by DIMORRISSEY
‘Life seldom does go entirely to plan, TR. Let me know when you’re ready. I got where I am today ‘cause I know horses and I know men. I think you’re the right man for the job.’
He slapped TR on the back. ‘Let’s go back to the ranch house. Them women have been cookin’ up a mess of fine stuff all day.’
The Bon Vite stud homestead was an elegant Southern mansion surrounded by manicured, lush green lawns and neat white fences. Two men were employed full-time painting fences, stables and equipment sparkling white. It reminded TR of a picture he’d once seen of a wealthy stud in Ireland. So green, so neat, so expensive looking.
The Southern women were the same. Soft lilting flirtatious voices, neat hairdos, feminine dresses and smelling of money. They all made a fuss of TR, which had him blushing awkwardly, much to their delight.
Clayton introduced TR to his family, friends and business associates. TR had mint juleps and bourbon pressed on him and he found it difficult to follow the drawling accents and to keep track of everyone he met.
The next morning a pre-breakfast hunt was arranged and TR was astounded to find everyone dressed in traditional British scarlet coats riding to the hounds.
He tugged at his tweed jacket. ‘I’m sorry, Clayton, I didn’t come prepared for this.’
Mrs Hindmarsh eyed TR from the tips of his shiny riding boots to the top of his Akubra. ‘Honey, you look more than just fine, believe me. Here, have an orange blossom.’ She lifted a crystal flute from a silver tray held by a black waiter in formal attire, even to white gloves.
TR sipped the amber liquid, stifling a sneeze as the champagne bubbles went up his nose.
‘See you at breakfast, TR,’ said Mrs Hindmarsh, giving him a knowing smile and fluttering her eyelashes.
TR gulped the rest of his drink.
TR rode easily with the field, preferring not to be at the front — he thought it a bloody stupid sport and was longing for a pot of tea.
As the braying dogs, giggling women and loud men reassembled two hours later, Clayton muttered to TR, ‘Don’t get the wrong idea, life ain’t like this all the time. This weekend is to humour Mrs Hindmarsh. She loves to party.’
‘Pleased to hear it. I don’t think I could last the distance,’ grinned TR, eyeing the breakfast spread in the specially erected marquee.
Breakfast turned into brunch, which turned into tennis, which turned into billiards, which turned into late afternoon cocktails, which turned into a massive barbecue where servants sliced smoked ham and roasted sides of rare beef.
A social photographer clicked away, promising Mrs Hindmarsh she’d make the Sunday colour supplement. TR found himself being frequently posed alongside cooing young women.
The pictures caused much ribald comment at the next rodeo event. The other riders gave TR a hard time, either teasing him about the girls — ‘Watch those Southern belles … ring-a-ding-ding!’ — or accusing him of being a snob — ‘Our company not good enough for you, huh?’
He didn’t mention the job offer from Clayton Hindmarsh to them, but TR longed to talk it over with someone. He made some international calls, eventually tracking down Dingo McPherson.
Dingo roared with laughter over the long distance line. ‘You wouldn’t read about it! Of course I know who Clayton Hindmarsh is! Listen, TR, I know it seems a strange and foreign world over there — well it is! And they have some funny ways of doing things. But Clayton’s word is good and if you work with him for a couple of years, you’ll be able to write your own ticket when you come back to Australia.’
This cheered TR. He could look on this job as a sort of apprenticeship, learning what he could to set up his own business back home. In his heart he had been considering it a means of escape, rather than having to face returning to the memories of Queenie.
‘You’re right, Dingo. I reckon I’ll take it. Any other news?’
‘Need bloody rain, but that’s nothing new, mate. No, everything is fine. Let me know how things work out. If I’m in the States, I’ll come visit.’
After he hung up it occurred to Dingo he could have passed on the news of Warwick Redmond managing Tingulla. He dismissed the idea. TR won’t be going back to work at Tingulla, or anywhere else when he comes back. He’ll be setting up his own place. ‘And good luck to him,’ thought Dingo.
