Heart of the Dreaming Page 5

  A vehicle without lights was speeding away and the homestead was dark and silent. The generator was quiet and there were no lights on, save for the flame torches which still flickered in the grounds. Two of the dogs began howling.

  Queenie broke into a desperate run, dropping her shoes as she held up her skirt and flew across the grounds towards the dark house.

  As she approached the verandah steps Queenie slowed down and, gasping for breath, her chest heaving with exhaustion, she called out,‘Anyonehome?’

  There was no response. Grabbing one of the burning torches from the lawn she rushed into the house.

  In the same second a picture suddenly flashed into Queenie’s mind — her mother blowing her father a kiss and slipping outside to go home.

  Frantically she raced up the stairs, the kerosene-soaked wick flaring and trailing black smoke.

  ‘Mum … Mum are you here? Are you all right? Mum!’

  Queenie raced down the hall, a hard knot of fear in the pit of her belly. She hesitated at the door of her parents’ bedroom before stepping inside and holding the torch high. In the flickering orange light she saw Rose’s dress on the chair. Spinning around she wrenched back the door to find her father’s rifle missing.

  Running back down the stairs Queenie stopped in the darkened vestibule, straining for any slight sound. The ticking of the grandfather clock sounded hollow and ominous.

  She ran through the downstairs rooms before finally heading towards the kitchen. As if knowing what she would find, Queenie slowed to a walk, appearing for all the world like some nymph bearing a golden beacon. The flame illuminated the corners of the room.

  Queenie’s breath came in sharp gasps as if squeezed from her chest with an iron fist when she saw the pale shape of her mother lying on the floor by the pantry.

  She knelt by her mother, leaning the torch against the table. Gently she lifted her head, smoothing the hair from her forehead. Softly she spoke to the still and limp figure.

  ‘It’s all right, Mum. I’m here. Everything will be all right now.’

  Carefully she laid her mother’s head back down where it had been lying in a pool of blood which had seeped into a spilt bag of flour, turning the white powder deep red.

  Almost unable to breathe and making no sound, Queenie walked outside and stood by the back steps. Stabbing the flame torch into the earth and with shaking hands, she inserted two fingers in her mouth and let out a shrill whistle.

  She waited, then whistled again, an urgent sound which pierced the stillness of the night.

  Breaking into a run Queenie clambered over a fence as the sound of galloping hooves echoed in the large paddock where Nareedah, her white Arabian, came obediently to her call. Leaning down from where she sat on the railing, Queenie gripped the horse’s mane and, holding her dress above her knees, flung herself onto the bare back before stabbing her heels into its flanks.

  With a lunge the horse charged down the paddock taking the fence in a powerful leap.

  Through the moonlight the silver horse galloped with the girl in a dress the colour of starlight clinging to its back. The girl’s face seemed carved from white marble, no tears fell from her eyes and no breath seemed to stir in her body as they raced towards the sounds of merriment echoing from the woolshed.

  Chapter Two

  Rose, born in a land of soft skies and misty mornings, was buried under a blistering blue canopy in parched red earth. It was not yet mid-morning but the unyielding sun burned down on the assembled mourners at the graveside, causing sweat to soak through unaccustomed jackets, while the leaves on the trees curled and hung forlornly.

  Queenie and Colin stood on either side of their father as the Reverend Peters read the final words of the service. Queenie had pulled from her ward-robe a simple dress of pale green, sprigged with tiny sprays of flowers. Her hair hung straight down her back with a wide-brimmed straw hat with a black band upon her head.

  As she had marched defiantly from her room, Patrick had hesitatingly asked if the dress was appropriate.

  ‘Mum liked it,’ replied Queenie, and looking at her grim face, Patrick didn’t argue.

  At least she was wearing a dress and not pants as he had feared. Patrick found he was focusing on such small matters, afraid to take in everything that was happening around him. He simply couldn’t comprehend that he had lost his gentle Rose. Through his sedated sleep the nightmare had haunted him and he worried that she had been frightened or in pain when he had not been there to help her.

