Heart of the Dreaming (26 page)

TR walked around the horse, running his hands down its legs, lifting its hooves, then feeling the pectoral muscles and the horse's heartbeat. The horse sidestepped away.

‘Easy, Bill,' murmured Bobby. ‘He's going to be a big strong fella.'

‘Bloody great drink of water,' muttered TR looking up at the horse. ‘I agree he's big for his age and since he's still growing, he'll be a monster. Will he be a runner, though?'

‘He's got a big heart, TR. That means he's got stamina. And he's got personality — not pretty, but smart.'

They walked on either side of the horse, heading back to the stables.

‘I don't know, Bobby,' said TR dubiously as
he unlatched the half-door of Bills' box. As he spoke, the horse dropped his head and gave TR a heavy butt in the centre of his back, sending him sprawling into a pile of hay.

The horse whinnied and Bobby burst out laughing. ‘Think you're pretty clever do you?' said TR to the horse, as he dusted the straw from his clothes.

‘He's got spirit hey, TR?' said Bobby as they walked away.

‘Mmm.' TR was deep in thought and Bobby kept silent, rubbing a plug of tobacco in the centre of his palm, a cigarette paper stuck to his bottom lip.

The bidding during the main auction for the good horses kept everyone entertained as prices rose, voices were raised and the crowd gasped and applauded as the auctioneer's gavel banged.

TR recalled some advice Dingo had once given him, and sat to one side with an offhand manner, keeping out of proceedings until what seemed like the last bid, then he came in quietly and confidently. It was a tactic that tended to close out the opposition. His manner didn't invite a bidding challenge and since the horses he wanted weren't major ‘stars' of the day, TR got them for below the price he'd set himself. Bobby waited in the rear of the pavilion, finding it far too nerve-wracking an experience.

Later in the day TR and Bobby watched the yearling sales where offspring of Melbourne Cup winners and other well-known racehorses, fetched high prices.

Bobby snorted under his breath as one nervous young horse was sold for a record price. ‘Just because his sire and dam won a couple of big ones doesn't mean he's ever going to win a race,' he sniffed. ‘They're lookin' at the paperwork not the bloody horse.'

TR smiled at the old man, thinking he was probably right in that case. But as Sweet William was led out he wondered how good Bobby's judgment really was. This horse seemed a bit of a long shot and TR wasn't surprised when the bidding was half-hearted.

To TR's shock, Bobby suddenly jumped up and shouted. ‘Four hundred!'

‘Sit down and keep quiet, Bobby. If we're going to buy him, let me do it.'

‘What do you mean,
if?'

Several people around them grinned at the wild bid from old Bobby. One owner, knowing Bobby's record, leaned forward to whisper in his partner's ear. He raised his hand and the bidding went up again.

TR kept a restraining hand on Bobby's arm as two more entered the bidding and like a ping pong match the auctioneer turned from one to the other as the price went up in hundred dollar lots.

Bobby was squirming and muttering, but TR remained calm and disinterested.

‘Seven hundred …'

‘Going once … Going twice …'

‘Eight hundred.' TR spoke quietly but it stilled the auctioneer's hand.

‘We have new blood, ladies and gentlemen. Do I hear any advance on eight?'

‘Nine,' came from the other side.

‘Nine. Thank you, sir.' The auctioneer raised an eyebrow at TR.

TR nodded. And smiled. Bobby was looking down, twisting his gnarled hands together.

The opposing bidder looked at TR then shook his head. The auctioneer banged his hammer. ‘Sold. At one thousand to Mr Hamilton.'

‘Sweet Mary, Joseph and Jesus! You had me sweating, TR.'

‘I told you not to worry, Bobby. I didn't decide to buy him till the six hundred mark anyway.'

‘Well, you've done it now.'

‘You mean we've done it, Bobby. You still want to go fifty-fifty? Or have I just bought myself a horse?'

‘No flaming fear. Count me in. Sweet William is going to be a winner.'

‘Bobby, let's get this straight — we call him Bill, OK?'

‘Whatever you say, TR. But I'll still think of him as Blinky.'

TR laughed. ‘Let's go get a beer. I'm still not sure if I should be celebrating or having my head read.'

Before leaving Sydney TR was invited to the races with a group of acquaintances and friends who had several horses running. He was anxious to return home, but decided it might be wise to maintain contacts and let them know he was planning to breed and train on a large scale.

It was a wise move. Several owners were interested immediately, asking if they could look over Guneda. Others were prepared to send horses to him for training simply on the basis of his and Bobby's reputation.

