Heart of the Dreaming

by DIMORRISSEY

  One morning TR strolled into the stables telling Bobby, ‘Righto, get yourself ready. Tomorrow we’re leaving for the thoroughbred sales. Time we started getting some up-market bloodstock for the place.’

  The yearling sales, held in Sydney, were becoming a bit of a social event.

  A special pavilion was set aside near Randwick Racecourse with padded seats placed around the centre ring where the expensive animals were paraded. Prospective buyers could study the horses beforehand in their stalls, reading their pedigree posted on the box door or in the sale catalogue. If requested, a trainer, owner or stablehand, might take the horse out and walk it about for closer inspection.

  Gossip and rumours flew about the stable area, passed on from the boy who swept out the stalls, to the head of an owners’ syndicate … stories that a certain horse was going to fetch a fortune … that the progeny of a famous sire was really up the creek.

  Fashionably dressed women went to be seen at the sales, fanning themselves with their catalogues in the steamy heat. Lavish luncheons were held in private tents around the grounds. The social column writers and sports page journalists ensured everyone and everything of consequence or interest got reported.

  Bobby was in his element. He found some old mates, some still working, others retired like himself, who enjoyed the exhilaration of the auction and couldn’t keep away. Bobby knew breeders and owners, their successes and failures, and could recite the genealogy of most horses. His advice was invaluable and TR listened to and noted his comments.

  His tweed cap pushed back on his head, cigarette stuck to his lip, hands clasped behind his back, Bobby strolled up and down the horse stalls, looking and listening. TR scribbled in the small notebook he kept in his checked shirt pocket, and estimated his limit on each of the four horses he planned to buy. He and Bobby had mutually agreed they would all be solid investments. Fit, fine-looking horses with good pedigrees. Nothing flashy, not big’stars’, but all with the potential to produce possible winners.

  Late in the afternoon the day before the major auction took place, when the bars were crowded with the hybrid collection of racing and breeding identities, Bobby tugged at TR’s arm. ‘Let’s go get a meat pie.’

  They left the noisy bar and went to one of the small stands outside selling meat pies, sausage rolls, salad rolls, sweet buns, tea and fruit juices. Carefully lifting the pastry lid on his pie, Bobby squirted in a liberal dash of tomato sauce and headed for a bench in the open air. TR sat beside him, biting into a flaky sausage roll.

  ‘I spotted another one I think you should look at, TR.’

  ‘I can’t afford another horse, Bobby. Clayton has set me certain limits. Unless you think we should get this one instead of one of the others?’

  Bobby shook his head, wiping the red smear of sauce from around his mouth with the back of his hand. ‘Nope. I reckon you should buy this one for yourself. To race.’

  ‘Come off it, Bobby. I can’t afford to get into the racing game. We’re here to buy horses for stud purposes. With someone else’s money.’

  ‘He’s only a young fella. Going up in the yearling sales after the big auction starts. You’d get him for a thousand dollars. I know a bit about his background.’

  ‘Sounds like a bit of an expensive gamble to me.’

  ‘Horses are always a gamble, TR. But some of them have something about them. Strike me, I’d be prepared to sink my savings into this bloke and go you halves!’

  ‘You’d be willing to risk the lot on this unknown, untried colt?’

  Bobby screwed up the paper bag which had held his pie, and grinned at TR. ‘Hell, I’ve taken a punt before today and lost. Won some, too. Keeps life interesting.’

  ‘You’d better show me this wonder horse.’

  Bobby led the young stallion from its box, nodding to the boy lounging on a chair reading a magazine. ‘Just going to walk him out to the water troughs and back. Ginger.’

  The boy shrugged. ‘Sure, Bobby, go ahead.’ ‘Knew his Dad,’ commented Bobby as he patted the horse. ‘Come on, Blinky Bill.’ ‘God almighty! What sort of a name is that for a horse?’

  ‘Didn’t you ever read The Adventures of Blinky Bill when you were a kid … wonderful book. Blinky was a very wise bloke.’

  ‘He was a fat little koala who got into trouble a lot.’

  ‘You’re right. Well, this fella’s grandfather always ran in blinkers. Went bonkers if he didn’t. Was called Sir William of Orange or some such rubbish but was always known as Blinky. This is his grandson, Sweet William. I’ll tell you his lineage later … take a good look at him.’

