Heart of the Dreaming (43 page)

‘That sounds like a lovely idea.'

Once Saskia had been waved off on Saturday morning, the house seemed very quiet, so Queenie threw some clothes in a small bag, told Millie she was taking off for the weekend, backed the Range Rover out of the drive and was soon travelling along Parramatta Road on her way to the Blue Mountains.

She left the old town of Penrith, crossed the Nepean River and began the steep climb up the escarpment. Queenie's heart lifted at the sight of miles of empty rugged bushland.
Sheer jagged cliffs with smooth orange and cream sandstone faces stood across valleys which dipped and dived, then soared steeply in impenetrable dark green waves forming the Great Dividing Range.

After driving through a string of small towns in the mountains, Queenie stopped in Katoomba — once a fashionable and popular holiday resort, now just a stopover point for travellers. Queenie wandered down the main street with its slightly rundown, old-fashioned shops with striped awnings over the footpath. She continued past the once grand cinema, and turned into the only cheerful spot, the Paragon Cafe. The smell of homemade chocolates, pastries and rich coffee was appetising. She ordered Earl Grey tea and scones and chatted to the dignified elderly woman who had owned the Paragon for over thirty years.

‘Times have changed in the mountains. It used to be the favourite place for honeymooners and holiday makers. Most of the old guesthouses are a bit rundown, not too many visitors come up here now. Though a lot of people are moving here to live. I sense our time might be coming again.'

The woman suggested Queenie stay out of town in a small boarding house, the Echoes.

Finishing her tea, Queenie set out to explore the small town, its antique shops and tea-rooms, finding it all charming, if rather economically depressed. By late afternoon she had put on her riding boots, thrown a sweater over her shoulders and set off on a bush walk.
Within a mile she came across a small farm where a wooden sign advertised,
Horses for Hire.
She decided to explore further on horseback.

The poor old mare she rode was tired, but pricked her ears and stepped out under Queenie's gentle hand, seemingly glad to be away from the confines of the farm. They meandered through thickly timbered bush, where ferns and lush damp growth obscured the sunlight, and the earth smelt rich and dank. A rivulet trickled through the shadows on its way to join a larger flow of water tumbling into huge falls several miles further along. The horse drank the icy water and then splashed through it and on up the bank on the other side.

They reached open ground some time later and followed the path along the edge of a ravine. The track detoured round a grove of tall pine trees and Queenie's horse plodded slowly. She didn't mind the slow pace. It was peaceful, with only the call of the bellbirds and the noisy darting of scarlet and blue rosella parrots, to interrupt the silence.

A broken wooden sign with peeling white paint lying on the ground caught her eye.
Hotel
was all it said. Queenie stopped and dismounted. An overgrown track led into the grove of pines.

It was only one hundred yards through the pines when she came across two stone posts and rusty grand gates hanging crookedly at the end of a driveway. She looped the reins over the gate and walked up the driveway, past the old fountain and overgrown gardens,
and caught her breath as she saw for the first time … the hotel.

It looked like it had fallen off a Bavarian mountain — a pastiche of a romantic, fantasy castle, its turrets, balconies and domed roofs faded and peeling.

The building was immense, perched on the edge of the cliff facing the breadth of the valley. All the rooms looked across to the Kurrajong Mountains — sandstone cliffs capped by dense bush. Once-formal gardens ran in tiers on either side of the building.

Queenie spent an hour wandering about entranced, attempting to peer through dusty windows and stained glass doors. It was impossible to tell how many rooms and chimneys there were, but it had all been built on a grand and lavish scale.

A growing feeling of excitement crept over her as she stood on the deserted terrace. Then she swivelled on her heel and marched purposefully back down the drive, mounted the browsing horse and kicked her into a reluctant trot back to the farm.

The next day Queenie visited a local real estate agent who scratched his head and confessed he didn't know a thing about the old hotel. ‘Been closed up for years. Used to be a real posh place in the twenties, from pictures I've seen. Then it got a bit seedy … was the place blokes brought their girlfriends for a dirty weekend. Then it finally folded. No, I don't know who owns it. It's not listed for sale, that I can tell you! No one in their right mind would buy it. Motels get all the trade now.'

Queenie returned to the Paragon for a coffee and unearthed some more local knowledge. The hotel had been built by a British shipping magnate just before the First World War, and she was told that there was a lot of information about it in the local historical society.

In the small museum Queenie found a helpful old man who agreed to do a little detective work for her. ‘I want to find out who owns it and if they'll sell it.'

‘My goodness, whatever for?'

‘It's a hotel, isn't it?'

The old man simply shook his head and took Queenie's phone number in Sydney.

John and Sarah were aghast when she told them her plan.

‘A hotel in the mountains? Nobody goes there.'

‘They will when I open the Kurrajong.'