So TR called Clayton — no one seemed to write letters in America but used the telephone instead — and accepted the job as assistant trainer for Bon Vite, the Hindmarsh stud. He would be under the wing of old Tommy and Clayton’s job instructions were blunt: ‘Pick the old buzzard’s brains clean, TR.’
In a month he would go South, to a new life and a new beginning. Australia, Tingulla and Queenie were the past.
Chapter Twelve
It was all over.
Queenie stood on the quiet, tree-lined street outside the anonymous walled grounds of the convent where her child had been taken from her. The street was deserted and only an occasional car splashed through the water-filled potholes. Drivers, intent on the road ahead, ignored the lonely figure with bag at her feet, sheltering from the drizzling rain under a maple tree, waiting for a taxi.
She felt utterly desolate. She was guilt-stricken because she hadn’t fought to see her baby, but knew in her heart that had she seen and held it, the wrench, the sense of loss, would be even harder to bear. Large drops of water fell from the clouds onto her hair and washed wisps over her forehead and eyes.
Queenie looked up at the tree — an imported species — and stared at the dripping leaves, so foreign to her outback eyes. ‘You don’t belong here,’ she thought. ‘And neither do I.’ She closed her eyes and let the rain run over her face.
‘C’mon, luv. Hop in and get out of the bloody rain, or you’ll start sprouting.’ She hadn’t even noticed the taxi pull up.
The taxi dropped Queenie at the Blue Lagoon Guesthouse, and Millie met her and hugged her on the verandah. ‘Come on up to my room and we’ll dry you out. Lord, you do look a wreck.’
In the spacious, high-ceilinged room with Victorian furniture and shiny brass bedstead, Queenie towelled her hair while Millie put on the electric jug and spooned instant coffee into cups. ‘How are you feeling?’ she asked over her shoulder.
‘Fine.’
Millie turned and looked at her.
‘Lousy,’ Queenie corrected and tried to smile. Instead tears began to slide silently down her cheeks.
Millie smoothed them away. ‘Well, that’s not surprising, is it? But there’s no time for tears, Queenie. You’ve got to get on with life — and there’s a lot of it to come. Now, what’s the next step?’
Queenie drew a deep, shuddery breath. ‘I don’t honestly know. I thought I’d go further north. Maybe see the Barrier Reef. A tropical island sounds like a good idea for a bit.’
She smiled wanly, took the coffee and sat in a cane chair. She wouldn’t admit it but she felt physically and emotionally drained. She’d been having nightmares that some beast had attacked her, ripping the baby from her body and taking all her insides as well. She felt hollow, shell-like and haunted.
After recovering some composure under Millie’s sure hand, Queenie took a room at the Blue Lagoon, and next day they both went to the railway station where Millie caught a train back to meet Jim at Cricklewood. Queenie was feeling much better. A long night’s sleep after a good meal in the company of relaxed guests at the Blue Lagoon had helped dispel some of her gloom, and fussing around getting Millie packed and booked on the express gave life a new sense of purpose.
When Millie was settled in her train seat she let down the window. They exchanged smiles. ‘Enjoy the trip, Millie. I’ll keep in touch.’
‘Quite looking forward to it really. You have a good rest, now.’ There was an awkward silence. ‘Me and Jim will pack up everything at Cricklewood and head back to Tingulla at the end of the week. Don’t you worry about anything, luv. You go off and have a nice holiday.’
There was a shrill whistle from the platfor
m attendant, the guard waved a green flag, doors banged shut, the engine whistle blew; and with a rattle the train slowly began to move.
Queenie and Millie quickly exchanged a kiss, held hands briefly, then let them slip apart as the train picked up speed.
They waved to each other until the carriage passed the end of the platform and swung away. Queenie turned and walked into the crowd.
Two days later Queenie was in another world. She lay on her back on soft silver sand, the warmth of the sun seeping into her bones. The harsh sunlight was filtered by the swaying fronds of a palm tree and a book lay discarded by her side as she dozed.
Gradually the sun moved and began burning her legs. She stirred and sat up, gazing along the deserted strip of beach. Past the breakwater she could see the splashing white spume as waves crashed on the narrow strip of reef with a faint rumble.
