Heart of the Dreaming

by DIMORRISSEY

  Roger Ambrose shook his head. ‘This country is amazing. Most Americans have no idea what’s out here. We think it’s all kangaroos and natives and pioneer towns. I was knocked out by Sydney, and now to see a place like this out here in, what did the pilot call it … “never-never land”. Unbelievable.’

  The afternoon was closing in, the sun sinking behind the blue hills. Warwick turned the Land Rover towards the stockyard where Queenie was working.

  The big bay mare had proved an obstinate animal. Ernie grinned as he watched Queenie walk the horse about the ring talking to it softly but firmly. The horse tossed its head and its haunches quivered, disliking the light saddle buckled to its back.

  Warwick switched the engine off and the two men sat quietly watching Queenie. ‘Who’s the black man?’ whispered Roger.

  ‘Ernie — one of our senior stockmen. Good man, does some droving too.’

  ‘Why doesn’t he break the horses?’

  ‘You’ll see.’

  Queenie decided it was time to attack once again. She brought the horse to a stop, turned its head and had a foot in the stirrup, swinging lightly into the saddle before the bay realised what was happening.

  The horse began bucking and propping, and although her hat was flung from her head, Queenie stayed firmly in place, managing to look in command, gracefully flowing with the violent movements of the bay mare. Within a few minutes the horse resigned itself and began walking, then — guided by Queenie — started trotting.

  ‘See how she’s giving the horse commands with the reins. Watch how she turns its head, but she’s incredibly gentle with its mouth. When Queenie breaks a horse it stays a good horse. A badly broken horse stays bad,’ commented Warwick.

  Queenie slid from the horse, unbuckled the saddle and handed it to Ernie. She fished in the pocket of her shirt for a couple of sugar cubes which she gave to the horse. Then, without warning, she grasped the horse’s mane and swung herself onto its bare back. ‘Open the gate, Ernie. I want her to get used to the feel of someone on her, not just a saddle.’

  He lifted the looped wire over the post and pushed the gate open. Holding the reins lightly, Queenie pressed her leg against the horse’s flank and moved it through the gate.

  She rode bareback easily, taking the horse into a slow canter, her gold-brown hair dancing around her head as it caught the last of the light.

  The two men stepped from the car and walked over to Ernie. Roger Ambrose strained his eyes for a better look at Queenie. She had a superb figure and sat a horse better than any man he’d ever seen, but he wondered what she looked like close up.

  Feeling pleased with herself, Queenie turned the bay back to the yard where it trotted obediently to the railing. She slid to the ground, looped the reins over the post and turned to face them.

  Ambrose had seen some beautiful women in his time, but Queenie took his breath away. Her soft hair fell about her shoulders framing her heart-shaped face and vivid emerald green eyes fringed with thick dark lashes, her high cheekbones and glowing skin. Her wide, sensuous mouth was grinning with delight.

  ‘This is my wife, Queenie. This is Roger Ambrose,’

  ‘Hello. Welcome to Tingulla.’

  ‘My pleasure to be here. You’re quite a horsewoman. And very beautiful. You should be in the movies!’

  Queenie laughed. ‘Now, you’re not going to win me over with flattery. But thank you, anyway.’

  She spoke briefly to Ernie before turning back to the men. ‘Shall we head back to the house? So tell me, Mr Ambrose, what do you think of my Tingulla?’

  ‘Call me Roger. I’m completely knocked out by it — by everything.’ He gazed at Queenie, including her in his comment.

  ‘I’m pleased to hear it. But the best is yet to come. You haven’t tried Millie’s cooking yet.’

  The food was delicious, but Roger Ambrose scarcely noticed. He wasn’t listening to Warwick’s talk, either. He was watching Queenie.

  The stunning girl in the paddocks had bloomed into an alluring and sophisticated woman in the candlelight.

  Roger Ambrose had made his decision. Tingulla had a lot more possibilities for Red Jack than he’d ever imagined.

  Chapter Twenty

  It was early morning and raucous bird calls rang through the bush. In the stillness a heavy, dead eucalypt branch crashed to the ground, causing the birds to shriek and with beating wings, sweep away. An immaculate magpie flew from the cover of the trees across the cleared ground to land on a smart white paling fence. It cocked its head at the sound of galloping hooves in the distance.

