Heart of the Dreaming

by DIMORRISSEY

  Queenie was worried, and she and Millie talked at length on how to shake him from his lethargy.

  ‘Maybe a trip to Sydney to see Colin?’ suggested Millie.

  ‘Yes, it’s been a long time since we’ve been to the big smoke, I could ask him,’ said Queenie.

  Patrick said he’d think about the idea and didn’t mention it again.

  Queenie kept up her early morning ride, taking Nareedah for a gallop through the sparkling air before returning to eat breakfast with Patrick.

  One morning as she washed Nareedah down, she heard wood being chopped and, peering around the stable, she saw TR swinging the axe into a log, making wood chips fly.

  ‘Working up an appetite for breakfast?’ asked Queenie.

  TR straightened up. ‘No, Jim is having a tinker with that old Land Rover I bought myself — so in exchange I said I’d chop the wood for him.’

  ‘Oh, I see.’ Queenie paused. ‘How’s the horse in foal coming along?’

  TR’s face lit up and as he leaned on the axe, the muscles of his suntanned arms strained against his shirt. ‘Terrific. I think she’ll deliver any day.’

  ‘I’ll be interested to see that foal,’ smiled Queenie.

  TR returned her smile. ‘Ill be sure to get you the minute it’s born.’

  Kevin Hooper, the Flying Doctor, whose practice extended for fifteen hundred miles around the northwest section of Queensland, sat at the controls of his new Cessna, enjoying its smooth manoeuvrability. The plane hummed through the midday heat, a silver speck glinting in the endless blue.

  Seven thousand feet beneath him there stretched ripples and waves of red sand dunes. It was a wind-made lunar landscape almost devoid of wildlife, its flatness broken by the occasional hiccup of rocky outcrop, or deceptive dirt track made by geologists carrying out surveys for possible oil exploration sites. From the air these rough roads could be seen running in squares and geometric patterns leading nowhere — a desert maze with no signs and no distinctive landmarks.

  Kevin rarely flew over this particular remote stretch of land, tending to hop directly between the sprawling properties. Earlier in the morning he’d been called out to an isolated droving camp where one of the men had been badly trampled by bullocks during a ‘rush’ at night. They’d finally got a message through to the Flying Doctor Service on the two-way radio after one of the Aboriginal stockmen had ridden for two days back to the nearest homestead.

  The injured man, suffering badly fractured ribs and a dislocated shoulder, was now lying on the specially fitted stretcher along the length of the cabin behind Kevin.

  As he headed towards Cloncurry Hospital, Kevin glanced at the ground where something had caught his eye. He looked again, seeing a flash of sun reflecting off a shiny object. Near a rocky rise he saw a truck, so dusty it was almost invisible, camouflaged by the bull dust and sand around it.

  Kevin banked the plane and swung around in a right-hand arc for another look. The truck doors were open but no figures were to be seen. Obviously it had been there some time because its tracks were completely covered by the bull dust. He circled, wondering where the driver had gone, why the truck had been abandoned and, more curiously, what was it doing there in the first place. It certainly wasn’t a prospector’s rig. The driver had obviously been lost as he was on no recognised road or track.

  As Kevin flew lower he whistled softly in surprise — lying beside the open door, almost underneath the truck, was the body of a man.

  He called over his shoulder to the sedated drover. ‘Hang on, mate, we’re going to make a bit of an unscheduled stop, won’t take a tick. Nothing to worry about.’

  The drover didn’t open his eyes but lifted a limp hand in acknowledgement.

  The Cessna slewed slightly as it skidded in a thick layer of dust before bumping to a stop on the crude road. Kevin jumped down from the plane, reeling as the solid wall of heat hit him in the face. Two hundred yards away the truck seemed to shiver in the dancing heat haze.

  The four-wheel drive had been there many weeks and there were two badly decomposed bodies — both men. The one lying beside the truck probably died of dehydration, the second body was slumped across the front seat, a rifle beside him.

  ‘Poor bastard took the quick way out,’ thought Kevin as he picked up the dusty rifle. They had obviously been totally lost and unprepared for the harsh environment into which they’d driven.

  Kevin shook his head as he saw the inadequate and impractical gear they had carried with them. Picking up the bags that contained their personal possessions, he reached into the glove box for any papers that might give a clue to their identity.

