Heart of the Dreaming (24 page)

‘You go. I couldn't face it. I'm going to laze by the pool with a book. Or maybe go shopping.'

‘Don't be a spoilsport. Come on, Queenie, this is one of the big social events of the year. It'll be fun. Just for the first couple of races. Maybe I'll win a packet and you can go blow the lot in town in the shops. Dress up and
show those gaudy women what class is all about.'

‘Warwick, I'm not even a starter in the fashion parade stakes,' laughed Queenie.

‘Why not? I thought you'd give anything a go. You'd walk off with the best-dressed prize, y'know.'

Many heads did indeed turn to admire the slim, strikingly beautiful young woman in the tailored suit and hat with a sweeping brim which offered the merest glimpse of high cheekbones and luminous green eyes.

Queenie slipped away from the noisy drinkers in the Camboni's box and stood by the saddling enclosure, enjoying the sight of the thoroughbred horses.

Warwick stopped by and squeezed her arm. ‘I'm not having much luck with Camboni's tips I'm afraid. But I'll come good, don't worry.'

‘Warwick, if I were you, I'd put some money on number eleven over there.'

‘Why, did someone give you a tip on it?'

‘Warwick, for goodness sake, just look at the animal — unless he's carrying a ton of lead, he's twice the strength of the other horses in this race.'

Knowing her knowledge and judgment of horses, Warwick didn't argue. He hurried towards the bookmakers, deciding to place a large bet to make up for his losses.

Out of interest Queenie stood by the winner's circle and watched the race, won, as she predicted, by number eleven. She grinned to herself. It certainly was a beautiful horse, prancing in to have the winner's sash draped
around its neck as the owners and trainers clustered around for a photo.

Suddenly Queenie froze and gripped the white painted railing. Standing in the group smiling his lopsided grin, was TR.

At the same instant TR glanced at Queenie and their eyes met. He walked straight towards her, ignoring the pleas from the group and the photographer.

She stood immobile as he came towards her, their eyes never leaving each other's face. Electricity crackled between them, drawing them together.

He reached her, staring into her eyes. No movement crossed her features until he rested his hands on hers.

‘Queenie …' his voice was low.

She didn't trust herself to speak. They stood staring at each other, the years gone, the force of their attraction as powerful as a physical blow.

TR was conscious of people staring at them. He ducked beneath the railing, took her elbow and led her away from the crowd by the winner's ring. ‘We have to talk.'

She still hadn't spoken. Her high heels stumbled slightly and he steadied her as she put up her other hand to hold her hat in place.

He smiled at her. ‘I like your hat.'

Queenie suddenly halted and shook her arm free. ‘TR … please …'

Before she could continue, her name was called and Warwick hurried towards them, a broad grin on his face. ‘Hey, you're a real whizz, girl. Number eleven romped home!' He brandished a pile of banknotes.

‘You backed my horse?' TR raised a quizzical eyebrow.

Queenie's voice was low. ‘I didn't know. Warwick, this is TR Hamilton. My husband, Warwick Redmond.'

The two men shook hands. ‘Of course, TR Hamilton. You used to work at Tingulla, it's a wonder we haven't met before. The men often mention your name. So now you own racehorses. You have done well.'

‘I don't own them, just help them to win.'

‘This calls for a drink. Come on Queenie, let's go back up to the box.'

Queenie shook her head, avoiding looking at TR. ‘I'd rather not, Warwick. I have a headache, I want to go back to the hotel.'

‘Are you all right? What's wrong?' asked Warwick solicitously.

‘Nothing. I'm fine. Really. You stay. Give me the key and I'll see you back at the hotel.'

‘Well, if you're absolutely sure you'll be all right.' Warwick handed her the key with Chevron Hotel emblazoned on its plastic tag. ‘The car is waiting over there. Come on, we'll walk you over.'

‘Nice to see you again, TR.' She held out her hand which he grasped tightly until she pulled away.

TR stood back and observed Warwick — handsome, dressed in a fashionable suit Colin had persuaded him to have made — as he helped Queenie into the back of the expensive car while the chauffeur held the door open. Queenie had married well.

