Tony, the punters are in your charge.’

‘I have connections at courses around the country. Little old ladies with handbags stuffed with cash,’ Tony grinned. ‘I guarantee we’ll take the bookies by surprise. By the way, George, what is our horse called again?’

George rolled his eyes. ‘Bloody hell! Ambrosia, whatever that means. Don’t forget it.’

Tony nodded. ‘Nectar of the gods; how could I forget that.’

Alfredo leaned over and rapped on the sliding glass door which had sealed them off from the prying ears of the valet. ‘More champagne,’ he called through the glass. ‘We still have time up our sleeve. The horse is to be fine-tuned. Colin, you will handle the paperwork. The health farm will provide a useful cover . . . as well as being a legit business venture for our . . . other purposes.’ Alfredo smiled at him. ‘That is, should you take on the job of running the place. I want it to look like an upfront honest investment. What we run through the books in addition is our business.
There will be a lot of cash going through — on paper anyway — because we will be rebuilding the resort from scratch.’ He turned to Tony Cuomo. ‘Profits from this little racing exercise will be channelled into the casino project. After we have all deducted our expenses, of course.’

Alfredo lifted his glass as the valet appeared with a fresh bottle of champagne. ‘Here’s to the sweet taste of success!’

Tango sat in an empty horsebox on a bale of hay and looked around. The smooth wooden walls, the even temperature, the comforting smell of hay and lingering odour of manure were familiar and not unpleasant. Just as tack rooms smelled of lanolin and leather, horseboxes always smelled of hay. And hay to Tango was romantic. He always thought of haystacks and hayrides and pretty girls. Tractor company calendars always had girls in brief shorts and off-the-shoulder blouses posing with a pitchfork by a haystack. He grinned, remembering Queenie’s tart remarks the time she’d spotted one in the office and turfed it out. ‘The girl should be driving the tractor, that’d sell them,’ she’d said.

Tango had lost his virginity in a pile of hay in a horse stall out Dubbo way during an agricultural show with an athletic and experienced girl who was caring for some show-jumpers. Tango grinned again, remembering old Bobby Fenton’s casual remark that he’d better pull the straw out of his hair before he fronted up to the Ladies Auxiliary afternoon-tea tent.

Tango stretched and walked across to the opposite row of occupied horse stalls. He gave the thoroughbreds a pat if they were looking out of the stall, or else he peered in to check on them and greeted each by name.

Mick poked his head round the stable door. ‘I’m walking Player before going out on the track. I’ll see you out there in half an hour or so.’