  In the eerie silence of the outback where death had come so hideously to these men, Kevin unfolded the registration papers. The Land Rover was registered to Patrick Hanlon, Tingulla, RMB 427, Queensland.

  Sergeant Dick Harris returned once more to Tingulla. He drove down the road leading to the massive log entrance where he saw Queenie riding ahead of him, the kelpie sheep dogs trotting beside her.

  He tooted and pulled up. Still in the car, he quietly broke the news about the discovery of the truck and the two bodies. They had been escapees from a New South Wales prison — Rose must have disturbed them as they stole food and gear.

  Queenie listened as she fiddled with Nareedah’s reins, her throat dry, her heart pounding, then she leaned down from the horse to shake the Sergeant’s hand. ‘Thanks for coming out to tell us in person, Sergeant Harris.’

  She turned the horse and rode away from him.

  The Sergeant continued up the tree-lined drive to the main house and waited on the verandah, twirling his broad-brimmed hat in his hands while Millie went to fetch Patrick.

  He gave him the details briefly. Patrick listened, not speaking, chewing the edge of his lip, his arms folded tightly against his chest.

  ‘So it’s all wrapped up now, mate. At least we know they didn’t get away with it. God has his own method of retribution, I suppose. We can arrange to get your vehicle back, though it’ll take time. It’s to hell and gone out there.’

  Patrick dropped his arms. ‘Don’t bother, Dick. Close the book. How about a cold drink or cup of tea?’

  Calling to Millie, he turned indoors and the Sergeant sunk into one of the cool and comfortable squatter’s chairs, sorry to have reopened the painful wound of Rose’s murder.

  In the quietness of the night Jim stepped softly into the kitchen where a kerosene lamp burned on the sideboard. Queenie dozed in the bentwood rocker by the Aga stove.

  Jim poured the remains of the tea into two cups as Millie, wrapped in an old chenille dressing gown, joined him. Even though the days were hot, the land chilled quickly after sunset; and although Millie and Jim had their own quarters, they all liked the cosy warmth of the kitchen.

  ‘Look at that girl,’ whispered Millie. ‘Tired out, she is. I don’t know what we’re going to do with her and Mr Patrick. Work and work, it’s all the pair of them think about. It’s not right, Jim. She’s a young girl — she should be having some fun in her life.’ Sipping her tea, she added quietly, ‘There’s no laughing in this house any more.’

  ‘Give it time, Millie. They got to work it out in their own way.’

  ‘I blame her Dad. He’s pushing her too hard. Like he’s trying to teach her everything all at once. I can’t make him out. He’s getting older by the day — and thinner. I’m worried, Jim. He doesn’t seem to care about anything any more.’

  ‘Millie, stop worrying about everyone or you’ll get run down too, and then where will we be? Come on, I have to get up at daybreak.’ Jim yawned and placed his cup on the sink.

  Millie bent over Queenie and tapped her shoulder. ‘Queenie, go on up to bed.’

  Queenie stretched, settled more comfortably into the chair, and without opening her eyes murmured. ‘G’night, Millie. I’ll go upstairs in a minute’.

  Half an hour later she was still sleeping soundly in the rocker when there was a knock at the kitchen doo
r. Queenie didn’t stir. TR opened the door and stepped inside. He stood looking down at Queenie — her head tilted to one side, her face shadowed by the curtain of her hair which tumbled over her shoulder. The yellow light from the lamp cast a shine through the coppery gold tints of her glossy locks. TR leaned forward and gently smoothed a silky strand from her face.

  She stirred and a smile curled about her mouth as her eyes fluttered open.

  Seeing TR standing there she sat up with a start. TR drew back, embarrassed.

  ‘Sorry, Queenie, didn’t mean to startle you. I thought I’d see if you were still awake. The mare is in labour, I thought you might like to be there.’

  Queenie relaxed and jumped to her feet. ‘Yes, yes, of course. I’ll get my jacket.’

  In silence they hurried through the frosty night to the stable. The mare lay breathing heavily, her eyes wide as she concentrated on working the bulk of the foal out of her body.

  TR crouched by the horse’s tail as Queenie sat by her head stroking her and talking softly.