‘How much work is there to do? It may be beyond restoring.'

‘I have the keys and I'm taking a builder up to check it out on Wednesday. I'd like you both to come.'

John muttered all the way to the mountains, listing the negative aspects and the craziness of the whole idea.

Until he saw it. Then he, too, fell under the spell of the building and its setting.

‘It's like a dream,' breathed Sarah. ‘A fairy-tale place.'

‘But it certainly needs work,' said John.

‘Do you still think I'm crazy?'

‘Yes!' They both laughed.

In the cold, rational light of the next day, Queenie explained to John that her plan to restore the old hotel was based on more than a romantic whim. There was a huge swing towards interest in nostalgia and ‘the good old days'. Life styles were changing, the affluent middle class and young couples were looking for weekend pastures. There was a creeping awareness of environmental and conservation movements and with the peaceful and beautiful Blue Mountains only one and a half hours from Sydney, it's time for resuscitation was near.

The negotiations went smoothly. A tired old man, the last of the family who originally built the hotel, was only too happy to have this white elephant off his hands. He readily agreed to Queenie's absurdly low offer.

Triumphantly she told Millie and Saskia. ‘We're in the hotel business. I've called it the Kurrajong and it's going to put the Blue Mountains back on the map as a tourist resort. You wait and see.'

Saskia hugged her mother in delight, thinking it a great adventure. Millie raised a sceptical eyebrow. ‘Is it going to make money?'

‘That's the idea, Millie. I'm moving closer to my dream — I know it.'

Later, Queenie sat in John's office with the final papers and picked up the pen. John stilled her hand with his. ‘Are you absolutely sure you want to sink all your savings into this crazy venture?'

‘Yes, I am. Would you?'

‘I'm not sure. I bought that waterfront place
so thankfully I'm not forced to decide. It's a big gamble … but if you pull it off …'

Queenie patted his hand and signed the documents. ‘There, it's done now, for better or worse.'

Queenie spent the next few weeks travelling to and from the mountains, drawing up plans, seeking advice and quotations, and getting a pile of paperwork from the council. It was while waiting for some documents to be certified at the council that she idly mentioned to the fellow behind the counter that she had decided on renovating a hotel rather than a whole street of houses in Randwick.

‘What street in Randwick?' asked the councillor with sudden interest.

‘George Street, beautiful oldhomes that …'

‘Lady, were you ever smart.'

‘What do you mean?'

‘They're putting a freeway through there, the whole lot are coming down. I gather the guy that bought it lost a packet. Someone pulled a bit of a swifty on him.'

‘Who was it, do you know?'

‘Yeah, some Italian millionaire — or now ex millionaire — Camboni. That was the name. Apparently he paid way over the odds in the first place.'

‘Too bad,' said Queenie, picking up her papers, and smiling, left the council chambers.

The months sped by at Guneda with the routine broken by the sudden arrival of Clayton Hindmarsh. The American was astounded and pleased at what TR had achieved. After inspecting every horse, building and paddock, TR introduced him to his and Bobby's personal investment — Sweet William.

The horse and its trainer intrigued Clayton. He spent a lot of time watching Bobby put Bill through his paces, and over dinner one night said to TR, ‘That's a damned fast horse, TR, with a goodly string of wins on the city circuit. You should enter him in your Melbourne Cup.'

‘Bobby beat you to it, Clayton. It's been his dream for two years now. The race is only a couple of weeks away and he has Bill on this amazing training programme. That horse has a heart and stamina you wouldn't believe.'

The next morning they joined Tango at the
little racetrack and watched Mick take Bill for his early morning sprint.

‘I'd sure like to be there when he crosses the finish line,' sighed Tango. ‘I think Bill stands a good chance.'

TR slapped the boy on the back. ‘You'll be there. You have to help Bobby, me and Bill get to Melbourne. It's a long drive and there'll be a lot of stopovers. We'll need an extra hand to keep an eye on Bill round the clock.'

Tango grinned at TR, his eyes shining. ‘Wow, thanks, TR. I never thought I'd be helping get a horse in the Cup.'

‘Heck, I'm gonna stay for the Cup, too,' declared Clayton. ‘I'll be there with bells on, and the celebration after Bill wins is on me! Say, who you gonna get to ride him?'

Tango stared in amazement at Clayton. ‘Why, Mick's our jockey.'

Clayton turned to TR. ‘He's just a hick jockey, TR. Sure, this black kid can ride okay … but in the Melbourne Cup?'

‘This isn't like in the South, Clayton. That Mick is an Aborigine doesn't come into it. And some of our bush jockeys are pretty damned smart riders. It's the relationship between horse and rider that counts.'

Clayton smiled. ‘I consider I'm put in my place, TR. You're right, it'll be an advantage for you. Some jockeys have never ridden their mount before the race. Good luck to y'all.'