Queenie pulled up the straps of her swimsuit and ran to the water, slipping into the aquamarine coolness. She swam underwater with lazy strokes, her hair fanning out around her like drifting sea ferns.
Drying off in the sun once more she saw Alf, the leaseholder of Neptune Island, strolling towards her in his uniform of torn shorts, faded singlet and battered straw hat. ‘G’day.’
‘G’day,’ replied Queenie, taking off her sunglasses.
‘Flat out like a lizard drinkin’, I see. Guess you’re copin’ with the pressure.’
Queenie laughed. ‘I’m coping, but how are you standing up to the executive stress of management?’
‘Oh, getting by. Doing my best to ignore the Dow-Jones Index and the price of gold in London.’
Queenie was enjoying the banter. Such exchanges had become part of the daily routine. Alf seemed to be perpetually ambling around his island on foot, or on a rusty old bicycle, chatting up guests, or doing the odd repair job.
‘What executive decisions have you made today, Alf ?’ Queenie asked with a wry smile.
‘Whether to put sea perch or bream on the menu for lunch. Which reminds me, lunch is on — the others are already tuckin’ in.’
‘What is it, bream or perch?’
‘Both … and prawns I caught last night.’
‘I’ll be right along.’
Alf had been a beachcomber who had lived for years on Neptune, an island in the Whitsunday Passage off Queensland’s north coast. He was almost a recluse, barely making ends meet, until one day on a trip to the mainland he’d bought a lottery ticket and won a small fortune.
Alf had simply expanded his simple cabin-style accommodation on the beach, bought a bigger boat and taken in a handful of guests. It was an almost primitive, peaceful paradise and relatively few people knew about it.
Alf didn’t advertise, but word of mouth recommendations guaranteed him a steady flow of like-minded guests who weren’t too demanding.
Queenie found it a healing time. She took each day as it came. The biggest task was deciding on which side of the island to swim and sunbake; or whether or not to go out to the reef and snorkel, and to lose herself in the jewelled world beneath the surface, where a myriad of multi-spangled fish darted through the rainbow coloured coral and grottoes.
Some mornings she rose early and joined Alf in his fishing boat, enjoying the challenge of bringing a fighting tuna alongside. Other days were spent swinging in a hammock between palm trees, or reading in the cool shade of the rocks on the shore where the sea breeze turned the pages.
Her body quickly returned to its slim firm shape, her skin bronzed, and her hair shone with streaks of sunlight.
Queenie lost track of time and stopped caring about it. Until one morning when Alf came strolling up the beach to her personal hideaway behind some rocks and squatted down for a chat. Over the weeks he had become quite interested in the attractive young woman who kept to herself so much and seemed to be guarding her privacy.
He pushed back his ragged-rimmed straw hat, took his pipe from the hip pocket of his shorts and went through the silent ritual of lighting up. Satisfied with the flow of smoke he ran his eye around the white sandy foreground and two-tone blue horizon and announced decisively, ‘Beaut day’.
‘Like every other day,’ said Queenie, rolling on her stomach so it would be easier to talk to him.
‘Yep. Get more than our fair share of good days, I reckon. But it’ll rain one day. Storm like hell. Cyclone will come screamin’ in from the north-east and practically flatten everything. You can bet on it happening but you can’t predict when. But that’s life, isn’t it?’
Queenie turned her head slightly to look at the weather-beaten face. ‘That’s life?’ she repeated.
‘Well, what I mean is,’ and he paused to puff on his pipe for a few seconds, ‘what I mean is, life’s calm followed by a storm, followed by calm, isn’t it? The thing is, not to let the storms flatten you. That’s why these palm trees here are so old and still standing despite the storms. They bend with the wind, and when it’s all over they carry on as usual.’
Queenie thought for a while. ‘I guess you’re right, Alf … calm, storm, calm.’
‘You been in a storm lately, Queenie?’ asked Alf casually.
‘Why do you ask that?’
‘Cos you looked like a refugee from a big blow when you arrived.’
‘How do I look now?’ Alf looked down and grinned. ‘Calm … dead calm.’
They looked at each other for a few seconds, saying nothing. Then Queenie rolled over and sat up. They both gazed at the empty horizon. ‘Then I guess I’d better get on with life, Alf.’
