Heart of the Dreaming (30 page)

‘Can we start now?' asked Queenie, coming out of her reverie.

‘Right, we're ready. Let's push this shoot along today.' The director raised his voice. ‘Okay everyone, stand by.'

Queenie concentrated on what she was instructed to do. Stand here, turn the horse there. Wait for TR to trot towards her. Turn around and wait. It was time-consuming and tedious. Whenever they changed position the camera and lights had to be moved.

‘Hurry up and wait, eh?' muttered TR with his crooked grin. He and Queenie exchanged a look which said, ‘What the heck are they doing? This has got to be a waste of time.'

To pass the time, they chatted quietly about horses, Brahman bulls, and the Quinns' quarter horses. Their conversation was as foreign to the crew as the technical film jargon was to them. But Queenie found she was relaxing and was now less defensive with TR. In this artificial setting, dressed as another woman, she no longer felt threatened by the past.

After several hours, they stopped for morning tea.

Warwick strolled over and shook TR's hand, greeting him before turning to Queenie. ‘I'm going into town, be back tonight. I'm seeing the bank manager and stock and station blokes and will pick up a few more supplies.' He spoke briefly to Roger Ambrose, waved and left.

Queenie and TR did several more dry runs without moving the horses, then were told there would be a take.

Roger Ambrose repeated the details of the action. ‘This one's for real. Your two horses ride off, trotting only, but keep side by side,
neck and neck, or whatever. The third post is your mark where you turn around and break into a slow canter — still staying together. Okay?'

Queenie and TR nodded, grinning at one another. So much fuss and detail over a seemingly inconsequential sequence.

The crew fluttered about them, the camera assistant running a tape measure from the camera to Queenie, while the make-up girl asked TR to lean down so she could pat more powder on his face.

Queenie found the film crew an amusing group with their own jokes and strange sense of humour. And they were fun to be around. They called her Red, and she began to feel like another person. It was all unreal — a game.

With the two horses settled into position, the camera and the director and crew set up behind them, Queenie glanced across at TR. He winked at her.

‘Quiet on the set … Stand by … roll camera … clapper … and …
Action
!'

They set off trotting obediently side by side as instructed and, at the given mark, broke into an easy canter. Queenie glanced down at the nose of TR's stockhorse, stretched forward, glad to be given a run rather than all the stopping and starting of the morning. She nudged Nareedah forward to keep even with TR. TR inched forward a step … Queenie matched him.

The cameraman watched the two horses cover the landscape within the frame of his viewfinder. They were approaching the point where they would stop and swing about.

The two horses cantered forward, seemingly picking up speed. They passed the stopping point and broke into a gallop, a dust cloud kicking up behind them.

‘What the …' the cameraman lifted his head away from the lens and peered around the side of the camera.

‘Cut!' screamed the director. The horses were flat out and disappearing into the distance.

‘What the fuck is going
on
!' shouted the director, turning in exasperation to Roger Ambrose.

Stan was watching on the sidelines, holding a giant teapot. ‘It's a bloody race, that's what it is! Go, Queenie!'

The horses swung past the line of trees as they headed down towards the creek with Nareedah slightly ahead. A cheer went up from the assembled crew and the director kicked at a pile of horse dung with a fancy Texan boot, swearing out loud.

‘Lunch,' bellowed a grinning Stan.

TR and Queenie were in a time warp of their own — a world of swift judgment and pounding hooves, the thrill and exhilaration of two fine horses surging forward.

They thundered down the hill towards the creek and instantly slowed as the horses hit the still muddy ground.

‘Let's call it a draw,' called TR.

‘Okay, I'll let you off this time,' smiled Queenie as they reined in their horses.

TR dismounted and went to her. She flung
both legs over the saddle and holding the bunched skirt in her hands, slid to the ground, supported by TR's strong arms. They walked to the shade of a willow and sat on the ground, leaning against the twisted trunk.

‘So, Red, how's life treating you?'

Queenie touched her hair. ‘I hope this stuff washes out.'