  Bobby walked the horse around in a circle in the sun-drenched paddock by the stalls, watching his legs and feet.

  TR sighed. ‘Struth, he’s not an attractive horse, Bobby. In fact, he’s quite ugly with those long spindly legs. And his head’s too big. How old is he?’

  ‘Ah, he’s still growing into his feet, aren’t you Bill?’ The young horse stretched forward and sniffed Bobby’s hand curled in his pocket.

  TR walked around the horse, running his hands down its legs, lifting its hooves, then feeling the pectoral muscles and the horse’s heartbeat. The horse sidestepped away.

  ‘Easy, Bill,’ murmured Bobby. ‘He’s going to be a big strong fella.’

  ‘Bloody great drink of water,’ muttered TR looking up at the horse. ‘I agree he’s big for his age and since he’s still growing, he’ll be a monster. Will he be a runner, though?’

  ‘He’s got a big heart, TR. That means he’s got stamina. And he’s got personality — not pretty, but smart.’

  They walked on either side of the horse, heading back to the stables.

  ‘I don’t know, Bobby,’ said TR dubiously as he unlatched the half-door of Bills’ box. As he spoke, the horse dropped his head and gave TR a heavy butt in the centre of his back, sending him sprawling into a pile of hay.

  The horse whinnied and Bobby burst out laughing. ‘Think you’re pretty clever do you?’ said TR to the horse, as he dusted the straw from his clothes.

  ‘He’s got spirit hey, TR?’ said Bobby as they walked away.

  ‘Mmm.’ TR was deep in thought and Bobby kept silent, rubbing a plug of tobacco in the centre of his palm, a cigarette paper stuck to his bottom lip.

  The bidding during the main auction for the good horses kept everyone entertained as prices rose, voices were raised and the crowd gasped and applauded as the auctioneer’s gavel banged.

  TR recalled some advice Dingo had once given him, and sat to one side with an offhand manner, keeping out of proceedings until what seemed like the last bid, then he came in quietly and confidently. It was a tactic that tended to close out the opposition. His manner didn’t invite a bidding challenge and since the horses he wanted weren’t major ‘stars’ of the day, TR got them for below the price he’d set himself. Bobby waited in the rear of the pavilion, finding it far too nerve-wracking an experience.

  Later in the day TR and Bobby watched the yearling sales where offspring of Melbourne Cup winners and other well-known racehorses, fetched high prices.

  Bobby snorted under his breath as one nervous young horse was sold for a record price. ‘Just because his sire and dam won a couple of big ones doesn’t mean he’s ever going to win a race,’ he sniffed. ‘They’re lookin’ at the paperwork not the bloody horse.’

  TR smiled at the old man, thinking he was probably right in that case. But as Sweet William was led out he wondered how good Bobby’s judgment really was. This horse seemed a bit of a long shot and TR wasn’t surprised when the bidding was half-hearted.

  To TR’s shock, Bobby suddenly jumped up and shouted. ‘Four hundred!’

  ‘Sit down and keep quiet, Bobby. If we’re going to buy him, let me do it.’

  ‘What do you mean, if?’

  Several people around them grinned at the wild bid from old Bobby. One owner, knowing Bobby’s record, leaned forward to whisper in his partner’s ear. He raised his hand and the bidding went
up again.

  TR kept a restraining hand on Bobby’s arm as two more entered the bidding and like a ping pong match the auctioneer turned from one to the other as the price went up in hundred dollar lots.

  Bobby was squirming and muttering, but TR remained calm and disinterested.

  ‘Seven hundred …’

  ‘Going once … Going twice …’

  ‘Eight hundred.’ TR spoke quietly but it stilled the auctioneer’s hand.

  ‘We have new blood, ladies and gentlemen. Do I hear any advance on eight?’

  ‘Nine,’ came from the other side.

  ‘Nine. Thank you, sir.’ The auctioneer raised an eyebrow at TR.

  TR nodded. And smiled. Bobby was looking down, twisting his gnarled hands together.

  The opposing bidder looked at TR then shook his head. The auctioneer banged his hammer. ‘Sold. At one thousand to Mr Hamilton.’

