Heart of the Dreaming Page 4

  TR Hamilton. She’d learned a little about him, but as yet had hardly spoken to him, other than their exchange from the roof. Apparently he was some kind of wonderboy horse breaker, but that was all she knew about him.

  As Queenie sat out a dance, Sarah, Queenie’s best friend, flopped down beside her, fanning herself with a paper plate.

  ‘Gosh, it’s hot — you take your life in your hands out there. Most of the boys are taking their jackets off. Oops, here comes Mick O’Rourke. Be careful — he treads all over your feet in those great boots of his.’

  Queenie looked away as the determined fellow threaded his way towards them.

  A hand suddenly dropped lightly on Queenie’s bare shoulder. ‘My dance, I believe. Shall we?’ TR was standing, smiling down at her, holding out his hand.

  ‘Have you two met?’ asked Sarah glancing from Queenie to TR who were staring at each other without moving or speaking.

  Queenie was about to refuse him as he seemed to expect her to leap to her feet. O’Rourke was almost at their table when Queenie found her hand in TR’s and she was pulled gently to her feet.

  ‘Oh, yes, Miss Hanlon and I are old friends, Sarah. We’ve been climbing together,’ said TR as he led Queenie away from the table.

  Sarah stared after them murmuring, ’Climbing?’ She shrugged and reluctantly rose to her feet to join the disappointed O’Rourke who was watching TR lead Queenie away.

  ‘We haven’t really met, you know,’ said Queenie to TR who was still firmly holding her hand.

  ‘Well, everyone knows the birthday girl. I’m TR Hamilton.’ He touched his forehead, tugging at a mock forelock.

  Queenie attempted to withdraw her hand but found that he only held it more tightly as they moved past the throng of dancers.

  ‘What’s the TR for? Terribly rude?’ said Queenie pulling away from him.

  TR was still smiling as he placed his hand firmly under her elbow and led her towards the woolshed door. ‘Actually, it’s for terrifically rhythmic. I’m a great dancer. Come on.’ He propelled her out the door into the coolness of the night.

  Queenie stopped, wrenching her arm from his grasp. ‘Now just a minute, where are you going?’

  ‘We’re going dancing. Too crowded in there,’ grinned TR sweeping her lightly into his arms and moving to the music which pounded from the band inside.

  ‘Oh, really,’ muttered Queenie as she found herself instinctively swaying in time to the music, easily following his sure lead.

  They continued in silence for a few moments and she had to admit he was a good dancer. It was also very pleasant dancing in the freshness of the night. She could feel the rough fibres of his tweed jacket where her hand rested on his wide shoulder, and there was a faint musky smell about him which made her think of freshly cut hay. He didn’t make small talk, although he didn’t seem at a loss for words. He was obviously enjoying the pleasure of dancing.

  Queenie’s heel caught on a rough patch of ground and she stumbled against him. His grip tightened although he said nothing. Queenie pulled away from him and stopped dancing. Her cheeks were flushed and her eyes glittered.

  ‘I think we should go back inside,’ she said.

  TR was about to protest but as he looked at her imperious and cool expression, he realised the haughty manner was disguising a shy and nervous girl. Gently, he led her by the arm back into the woolshed.

  ‘I’m sure you have a long list of suitors waiting to dance with you. Thanks for the dance. I shan’t forget it.’

  He relinquished her arm just as O’Rourke came past holding two paper cups of Passiona.

  ‘Queenie — I’ve been looking for you for a dance. Hang on till I give Sarah her drink and we’ll hit the floor.’

  Queenie turned but TR had disappeared into the crowd. She felt vaguely annoyed and didn’t understand why. She had liked dancing with him but his presence unsettled her. Strange sensations had rippled through her as he’d held her. She felt he had known the effect he was having on her and was silently mocking her. Perhaps that was what had annoyed her, but she was also concerned at the way she had no control over her body — it just seemed to follow him and melt to his will. Queenie didn’t like not being in control and the experience disturbed her.

  Firmly she put him out of her mind and followed O’Rourke back to the table where Sarah was surreptitiously rubbing one of her feet.