They allowed themselves at least two weeks for the trip, making it a bit of a holiday, and taking the drive at a leisurely pace. They often
camped at a local showground or racecourse, keeping up Bill's training sessions on whatever track they could find.

Country newspapers soon picked up their story. It made good copy — the bushies with their well-known horse rambling through the countryside in an almost absurd approach to the biggest horse race in Australia. People came to watch Bill run at their local track and he left behind a trail of fans who all promised to ‘put a bob or two on him in the Cup'.

At Wagga Wagga Bill ran a sluggish time and Bobby checked him with a worried frown. ‘He's off his feed a bit. I reckon we should rest up a day or two.'

They rented a box at stables near the racetrack and Bobby concocted medicine for Bill, who looked lethargic but was still happy to play and go for walks with his mate, Bobby.

Bobby slept on a shelf in the box, a sleeping bag thrown on the hay, to be on hand in case Bill developed any complications. However, Bill soon returned to strength and seemed as robust as ever — but Bobby looked grey and haggard.

‘Taken a lot out of him,' muttered TR. ‘He frets over that horse worse than any mother with a sick baby.'

‘Just like you do over Bobby,' said Tango who was very aware of the bond between TR and the old man.

When Bobby decided Bill was fit again, they set off, Tango and TR sharing the driving while Bobby kept an anxious eye on the float carrying Bill, towed behind their Holden station wagon.

‘There's the New South Wales-Victoria border. Not far now, Bobby,' said TR buoyantly. The old man didn't reply.

‘Just as well, we're cutting it a bit fine for time,' said Tango, filling the vacuum in the conversation.

TR glanced at Bobby, ‘I think we'll stop at the next town and check into a pub for the night. Get a decent night's sleep.'

They checked in to the Commercial Hotel but Bobby excused himself halfway through dinner. ‘I feel a bit crook. Tired as hell. I'm going upstairs to bed.'

‘I'll sleep with Bill, don't worry about him, Bobby,' said Tango.

TR headed into the bar for a nightcap. The man beside him gave him a nod. ‘Just got in?'

‘Yeah, on the way to Melbourne.'

‘For the Cup?'

‘Yeah, bringing my horse down, slow and easy. Taking a couple of weeks to do it.'

‘Cripes. Are you walking him like Zulu?' laughed the man.

At TR's blank expression the old man explained. ‘Zulu. Won the Cup in 1868. They reckon he walked down from Sydney and went on to win. Hey, what's your horse called, I'd better put some money on him.'

Later TR walked down the hall to the shared bathroom and hesitated outside Bobby's door. He tapped quietly and pushed the door open. Bobby was asleep, his bedside light still burning. TR tiptoed over to the bed to turn it off.

One look at Bobby's ashen face and
laboured breathing had him running down to the manager's office. ‘My mate's ill. Get an ambulance. Fast.'

Queenie planned to have the gala opening of the Kurrajong Hotel in the New Year. She was now spending several days a week in the hotel supervising the details of decoration and finish. The other days she was in Sydney haunting the antique shops and auction rooms for furniture, fittings, and accessories.

She was thrilled at how the forlorn old building had blossomed. Local craftsmen had been recruited for most of the internal renovations and they took pride and pleasure in bringing ‘the old lady' — as the hotel was fondly known — back to life.

The carved woodwork gleamed under new French polish, the stained lead-light windows had been replaced and repaired where necessary, the fireplaces were opened up and chimneys cleaned, walls marble-washed in soft pastels, the bedrooms wallpapered in Victorian flower patterns. Old-fashioned washstands topped with hand-painted Victorian tiles stood in each bedroom with fine china jug and washbowl sets filled with flowers from the garden. Big beds, some cedar four-posters, others brass with ceramic inlays, were covered in quilted feather eiderdowns.

Despite the period appearance of the furnishings, ultra modern conveniences like concealed heating and air conditioning, added to the comfort. Drawing and sitting rooms, sun
rooms, and reading rooms with big log fires made the Kurrajong seem like a stately home.

Queenie fitted out a billiards and games room and installed a library. On the western side she added a conservatory. Its partially glassed roof and walls were screened with plants to filter the sun. Exotic tropical plants flourished and flowered in pretty hand-painted ceramics and old Chinese pots. The white cane furniture was upholstered in pastel pink and green chintz and, from the gardenlike protected indoor environment, guests could watch the activity on the miniature lake, or the gentle swaying of the big old trees.

Members of the local horticultural society had offered their help on a voluntary basis to restore the gardens. They researched the original design and replanted and pruned, bringing the rose arbour and banks of pink and mauve hydrangeas back to life. They trimmed the old magnolia trees and gardenia bushes and planted beds with English flowers which did well in the mountains. Victorian era garden-edges of lacy ironwork were found in an old shed and painted and put back in place around the formal garden.