As the luxury car pulled out into the traffic
on Anzac Parade the handsome young driver eyed Queenie in the rear view mirror. ‘Where a you wanta go, Signora?'

‘The Chevron Hotel please.' Queenie slid her dark glasses on and turned away, staring blindly at her reflection in the tinted glass — a beautiful sorrowful face with trembling lips.

She gripped her handbag with icy fingers, trying to stem the flood of feelings swirling inside her.

In the solitude of her suite Queenie ripped off her jacket, throwing her hat on the bed and pulling the pins from her hair so it fell about her shoulders. She felt as if she had been violated. The protective wall she had built around her heart over years had been penetrated in an instant.

She stripped and stepped into the shower. Damn TR for causing her such pain, such sadness, such longing. The hot water soothed her. She let the pinpricks of water tingle over her skin.

Stepping out of the shower, she wrapped her wet body in a thick white towelling bathrobe and coiled her hair in a white towel turban. Feeling better she lifted the phone and ordered a salad and a pot of tea from room service.

She began pacing about the large sitting room with its floor-to-ceiling windows looking out over Sydney's glorious harbour. Across the bright blue water the ‘old coathanger' spanned the city's north and south sides, while yachts and ferries floated past the soaring white shells of the new Opera House. She
pushed the TV on and off, flipped through a magazine and tossed it aside, then stood and gazed at the activity on the harbour.

The door buzzer made her start, and tightening the belt of her robe, she went and opened the door.

TR stood there holding a tray and smiling hesitantly.

Queenie was frozen in shock.

TR moved past her into the room placing the tray on the table. ‘I met the waiter at the door, so I tipped him and sent him on his way.'

‘What are you doing here?'

‘Queenie, we have to talk. Can I sit down?'

‘Where's Warwick?'

‘He's still at the track. Don't worry, he doesn't know I'm here.' TR rose to his feet again and moved to face Queenie. ‘I haven't been able to forget you, Queenie. Not for one moment …'

‘Stop it, TR! There's no point.' Queenie turned away, her voice harsh and hurt.

‘No point! Goddamn it, Queenie. You owe me this, at least!' TR's voice was raised and equally angry.

‘I owe
you!
That's a laugh.' She longed to scream at him — why hadn't he written? She wanted to kick him, beat her fists against his chest.

They stared at each other, churning emotions flickering between them.

‘Why didn't you wait for me, Queenie?'

‘How long was I supposed to wait, TR?'

‘You could have given me a chance …'

‘I gave you a chance … it's too late now.'

So many misunderstandings, the lost opportunities, the truth neither knew about the other. Once again, they were at cross purposes.

‘This whole situation is too painful for me, TR. It's over.'

But her face belied her words. TR reached out and took her in his arms and lowered his lips to hers. For an instant their passion was rekindled, as fierce and strong as the first moment they'd touched.

Queenie wrenched herself out of his arms with a forceful push, knowing if she lingered for a second and kissed him, there would be no turning back. ‘TR … I've made a new life. I'm married.'

‘So, unmarry. I'm not letting you out of my life again.'

She sat down sadly on the edge of the sofa. ‘It's not that easy. I have a child. A little girl. I couldn't bear to hurt her. I am quite happy.'

TR knelt beside her looking earnestly into her face. ‘Quite happy. Is that what you want from life? I can make you deliriously, ecstatically, wonderfully, gloriously happy. Queenie, don't do this, don't throw this chance away. It will be difficult, but it will be worth it. We
must
be together.'

A slight smile softened Queenie's sad face at his impassioned plea. ‘I can't do that to Warwick and Saskia. And I can't leave Tingulla. No, TR, we've lost our chance — for whatever reasons. I'd like us to be friends, but for the moment it's too upsetting seeing you.'

TR jumped to his feet, hurt and angry.
‘Friends! Upsetting! God, Queenie, I'm dying inside.'

Queenie was fighting back the tears. ‘Just go, TR … please … just leave me alone.'