‘Looks nice. But I prefer Queenie to Red Jack. How is this film deal coming along? They look like a bunch of chooks running around with their heads cut off. But I suppose they know what they're doing.'

‘I wonder. I wish we were getting double the money. I had no idea of the inconvenience of it all …'

‘How's Warwick feel about it?'

‘He's loving every minute.'

‘Maybe they'll offer him a job in Hollywood.'

Queenie laughed. ‘Now, that I can't see …'

For a few moments they looked at the tree-lined creek where birds were singing and hunting insects, oblivious to their presence.

‘I've spent a lot of hours down here. Ever since I was little. This was where I came when I was sad or happy. Every inch of Tingulla has a special meaning for me,' said Queenie softly.

A silence fell between them. Queenie closed her eyes as dappled sunlight drifted through the hazy green branches, warming her face.

TR leaned over and, without touching her, brushed her mouth with his lips. She didn't open her eyes but her lips parted slightly as TR slowly and softly kissed her top lip, then
her bottom lip. Light as a butterfly touching her skin, he gently kissed her cheek, her forehead, the tip of her nose, and once again her lips, now lifted in a slight smile.

Queenie hadn't moved, hadn't even opened her eyes.

TR slid his arm behind her and lifted her face to his as he lowered his mouth firmly and possessively to hers. Her arms wound about him as she fervently kissed him back, lost in some dream, some memory of being in her rightful place, protected from reality as if by an invisible membrane.

A shrill whistle and shout pierced the shell around them. ‘Coo … eee! Hey — you two! The director wants you back. He's furious.'

Queenie pulled away, shaking her head as though dazed. TR looked around to see one of the young men who operated as a gofer sitting on an old motorbike at the top of the hill and shouting to them.

TR lifted his arm in acknowledgement. He and Queenie stared at one another for a moment then silently rose to their feet. He helped her back into the saddle and they rode back towards the homestead without speaking.

Sundays were scheduled as rest days, but there was little to entertain the crew. They slept, drank and cajoled the stockmen into teaching them to ride. They'd learned that driving all the way into Longreach was a pointless exercise as the town was deserted and dry.

‘Can't we even get a goddamn drink in the pub?' asked one of the young fellows.

‘Not on a Sunday, mate. Town's as dry as a dead dingo's donger. This is Queensland,' explained one of the station hands.

‘It
is
the twentieth century though, isn't it?' muttered the young man, wandering away.

To give the crew a boost, the production manager and Stan planned an evening barbecue. Stan slaughtered a lamb, the lawns at Tingulla were lit by kerosene flame torches and a band made up of crew and station hands provided some rough and ready, but loud and cheerful music.

For the first time, the stars joined the festivities rather than eating as usual in Tingulla's formal dining room.

Queenie said she'd be down later, and ate her meal in the kitchen with Millie and Saskia. She read Saskia a story and tucked her into bed, then reluctantly joined the rowdy party in the garden. She didn't feel like being bright, or smiling at endless stories about a show business world which she neither knew about nor cared for. She sighed. The men were well away, a knot gathered round the beer keg, shouting with laughter.

Warwick was deep in conversation with Roger Ambrose, who saw Queenie and waved her over.

‘G'day darlin'. Roger is telling me we're going to have some more visitors. That'll make your night, won't it?' laughed Warwick, putting an arm around Queenie and slopping his schooner of beer.

‘What do you mean?' Queenie didn't look pleased and turned to Roger.

‘Some of the investors want to come up and have a bit of a look at the glamorous and exciting world of movie making,' grinned Roger. ‘I hope that's all right with you. I've assured Warwick it will only be an overnight visit.'

‘These investors want to see where their money is going — and you're not worried? I would think it'd be better to show them something on a screen.'

‘Hell, no. Never let investors see rushes, they don't understand disconnected, unedited grabs of film. Puts them off immediately. They like to see all the paraphernalia of lights, camera, action. Eat with the stars — that kind of thing. Believe me, I've been down this road before.'

Queenie shrugged. ‘It's your film.'

‘Anyway, Queenie luv, we know some of them. These are not the tycoons from America, these are Australian investors. Alfredo and a few friends,' said Warwick.

