Heart of the Dreaming

by DIMORRISSEY

  ‘I mean it, Colin. It would be a very nice life style to stay here, and when it gets too boring, we could zip down to Sydney or over to the coast.’

  ‘And what do we do while we’re here? I can’t see you pulling dead lambs from a sheep’s backside.’

  ‘That’s your job, darling. You know all about this land business. It’s what you were trained for, after all. But don’t people get managers to do all that sort of thing? Run the place?’

  ‘Generally not while the owner is capable and living on the property. Let’s not talk about it, Dina. Come to bed.’ He nuzzled her cheek.

  Dina wasn’t ready to drop the subject. She linked her arm through Colin’s and rubbed her head on his shoulder, saying softly. ‘I think you were cheated, my love. This place should belong to you.’

  Colin said nothing but picked her up and carried her to the bed. Dina let him make love to her but, although her body responded, her mind was elsewhere.

  As Colin rolled over to sleep, Dina dropped a leg over his, murmuring, ‘Tingulla will be ours one day, caro. I promise you.’

  Colin grunted and fell asleep.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  It was a country race meeting, but unlike the beery, boisterous events usually found on the bush circuit, the Scone Races were popular with high society.

  The small town on the upper Hunter River was one of the prime horse breeding centres in New South Wales. Its annual cup day provided a showcase for horses and people. Everybody dressed to the teeth in gloves, hats and ties, and best boots polished to a waxed gleam. Picnic hampers were spread on card tables set with linen tablecloths, silverware and serviettes. Coolers were filled with ice to cool the abundant French champagne and local wine. Large bets were flamboyantly laid, big losses dismissed with a philosophical shrug.

  Bobby, sporting a new wool jacket with his war veteran’s badge pinned to his lapel, strolled among the groups picnicking by their cars, pausing to chat and accept a glass of beer. He rejoined TR at Bill’s stall and filled him in on the news of who was around and what the local graziers had to say.

  ‘Bill ready to run the big one, then?’ asked TR.

  ‘As ready as he always is … never seen a horse enjoy racing like this bloke does.’

  ‘Y’know, Bobby, if he picks up this one and a few more, we could run him on the flat in the metropolitan circuit. And from there … who knows … maybe the Melbourne Cup.’

  Bobby rubbed the chestnut’s nose and Bill pushed his head inside Bobby’s coat looking for the sweet that always nestled in a pocket. ‘Wouldn’t that be something, hey?’ His voice was soft and TR glanced at the expression on his face as he stroked the big horse affectionately. He realised how much the horse meant to old Bobby and the pride and satisfaction it would give him to have the horse accepted to run in Australia’s greatest race.

  Bobby pushed the horse away. ‘Go on, you big galoot … wait till you’ve won the race, then you get your reward.’

  While the jockeys were weighing in for the main event on the race card, the Fashion Fillies Cup was being held on the grass before the main grandstand. Elegant women, from teenagers to grandmothers, were decked out in special outfits, all wearing hat and gloves. Parading before several critical judges they slowly walked around a small ring marked by tubs of petunias. The winner of the Best Dressed would carry off a weekend for two in Sydney at a smart hotel with all expenses paid, plus a small silver cup.

  Last minute bets for the main race were placed and the crowd began to gather at the fence and in the quaint old, but freshly painted, grandstand. The horses pranced and circled behind the starting gates. The race caller breathed on his binoculars, polished them, and tested the public address system.

  Bobby helped Mick, their regular jockey, into Bill’s small light saddle. The slight young Aborigine tightened the chin strap on his hat and adjusted the number nine tied to his back over the pink and navy silks — the colours owned by Riann Hamilton, TR’s father.

  ‘Let Bill go right from the start, don’t hold him back. I reckon he can run the distance hell for leather, Mick.’

  Mick flashed a wide grin. ‘He’s a bugger to hold back. He likes to be out in front all the time. Sees the finish and goes for it. Never have to touch this bloke with the whip.’

  Bobby touched Bill’s nose. ‘Behave yourself. Don’t give Mick any trouble, you do what he tells ya.’

  The horse lifted its head, a twitch rippled through his muscular shoulders and he sidestepped daintily, anxious to get on with it.