TR strode towards the door. ‘I'm going. But I'm not giving you up, Queenie. I know you love me. I'll wait.' He closed the door behind him.

Queenie sank into the sofa, her shoulders shaking as sobs tore from her heart. Eventually she was able to draw a shaky breath and, lifting the phone, she dialled Ansett Airlines.

She needed to go home to the tranquillity of Tingulla. To try to forget.

The stockhorse cantered easily to the crest of the hill overlooking the boundary paddock at Cricklewood. Queenie reined in the horse and pointed at a herd of cattle.

‘Look at them, Sassy … down there by the dam,' she said to her daughter who was perched on the saddle in front of her.

‘They're big. The bulls won't chase us, will they?'

‘No, the Brahmans are pretty placid beasts. They've certainly gained a lot of weight. They'll soon be ready to breed with some Herefords and hopefully we'll have lots of good new calves.'

‘Like Bessie?'

‘Not quite. Bessie is a dairy calf. When she gets a bit bigger you can learn to milk her and Millie can make lovely cakes with real cream. Well, let's get back to the homestead and pack up. Time to go back home to Tingulla
and tell Daddy how well the Brahmans have done.'

Queenie had brought Saskia over to Cricklewood for several days to check on the stock, and Saskia had loved sharing the days in the saddle and evenings by the log fire alone with her mother, ‘playing house' and riding over the property.

Warwick swung Saskia high in the air. ‘I've missed my little girl … how was your trip to Cricklewood?'

‘Good fun. And Mummy says the new bulls can start making babies soon.'

‘That's good news.' Warwick kissed Queenie. ‘I've also arranged to send a few thousand merino wethers into the woolcutters' sales next week. Prices are high at the moment.'

‘Be good to have some money coming in, instead of going out.'

‘Queenie, you're becoming conservative. That new bulldozer has meant we can clear and fence more paddocks. We're now producing a lot more stock feed which we can store in case we get a bad season or two. Or we can sell it. And our wool quality has improved since we introduced the finer fibre rams. There's a big demand for our nineteen micron fibre.'

‘I know, I know. I just feel we're pushing ahead too fast. All this expansion. Why must Tingulla be the bunny and rush in first and set the trend?'

‘Because, we put our money where our mouth is — experiment and develop.
And
reap the profits, my love.'

‘There are a lot of cautious graziers waiting to see if we fall on our faces first, though; before they dash in and copy our methods.'

‘That's their loss.' Warwick turned away. ‘Let me worry about the accounts and paperwork. You keep your pretty eyes on the animals and the land.'

Queenie was tired. It had been several months since she had sat down with Warwick and gone over the accounts. She had a nagging worry he had stretched their resources too far. While he was away at the sales next week she'd go through the books.

She and Warwick had different methods of operating. Queenie was prepared to experiment and be adventurous, but not at the cost of putting themselves in financial jeopardy. Warwick was flamboyant and liked the world to know what they were doing. Tingulla had been written up in the magazines and metropolitan newspapers as well as the agricultural press. He claimed publicity increased the value of their stock at auctions.

Queenie tended to follow the tight-lipped tradition of men on the land who kept their business to themselves, and revealed no more than was absolutely necessary to remain civil and friendly. She had heard farmers and cattlemen who had suffered heavy losses during a drought remark laconically, ‘Been a bit bloody dry lately'. Others who had made huge profits in a good season would stand a round of drinks in the pub, casually remarking they'd ‘done orright'.

Tingulla was certainly a star on the map
of large, prosperous properties. There was a contingent of permanent workers about the place, they'd doubled the number of sheep shorn over the last four years and more land was being developed with the establishment of bores and dams.

Over at the smaller property, Cricklewood, there was a full-time manager, stockmen and a jackaroo now that it was running cattle. The Brahmans, with their solid bodies, doleful eyes and rolls of meaty flesh had adapted well and, when eventually put over the local Hereford stock, they hoped for a heavy, sturdier crossbred beast.

Nevertheless, Queenie was quietly worried.

