Heart of the Dreaming (27 page)

‘They're dead. It's dingoes. Killed real bad.'

‘How many?'

‘Six. The little ones too.'

‘Bloody hell!' Queenie pulled her hat on her head, and headed to where Nareedah stood in the shade of the stables. ‘Get Snowy to come with us.'

The slaughtered ewes and their young were easy to find: above them circled the crows, their black bodies gleaming against the blue sky, their harsh and mournful cries echoing across the cloudless horizon.

Flies buzzed over the carcasses as Snowy looked closely at the ground around them. ‘Dingo all right. One big fella. See, he go for the kidneys, them juicy bits.'

‘Bastard! If they want a feed, then why not take a whole sheep? This senseless killing of so many is bloody maddening.' Queenie was angry. The loss of expensive stock was one thing, and knowing the poor animals had tried to protect their young and probably all died a gruesome and painful death didn't help.

Now there was an efficient killer on her land that would strike again and again. She didn't like the idea of the wild dogs coming in so close. The house pets, the chooks, the ducks … with a shudder she recalled how a dingo had attacked a baby sleeping in its pram or so the story went.

‘We'll have to hunt it. There's probably a pack of them around the place, but the one that is coming in to kill … I want its scalp.'

Snowy was studying the tracks in the dust. Ernie looked thoughtful. ‘Jim told me he used to be a dogger in his early days. He got paid a bounty for wild dog scalps.'

‘Hard to know where their lair might be. I reckon he's coming in from miles. He run through the night,' said Snowy.

‘I'll talk to Jim.' Queenie turned her horse around and cantered away.

‘No good, eh, Snowy?' remarked Ernie.

‘No, mate. Dingo is a smart fella. Run quick, kill and run away. We have to set him a trap.'

The next day Jim concocted a foul-smelling brew in an old kerosene tin.

‘Excuse my language, Jim, but that smells like shit,' remarked Queenie, wrinkling her nose.

‘No, piss,' grinned Jim. ‘Got sheep's urine in it. Among other things.'

Queenie gazed at the reddish goo swilling in the tin. ‘Well, I hope the hell it works. Are you sure you don't want me to come with you?'

‘I'll be right. Snowy and me'll take the four-wheel drive in close and I'll set me trap using this. We'll build a bit of a hide and sit it out for a few nights. If the bastard is around, he'll come in sniffing round, then one of us will shoot him.'

‘I don't want any strychnine baits left about in case the dogs pick them up.'

‘Don't worry, Queenie, this stuff hasn't failed me yet.'

Queenie refilled Warwick's coffee cup after dinner, two nights later. ‘I wonder how Snowy and Jim are doing with their trap out there.'

‘Hope they get the bastard. Once they get a taste for easy kills, a couple of dingoes can do a hell of a lot of damage.'

‘We can't afford too many losses, either.'

Warwick sipped his coffee. ‘Alfredo Camboni contacted me a few days ago. Said he had an interesting proposal for us.'

‘Warwick! I thought we'd decided we didn't want them investing in Tingulla.'

‘This is something entirely different. A way Tingulla could make some money for a couple of months. He has some Americans coming out on a project and Tingulla would be perfect for them.'

‘For what? Are we going into the bed and breakfast business?'

‘No, Queenie — they're interested in using the property as a movie location.'

‘A
what
?'

Warwick shrugged. ‘I told him I'd discuss it with you. They're making a film set in the outback and need a glamorous homestead, horses, horsemen, and a base location for accommodation and stuff. They'd pay a hefty whack for our setup each week.'

‘You've got to be joking, Warwick! And what are we supposed to do? Go and live in a tent in the scrub and leave them and the stock to it?'

‘No. They'd pay us — a large location fee each week and money to any men we could spare. They need horse wranglers, stunt riders and people to help with the logistics of filming and getting around, stuff like that — people we could help them contact. And I figured we could accommodate them in the shearers' quarters and hire Stan to feed them all. They'd pay bloody well for that.'

‘You've thought it all out, then, have you?'

Warwick shifted uncomfortably at the icy tone in Queenie's voice. ‘Of course not. They were just a few ideas that came immediately to mind. Queenie, this is a big American movie outfit. We're talking several thousand dollars a week.'