  Some time later, as Queenie sat with a group attempting to talk above the music, one of the boys pushed his way through the crowd, leant down and shouted in her ear. ‘Colin is arguing with one of the ringers from Kandi, it looks like it could get nasty.’

  Queenie rose to her feet. ‘Don’t let my father find out. Colin will only get into more strife. I’ll see what I can do.’

  ‘I’m coming with you,’ said Sarah.

  Outside a small group had gathered around one of the beer kegs and Colin’s raised voice could be heard arguing with a thickset youth. Both were staggering and the watching boys egged them on.

  ‘Let him have it. Go on, Hanlon.’

  ‘Get in there, Richards.’

  ‘Have a go!’

  Queenie pushed through them to stand near Colin. ‘Colin, what’s going on … don’t start a fight, it’s not worth it. Please don’t spoil my party,’ she said quietly.

  Swaying slightly, Colin snapped, ‘I didn’t start this. Push off, Queenie — it’s none of your business.’

  ‘Then act like a man and stop being so stupid, Colin. You’re drunk and you’ll get flattened,’ replied Queenie. ‘Walk away now before Dad finds out.’

  The other fellow raised his fists. ‘You going to let your sister boss you round, Hanlon? Or do you want her to finish your fight for you? I wouldn’t mind going a coupla rounds with her!’

  As the crowd laughed Colin turned to Queenie. ‘Get lost, Queenie, or I’11 give you something to cry about, too.’

  A voice from the sidelines cut in. ‘It takes a really tough man to threaten a girl, unless he knows she can beat him.’

  TR stepped forward, smiling at Colin, but his eyes were hard. ‘Easy does it, boys. Come on now, let’s not spoil the girl’s birthday party.’

  Queenie stared at TR who was standing casually, his arms loose by his sides, his eyes fixed on Colin.

  ‘TR, this isn’t your fight,’ she said softly.

  ‘Who’s fighting?’ he replied, not taking his eyes from Colin. ‘It wouldn’t take much to put these two on their backs.’

  As the crowd tittered, Colin lunged at TR, his fists flailing. TR didn’t raise an arm but swiftly sidestepped and ducked past Colin’s wild swing, sticking out his foot to trip him up. Colin fell forward, landing heavily on the hard ground.

  Colin’s opponent burst out laughing. ‘You win, mate. Never hit a man when he’s down. He’s too grogged up to worry about, anyway. Let’s get a drink.’ With that he moved away with the rest of the boys and Sarah leaned down to help Colin to his feet.

  Roughly he pushed her away, glaring at TR. ‘I won’t forget this. You made a fool of me. Keep out of other people’s fights or you’ll get yours, mate.’

  ‘Oh, Colin, stop making stupid threats. Just be glad it’s over and you won’t have a black eye at breakfast,’ said Queenie.

  ‘What makes you think I’d be the one with the black eye, eh? Always telling me I’m no good. One day I’ll show you I’m better than the whole bloody lot of you.’ Angrily Colin turned on his heel as Sarah, ever the peacemaker, pattered after him.

  Queenie called after him, ‘Colin, that’s not true. I don’t think that at all …’

  TR put a restraining hand on her arm and shook his head. ‘Let him go and lick his wounds, he’s in no mood to be rational.’

  Queenie looked at TR. ‘I guess I should thank you for breaking it up, even if Colin did lose face a bit. Dad would have had a fit and taken his allowance away for the next month, or something awful … so thanks for coming to his rescue.’

  She smiled at him. TR smiled
back as they exchanged their first frank and friendly look, their guards down and no pretence between them.

  ‘If you ever need assistance, Queenie HanIon, I’ll be first there.’

  Unaware of the fracas involving Colin, Patrick was enjoying himself in the thick of the dancing in the woolshed.

  Rose was sitting out the energetic dances, smiling as she watched Patrick spin from partner to partner, lifting the girls off their feet so they squealed with delight. Surreptitiously Rose stifled a yawn and glanced at the small diamond watch Patrick had given her when Queenie was born and wool prices were booming. The tiny hands pointed to two a.m.

  Rose excused herself from the group at the table and moved to the edge of the dance floor where she finally caught Patrick’s eye. She pointed to her watch and put a hand to her mouth miming a yawn and nodding in the direction of the homestead. Patrick hesitated, signalling ‘Do you want me to come too?’ as the dancers swirled past him.