Queenie and Saskia waved farewell to Warwick as he drove down the sweeping drive, heading for the stock auction at Roma. He also planned to spend a few days in Brisbane socialising with some of the agents and buyers and ‘picking up a few things'.

‘You should have gone with him, Queenie. You haven't had a break since Colin's wedding,' said Millie quietly behind her.

Queenie started, and turned around to see Millie moving the pots of geraniums around the verandah, wondering at her uncanny ability to voice her thoughts. But she didn't want to admit that she felt vaguely abandoned.

‘Heavens no, Millie. I find all that mateship stuff tiresome. They sit in the pub and drink and spin outlandish stories. The sales are exciting, but it's all over in a few minutes.'

‘What's happening in Brisbane?'

‘I'm not sure. But Warwick has his reasons for making the trip. Perhaps he needs a bit of a break too.'

Millie didn't answer and lifted Saskia out of her miniature wicker chair. ‘Come on, Sassy. Time for your bath.' She carried the girl away.

Queenie leaned against the verandah post, staring wistfully at the dissipating cloud of dust from Warwick's car.

Within forty-eight hours Queenie desperately wished that she had gone with Warwick. Problem after problem descended on her shoulders.

The first, and most worrying, was Jim, whose leg was badly crushed when the tractor he was driving overturned down by the creek where part of the bank had given way. He'd jumped clear but his leg had been pinned beneath the wreckage. He was lucky he hadn't been killed.

Ernie had galloped to the house calling for Millie, ‘Jim hurt, Millie. Come quick!'

Millie had screamed for Queenie as she began running from the house.

Queenie grabbed the first-aid kit and they both scrambled into the Land Rover as Ernie clambered into the back. Queenie drove recklessly and the car bounced across the open land. Millie's face was grey and she wrung her hands, muttering in a near-forgotten dialect as Queenie tried to assure her he'd be all right.

Jim's leg had multiple fractures and he was in great pain. Queenie and Ernie hitched a wire
from the winch on the four-wheel drive around a tree and onto the capsized tractor. Millie watched anxiously as Queenie prepared to move the vehicle up the slope.

Ernie hovered by the tractor ready to drag Jim free. ‘Could be dicey for the Rover … if the wire breaks, you gonna go like a bullet. Big trouble is the ground no good. Bloody rabbits dug it all away underneath.'

‘We'll have to take our chances, Ernie. Just watch yourself in case the tractor rolls.'

The engine began screaming and straining in protest as Queenie let out the clutch, pushing down on the accelerator to inch the vehicle forward. The wire rope squeaked as it tightened and for a moment the Land Rover skidded backwards. But Queenie jammed her foot hard on the accelerator and the wire began to bite into the bark of the tree, taking the strain. A tremor went through the tractor and Ernie grasped Jim under the shoulders, resting a foot hard against the restraining metal.

Ernie gave a shout as he saw the tractor move, wobble and with a thud, right itself. He dragged Jim away as Millie rushed forward.

Jim was unconscious but breathing steadily. Queenie gave him a pain-killing injection then drove to the homestead to radio for the Flying Doctor. Fortunately Kevin Hooper was only one and half hours away. When he landed the Cessna on Tingulla's airstrip Jim was lying in the back of the Land Rover with Millie squatting beside him, holding his hand.

Queenie helped Kevin lift Jim onto the stretcher and into the specially modified plane.
‘Millie, go with him. We'll manage here. I'll send in anything you need.'

Millie ran to the house and returned in minutes with a string bag of clothes. She gave Queenie a quick hug and climbed into the plane.

‘He'll be right as rain, before you know it,' said Queenie. ‘Don't worry about anything. You look after Jim.' She looked into the plane at the groggy patient. ‘Take it easy, old mate. You'll be right.'

The plane took off and Queenie drove back to the creek with one of the men to help Ernie get the tractor back up to its shed.

That night Millie rang her from Longreach hospital. Jim was resting as best he could with a leg and hip in plaster.

‘Stay with him as long as you need to, Millie. Ruthie can take over here.'

‘How is she?'