Towards the end of the day, TR decided to place a bet, his first for the meeting. He'd been too busy socialising, talking horses and watching them run to think about betting. He strolled over to the crowd around the course bookmakers who shouted from beneath their bright umbrellas; cash bag around their neck, odds chalked on a board beside them.

He stood in line, silently debating his choice, when a slight commotion broke out at the stand next to them. ‘What's up?' TR asked the man beside him.

‘Some bloke arguing about the odds. My bookie mate told me he's lost a packet.'

TR glanced over at the unlucky punter and caught his breath. Warwick was angrily tearing up his betting tickets.

He hesitated. Should he greet him or pretend he hadn't seen him? It was TR's turn to place his bet. By the time he'd done it, Warwick had disappeared in the crowd.

TR returned to the exclusive Members' Stand, ordered a coffee and moved around the club room, his eyes roving for one particular man — Freddie the Fly, famous for knowing all the course gossip. He was like the proverbial fly on the wall — seeing and hearing everything.

Spotting the effusive, balding Freddie, TR drew him aside and, ordering a round of
drinks, listened to Freddie's latest gambling and business conquests before asking idly, ‘You know Warwick Redmond from Tingulla?'

‘Struth, yes. See him out here whenever he's in Sydney. And I ran into him at the Doomben track in Brisbane once.'

‘Bit of a punter is he?'

‘A bit! He'll bet his shirt on two flies walking up the wall.'

‘Iguess he knows what he's doing.'

‘I've seen him shout the bar when he wins. You don't hear about the losses, of course. But I know he bets heavy.'

TR wondered if Queenie knew Warwick was a wild gambler. If he was losing heavily she'd know it — unless he gambled his own money. Nonetheless, TR was troubled for Queenie's sake. He'd seen too many men lose everything they owned at the racetrack.

It had been a bad week for Warwick. The bank's head office in Sydney had not been at all helpful in the matter of extending his loan. A sure thing he'd been tipped at Rosehill had been beaten by a nose and he was running up a staggering account with the illegal SP bookies. Without cash he'd resorted to placing his bets through the off-course bookmakers. And now his problems were fast becoming public.

Although Colin and Dina were still away on their honeymoon, Warwick decided to call Alfredo Camboni to say hello.

‘My dear friend. You must come and eat with us. I insist.'

Between the
veal parmigana
and the
insalata mista,
Warwick had hinted he was having
financial difficulties, that Tingulla was a tremendous drain on cash resources.

Alfredo patted his arm. ‘I have very shrewd business advisors, I'm sure they might be able to offer some assistance. Shall we meet tomorrow, at my office? Say, about eleven? Now …
mangia …
the food, is
magnifico,
no?'

Colin and Dina returned exhausted from their long and expensive honeymoon. They locked themselves in Dina's newly decorated apartment and slept through several days, arising for late afternoon coffee and pastry at the outdoor tables of the Cosmopolitan Café in Double Bay. Here the wealthy European and Jewish community gathered to gossip and examine their latest status symbols — jewellery, cars, clothes, wives, mistresses.

Dina felt at home in this crowd; Colin did not.

‘I thought you adored Europe and all that culture, darrrling,' goaded Dina.

Colin waved away a drift of cigar smoke from the table beside them. ‘I do, but this mob are just rich refugees. It's a club. They don't mix with anybody else.'

‘You're jealous because you're not a member.'

‘Don't want to be. Give me your noisy Italian friends or bushies any day. At least you know where you stand with country people.'

‘I must meet some of these famous “bushies” one day. So, dear husband, what are you going to do to keep me in the manner to which I am accustomed?'

It was a thought that had been troubling Colin. ‘I could always sell one of the flats in my apartment block. But I need some sort of career. Something with a bit of prestige — that's interesting — that makes me money. I don't want to work like a dog on the land, nor do I want to slave away in an office from nine to five.'

‘Dear me. Perhaps you should marry a wealthy, older woman!'

Colin grinned at her. ‘I know how I'd keep her happy, too.'

Dina stood as he slipped several notes into the leather folder on the table to cover their bill.

‘What are you waiting for then?'

Ever accommodating, Dina's father had a suggestion. He arranged for Colin to meet some business friends at the European Mercantile Merchant Bank. Colin, with a degree, good looks, social contacts and solid background — coming from ‘the famous Tingulla estate', as Alfredo Camboni put it — had the necessary qualifications. He was taken on, given a vague title and a substantial salary, and sent out to hunt down potential investors and clients.

It was Sarah who, once again, during their
periodic but lengthy telephone calls, passed on the news to Queenie about the activities of her young brother.

‘I'm pleased to hear he's got a job at last. But banking! What does he know about it?'