  Rose shook her head, blowing him a kiss. He waved and returned her kiss, turning back to sweep the next partner around in the circle of perspiring dancers.

  Rose slipped quietly outside to the cool air where a group was still gathered around the beer keg. Seeing Millie busily picking up discarded paper plates and glasses Rose stopped beside her. ‘Millie, you don’t have to do that now. Go and enjoy yourself, Jim is inside dancing with all the girls.’

  ‘I’m not much for dancing and crowds, Mrs Rose. Though I might go watch for a bit. I’ve finished at the house. Me and Stan put away all the food and tidied up. You off now?’

  ‘Yes, I’m tired, but it’s been lovely. I hope Queenie has enjoyed it,’ said Rose, looking at the gaily festooned woolshed where light and laughter spilled into the night.

  ‘She’s having a good time all right, and my goodness, she looks a picture. Our Queenie is growing up, I reckon.’

  Rose sighed. ‘That she is, but I don’t think she realises she is a beautiful young woman. I worry about her, Millie.’

  ‘The way the boys have been around her she’ll wake up soon enough,’ said Millie matter-of-factly. ‘Trouble with Queenie is, she wants to be better than the boys at everything and she don’t take kindly to advice.’

  Rosesmiled. ‘You’ reright as always, Millie. There’s Colin at university who doesn’t seem to be learning anything very useful, and Queenie learning to run Tingulla better than the lot of them.’

  ‘Learn by doing is better than books, I reckon,’ sniffed Millie. ‘Well good night, Mrs Rose … it’s been a real special day.’

  As Millie headed into the woolshed Rose moved to one of the Tingulla vehicles parked nearby with its key ring dangling from the ignition. Carefully tucking her long chiffon skirt about her legs Rose put the truck into first gear and pushed in the clutch with a dainty kid shoe. The truck gurgled to life and Rose switched on the lights and headed over the bumpy grass towards the homestead on the hill.

  The silhouette of the big house loomed against the moonlit sky. Tingulla homestead was no mere country home but one of the great Australian ‘bush palaces’ of the outback. The property had been carved out by hand from virgin scrub by Patrick’s grandfather, Ned Hanlon, who’d found a fortune in gold in the late 1890s. Over the years the homestead had grown from a slab hut of split logs to a gracious double-storey mansion. Known throughout Australia, it was a grand house, not stately, but spacious and charming in the classical Australian style.

  Stone blocks had been quarried and dragged by bullock teams to build the ground floor structure. Ancient cedar trees had been felled on the coast and hauled inland to build the upper storey and interior features.

  A turner-carpenter from England with a dubious background but talented hands had worked for years on the property, turning and crafting the magnificent cedar staircase, interior fittings and fretwork, as well as some special pieces of furniture.

  He had lived in a shack at the rear of the main house down by the river and seemed reluctant to leave as he kept offering to do more jobs in return for bed, food and ‘baccy’ money. He devoted weeks to creating the floor of the entrance vestibule with an inlaid bouquet of wild flowers made from different coloured woods. The old man took pride in his work and simply explained, ‘I ain’t in any hurry to move along’.

  When he overheard the shearers’ cook comment, ‘That pommy bastard has settled in for the duration, he’ll be making cedar dunnies next’, the old carpenter took delight in presenting the cook with a polished cedar lavatory seat. It became the cook’s pride and joy and he carried it from job to job on his packhorse along with his camp oven and cooking utensils.

  The homestead appeared to ramble as room followed room through a formal entrance and forecourt and into an inner rear courtyard. But its overall design created a poetic harmony that contrasted against the harsh climate and its setting.

  The verandah which ran around the upper storey had polished cypress floors shaded by a curved bull nose iron roof. Visible from every window, balcony and French door, was a breathtaking panorama of grazing land sweeping away to the river with its ghost gums and planted willows. Rising from the water was a hilly ridge studded with eucalypt trees which shimmered a hazy violet. It was said the vaporising oil from the gum leaves caused the blue effect and the ridge was known as ‘Blue Hills’. The further reaches of the two hundred and fifty thousand acres of the Hanlon spread edged into harsher, drier country where it became acres to the sheep rather than sheep to the acre.