‘Fine, I guess. I haven't seen her yet. Why do you ask, Millie?'

Queenie wondered at the strained tone in Millie's voice.

‘She's bin having boyfriend problems.'

‘Oh no, that's all I need. Well, she can't go mooning off over some lad. I need her to help in the house and look after Sas.'

‘I didn't want to bother you with it. I hoped she would sort it all out.'

‘Sort what out? Millie, tell me what's been going on.'

Queenie listened with her head in her hands as Millie told her that Ruthie was being courted by two young fellows. One, an
itinerant half-caste stockman, the other, a full-blood warrior from Ruthie's traditional tribal home who had been seen staying at the blacks' camp which had established itself in the no-man's land between Tingulla and the township.

‘Ruthie may be a full blood, but she's a mission girl, Queenie. She don't know anything about what to do. Them boys are filling her head with such nonsense. And one don't know about the other,' finished Millie.

‘Right. I'll soon fix all that. Thanks for letting me know, Millie. Keep me posted on Jim. Cheers.'

Queenie hung up the phone. She'd better get Ruthie's love life straightened out. It had all the ingredients of a major conflict. The blacks had an incredibly complex social system, and relationships had strict rules. Anyone who broke tribal law was in for big trouble.

Nervously Ruthie sat in the kitchen twisting a corkscrew curl of her thick dark hair against her cheek. She hung her head, mumbling, and avoiding eye contact with Queenie.

‘Now, Ruthie. Look at me. Which of these two boys do you like?'

‘Both good fellas.'

‘I'm sure they are. But you can't have two boyfriends. How serious is this? I mean, do you want to marry one of them? Have they asked you to marry them?'

Ruthie shook her head from side to side. ‘They just want me go down the back with them.'

‘Sleep with them, you mean?'

Ruthie's frightened face stared at Queenie. ‘I know it's wrong. I ain't done nothin'. The nuns teach me. I'm a good girl.'

‘I know you are, Ruthie. I think it best if you tell both of them you can't see them any more. And they are not to come onto Tingulla land. Okay?'

Queenie rose, patting a miserable Ruthie on the shoulder. ‘I know it's hard, Ruthie, but it's for the best. You'll soon find a nice man you'll like much better.'

The following night Queenie was awakened by dogs barking and raised voices at the rear of the kitchen. Pulling on her cotton robe Queenie grabbed the torch from beside her bed and hurried downstairs.

Ernie, who had graduated from rouseabout to stockman, was hammering on the door to Ruthie's small room by the laundry.

‘What in heaven's name is going on, Ernie? Don't tell me you're one of Ruthie's boyfriends too!'

‘No, no, Queenie. Them two fellas bin fightin' over Ruthie. Georgie got drunk and went and punched up Freddy at the camp and Freddy say he gonna spear ‘im good.'

‘Where is this Georgie fellow now?'

‘He run away but I hear he coming to hide at Tingulla, so I tell Ruthie.'

‘Thank you, Ernie. You go back to your quarters. I'll take Ruthie inside.'

Ruthie spent the rest of the night huddled on the couch in Millie's workroom.

In the morning Queenie visited all the men
on the property, telling them firmly that no strangers were to be sheltered at Tingulla — white, black or brindie.

She thought about putting in a call to Sergeant Harris but decided against it. In the sober light of day, she hoped Georgie, the half-caste stockman — now hungover — and Freddy the visiting Aborigine, would both have realised that courting Ruthie was inviting trouble.

There hadn't been serious trouble among the Aborigines in the district for years and Queenie hoped that was the end of it. Ruthie went meekly about her chores and Queenie settled down to going through the pile of account books.

That wasn't the end of it.

The following evening Queenie pushed the accounts to one side, feeling troubled and confused. She went upstairs to her room, searching in her bathroom for a headache tablet. She took the pill and glass of water onto the upper verandah off the bedroom and stood in the night air. The moon looked watery and faint, and the wind made the trees rustle and whisper. She was glad she wasn't out there, the night didn't feel friendly. She shut the French doors and returned to the cosy, softly lit bedroom.