  Twenty minutes later the horse grunted as a muscular spasm began forcing the foal in its placental bag from her body. However, instead of dropping from her body in a swift easy movement, the foal seemed to be obstructed. The mare whinnied and panted and began struggling to her feet.

  TR moved swiftly. ‘Hold her still, Queenie — it’s breeched.’

  TR slipped out of his coat, pushed up a sleeve and inserted his arm into the vaginal opening, slowly turning the small body around. As he adjusted the foal in the birth canal, the mare heaved and with TR gently easing it out, the bloodied foal flopped onto the straw.

  Queenie and TR exchanged a worried look. For a second it lay there, then calmly the mare turned and began licking away the birth covering. The tiny horse lifted its head and stared with dark brown eyes at its new world.

  Queenie felt tears spring to her eyes as she looked at TR who was watching the mare and her foal with a happy grin. ‘How wonderful! Good on you, TR. I was worried the poor thing was going to suffocate.’

  ‘She might have managed okay on her own, but it was probably a good thing we were here. Pretty little thing, isn’t he?’ said TR.

  They sat there watching for a while longer, as the mare cleaned up her foal which was already attempting to unfold its wobbly long legs.

  Queenie glanced at TR in the dim light shed by the lantern hanging from the rafter. She had never seen this tender side of him before and realised she knew very little about him despite the fact they were often in daily contact. She had only ever discussed day-to-day issues, reluctant to get too familiar with him. She had never forgotten the powerful emotions he’d aroused in her at her birthday party, and because the memory disturbed her, she had kept him at arm’s length.

  TR stood up and stretched. ‘I think they’ll be fine. I’ve got some coffee brewing at my quarters, do you want some?’

  Queenie hesitated, she hadn’t been inside the shearers’ quarters since TR had moved in to share with Ernie, the sixteen-year-old Aboriginal jackaroo and rouse about. ‘All right, thanks.’

  Ernie was asleep in his bunk, screened by a small partition. Through the doorway to TR’s section Queenie could see a neatly made bed and a shelf of books. Between the two sleeping sections was a table and two chairs set before an old wood-burning pot belly. TR lifted the coffee pot from the stove and poured strong black coffee. Opening the stove door, he threw in a few more pieces of wood.

  Queenie curled her hands around the steaming mug. ‘So what are you going to call the foal?’

  ‘I reckon that’s your job, Queenie. It’s your Dad’s horse,’ replied TR.

  The smile faded from Queenie’s face. ‘Yes, but he seems to be taking so little interest in anything these days …’ Her voice trailed off and she took a sip of the coffee.

  TR pulled up the other chair and leaned back in it, sticking his booted feet on the box of wood by the stove. ‘Yeah, I’ve noticed. I’ve been trying to interest him in building up the horse stock. There’s a big herd of brumbies roaming Blue Hills and the scrub country. If we could cull any good ones, and crossbreed them with the thoroughbreds and existing stockhorses, I think you could start building up a good line. There’s still money in horses — despite Henry Ford.’

  ‘How many brumbies are out there?’ asked Queenie with interest.

  ‘Apparently the Flying Doc spotted them the other day and radioed back that there were several dozen.’

  ‘If you picked the best of them for breeding and broke some of the others — if they were any good — you could sell them for a quick profit,’ said Queenie thoughtfully.

  TR grinned at her. ‘And who’s going to do the breaking?’

  Queenie blushed slightly and couldn’t help smiling back. ‘Okay, I’m happy to admit you’re good with horses. You’re the breaker.’

  ‘We could do it together if you can persuade your father it’s a good idea for Tingulla.’

  Queenie stared at him. ‘I’d want to be there to muster them as well as break and sell them,’ she said firmly.

  ‘Oh, I figured you would,’ said TR, his mouth twitching in a half-smile.

  Queenie handed him her mug. ‘Thanks for the coffee. I’ll have a word to Dad.’

  As she rose she nodded towards his bookshelf. ‘You like books? What are you reading?’

  ‘Oh, everything. Technical stuff on horses at the moment and a bit of escapism. My Dad was a hopeless Irish romantic so I inherited his love of the blarney. Though I’m fond of the Welsh neighbours — Dylan Thomas …’ he stopped, looking sheepish. ’I read Henry Lawson too, y’know.’