  Colin spoke little and kept his grief to himself. Patrick had tried to comfort him but at the catch in his voice Colin had turned away and Patrick let him go. Queenie and Colin tended to keep their emotions to themselves. Patrick had learned to share sympathy and comfort with his partner in life and he wished his children had their mother’s understanding and forgiving nature.

  Millie, red-eyed, held Jim’s hand as Patrick stepped forward to sprinkle a handful of powdery ochre dust on top of the coffin. She watched as Queenie had taken charge of the family group at the church, quietly speaking to friends and workers from the station who had muttered their condolences. Millie watched her face as Reverend Peters read the last words of the poem Rose had loved. Still not a flicker crossed Queenie’s stony face.

  Reverend Peters’ voice continued.

  ‘… and wherever I may die,

  I know to what far country

  my homing thoughts will fly.’

  ‘She has got to give in to the heartache inside her,’ thought Millie, ‘or that girl is going to crack into a million tiny pieces.’

  The memorial service had been held in the tiny Tingulla church at the foot of Blue Hills. It had been Rose, as a young bride exploring her new home, who had spotted the derelict building.

  Once a district church for the travelling minister, it had been neglected. The foundations of stone had begun to collapse and the weatherboard building was cracked and peeling. The window panes had been shattered except for a stained-glass window set high beneath the peak of the rusting corrugated iron roof.

  The solid wooden door was broken from its hinges and inside the six cedar pews had been stained by birds. Small animals had made their home amidst the rubbish, twigs and leaves. Cobwebs draped in every corner and as Rose had inched slowly forward towards the altar, Patrick had warned her to look out for snakes, causing her to squeal and hurry back to him as he laughingly hugged her.

  Rose had insisted the church be restored, and then it was used for family occasions — Queenie and Colin had been christened there — and Rose had hoped they would be married there as well. A track wound behind the church through tall gum trees to the tiny graveyard in the shadow of the ridge of the hills. Surrounded by a rusty iron picket fence, headstones dated back to Great-grandfather Ned Hanlon.

  Patrick drew a sharp breath as the memories returned to him and Queenie gently touched his hand as the sound of singing brought him back to the present.

  When the service ended the group turned away and began walking to their cars and horses at the front of the church.

  Patrick remained standing at the graveside, head bowed, and eyes squeezed shut as he reached for the hands of his children on either side of him. It was Queenie who turned away, gently guiding her father to follow.

  Standing by his horse, holding his hat in his hands, TR nodded to Queenie with a sympathetic smile. She appeared not to see him and slid across the car seat as her father got in beside her.

  Back at the homestead, Millie and Queenie, dressed once more in comfortable pants, served the tea, handing out cakes and sandwiches on the verandah as the mourners chatted quietly before returning home.

  The old police sergeant stopped to speak to Patrick, and placed his gnarled hand on his shoulder. ‘No news yet, my friend. I’ll keep you posted.’ He shook Patrick’s hand and left.

  It was believed Rose’s killers were two escaped prisoners, but as yet her murder remained a disturbing mystery.

  There were fa
rewell condolences and offers of help; and finally they were alone. Patrick leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes. Colin sat on the step in his shirt sleeves, his jacket lying beside him as he distractedly pulled at the leaves of a shrub. Queenie followed Millie into the kitchen with the dirty plates.

  Millie glanced at the tall young woman beside her. ‘You allright, girl?’

  Queenie nodded but didn’t speak.

  ‘You’re going to have to cry some time, Queenie, love … you can’t keep it all inside you.’

  Queenie fumbled with the dishes she was carrying, dropping them onto the sideboard with a clatter, then turned and ran from the house.

  ‘I’m here if you need me,’ called Millie, but she’d gone.

  Bolting like a colt from the confines of a corral Queenie ran and ran, her hair flying as she headed for the paddock. She ran without direction or plan. It wasn’t until she reached the small stockyard where the wild chestnut stallion was penned that she stopped.