‘Yep. That’s what we’ve all got to do — get on with life. And I’d better check on lunch. See ya.’
He knocked out his pipe, stuffed it in his shorts and set off back down the beach.
Queenie knew it was time to move on.
The next day she paid Alf and he ferried her across to one of the bigger islands nearby where she caught a seaplane back to the main-land. Her car was still parked under the mango tree where she’d left it, dotted with splotches of rotting fruit.
Queenie picked a dozen edible mangoes from the ground and put them on the seat beside her. She drove back down the coast but didn’t feel she was ready for Tingulla. She kept going south, through Brisbane to the resort city of Surfers Paradise.
She marvelled at the towers of twinkling lights looming along the beachfront and decided to check into one of the new luxury hotels. Staying above three levels was a novelty and Queenie asked for the highest room available.
‘I feel like a bird in its nest,’ she thought, peering down from the fifteenth floor.
Queenie eyed the mystery of the bulky television set in her room. In a while she was sitting transfixed, laughing aloud at the antics of the Lucille Ball show.
Later, Queenie bathed and sprawled across the deluxe queen size bed, flipping through the Women’s Weekly magazine. She stopped and slowly sat up. In the coloured pages of the ‘People Overseas’ section was a picture of TR.
The photograph was taken at the famous Kentucky Derby and there was TR holding the winning horse. The picture was headlined, Australian Aids US Winner. The caption told of the success TR Hamilton was having with top stud and stable, Bon Vite, owned by Clayton Hindmarsh, pictured with his daughter, Miss Virginia Hindmarsh.
Queenie studied the picture. TR had moved into another world as well, working for an American millionaire who owned champion horses and who had a pretty blonde daughter.
Slowly she closed the magazine, placing it neatly on top of the TV. She smoothed the bed and pulled out her bag, opened the built-in cupboard and began folding her clothes.
Queenie realised the holiday had come to an end. As though finishing a book, she snapped her mind shut to TR, past joys and lost dreams. She was ready to go back to Tingulla and start life anew.
The next morning she checked out of the hotel and flung her bag in the back of the car. She drove with her back to the sea, away from the overindulgent blues and greens of the coast, heading towards the great inland plains, t
he austere red heart of Australia and the land she knew and loved.
As was her way, Queenie didn’t tell anyone she was returning to Tingulla. It was in the back of her mind to see how things were functioning under Warwick’s guidance without alerting him that she was coming home.
The sight of the familiar landscape as she approached Tingulla filled her heart with happiness, and a calmness settled over her. The land worked its magic and soon Queenie’s mind was running over with plans and ideas for carrying on her father’s dreams for Tingulla.
Queenie parked the dust-coated car in front of the grand entrance to the homestead, noting with pleasure the well-kept gardens, the repaired fences, some fresh paintwork and an overall air of well-being. After an absence it struck her forcefully what a showplace this was and what a responsibility she held. The heritage and beauty of Tingulla Station had to be preserved.
With Millie back at the helm the house was spotless, although lacking Queenie’s personal touch. Queenie sniffed appreciatively at the smell of baking which led her to the kitchen.
Sitting at the large pine kitchen table, watching Millie pull a batch of scones from the Aga oven, was Sarah. Both girls squealed in delight and ran to hug each other, making Millie jump. ‘My goodness, Queenie. You didn’t half give me a shock. You might have told us you were coming back. And so soon,’ exclaimed Millie, as Queenie gave her a hug.
‘What for, Millie? Everything looks great, the tea’s made, scones are ready and you’ve got my best friend sitting here!’ Queenie turned to Sarah. ‘So … ? Tell me everything.’
Sarah didn’t say a word but simply held up her left hand, dangling it in front of Queenie’s nose. A sapphire and diamond ring glinted in the light.
‘You’re not! Engaged! Oh, Sarah … who, who, who?’ demanded Queenie, examining the ring.
‘You don’t know him … but he’s wonderful.’
‘Of course! Don’t tell me … he’s a Swiss banker, an Austrian ski instructor … a Venetian gondolier!’