Queenie pushed back her chair. ‘If they're prepared to pay that sort of money it must mean they cause a lot of trouble and expect a lot.'

‘Sounds like money for jam to me, just the same,' retorted Warwick to Queenie's retreating back.

The next day Queenie rode Nareedah across
the patchy brown paddocks where tree branches sagged in the heat, their leaves already shrivelled and curled. The stockpile of feed for the sheep was diminishing rapidly and soon they would have to start buying it in. The drought had sent stock feed prices soaring. Their cash flow was almost non-existent, and this would have to be added to their already huge debt.

Maybe the money from the movie people would be useful. The thought of a stack of tourists, actors, city trendies and film phonies clambering over the place made her shudder. But then it would probably only be for a few weeks, and the money would certainly pay for the feed.

She cautiously raised the matter with Warwick. ‘I'm certainly not agreeing to this mad idea, but just suppose we did say yes. I was thinking if they do pay well, it would cover the cost of feed for a couple of months.'

‘For sure it would. Queenie, I'll look into it in more detail and find out exactly what's involved. It was just an idea. Camboni said they had some advance man out here scouting around for possible locations.'

The chartered Cessna trundled along the dirt strip at Tingulla raising an orange dust cloud. Warwick fanned the choking dust from his face with his hat and watched the pilot, dressed in blue shorts and casual shirt, unlatch the door and help the expensive-looking American businessman from the aircraft, taking out his smart luggage as Warwick stepped forward.

Warwick had spoken to Alfredo Camboni who had put him in touch with Roger Ambrose, the location manager for Mountain Pictures of Sunset Boulevard, Los Angeles. It had seemed logical to invite Mr Ambrose to visit Tingulla to see the homestead and surrounding countryside for himself.

The film executive was in his thirties, his hair cropped unfashionably short, very tanned, and dressed casually in cotton pants, a light golfing-style T-shirt and canvas loafers on his feet.

The three men climbed into the Land Rover and headed to the house. As they approached the imposing double-storey homestead Ambrose caught his breath. ‘My God! It's beautiful! It's like a mansion in the South. Only more … relaxed, I guess. It suits the setting. Very impressive. I had no idea …'

Warwick smiled and looked again at the gracious facade that welcomed visitors to Tingulla. Drought or not, Millie still managed to recycle water onto the flowers and the brolga fountain splashed and sparkled in the sunlight. It was a magnificent home. No wonder Queenie was devoted to it.

‘Built by my wife's great-grandfather. It's part of the country's history.'

‘It certainly is lovely. It would be wonderful to share this with people around the world by putting it in our film. You could never build a set to create this sort of magic,' enthused Roger.

Warwick turned to Roger Ambrose. ‘I should alert you to the fact that my wife isn't
overly enthused about this idea. She's out with the horses right now, but we can drive over later on and I'll introduce you. I'm sure once you explain what it entails …'

‘That's what I'm here for,' smiled the American smoothly. ‘I'm certainly looking forward to seeing over the house.'

Millie served cool drinks, tea and sandwiches on the verandah, and afterwards the interested pilot tagged along as Warwick showed the American over the interior of the homestead.

Roger Ambrose had a soft accent and a gentle manner, and exuded enthusiasm without gushing. ‘The rooms are spacious with so much natural light. Perfect for shooting interior scenes. What's the noise level like outside? Obviously there's no traffic. Many planes go over?'

‘Not unless you ask for them or someone is lost,' said the pilot.

‘Perfect, perfect.'

‘Birds make a bit of a racket.'

‘Indigenous sound effects. We can live with that. It's all looking very good, Warwick. I'd like to meet your wife and see if I can convince her to allow us to shoot here. From what I saw from the plane as we flew in, the surrounding area looks like it will fit the bill as well.'

They drove the pilot back to his plane and watched him take off. ‘I'll take you for a tour around the property and outer paddocks. And you can meet Queenie at the same time.'

Roger Ambrose made notes as they spent the next two hours driving about the property.

‘It's not looking its best because of the drought. Hasn't been this dry for years.'