  A scene she had witnessed in the early evening of her birthday party clicked into focus in her mind. As she had drifted amongst her guests, she had paused on the verandah where, screened by shrubbery, Patrick had been speaking to TR Hamilton. As if a tape recorder had been turned on, she heard once more her father saying:

  ‘That stallion is a mad thing. Wild and cunning. No one has been able to break the bastard yet. If he wasn’t such a good sire I’d get rid of him, but I’ve been wanting to start breeding a few good horses of our own.’

  ‘I’d like to have a go at breaking him,’ said TR.

  ‘You’d like to have a go at maybe breaking a leg, you mean! Listen, TR, if you can tame that unruly buccaneer you’ve got a job. But take no risks and the responsibility rests on your head, son.’

  ‘I don’t take risks unless I’m sure of the outcome. You’ve got a deal, Mr Hanlon,’ and they had shaken hands as Queenie had turned indoors.

  Recalling that incident Queenie’s distress and grief turned to blind fury. Just who did TR Hamilton think he was? She was the horse breaker at Tingulla. She would prove it to that arrogant fellow pushing his way into her father’s pocket.

  If only her mother could see her now.

  ‘Queenie, my fearless pride and joy,’ her mother had always said.

  ‘Oh Mum! Watch me … watch me!’ called Queenie aloud.

  Then with icy calm she fetched a saddle, reins and a rope from the tin shed by the yards.

  Drained of all emotion, she moved in close to the suspicious stallion. Making soothing noises in her throat, she moved slowly but deliberately towards the horse until she was standing by his head. He stood still but tense, his muscles twitching, ready to run.

  With a touch so light and movement so smooth Queenie slipped the rope noose about the horse and tied it to the railing as the stallion whinnied aggressively. While she fetched the rest of the gear, the horse eyed her warily, ready to lash out if startled.

  She let him smell the horse blanket before slipping it lightly onto his back. As the stallion got used to her, Queenie finished saddling him, then lowered the rail blocking the gate.

  She had swiftly untied the horse and mounted before he was aware what had happened. As the realisation and sensation of the weight and movement on his back hit him, the stallion bolted.

  To Queenie’s surprise he didn’t even attempt to pig-root and shake her off, or to kick or buck. Instead, the stallion streaked for freedom, plunging towards the rocky, logstrewn gully. Queenie’s arms felt as if they were being pulled from her body. There was no way she could hold back this angry beast. She knew it would simply be a matter of trying to stay on as the horse veered through the dangerous terrain.

  She could hear the sound of hooves in the distance but she was concentrating intently on the stallion as he skittered and slipped down the slope at full speed. Like a shadow flashing on the edge of her vision, she was aware of another horse gaining on them and a figure leaning forward to grip the halter of the panicked animal.

  The stallion slowed and tossed its head, trying to break free of the man holding its reins and the horse nudging its flanks. As the two horses clashed, Queenie turned to see TR shouting at the stallion to ease up.

  Both horses came to a stop, panting heavily. Queenie turned and screamed, ‘What are you doing! Leave me alone!’

  TR hadn’t loosened his grip on the stallion and without looking at her he snapped, ‘Get on behind me, he’s going to start bucking the minute I let go and we’ll both roll down this hill.’

  ‘Why are you always interfering?’ shouted Queenie. ‘I can control him if you’d just let go!’

  She yanked the reins, nearly pulling TR from his saddle as the stallion started to buck. Queenie could see they were on a dangerous slope where a bad fall was inevitable if the horse started fighting her.

  Before she could make any decision, TR leaned over, and in a swift movement, grabbed her around the waist and pulled her onto his horse in front of him. Queenie was still holding onto the stallion’s reins.

  ‘Keep leading him, so he’ll follow us,’ ordered TR.

  Carefully TR turned his horse back up the slope. Queenie held her reins in an outstretched arm, and the stallion followed.

  ‘Don’t trust him, he’ll make another try at bolting,’ warned TR.

  Queenie turned her attention from the wild horse to TR’s blue eyes. ‘I’m only doing this because I don’t want the horse harmed. I could have turned him around at the base of the gully.’

  TR didn’t argue with her. ‘Yes, you probably could have … had you both got there in one piece.’