‘I think he's like a salesman, Queenie — a front man, drumming up contacts for the real numbers men. He's obviously being quite diligent. He contacted John to ask him about any rich clients who were buying or selling property.'

‘It certainly seems as though he's turned his back on everything Dad built up.' There was a wistful note in Queenie's voice.

‘Frankly, Queenie, I think things have worked out for the best. You never saw eye-to-eye with Colin.'

‘I did try, though, Sarah. I don't know how or where, but somewhere along the line we seemed to fall out.'

‘Put it down to sibling rivalry. He always resented you, Queenie.'

‘And that makes me sad. I never wanted things to be this way.'

‘Give it time. Maybe one day Colin will grow up.'

‘I suppose you're right. When are you coming back home again?'

‘Queenie, this is my home now. Why don't you come down to the city and visit us? Bring Saskia to play with young Tim.'

The two girls began exchanging stories of their children. Queenie had seen Sarah and John's two-year-old, Timothy, only a few times, and she would have enjoyed taking Saskia to visit her godmother Sarah in Sydney.

‘But I just can't get away, Sarah. The station is quite a problem at the moment. We keep hoping for rain and we're stretched to the limit financially. I'm really quite worried about it all.'

Later, Sarah poured John his pre-dinner drink and told him about her conversation with Queenie. ‘I can't imagine that Tingulla would be having financial problems. Sure, they need rain, so does Mum and Dad's place, but that's part of life on the land. You calculate for that.'

‘You think Warwick has gone overboard a bit, do you? I can't see Queenie allowing things to get out of control,' mused John.

‘I just sense Queenie is more worried than she's letting on.'

Warwick yawned as he turned into the stretch of dusty road leading to Tingulla's gates. God, it was dry. The countryside was like a tinderbox — one spark and the lot would burn like fury. For most people on the land the fear of bushfire in dry seasons was a constant worry.

Water was scarce and the dams were low. The sheep he passed had a thick coating of dust on their cream wool so that they matched the dun-coloured earth. They stood in pathetic clusters in whatever spindly shade was available. At least he would be able to tell Queenie they would be all right financially, thanks to Alfredo Camboni. The meeting with his associates had gone well. They wanted to see some details of Tingulla's earning capacity and had
assured him they had investors who would be willing to put up additional funds.

He put off revealing these details to Queenie until he had showered, rested and made love to her. She was distracted and uncommunicative so he took her in his arms. ‘Queenie, love, don't fret about things. I know you've been worried about the money situation. But I've taken care of it. We're going to be fine,' he said soothingly.

‘How's that, Warwick?'

‘I had some business meetings in Sydney and we've found some investors willing to put money into Tingulla to tide us over.'

‘What sort of investors? What did you put up as collateral? People don't give you money without getting something in return.'

‘It's more of a profit sharing arrangement. Besides, I haven't actually done anything about it. It's there if we need it.'

‘There won't be any profits to share at the rate we're going. How did you find these people? Not through Colin, I hope.'

‘Not exactly. Alfredo introduced me to a few people. Wealthy men who have tax problems. They need to shuffle money around, to appear to make a loss. Creative accounting deals.'

Queenie sat upright, swinging her feet over the edge of the bed. ‘Warwick, I can't believe what you're saying. You'd allow cronies of Camboni to put money into Tingulla? They're probably laundering Mafia money!'

Warwick laughed. ‘Don't be melodramatic. Just because they're Italian …'

‘They're Calabrian! And frankly, I've been
nervous of where Cambonis' money comes from. Sarah and John told me he has a very unsavoury reputation.'

‘Rubbish!Look, Queenie, it's just like taking out a loan to see us over the rough patches. But if you feel like that I'll tell Alfredo to forget it.'

They got dressed in angry silence. Warwick watched Queenie furiously pulling the hairbrush through her long hair. He sighed and wrapped an arm about her shoulders. ‘Maybe it will rain and we won't have to worry.' He smiled at her reflection in the cedar-framed mirror.

Queenie stared at him, put down the brush and walked silently from the room.

The days ran together like blue and gold elastic stretched to the point where any minute it must surely snap. But no rain came. Nervous tension simmered behind tense faces, tempers sizzled, arguments flared over small issues, energies were sapped, and the animals began to suffer and die.

As food became scarce with the withering of the bush, creatures from the wild began to move in closer to the homestead, much to Saskia's delight. But this soon changed to something more dramatic. She had been building a doll's house under the cool shade of the water tank by the kitchen. When she returned from lunch she found a large brown snake coiled in her makeshift house.

Her shouts had brought Millie running. ‘It's a brown snake, Millie. That's poisonous.'