  Carved from the natural bush setting was a neatly fenced, dirt racetrack, where a horse thundered around the circuit in the haze of morning light.

  An old man sat on a log bench beside the track, his chin sunk on his chest. He was not dozing in the sun but watching the spinning second hand of his fob watch. He glanced up as the horse approached, striding broadly and easily as it neared the end of the two mile gallop. A frail Aboriginal boy was perched on its massive back like a dragonfly balanced on a charging rhino.

  TR drove his new Range Rover past Guneda’s tidy green paddocks to the racetrack and joined old Bobby on the bench.

  Bobby looked back down at his watch and gave a soft whistle.

  ‘Bill doing all right, hey?’ asked TR.

  ‘Going like the clappers. Bugger can run all right, TR. What we don’t know is whether he wants to win every race.’

  ‘Won’t know that till he has some competition.’

  ‘Yeah. He’s strong. And big. But still a youngster. He’s not ready yet.’

  TR grinned as the horse slowed and the young jockey turned it towards them. ‘I have to admit he’s grown into a better looking fella than that gangling great dane we picked up at the auction.’

  ‘It’s all the attention he gets. He thrives on affection,’ said Bobby.

  The big russet horse lifted his head and turned at the sound of Bobby’s voice, and trotted to the two men as they leaned over the railing.

  ‘How’s he doing, Mick?’

  The boy slid down from the tall animal, unbuckling his hard hat, allowing the shock of blue-black curls to spring free. ‘Good, boss. Still likes to have his own way a bit. But he’s learning.’

  ‘You both are. You’re coming on real good, Mick,’ said Bobby. ‘You got a ride this week?’

  ‘Yeah, for Donaldson at the Timbarloo picnic races. Don’t think much of me chances. I’m waiting for the day I get to ride Bill here in the Melbourne Cup.’

  ‘You may be a little kid, Mick, but you’ve sure got big dreams,’ laughed TR.

  The horse leaned forward, sniffing TR’s jacket and giving him a disdainful nudge with his nose before turning his attention to Bobby, snuffling and forcing his way into Bobby’s coat where he knew there was a treat waiting. Mick took the saddle and blanket from his perspiring horse.

  Bobby ducked under the railing. ‘I’ll take him back and groom him. See you later, TR.’

  ‘Mick, throw the gear in the Range Rover and I’ll take you back to the stables.’

  They drove off and Bobby strolled through the paddock with the devoted horse walking beside him unguided, his reins swinging free. The two of them spent a lot of time together, ‘going for walks’. The old man would drag on his hand-rolled cigarette as he enjoyed the sight of the trees and the song of the birds; the horse beside him, occasionally pausing to sniff the ground or nibble a bush. It was always Bill who decided when it was time to go home, turning around and giving Bobby a gentle nudge just to make sure he got the message.

  TR and Mick went into the stable set aside for Bill, and TR looked on as Mick began pulping Bill’s feed.

  ‘He’s giving him pineapples and beetroot.’ Mick shook his head. ‘Never heard of a horse loving pineapples. Bill’s crazy about’em. Bobby has some friend in Queensland with a farm who sends down tons of them. Old Bobby sure got some funny ideas. Says Bill’s never gonna wear shoes either.’

  ‘Wh
atever he’s doing, Bill seems to be happy. Well, I better go check on that temperamental mare of Sir Ashton Holloway. She won’t let the stallion near her.’

  ‘Them’s women, hey, boss?’ commented the worldly wise seventeen-year-old.

  ‘So what exactly is this movie Red Jack all about, Roger?’ asked Queenie as she poured the tea.

  ‘It may surprise you. It’s an Australian story but with universal appeal — a romance. It’s loosely based on a poem by one of your old bush poets. Red Jack is a wild and beautiful young woman no man can tame. A woman who can outride any man — a real tomboy and rebel. Being Edwardian times, her behaviour is considered rather shocking. She lives with her poor widowed father who is in danger of being thrown off his land by the rich landowner next door. The landowner has a handsome son who thinks of himself as the best horseman in the district. The girl’s father has a young racehorse and it comes down to a gamble between the rich son and his horse, and the poor father and his horse to decide the fate of their land. If the father’s horse wins, he stays, if Benton the landowner’s son wins, his father takes the land and Red Jack, and her father will be homeless. It all hinges on this race.’