  Queenie didn’t answer, turning instead to watch the horse following them. But still she was conscious of the hard muscle of TR’s arm cradling her and the warmth of his skin through his shirt.

  Back at the stockyard TR dismounted and took the reins from her, leading the stallion back into the yard where he began to rear and snort. As Queenie slid down from TR’s horse, he steadied the animal and tied it to the railing, then turned to Queenie.

  ‘Just what were you trying to prove?’ asked TR in a quiet voice.

  Queenie stared at him, confused and angry, suddenly longing to rush into her mother’s arms.

  She turned away from him and fled back towards the house. Her breath was catching painfully in her chest as she rounded the corner to the kitchen garden. Near the old water tank was a tiny garden plot which Rose had nurtured, struggling to keep a bed of flowers alive.

  Seeing the flowers that Rose had tended with such care — carrying a bucket of bathwater to them when water was scarce, singing to them as they bloomed — Queenie suddenly felt she would burst. She rushed at the flowers, snatching them up and pulling them from the ground. She kicked the tall stems of the stocks and poppies, snapping and crushing them; then flung herself onto the ground and lay there sobbing in the dry earth of the ruined garden.

  It was there that Millie found her, and taking Queenie in her arms, stroked her hair and dirt-streaked face, murmuring a murri song — the only fragment she recalled from the time when her own mother held her as a baby.

  Through her tears Queenie gazed beseechingly at Millie. ‘Why Millie … why? I miss her so much …’

  Millie felt her heart breaking and promised herself she would care for and love and defend this girl with all her heart and strength.

  Gradually Queenie stopped crying and Millie helped her to her feet. Together, arms about each other’s waists, they walked back to the house. Without a word being said, Queenie knew that this solid, and goodhearted woman, who had cared for her since she was a baby, would continue to do so and beneath the hurt and sadness, a calmness crept into her tired body.

  The sense of loss never went away, but after a while the pain became a dull ache and there were times when Queenie caught her breath and found herself looking for her mother as if she was just out of the room for a minute. Over the weeks Patrick found he could begin to talk about Rose, but Colin, who was home on university vaca
tion, didn’t share his feelings or thoughts with anyone.

  Sarah began to visit Queenie more often than she had in the past — although the Quinns’ property was next door, it took an hour to get from door to door.

  On one of her visits they were sitting in the music room as the wind howled outside. The girls were playing Monopoly with Colin and Patrick was reading the newspaper.

  ‘Colin, you’re cheating,’ said Queenie, throwing the last of the paper money at him.

  ‘Don’t be a spoilsport — I’m just being a smart businessman,’ sneered Colin, snatching up her money and adding it to his fat pile.

  ‘Really, you are infuriating, Colin,’ sighed Sarah. ‘You don’t have to win every game. You’ve bought up all the good places, so there’s no way Queenie and I can beat you. Let’s call it quits and talk about the Endurance Ride.’

  ‘No, let’s play it out till the bitter end,’ replied Colin.

  ‘In that case you can play alone,’ Queenie said, getting up from the games table.

  ‘How about making a pot of tea, and I wouldn’t say no to some of Millie’s cake,’ Patrick muttered from behind his paper.

  ‘Colin, you do it, it’s your turn and the winner can afford to be generous,’ said Sarah good-naturedly.

  ‘Not on your life,’ growled Colin.

  ‘Colin …’ came Patrick’s warning tone.

  ‘I’ll see if Millie’s around,’ said Colin sourly.

  ‘Oh, never mind,’ snapped Queenie. ‘Leave poor Millie and Jim be. Come on Sarah — let’s make it ourselves.’

  As they waited for the kettle to boil on the ever-burning Aga cooker, Sarah turned to Queenie. ‘Y’ know, Queenie. I’ve been thinking … why don’t you come overseas with me next month? It would be such fun. There’s three of us going. We could visit all those Monopoly places for real!’

  ‘I don’t think so, Sarah,’ Queenie replied, heaping teaspoonfuls of black tea into the warm china pot. ‘Colin is going back to uni and I couldn’t leave Dad on his own.’