  ‘Off you go. Good luck, Mick.’

  The young jockey tapped his whip to his hat and headed for the stalls across the track.

  The new electronic gates clunked open and simultaneously the ten horses sprang free.

  Bill rocketed to the lead and settled into a powerful but steady gallop. He didn’t slacken, hesitate, or look to right or left as he thundered round the racetrack, oblivious to the swaying multicoloured blur of the crowd roaring on the sidelines.

  The loudspeakers attached to poles and trees echoed around the lush green track as the horses streamed past the winning post … ‘and it’s Sweet William, number nine, by two lengths …’

  Bobby and TR led the big chestnut into the winner’s circle. ‘Well done, Mick.’

  ‘I didn’t do nothin’. Just stayed on. Bugger led all the way. Did it real easy, I reckon.’ He slid down to the ground and went in to be weighed.

  Bobby and TR unsaddled the horse and led him forward to collect the green satin cloth fringed in gold with ‘Scone Cup Winner’ emblazoned on it. The watching crowd applauded and Bill lifted his head, nodding to his fans as Bobby led him around the ring in a lap of honour.

  One of the wealthy farmers who also owned a couple of racehorses congratulated TR. ‘You picked up a good young horse there, TR. If you find anything else that looks good, let me know. How’s Guneda doing?’

  ‘Real good thanks, Donald. We have two mares about to foal and either of them could produce a strong runner, and I’ve been training a little colt for Dan Westbaker which is coming along well. He could be bought for the right price at the moment.’

  ‘I’ll let you know. Cheers, TR.’

  ‘Bill is the best advertisement we could have, eh, TR?’

  ‘Yeah, thanks to you. I would never have picked him.’

  ‘Rubbish. You’ve got the eye. Once you know all my training tricks you’ll be able to turf me out.’

  ‘You’ve always got a home with me, Bobby, for as long as you want. In fact I reckon I should speak to Clayton Hindmarsh about giving you a commission or some percentage deal.’

  ‘Nah. Don’t need money. My daughter is nicely set up, they don’t need anything. Whatever I tuck away will go to me grandkids. What do I want more money for?’

  ‘Buying another horse?’

  ‘No fear — Bill’s me mate and he takes all me spare time. Besides, the bugger would never forgive me if I started racing another fella.’

  ‘Okay, Bobby,’ laughed TR. ‘But if you feel like taking a trip to America for the Kentucky Derby or England for the Grand National … it’s on me.’

  Bobby nodded, saying seriously, ‘Thanks, TR. I tell you what, though — I wouldn’t mind thinking about maybe going to Melbourne … wouldn’t that be something?’ Shaking his head, Bobby wandered off.

  TR watched him go, his heart full of love for the man who had become a replacement for his father who had never made it in the race game. He muttered to himself, ‘We’ll get Bill to the Cup if it’s the last thing we do, Bobby.’

  Warwick and Queenie were celebrating their sixth wedding anniversary and Warwick insisted they get away from the chaos of the film set at Tingulla. ‘The Quinns have asked us over to dinner. Sarah and John are coming up and it will be a party for us.’

  Queenie sighed. ‘That’s nice of them. To tell you the truth, Warwick, it will be nice to get away. This film thing is all a bit much.’

  ‘We’re making money from ir … you w
ait and see.’

  ‘Are we?’

  Warwick gave her a hug. ‘You can’t have your present till we come home from the party.’

  ‘Warwick, you are being so mysterious about this present. What’s going on? Saskia is going around like she’s fit to burst with some secret. I haven’t got you anything too exciting I’m afraid.’

  ‘This is a present for all of us. Wait and see.’

  TR returned to Tingulla to be on call for filming his final sequences, while Bobby returned to Guneda with Bill in the horse float.

  The next day Roger Ambrose apologised to TR. ‘Bit of a delay. Won’t need you for several hours. Sorry, TR.’

  TR nodded and didn’t bother asking what this morning’s drama was about. He drifted towards the homestead kitchen and tapped at the door. Millie and Saskia were in the kitchen. Millie greeted him warmly. ‘Come and have a cup of tea, TR. Saskia has just made some Anzac biscuits.’