‘You bet. Go get your Mummy — I'll stay here and watch it. Remember, never take your eyes off a snake, Sas … they move off real quick, then it's big trouble if you don't know where it's gone.'

Her short little legs churned up the dust as Saskia streaked for the house shouting, ‘Mummy, Mummy, come quick! A big snake!'

Queenie bolted down the stairs heading for the kitchen. ‘Where is it, Sas? It didn't bite you, did it?'

‘No. But it's a big brown one on my dolly's house. Millie is guarding it.' The little girl was breathless but her eyes sparked with excitement.

Queenie grabbed the rifle from the kitchen wall, saying, ‘Maybe the axe would be better.'

Saskia hurried at her heels. ‘Oh no, Mummy, you might break my house.'

They came round the side of the house to find Millie walking backwards, her eyes wide in horror.

‘What's up Millie … where is it?' Queenie strained towards the doll's house.

‘I thought I heard one of the men coming and I turned around to call out and the bugger slipped out … he was so quick.'

‘Saskia, don't move,' commanded Queenie. Millie leaned down and lifted the child into her arms, fearfully searching the ground. ‘I think he went under the house, Queenie.'

‘Damn — we'll never find him.' She crouched and peered into the shadows.

‘I have an idea, Queenie. There's a dead rat in the trap by the pantry. I heard the trap
go off not long ago, so it'd still be pretty fresh. It might lure him out if he's hungry.'

‘Worth a try, Millie.'

Holding the still-warm rat by the tail and at arm's length, Millie placed it in a patch of sun in the dust by the tank stand.

‘Okay, Saskia,' said Queenie, ‘well'll take it in turns to stand rat watch. Be very quiet and still.'

It only took half an hour for the snake to slide out and investigate the motionless rat.

Saskia was sitting patiently on the steps, her chin in her hands resting on her knees. Keeping her eyes on the shining brown snake slowly edging closer to the dead rat, its tongue flicking in and out, Saskia calmly called, ‘He's here …'

Silently Queenie appeared behind her small daughter and fired the rifle. The snake flipped once and lay still.

Millie edged around the door. ‘Sure its dead? They play doggo you know, and just pretend.'

‘No more snake, Millie. Mummy shot him right in the head,' said Saskia proudly.

A car came speeding towards the house with Jim and Warwick in it, looking anxious. ‘We heard a rifle shot … everything okay?' Warwick called, as he jumped out.

Saskia ran to him. ‘We had a big brown snake … right in my doll's house. Mummy shot it.'

Warwick scooped her into his arms. ‘You be careful, possum. Brown snakes are deadly, you know.'

‘I know. But I'm all right. Mummy looked after us.'

Warwick let her slide to the ground, watching Queenie go back into the kitchen to put the rifle away. ‘Yes, we're very lucky to have such a clever Mummy aren't we,' he murmured coldly.

Millie looked over her shoulder in surprise as she hung the snake over the garden fence.

Jim, still limping from his injured leg, leaned on the heavy stick he was carrying. ‘You'd better carry a stout stick wherever you go, Millie. You could find a snake in your washing basket one day.'

‘I can manage all right. You're the one who'd better watch out. You can't do any running with that bad leg.'

‘It's taking it's time to mend, all right. I'm damned sick of hobbling about the place, Millie. I reckon I could get on a horse though, if you gave me a hand.'

‘What for? So you can break the other leg? The doc said to take it easy.'

‘I hate seeing Queenie taking on so much. She seems real worried about the place.'

‘Hadn't you noticed we haven't had a drop of rain in over half a year?'

‘I know that. But there's something else bothering her.'

‘Warwick keeps telling her everything is going to be okay.'

‘All very well to say, Millie. They've put a lot of money into the place and if we don't get rain we'll have a bad season — and I reckon Tingulla could have big troubles.'

Millie hooked a supporting arm around Jim as they turned back to the house, neither saying what they were thinking. Patrick and Rose
had weathered some cruel years with careful management and Jim considered Warwick rash and foolhardy. Millie fretted at the strain showing in the set of Queenie's mouth.

Queenie was having a quick cup of tea in the shade of the verandah, one lanky leg flung over the arm of the squatter's chair, her hat resting on her other knee.

Millie appeared in the doorway. ‘Ernie's at the kitchen door looking for you or Warwick. Trouble with some sheep in the western paddock.'

‘Warwick went to check on all the bores and dams. I'll see what he wants. Thanks for the pick-me-up, Millie.' She handed the empty teacup to Millie and went through to the kitchen, opening the squeaky flyscreen door to where Ernie waited, looking worried. 'What's up with these sheep then, Ernie?'