  ‘And naturally the girl rides her father’s horse and wins,’ said Queenie drily.

  ‘Of course! But she rides disguised as a man. And naturally Benton falls in love with her and they end up together, so the father can stay on his land the rest of his days. There’s a bunch of other stuff in there, like how Benton has to win Red Jack over. She’s called Red Jack because of her wild red hair. You’d make a wonderful Red Jack.’

  ‘I don’t go to the pictures, let alone act in them,’ replied Queenie. ‘I hope you can find an actress who can ride well.’

  ‘Oh, that doesn’t matter …’ Roger paused, a smile spreading over his face. ‘Say, you’d be perfect as Red Jack’s double!’

  ‘As what?’

  ‘If we dyed your hair red you could stand in for the actress by doing all the actual riding scenes. Would you? We’d pay you well for it, of course.’

  ‘Roger, I haven’t agreed to this film being made here yet! I still have to run Tingulla. My time is very valuable.’

  ‘Name a price.’

  ‘I’ll think about it. Warwick and I will discuss it all and get back to you.’ Queenie cocked her head, hearing the distant drone of a Cessna.

  ‘I can’t thank you enough for your hospitality. These past couple of days here have been truly wonderful. It’s too bad you couldn’t take in paying guests. This is the Australia tourists should see.’

  ‘Please! I have enough to contemplate — what with movie crews and stunt riding or whatever, without thinking of going into the tourist business.’ Queenie shook his hand warmly. She had found the American charming, polite and practical. Not at all what she had expected from a Hollywood movie man. ’As I said, well think it over.’

  ‘Can’t ask more than that.’ Roger Ambrose picked up his bag. ‘Say goodbye to Warwick for me.’

  ‘He’s gone to collect two of our men who are out after a killer dingo … a wild dog. Hopefully they’ve got him. He’s been slaughtering our sheep.’

  Roger Ambrose nodded. He was still finding it difficult to adjust to this beautiful and authoritative woman. She was totally feminine but there was a capable toughness about her that he found fascinating. It was interesting to compare the helpless beauties he knew with this gorgeous woman who was utterly self-sufficient. He realised that if they were out there alone in this wild country he would be dependent on her for survival.

  As the plane rose above Tingulla homestead he saw Queenie walking across the front lawn. She had a lot of qualities of the heroine of their film. If only she’d allow them to shoot there. It would solve a lot of their problems, but in his heart he knew Queenie was wise to be cautious. He’d never allow a film crew anywhere near his home. It was like inviting a full-scale circus, an opera company, and the government of a banana republic to take over your life.

  It took Warwick some time to locate Snowy and Jim from the rough directions they had given above the static of the two-way radio. It was late afternoon before he spotted the curl of blue smoke from their campfire.

  Snowy had pegged out three dingo skins and Jim sat by the fire, his rifle and walking stick resting beside him. He lifted a hand in cheerful salute as Warwick drove through the trees.

  Snowy poured tea from the old billy into a mug and handed it to Warwick. ‘Jim’s medicine worked real good. Them dogs come in sniffing after his brew quick smart.’

  ‘Potted the first one, no trouble,’ Jim said. ‘The other two were more wary. But we reckon we got the bugger that killed our sheep.’

  ‘Any more of them around?’

  ‘Hard to say. Snowy can’t find any fresh tracks. Think it was just one group. Haven’t seen any elephants or tigers either,’ grinned Jim, indicating their brush hide which had sheltered and hidden them for the last few days. ‘We were beginning to feel like two big-game hunters. Started making up stories to pass the time.’

  ‘I see you’ve been keeping busy,’ said Warwick to Jim.

  Jim lifted the strips of leather he was braiding into an intricately patterned belt. ‘Roo hide. Thought I’d make a present for Queenie. I’m working her initials into it.’

  ‘Looks good, Jim. Christ! What was that noise?’

  Snowy and Jim exchanged a glance then Snowy reached under the blanket beside him and lifted out a fat golden-brown ball of fur. ‘Dingo pup. We killed the mother. This little fella crawled into our camp.’

  ‘Well, kill it. Bash it on the head. We don’t want more full-grown dingoes about the place,’ said Warwick.

