Heart of the Dreaming (25 page)

Queenie wished Warwick was back. She needed to talk to him. The books weren't adding up correctly. They balanced, but there had to be something Warwick had overlooked. They couldn't be so deeply in debt to the bank.
She didn't even know where to contact Warwick. When she'd phoned his hotel they told her he had checked out. Maybe he was coming home early. Queenie pulled down the bedspread and shook her pillow. She certainly hoped so. She tiptoed in to check on the sleeping Saskia and wished she could sleep as peacefully.

While Queenie tossed and turned in her troubled sleep, a dream-like figure moved silently, stealthily, through the shadows and pale moonlight of the landscape.

It was the figure of an unearthly man. His skin was thick with grey clay paste, white and red ochre markings were painted in ceremonial patterns on his body. His face was obscured by a mask; and leaves and feathers formed a tall headdress and a brief covering around his genitals. His feet were shod with thick pads of soft grasses which left no mark as he ran swiftly and lightly, his spear balanced in his swinging arm.

Georgie rolled in his blanket by the embers of his campfire. He was well hidden in a small gully close to the eastern boundary of Tingulla. His few possessions were tied together ready to hit the road at dawn, seeking a stockman's job. He had contemplated sneaking close to the homestead in the hopes of finding Ruthie, but decided it was too risky. In any case, there were plenty of other girls about who would be only too happy to share his blanket.

His horse was hobbled nearby but it pricked
its ears and gently swished its tail as Georgie slept.

There was no sound, but Georgie opened his eyes and went cold with fear, his hair rising in prickles on his head. The ghostly figure stood above him with spear raised. Before Georgie could move or utter a sound, the spear flashed down, piercing his thigh.

He screamed in fear and pain, and his horse, now let loose, took fright and galloped into the night.

The figure withdrew the spear, turned and melted into the trees.

The next afternoon Snowy appeared at the kitchen door asking for Queenie. ‘Some boys found a stray horse down the eastern fence. Me and Ernie back-tracked ‘im and found that fella Georgie. He bin speared, cut up pretty bad.'

‘My God … I suppose it was the other man — Freddy. I was afraid something like this might happen.'

Snowy was shaking his head, his eyes wide and fearful. ‘Not Freddy. Well, not exactly. He speared by kadaicha man. Now all the black fellas working here want to go away from Tingulla.'

Queenie was about to make a quick retort, but bit back the sarcastic comment. That was all she needed now — a walkout by the Aboriginal stockmen.

The mysterious kadaicha, or payback man, meted out justice as violently as deemed necessary. No one ever knew who was the unidentifiable member of the tribe who became the kadaicha man to revenge a wrongdoing.
Many believed the kadaicha man was a spirit called back to human form to carry out these deeds.

‘Has someone called the Flying Doctor?'

‘He no want white medicine. He get fixed up with Aboriginal medicine.'

‘And then will he go away? Far away from Tingulla, Ruthie and Freddy?'

Snowy nodded. ‘Yeah. He look for work some other place. He sorry he punched up Freddy. Now he mad at Ruthie.'

‘Well, you tell one of the boys to get the message to this Georgie that Ruthie isn't having anything to do with Freddy either. The matter is finished. Okay, Snowy? Tell the men they have no need to fear staying here.'

Queenie went in search of Ruthie to tell her what had happened and found her at the clothesline unpegging the washing.

She knew all about it. Ernie was squatting by the large wicker washing basket repeating the story in graphic detail. A wide-eyed Saskia sat nearby pretending to play with the clothes pegs, but following the story as best she could with a frown of concentration.

Ernie rose to his feet and grinned as Queenie approached. ‘Ruthie's famous. The kadaicha man came after her boyfriend!'

‘He's not my boyfriend.'

‘Ruthie isn't having anything to do with Freddy or Georgie or anyone else for the moment. She has plenty to do while Millie is away looking after Jim. Isn't that right, Ruthie?'

Ruthie dumped the last of the sheets on top of the washing basket, nodding her head in firm
agreement. ‘That's right. I got to work hard. No time for boys,' she answered emphatically.

Queenie turned away and headed back to the house so Ruthie wouldn't see the smile twitching up the corners of her mouth.