  Queenie tried not to look as surprised as she felt. ‘Well, if you ever want to borrow a book from Tingulla’s library, you’re welcome.’ She smiled at him. ‘Good night, TR. And thanks.’

  ‘Good night to you, Queenie. I’m glad you were there.’

  Chapter Five

  Several days later TR was watching the foal frolicking by its mother when Sarah pulled up at the home paddock gate in her father’s car.

  ‘Hello, TR! And goodbye!’ she called, hanging out the window.

  ‘Where are you off to, Sarah?’ TR climbed over the gate and strolled to the car.

  ‘England, the Continent, the world! I sail in a couple of days but I’m going down to Sydney tomorrow. I just came to say goodbye to Queenie.’

  ‘I guess you’ll be gone some time?’ TR took off his hat and leaned against the car.

  Sarah thought again what an incredibly good-looking man he was. ‘Well, at least a year. Not worth going if you don’t see everything. I still wish Queenie were coming with me, it would have been such fun. Her Dad thought it would be good for her, too,’ added Sarah, her bubbly enthusiasm stilled for a moment.

  ‘I think she’s happier here, working things out in her own way. She feels secure at Tingulla.’

  ‘I guess that’s true. But before she settles down she should see a bit of the world. Maybe she might come over in a few months and join me in my search for Mr Right,’ smiled Sarah.

  TR grinned at her. ‘Mr Right?’

  ‘Oh yes, ever since we were little Queenie and I decided we’d both marry tall dark handsome men with slight accents who we’d meet in the Alps or on a rocky island in the Mediterranean!’

  ‘Dreamers!’ TR held out his hand to Sarah. ‘Good luck and take care, Sarah. If you don’t find Mr Right remember you’ve got some good-hearted blokes hanging around here you might consider.’ He winked at her as he squeezed her hand.

  ‘Right, TR, I’ll keep that in mind. But seriously, do keep an eye on Queenie. Colin is away, and so selfish anyway, and it seems Queenie is looking after her Dad more than the other way around these days.’

  ‘I will, Sarah.’

  She revved the car and waved. ‘Goodbye … and good luck with the horses!’

  Queenie and TR confronted Patrick in his study. They’d been talking about horse breeding for months. Now they wanted a decision.

 
‘Look, Dad, it’s a good opportunity. Those brumbies are going to move on soon. There could well be some excellent horses amongst the hacks. They’re wild and inbred but some might have come from good stock.’

  ‘And to survive out there means they’re tough and that’s the quality we want to breed into our strain,’ added TR.

  Patrick leaned back, looking at the two earnest faces appealing to him. Queenie’s deep green eyes and TR’s vivid blue eyes stared solidly at him.

  ‘It could be dangerous.’

  ‘I wouldn’t allow Queenie to take any risks,’ said TR firmly. Queenie flashed him a defiant look, but she bit her tongue.

  ‘I can’t spare any of the boys. I don’t like the idea of the two of you alone out there. If it was anyone else, TR, I’d say no … but —’ Before Patrick could finish Queenie rushed to hug him. ‘Thanks, Dad. You won’t regret it. We’ll come back with some good horses, I just know it! After all, you’ve got the two best horse people in the district on the job.’

  ‘That’s the only reason I’m allowing this mad venture.’ Patrick knew his daughter was more than capable of handling herself and wild horses in the bush. He was also happy to see her bursting with enthusiasm and high spirits. This was his Queenie of old. How could he refuse her? He had to admit it could be a profitable exercise.

  Queenie excused herself to break the news to Millie.

  TR stood as Patrick studied him. ‘I don’t have to tell you of the responsibility I’m handing to you,’ said Patrick quietly. ‘I am trusting you with my daughter, TR.’

  ‘She’ll always be safe when I’m around. I promise you that.’

  Patrick nodded and as he shook the younger man’s hand he clasped it briefly in both his hands before turning away.

  TR and Queenie squatted on their haunches in the sparse shadow of a gum tree and studied the group of wild horses grazing calmly in the valley below them. Flinty ironstone cliffs glinted in the sun on either side, sheltering this narrow and protected gorge.