  Jim and Snowy looked uncomfortable. ‘He put up such a fight we figured he’d earned a chance. I thought I’d take him back and give him to Millie to feed till he can manage on his own, then take him up into the hills and let him go.’

  ‘What the hell for? You can’t make a pet of these dogs, Jim. Their killer instinct is bred in too deep.’

  Jim took the pup. ‘If he puts a paw wrong, I’ll do him in.’

  Warwick shook his head and refilled his mug of tea. ‘Reckon you blokes have been out in the sun too long. Pack up and we’ll head back.’

  ‘You ever hear the story of giant devil dingo?’ Snowy asked Jim as they started gathering their gear together.

  ‘Nope. Tell it to us, Snowy.’

  Warwick helped the men break camp, throwing the dingo hides in the back of the truck, but found himself avidly following Snowy’s sing-song recital of one of his favourite Aboriginal tales, and soon forgot all about the dingo pup.

  Colin and Dina joined the Camboni family for their traditional Sunday lunch. Eighteen people were seated around the long wooden table under the grapevine in the garden. Antipasto of home-baked bread, olives pickled in the Australian sun, goat cheese and assorted salamis were spread on platters. Frascati wine in raffia-covered bottles was passed up and down the table, while in the kitchen the Camboni women prepared and garnished the main courses.

  Included among the guests was Roger Ambrose who once again enthused about his visit to Tingulla. ‘Colin, if you have any influence with your sister, please ask her to agree to letting us film there. It’s perfect. The location, the house, the animals, extras who can ride — it’s all there. I told Queenie she’d be a great double for the leading lady. Boy, can she ride!’

  Dina turned to Colin. ‘I must see Tingulla and your sister at home on the range, darling.’ She turned to Roger. ‘It’s hard to imagine her like that. I’ve only seen her dressed up here in Sydney where she seems such a …’ She was going to say snob, but knew that wasn’t right. What was it about Queenie that faintly irritated Dina? Her aloofness maybe.

  ‘… a lady,’ supplied Roger. ‘Elegant and gracious one minute, then a sort of free spirit on horseback the next.’

  Colin changed the subject. ‘The film is definitely going ahead then? You’ve found all your investors?’

  ‘The stud
io put up the distribution guarantee and half the budget so it wasn’t too hard to persuade a few wily businessmen it was a worthwhile investment.’

  ‘Gamble, you mean.’ laughed Alfredo Camboni. ‘Movies are always a risk unless you are prepared to lose money or have a clever accountant.’

  ‘Surely if the film is a hit you can make a big profit,’ commented one of the other men.

  Roger leaned forward. ‘Of course you can. And a film like this is sure to make money. It has American studio backing, it’s got two major American TV stars in their first big film, it’s a great script and the Australian setting is going to knock the socks off American audiences — and the rest of the world. They’ll love it. Can’t miss.’

  ‘So where do I send my cheque?’ laughed the old Italian.

  Colin held out his hand. ‘See me. I’m handling the financial side. I thought I’d even put up some of my own money, I believe in the project so much.’

  Dina gave Colin a bemused glance but said nothing.

  Colin later called Warwick and spoke to him privately. ‘This Red jack movie deal could be good. I’ve lined up several investors this end so, frankly, I think you should persuade Queenie it’s a good idea. If you could scrape up some of the ready to invest yourself, Warwick, I reckon you’ll make a killing too.’

  The glamour and the novelty of a film being made at Tingulla meant nothing to Queenie. But the figures did. She sat at her desk working out the cost factors of time, facilities, food, availability of men, horses and vehicles, and weighed it against the income offered by Mountain Pictures. Tingulla came out in front.

  ‘All right, Warwick, we’ll do it. But I want you to keep tabs on the outgoing costs involved on a daily basis. I can just imagine they’ll be changing their minds and asking for this or that which we hadn’t allowed for, and if that’s the case, it’s to be charged to the film. This is a business exercise, not fun and games.’

  Having agreed to Red Jack being filled at Tingulla, Queenie went about her business. Letters of agreement were sent to her from Mountain Pictures in Los Angeles which she read carefully, and passed on to her solicitors before signing. Roger Ambrose included a personal note saying how delighted he was and how he looked forward to ‘working with her’. He also explained it would be at least two months before they came out.