Ruthie pushed the mountain of washing down into the basket and grasped the handles.

Ernie sprang forward. ‘Here. I'll carry that, Ruthie.' She was about to answer she carried that and more every washday, but seeing Ernie's eager face, she smiled shyly at him. ‘Thanks, Ern.'

Warwick drove up to the front entrance and slapping his hat on his leg to shake off the dust, he flung it on the hat stand in the vestibule. It was two days since the spearing drama, and things had settled down.

‘Queenie … where are you, my love? I'm home.'

He gave her an affectionate bear hug as Saskia clung to his leg, squeezing it tightly. ‘So how have things been while I've been away? Nice and quiet?'

Queenie stood back and, folding her arms, spoke calmly. ‘Jim had an accident and Millie is looking after him in hospital. We had a falling-out between two suitors of Ruthie's which was settled with a spear and the kadaicha man, half a dozen sheep have died with ticks and, according to your accounting, we are over our heads in debt — and you checked out of your hotel and disappeared off the face of the earth. What in heaven's name is going on, Warwick?'

Saskia perched at the desk before the bulky two-way radio unit, talking animatedly into the microphone. ‘… And my horse is called Admiral and I ride him every day, and we have a cow called Bessie and lots of chickens. Oh, and sheep.'

She finished, but Queenie, who was sitting next to her gently prompted, ‘Say “Over” and flip the switch'.

The teacher's voice crackled back from the fabric-covered loudspeaker of the old wireless. ‘Thank you, Saskia, for telling us about your pets. That was Saskia Redmond of Tingulla. Now we're going to hear from Jason Browne at Barcoola.'

The School of the Air session finished and Queenie and Saskia walked hand in hand to the verandah for morning tea.

‘I have to do a drawing for school, Mummy. I think I'll draw Bessie.'

‘You can do that this afternoon. I think Tom, the mailman, might be round tomorrow and we can send it on to your teacher right away.'

‘I like school, Mummy.'

‘I'm glad, Saskia. But when you are older you'll have to go away to school. To boarding school.'

Saskia's lip trembled and tears sprang to her eyes. ‘I don't want to go away.'

Queenie reached out and scooped her into her lap and hugged her. ‘Oh, Sas … it won't be for a couple more years. When you're a big girl. So don't worry about it. By that time I bet you'll really want to go and have fun with all the other girls.'

Saskia was now crying steadily into Queenie's chest but managed a firm but muffled response. ‘I don't want to go away from Tingulla …'

Queenie rocked her, wishing she hadn't mentioned it so early. She wasn't looking forward to that day either. ‘Tell you what, possum. Dry your eyes … I'll make you a promise.' Gently she wiped Saskia's wet cheeks as the child stared hopefully at her mother. ‘When you're ready for big school, if you still don't want to go away, Daddy and I will get you a governess, a special teacher, to come and live here at Tingulla and teach you. How does that sound?'

‘Good.' The little girl slipped down from Queenie's lap, her problem solved. ‘I'm going to get Bessie so I can draw her.'

Queenie gazed through the window at the bleached, yellowing ground as Saskia scampered off. Six months with no rain. Feed was getting scarce. She and Warwick would have
to help the men start hacking off branches of the mulga trees for the sheep to eat. She hoped it wouldn't get to the point of having to buy in feed. Warwick had explained away their huge debt at the bank as the cost of their expansion and ‘investment' plans, which he confidently promised would more than be recovered at the end of the next shearing season.

Queenie had remained unconvinced. She was a risk-taker, but not a gambler. Patrick had cautioned her on getting into anything ‘over her head'. Queenie well knew the vagaries of the outback climate and this drought had struck at the worst possible time for them.

She got to her feet and went towards the stables, kicking at the dust, leaving a trail of small ochre clouds at her heels. But they would weather it. They'd lose some sheep but it would take more than a drought and one bad season to knock Tingulla over.

She sighed as she saddled Nareedah. There always seemed to be a crisis lately. Perhaps Colin was the smart one, after all, swanning around Europe on his honeymoon without a care. It struck her again — she and Warwick had never taken their honeymoon trip abroad. Well, one day, when the finances were healthy again. Tingulla had to come first.