What had first appeared to be an overgrown swamp turned out to be a miniature lake. It was drained and cleaned and planted with water lilies and irises. A photo from the historical society showed a small gazebo in the lake's centre, so Queenie had a new one built and had Saskia's friend, the boat builder from Balmain, build punts for the guests to paddle on this tranquil waterway or to row to the
gazebo. Wild ducks quickly made the lake their new home.

The kitchens were modernised to meet health department and fire safety regulations. Huge old wooden refectory tables were found in storage and were dragged into the kitchen, and freezers and a cool room were installed in the spacious pantry.

Through the Paragon staff Queenie unearthed a one-time
haute cuisine
chef who had retired to the mountains from Sydney. Monsieur Ambert was getting bored and embraced Queenie with gusto when she offered him the job of head chef.

Queenie had heard how temperamental and unpredictable chefs could be. She took him on a tour of inspection of the hotel and his domain. ‘So, Monsieur Ambert, does the kitchen meet with your approval?'

‘
Oui.
Inside is very good. But Madame Queenie … the garden …' He raised his eyes to the heavens and flung up his arms in despair.

‘What do you mean? I've spent a fortune on the gardens, they are looking superb!'

‘
Non, non.
My garden. Where is the
'erb
garden?'

Queenie breathed a sigh of relief. A kitchen and herb garden was not an impossible demand. ‘If that's all you require, I will send the head gardener to speak to you. Tell him what you want planted.'

Several
sous chefs,
kitchen staff, parlour maids and administrative staff were found among local residents and an immediate loyal fraternity was established.

Queenie spent hours in her little office
overlooking the main terrace and out to the valley and mountains, working on her launch party. There was a constant flow of interruptions and requests for her to come and look at something or give an opinion.

The opening of the Kurrajong was already generating a lot of interest, as well as bringing new life to the business community in the mountains. The curious local real estate agent kept popping in to check on the progress, hopeful that guests to the hotel might like to purchase a little property in the area. There was speculation in the travel and burgeoning tourist industry as to whether the magnificent hotel in the mountains would succeed.

In her mail one morning Queenie opened an invitation to a prestigious cocktail party in Sydney being given by the newly restructured State Tourist Board. She decided it was essential to attend, even though she didn't feel like travelling to Sydney to stand around making small talk. However, she knew promotion of her hotel was essential and she needed to develop contacts in the tourist industry.

It had been a long time since she had gone out socially and Judy and Sarah persuaded her to buy a madly expensive but exquisite Dior gown … stunning in its simple but superbly cut lines. It was deep purple, almost black, and set off Queenie's opal necklace perfectly.

There were a few professional women at the function, mainly from travel agencies, and several wives also attended; but it was primarily a sea of suits, with drifting waiters bearing silver hors d'oeuvre trays and cocktails.

Holding a now-warm Campari and soda Queenie extricated herself from a circle of travel agents and headed across the room to introduce herself to the director of the Tourist Board who had made a pompous and boring speech. He was delighted to meet the new owner of the Kurrajong and held her hand longer than was necessary. Queenie was introduced to the rest of the circle standing around the director. The names went in a blur as she shook hands. The last man gave her a warm smile and repeated his name in a soft, slight French accent.

‘Henri Barnard. Montpelier Incorporated.'

‘
The
Montpelier hotels?' asked Queenie. As he nodded modestly, she asked, ‘Are you planning on one opening in Australia?'

He gave a Gallic shrug. ‘Perhaps.' ‘Not in the Blue Mountains, I hope,' said Queenie with a smile.

He laughed. ‘
Mais non.
But I have heard of your Kurrajong. It sounds most intriguing. Would you tell me about it?'

They drifted away from the others and he led her to a quiet lounge in a corner of the room.

As they chatted, Queenie observed Henri, wondering where he was from. She guessed he was in his late thirties. He was tanned, with dark brown eyes behind large square glasses, straight brown hair and perfect teeth. He was impeccably dressed and emanated power, prestige and wealth; but his manner was relaxed and unpretentious.

He, in turn, was fascinated by Queenie's beauty, style and business acumen.

A passing waiter held out a tray of drinks and as they took a glass of Great Western champagne, Henri lifted his in a toast. ‘Here is to the success of your Kurrajong and good luck to a beautiful lady in a Dior gown.'

Queenie sipped her drink and asked, ‘Are you French?'

‘A little. I'm French Canadian. I combine the romanticism of Europe with the pragmatism of North America. My headquarters are in New York.'

Queenie now recalled reading about the handsome, rich and eligible head of Montpelier and how he had taken an old family hotel chain and turned it into a string of luxurious hotels around the world. ‘What are your plans in Australia?'