  At the spectacular front entrance, a broad flight of stone steps led up to the ground floor verandah. Beside it stood a magnificent fountain which had been made by Duncan, a bohemian artist friend of Patrick’s, during the Great Depression of the thirties.

  Down on his luck, Duncan had arrived unannounced at Tingulla and offered his artistic services in return for food and board. Good as his word, he had painted a formal portrait of Rose seated in the garden in the shade of a jacaranda tree. The graceful and romantic portrait hung above the landing on the staircase in pride of place in Rose’s fine art collection.

  Duncan then declared he would sculpt an imposing statue for the entrance, which made Patrick and Rose nervous as they recalled the lascivious nude sculptures Duncan had created in the city. However, he had surprised and delighted everyone with the great swooping lines of a bird above the water of the lily pond. The grey stone brolga stood elegantly poised for flight, as if ready to rise in the air.

  Rose walked softly up the stairs to the upper hallway, her hand trailing along the deeply polished cedar bannister and her footsteps muffled on the richly patterned Persian carpet.

  In the master bedroom she hung her chiffon gown over a chair and placed her pearls back in their special box. She uncoiled her hair and wrapped a peignoir around herself before stepping through the French doors onto the upstairs verandah. Wicker furniture and ferns stood beneath the curve of the tin roof and canvas blinds could be unfurled to keep the heat of the sun at bay.

  How many evenings had she stood there, she wondered, breathing in the perfume from the night blooms and lemon-scented gum trees? All those nights when Patrick was away fighting the war in New Guinea when Queenie was just a baby. How she had stood there alone in the quiet darkness, gazing at the stars and praying for the safe return of her man.

  Rose always drew strength and serenity from her nightly sojourn with the stars over Tingulla, but tonight, despite the distant sounds of revelry, she felt vaguely perturbed and disquieted. She stared into the sky trying to see through the curtain of night, sensing something was out there, threatening the safety and security of Tingulla.

  She shuddered and turned inside, wishing Patrick had come back with her after all. As she drew the bedroom door shut Rose paused, her body stiffening. A sound downstairs drifted up to her, indistinct but unfamiliar. Whatever she had feared was in her home. Calmly, Rose took Patrick’s rifle from behind the door and, barefoot, walked softly back down the carpeted hallway.

  At the woolshed the beer keg was emp
ty but another was rolled out in its place ‘for breakfast’. Stan had promised those still standing at dawn, ‘a feed of sausages, steak and eggs’.

  Queenie stretched, feeling restless. She glanced past the slow dancing couples, their arms around each other’s shoulders, to where TR was deep in conversation with her father. Queenie looked at the slim muscular man with the broad shoulders who stood taller than her father. He was good-looking in an evenfeatured, but rugged fashion, his gold-flecked hair flopping over his forehead. He was using his hands to describe something and she could see from across the room the long brown fingers which looked quite delicate in contrast to his strongly developed arms.

  She turned away and shivered. The memory of his arms holding her was suddenly overwhelming.

  Sarah was dancing with a sleepy-eyed O’Rourke; Colin was stretched out along a bench, sleeping off too many beers. Queenie quietly walked unnoticed from the woolshed.

  She wanted to walk in the cool night air. The noise of the music, laughter and voices, the crowd, and, more disturbingly, her exchange with TR, had unsettled her. She wanted to be alone, and the tranquil bush, day or night, was always calming.

  The moon seemed very high and far away as Queenie trudged up the rise from the gully. Despite the rough terrain she walked barefoot, swinging her silver sandals by their straps, hitching up her mother’s dress with her free hand.

  Fifteen minutes later she reached the crest of the hill, having identified most of the night noises of animals. She chuckled, remembering the startled wombat waddling back into his hole near the peak of the hill.

  Suddenly in the stillness two shots rang out, and Queenie paused, listening.

  All was quiet. Probably one of the boys horsing around. Most of them carried small rifles strapped to the outside of the trucks ready to shoot a snake or an errant kangaroo.

  An engine started up and roared away from the homestead, but didn’t head towards the woolshed. Puzzled, Queenie came to the clearing where she could see the house. Instantly she knew something was wrong.