TR decided to concentrate his energies on setting up the horse stud at Guneda. He hired a team of workers who began repairing and painting the miles of fencing over the property. Some of the old sheds were torn down and plans for elaborate stables and training
facilities were drawn up. It was by no means as fabulously over-the-top as the stud at Bon Vite in Kentucky, but TR combined the best of the new with the best of the old.

Some of the new buildings looked like colonial slab wood huts, with wooden shingle roofs; whilst others were built of slices of bush rock so they blended in harmoniously with the landscape. They were insulated and lined so they would be cool in summer and warm in winter, the interiors freshly whitewashed. The floors were concrete and each horse box was comfortable and well ventilated. The stablehands had a modern bunkhouse and a special room near the horses in case any needed to be closely monitored during the night.

A two-mile racetrack was carved out of the bush for training, and TR surprised the old hands by digging a special dam with a pontoon. As part of their fitness programme, the thoroughbreds would take their exercise in the dam, swimming up and down while the trainer walked around the pontoon holding the lead rope.

The old homestead was renovated and TR had plans to eventually add a wing of guest rooms for buyers and breeders. That would come later. First he had to buy his horses.

He had hired two young stablehands — a couple of hopeful bush jockeys who had grown too big to race, but still wanted to ride. They would exercise and care for the horses. He also hired two Aboriginal horsemen to help with the horse-breaking. He wished he could find a couple like Millie and Jim to manage
and run the house and oversee the property, but settled instead for Mum Ryan, a capable, nononsense widow who had raised ten children and buried two husbands. There wasn't much Mum hadn't seen in her days as a ‘bushwife'. From giving birth at home alone, to bushfires, and snakes in the bed. Mum cooked, washed, cleaned, and bossed everyone about.

That left one more man TR wanted to find — Bobby Fenton, the legendary strapper who had cared for some of Australia's greatest racehorses back in the 1930s. Now in his sixties, Bobby had retired quietly and dropped out of the racing world. TR remembered his father telling him about Bobby. How he had special ways with horses, that he was considered a bit unorthodox, especially with his feeding methods, but the horses he cared for were strong, with enormous stamina and heart.

After a lot of letters and phone calls TR found him living in a Brisbane suburb with his daughter. TR wrote to him, phoned him and finally visited him, to persuade him to come and work at Guneda.

TR and Bobby sat on the lattice-trimmed verandah of the old Queenslander house, built on stilts to catch the afternoon breeze. TR outlined his offer. Old Bobby scratched his head. ‘I dunno. I'm a bit old for that sort of caper now. Though I do miss having horses around.'

‘What do you do with yourself, Bobby?'

‘Aw, do a bit of gardening. Go to the pub occasionally. Do the crossword in the paper,' and with a grin added, ‘and follow the nags a bit. Have the odd bet.'

‘I reckon you could be really valuable to me and teach me a lot, Bobby. Be a shame to take all your knowledge with you.'

‘Yeah, I got a few secrets,' grinned the wiry old strapper. ‘So, your old man used to ride, and you're setting up as a trainer. Where'd you get the money?'

TR laughed. ‘It's all above board, Bobby. I'm working for a rich American horse breeder who wants an investment out here. I'm in it because I love good horses and I want to make a quid or two.'

‘Fair enough. You seem an honest sort of a bloke. I'll think about it.'

‘Come out and look around before you decide, Bobby.'

A few weeks later Bobby turned up at Guneda unannounced. He stowed his ‘port' packed with his special possessions under his bed — ‘for the moment' — and never left.

He and Mum Ryan quickly engaged in open but friendly warfare, each constantly contradicting the other. ‘Keeps you on your toes, stops the brain being addled if you stir her up a bit,' Bobby confided to TR.

Mum referred to Bobby as ‘that silly old fool with his whacko ideas' but always managed to drop the tenderest bit of steak on Bobby's plate or the last of the treacle pudding would turn up for his morning smoko. TR relaxed when he realised the two were actually developing a firm friendship through their cracks and digs at each other.

One morning TR strolled into the stables
telling Bobby, ‘Righto, get yourself ready. Tomorrow we're leaving for the thoroughbred sales. Time we started getting some up-market bloodstock for the place.'

The yearling sales, held in Sydney, were becoming a bit of a social event.