Queenie was annoyed but could say little in front of Roger Ambrose. She excused herself and went over to the young women who looked after continuity, hair and make-up. They were amusing and effervescent company and soon had Queenie laughing at their flow of outrageous anecdotes. For a while she envied these girls their adventures, their freedom, their lack of responsibility. But soon enough they were lamenting about how hard it was to find a decent man.

‘The guys around here are terrific.
Real
men.'

‘Shy, though … till you give them a bit of encouragement' laughed one of the girls.

‘Too bad they don't like the city.'

Queenie smiled at them. ‘Maybe you should look for a job in the country. It's a lovely and very special life.' Feeling content she excused herself, bidding the girls good night.

TR wasn't at the barbecue. He had returned to Guneda to check on Bobby, the horses, and Mum Ryan who was anxious for news of what the movie stars were really like. TR didn't tell her the truth. He was due back on the set in a week and if it hadn't been for the presence of Queenie he'd have told them to shove it. Movie making was for the birds. There were too many egos hanging out, too much artificiality, too much panic and hassle over small things, too much chaos. Too many people.

‘The suits have arrived,' muttered the focus puller to the cameraman.

‘Look busy and say nothing,' sighed the old hand peering back down the lens.

The investors in
Red Jack
did look intensely out of place. Bundled into a chartered jet in Sydney, they were suddenly poured out onto red dirt in the middle of an outback station. The suit jacket slung over the shoulder and loosened tie really wasn't quite casual enough. Singlets, shorts, grubby moleskins and jeans were the uniform of the day — even for the girls. None of the city men wore hats, and their polished shoes were soon coated in a film of orange dust.

However, they looked happy to be there. Queenie came forward to greet Alfredo, relieved to see there were only four visitors. Her smile tightened when Warwick told her,
‘The others went straight to the house to wash and have a drink.'

‘Warwick, there are a couple of ewes in labour and having a hard time of it. I came across them in the dam paddock and I think we might have to help.'

‘Queenie, I can't play midwife at the moment. Can you manage?'

‘Of course.' She nodded to the men and strode away.

When she returned several hours later she was physically exhausted and spattered with blood, dirt and dung. Without thinking, she stepped out of the truck and hurried up the front steps wiping her hand across her forehead, smearing dirt on her face.

A tinkling laugh pulled her up and she turned to see the group gathered on one side of the verandah enjoying sunset cocktails as if they were in Double Bay.

Colin was stretched out in a squatter's chair; Dina, crisply elegant in white linen, sat in a cane chair holding a tall glass filled with ice cubes. Camboni, now dressed in casual white slacks and open-necked shirt revealing a gold medallion on a chain around his neck, rose to greet her. Warwick, too, was freshly washed and had changed into sports clothes.

Dina lifted her glass. ‘
Saluté,
Queenie. You look like you need a drink. At the very least.' She smiled. ‘I had no idea this place was so civilised. It's utterly charming.'

‘You never believe a word I tell you,' complained Colin.

‘We have had a most fascinating afternoon.
Won't you join us for a drink? Your maid makes an excellent gin and tonic,' said Alfredo with a gracious smile.

‘Millie is not exactly a maid …' began Queenie.

Warwick stepped forward taking her arm. ‘Queenie, darling, why don't you go and freshen up and join us? The others will be along shortly.'

‘Yes, I have had rather a difficult day.' She smiled sweetly at Dina in her white dress. ‘Pulling a stillborn lamb from a distressed ewe is always so wearing, don't you agree?' She turned on her heel and stomped indoors.

Warwick laughed lightly. ‘Even with fifty thousand sheep she takes one bad birth to heart.'

‘That's Queenie, all right,' remarked Colin without smiling.

‘Ah, here come Roger and the others,' said Warwick with relief.

Queenie found the evening meal excruciating. Millie had outdone herself with a beautiful spread. The silver glinted in the candlelight, Warwick poured fine wine into crystal glasses and a faint breeze blew the scent of night flowers into the gracious rooms. The guests were thoroughly enjoying themselves and Queenie couldn't wait to leave.