  ‘Sweet Mary, Joseph and Jesus! You had me sweating, TR.’

  ‘I told you not to worry, Bobby. I didn’t decide to buy him till the six hundred mark anyway.’

  ‘Well, you’ve done it now.’

  ‘You mean we’ve done it, Bobby. You still want to go fifty-fifty? Or have I just bought myself a horse?’

  ‘No flaming fear. Count me in. Sweet William is going to be a winner.’

  ‘Bobby, let’s get this straight — we call him Bill, OK?’

  ‘Whatever you say, TR. But I’ll still think of him as Blinky.’

  TR laughed. ‘Let’s go get a beer. I’m still not sure if I should be celebrating or having my head read.’

  Before leaving Sydney TR was invited to the races with a group of acquaintances and friends who had several horses running. He was anxious to return home, but decided it might be wise to maintain contacts and let them know he was planning to breed and train on a large scale.

  It was a wise move. Several owners were interested immediately, asking if they could look over Guneda. Others were prepared to send horses to him for training simply on the basis of his and Bobby’s reputation.

  Towards the end of the day, TR decided to place a bet, his first for the meeting. He’d been too busy socialising, talking horses and watching them run to think about betting. He strolled over to the crowd around the course bookmakers who shouted from beneath their bright umbrellas; cash bag around their neck, odds chalked on a board beside them.

  He stood in line, silently debating his choice, when a slight commotion broke out at the stand next to them. ‘What’s up?’ TR asked the man beside him.

  ‘Some bloke arguing about the odds. My bookie mate told me he’s lost a packet.’

  TR glanced over at the unlucky punter and caught his breath. Warwick was angrily tearing up his betting tickets.

  He hesitated. Should he greet him or pretend he hadn’t seen him? It was TR’s turn to place his bet. By the time he’d done it, Warwick had disappeared in the crowd.

  TR returned to the exclusive Members’ Stand, ordered a coffee and moved around the club room, his eyes roving for one particular man — Freddie the Fly, famous for knowing all the course gossip. He was like the proverbial fly on the wall — seeing and hearing everything.

  Spotting the effusive, balding Freddie, TR drew him aside and, ordering a round of drinks, listened to Freddie’s latest gambling and business conquests before asking idly, ‘You know Warwick Redmond from Tingulla?’

  ‘Struth, yes. See him out here whenever he’s in Sydney. And I ran into him at the Doomben track in Brisbane once.’

  ‘Bit of a punter is he?’

  ‘A bit! He’ll bet his shirt on two flies walking up the wall.’

  ‘Iguess he knows what he’s doing.’

  ‘I’ve seen him shout the bar when he wins. You don’t hear about the losses, of course. But I know he bets heavy.’

  TR wondered if Queenie knew Warwick was a wild gambler. If he was losing heavily she’d know it — unless he gambled his own money. Nonetheless, TR was troubled for Queenie’s sake. He’d seen too many men lose everything they owned at the racetrack.

  It had been a bad week for Warwick. The bank’s head office in Sydney had not been at all helpful in the matter of extending his loan. A sure thing he’d been tipped at Rosehill had been beaten by a nose and he was running up a staggering account with the illegal SP bookies. Without cash he’d resorted to placing his bets through the off-course bookmakers. And now his problems were fast becoming public.

  Although Colin and Dina were still away on their honeymoon, Warwick decided to call Alfredo Camboni to say hello.

  ‘My dear friend. You must come and eat with us. I insist.’

  Between the veal parmigana and the insalata mista, Warwick had hinted he was having financial difficulties, that Tingulla was a tremendous drain on cash resources.

  Alfredo patted his arm. ‘I have very shrewd business advisors, I’m sure they might be able to offer some assistance. Shall we meet tomorrow, at my office? Say, about eleven? Now … mangia … the food, is magnifico, no?’

  Chapter Nineteen

  Colin and Dina returned exhausted from their long and expensive honeymoon. They locked themselves in Dina’s newly decorated apartment and slept through several days, arising for late afternoon coffee and pastry at the outdoor tables of the Cosmopolitan Café in Double Bay. Here the wealthy European and Jewish community gathered to gossip and examine their latest status symbols — jewellery, cars, clothes, wives, mistresses.