A special pavilion was set aside near Randwick Racecourse with padded seats placed around the centre ring where the expensive animals were paraded. Prospective buyers could study the horses beforehand in their stalls, reading their pedigree posted on the box door or in the sale catalogue. If requested, a trainer, owner or stablehand, might take the horse out and walk it about for closer inspection.

Gossip and rumours flew about the stable area, passed on from the boy who swept out the stalls, to the head of an owners' syndicate … stories that a certain horse was going to fetch a fortune … that the progeny of a famous sire was really up the creek.

Fashionably dressed women went to be seen at the sales, fanning themselves with their catalogues in the steamy heat. Lavish luncheons were held in private tents around the grounds. The social column writers and sports page journalists ensured everyone and everything of consequence or interest got reported.

Bobby was in his element. He found some old mates, some still working, others retired like himself, who enjoyed the exhilaration of the auction and couldn't keep away. Bobby knew breeders and owners, their successes
and failures, and could recite the genealogy of most horses. His advice was invaluable and TR listened to and noted his comments.

His tweed cap pushed back on his head, cigarette stuck to his lip, hands clasped behind his back, Bobby strolled up and down the horse stalls, looking and listening. TR scribbled in the small notebook he kept in his checked shirt pocket, and estimated his limit on each of the four horses he planned to buy. He and Bobby had mutually agreed they would all be solid investments. Fit, fine-looking horses with good pedigrees. Nothing flashy, not big 'stars', but all with the potential to produce possible winners.

Late in the afternoon the day before the major auction took place, when the bars were crowded with the hybrid collection of racing and breeding identities, Bobby tugged at TR's arm. ‘Let's go get a meat pie.'

They left the noisy bar and went to one of the small stands outside selling meat pies, sausage rolls, salad rolls, sweet buns, tea and fruit juices. Carefully lifting the pastry lid on his pie, Bobby squirted in a liberal dash of tomato sauce and headed for a bench in the open air. TR sat beside him, biting into a flaky sausage roll.

‘I spotted another one I think you should look at, TR.'

‘I can't afford another horse, Bobby. Clayton has set me certain limits. Unless you think we should get this one instead of one of the others?'

Bobby shook his head, wiping the red smear of sauce from around his mouth with the back
of his hand. ‘Nope. I reckon you should buy this one for yourself. To race.'

‘Come off it, Bobby. I can't afford to get into the racing game. We're here to buy horses for stud purposes. With someone else's money.'

‘He's only a young fella. Going up in the yearling sales after the big auction starts. You'd get him for a thousand dollars. I know a bit about his background.'

‘Sounds like a bit of an expensive gamble to me.'

‘Horses are always a gamble, TR. But some of them have something about them. Strike me, I'd be prepared to sink my savings into this bloke and go you halves!'

‘You'd be willing to risk the lot on this unknown, untried colt?'

Bobby screwed up the paper bag which had held his pie, and grinned at TR. ‘Hell, I've taken a punt before today and lost. Won some, too. Keeps life interesting.'

‘You'd better show me this wonder horse.'

Bobby led the young stallion from its box, nodding to the boy lounging on a chair reading a magazine. ‘Just going to walk him out to the water troughs and back. Ginger.'

The boy shrugged. ‘Sure, Bobby, go ahead.' ‘Knew his Dad,' commented Bobby as he patted the horse. ‘Come on, Blinky Bill.' ‘God almighty! What sort of a name is that for a horse?'

‘Didn't you ever read
The Adventures of Blinky Bill
when you were a kid … wonderful book. Blinky was a very wise bloke.'

‘He was a fat little koala who got into trouble a lot.'

‘You're right. Well, this fella's grandfather always ran in blinkers. Went bonkers if he didn't. Was called Sir William of Orange or some such rubbish but was always known as Blinky. This is his grandson, Sweet William. I'll tell you his lineage later … take a good look at him.'

Bobby walked the horse around in a circle in the sun-drenched paddock by the stalls, watching his legs and feet.

TR sighed. ‘Struth, he's not an attractive horse, Bobby. In fact, he's quite ugly with those long spindly legs. And his head's too big. How old is he?'

‘Ah, he's still growing into his feet, aren't you Bill?' The young horse stretched forward and sniffed Bobby's hand curled in his pocket.