‘These red and orange earth tones are wonderful. If we wanted lush green we'd film in Ireland. How many sheep did you say you had?'

‘We run fifty thousand on two hundred thousand acres. We have a smaller property a couple of hundred miles to the northeast called Cricklewood which we're still developing. Queenie is experimenting with breeding up a new strain of cattle over there.'

‘Man, you're talking Texas figures! You don't have oil on this place by any chance?'

‘Who knows? No one's ever bothered to look.'

Roger Ambrose shook his head. ‘This country is amazing. Most Americans have no idea what's out here. We think it's all kangaroos and natives and pioneer towns. I was knocked out by Sydney, and now to see a place like this out here in, what did the pilot call it … “never-never land”. Unbelievable.'

The afternoon was closing in, the sun sinking behind the blue hills. Warwick turned the Land Rover towards the stockyard where Queenie was working.

The big bay mare had proved an obstinate animal. Ernie grinned as he watched Queenie walk the horse about the ring talking to it softly but firmly. The horse tossed its head and its haunches quivered, disliking the light saddle buckled to its back.

Warwick switched the engine off and the two men sat quietly watching Queenie. ‘Who's the black man?' whispered Roger.

‘Ernie — one of our senior stockmen. Good man, does some droving too.'

‘Why doesn't he break the horses?'

‘You'll see.'

Queenie decided it was time to attack once again. She brought the horse to a stop, turned its head and had a foot in the stirrup, swinging lightly into the saddle before the bay realised what was happening.

The horse began bucking and propping, and although her hat was flung from her head, Queenie stayed firmly in place, managing to look in command, gracefully flowing with the violent movements of the bay mare. Within a few minutes the horse resigned itself and began walking, then — guided by Queenie — started trotting.

‘See how she's giving the horse commands with the reins. Watch how she turns its head, but she's incredibly gentle with its mouth. When Queenie breaks a horse it stays a good horse. A badly broken horse stays bad,' commented Warwick.

Queenie slid from the horse, unbuckled the saddle and handed it to Ernie. She fished in the pocket of her shirt for a couple of sugar cubes which she gave to the horse. Then, without warning, she grasped the horse's mane and swung herself onto its bare back. ‘Open the gate, Ernie. I want her to get used to the feel of someone on her, not just a saddle.'

He lifted the looped wire over the post and pushed the gate open. Holding the reins lightly, Queenie pressed her leg against the horse's flank and moved it through the gate.

She rode bareback easily, taking the horse into a slow canter, her gold-brown hair dancing around her head as it caught the last of the light.

The two men stepped from the car and walked over to Ernie. Roger Ambrose strained his eyes for a better look at Queenie. She had a superb figure and sat a horse better than any man he'd ever seen, but he wondered what she looked like close up.

Feeling pleased with herself, Queenie turned the bay back to the yard where it trotted obediently to the railing. She slid to the ground, looped the reins over the post and turned to face them.

Ambrose had seen some beautiful women in his time, but Queenie took his breath away. Her soft hair fell about her shoulders framing her heart-shaped face and vivid emerald green eyes fringed with thick dark lashes, her high cheekbones and glowing skin. Her wide, sensuous mouth was grinning with delight.

‘This is my wife, Queenie. This is Roger Ambrose,'

‘Hello. Welcome to Tingulla.'

‘My pleasure to be here. You're quite a horsewoman. And very beautiful. You should be in the movies!'

Queenie laughed. ‘Now, you're not going to win me over with flattery. But thank you, anyway.'

She spoke briefly to Ernie before turning back to the men. ‘Shall we head back to the house? So tell me, Mr Ambrose, what do you think of my Tingulla?'

‘Call me Roger. I'm completely knocked out by it — by everything.' He gazed at Queenie, including her in his comment.

‘I'm pleased to hear it. But the best is yet to come. You haven't tried Millie's cooking yet.'

The food was delicious, but Roger Ambrose scarcely noticed. He wasn't listening to Warwick's talk, either. He was watching Queenie.

The stunning girl in the paddocks had bloomed into an alluring and sophisticated woman in the candlelight.