  Dina felt at home in this crowd; Colin did not.

  ‘I thought you adored Europe and all that culture, darrrling,’ goaded Dina.

  Colin waved away a drift of cigar smoke from the table beside them. ‘I do, but this mob are just rich refugees. It’s a club. They don’t mix with anybody else.’

  ‘You’re jealous because you’re not a member.’

  ‘Don’t want to be. Give me your noisy Italian friends or bushies any day. At least you know where you stand with country people.’

  ‘I must meet some of these famous “bushies” one day. So, dear husband, what are you going to do to keep me in the manner to which I am accustomed?’

  It was a thought that had been troubling Colin. ‘I could always sell one of the flats in my apartment block. But I need some sort of career. Something with a bit of prestige — that’s interesting — that makes me money. I don’t want to work like a dog on the land, nor do I want to slave away in an office from nine to five.’

  ‘Dear me. Perhaps you should marry a wealthy, older woman!’

  Colin grinned at her. ‘I know how I’d keep her happy, too.’

  Dina stood as he slipped several notes into the leather folder on the table to cover their bill.

  ‘What are you waiting for then?’

  Ever accommodating, Dina’s father had a suggestion. He arranged for Colin to meet some business friends at the European Mercantile Merchant Bank. Colin, with a degree, good looks, social contacts and solid background — coming from ‘the famous Tingulla estate’, as Alfredo Camboni put it — had the necessary qualifications. He was taken on, given a vague title and a substantial salary, and sent out to hunt down potential investors and clients.

  It was Sarah who, once again, during their periodic but lengthy telephone calls, passed on the news to Queenie about the activities of her young brother.

  ‘I’m pleased to hear he’s got a job at last. But banking! What does he know about it?’

  ‘I think he’s like a salesman, Queenie — a front man, drumming up contacts for the real numbers men. He’s obviously being quite diligent. He contacted John to ask him about any rich clients who were buying or selling property.’

  ‘It certainly seems as though he’s turned his back on everything Dad built up.’ There was a wistful note in Queenie’s voice.

  ‘Frankly, Queenie, I think things have worked out for the best. You never saw eye-to-eye with Colin.’

  ‘I did try, though, Sarah. I don’t know how or where, but somewhere along the line we seemed to fall
out.’

  ‘Put it down to sibling rivalry. He always resented you, Queenie.’

  ‘And that makes me sad. I never wanted things to be this way.’

  ‘Give it time. Maybe one day Colin will grow up.’

  ‘I suppose you’re right. When are you coming back home again?’

  ‘Queenie, this is my home now. Why don’t you come down to the city and visit us? Bring Saskia to play with young Tim.’

  The two girls began exchanging stories of their children. Queenie had seen Sarah and John’s two-year-old, Timothy, only a few times, and she would have enjoyed taking Saskia to visit her godmother Sarah in Sydney.

  ‘But I just can’t get away, Sarah. The station is quite a problem at the moment. We keep hoping for rain and we’re stretched to the limit financially. I’m really quite worried about it all.’

  Later, Sarah poured John his pre-dinner drink and told him about her conversation with Queenie. ‘I can’t imagine that Tingulla would be having financial problems. Sure, they need rain, so does Mum and Dad’s place, but that’s part of life on the land. You calculate for that.’

  ‘You think Warwick has gone overboard a bit, do you? I can’t see Queenie allowing things to get out of control,’ mused John.

  ‘I just sense Queenie is more worried than she’s letting on.’

  Warwick yawned as he turned into the stretch of dusty road leading to Tingulla’s gates. God, it was dry. The countryside was like a tinderbox — one spark and the lot would burn like fury. For most people on the land the fear of bushfire in dry seasons was a constant worry.

  Water was scarce and the dams were low. The sheep he passed had a thick coating of dust on their cream wool so that they matched the dun-coloured earth. They stood in pathetic clusters in whatever spindly shade was available. At least he would be able to tell Queenie they would be all right financially, thanks to Alfredo Camboni. The meeting with his associates had gone well. They wanted to see some details of Tingulla’s earning capacity and had assured him they had investors who would be willing to put up additional funds.