  Saskia ceremoniously handed him a plate with warm oatmeal and treacle cookies piled on it. TR took one and complimented the young cook while Millie poured his tea.

  The three of them sat around the table and TR filled Millie in on all his news. ‘I heard you’d won a few races and were doing well with the breeding and training. That’s good news, TR. You’ve done well since you left Tingulla.’

  Saskia tapped him on the arm. ‘Do you have a racehorse?’

  ‘You bet. He’s called Bill and he’s very big and very smart. Bobby, who looks after him, has taught him a couple of tricks.’

  Saskia sighed deeply. ‘I would love to ride a racehorse. Do you have any small racehorses?’

  TR laughed as she gazed up at him with her serious young face. ‘You can come and visit Bill any time you want, Saskia. Maybe in a couple of months you could come to Guneda when all the foals are born.’

  ‘Ooh, Millie, wouldn’t that be fun?’

  ‘You’ll have to speak to your mother about that, young lady. Guneda is a long way from Tingulla.’

  ‘Mummy and Daddy are over at the Quinns’ for two days … it’s a special party for their anniversary. And Daddy has bought a big surprise present. But I can’t tell you what it is, except it’s so big we can’t wrap it up,’ gushed Saskia, her eyes dancing with excitement.

  TR watched the impish young girl, so like Queenie with her heart-shaped face and beautiful smile. He could see she had her father’s grey eyes and dark curly hair; but her body, bone structure, movements and mannerisms were so similar to Queenie’s, TR felt he was seeing Queenie as a child.

  He noticed Millie looking at him, enjoying his rapport with Saskia. TR reacted with some embarrassment.

  ‘You’re enjoying being back here, aren’t you?’ said Millie.

  ‘Yes. It’s very …’ he paused, searching for the right word, but couldn’t quite find it. ‘Well, nostalgic. Very nostalgic.’

  He pushed his chair away from the table and changed the subject. ‘Millie, could I phone Guneda and see if Bobby and Bill got back all right?’

  ‘Help yourself, TR. Use Queenie’s study.’

  Mum Ryan spoke to TR, assuring him that both trainer and horse were safely back and that there were no problems. Mum continued to shout into the phone and TR grinned. Mum regarded the telephone as a dubious instrument and felt she improved Mr Bell’s invention by holding the receiver away from her mouth and shouting at it. ‘Anyway, TR … we sent her off in the mail truck. Might take her a couple of days to get to you.’

  TR hadn’t been paying attention. He snapped back to the phone. ‘Repeat that, Mum. Who is coming here?’

  ‘Your lady friend. She was very disappointed you weren’t here, and wouldn’t wait. Said she wanted to see the fillum-making, so we put her on the mail truck going north.’

  ‘Who?’ shouted TR.

  ‘The American lady. Very pretty … I don’t remember her name. How many girls you got over there, TR?’ boomed Mum Ryan in jolly tones.

  TR trudged back into the kitchen. ‘When’s the mail next due, Millie?’

  ‘Probably Thursday. You expecting something, TR?’

  ‘Yeah. See ya. Hooroo, Saskia.’ He walked back into the bright morning light, a slight feeling of dread in the pit of his stomach. Surely Ginny hadn’t taken it into her head to rush over and visit her father’s property.

  Warwick and Saskia, one on either side of Queenie, dragged her eagerly down to the rear of the stables.

  ‘Now, close your eyes, Mummy, and we’ll tell you when you can open them.’

  Still leading her by the hand, they walked a little further, then Warwick said, ‘Open up. Happy Anniversary, Queenie’.

  Queenie stared and her hands flew to her mouth in surprise as Saskia jumped up and down. Parked next to one of the sheds was a shiny small aeroplane with a large red bow attached to its nose. ‘Warwick … what on earth … this must have cost a fortune …’

  He dropped an arm around her shoulders and gave her a squeeze. ‘Look at the name …’

  Queenie walked to the little red and white Piper and saw painted in red near the cockpit the words, Red Jack. ‘Warwick, we can’t afford this … I mean … it’s a lovely idea …’

  ‘Don’t worry. Call it an advance on profits from the film. I can fly, but I’ll need to brush up a bit and get a new licence. Just think how useful it will be to zip over to Cricklewood, or up to the auction sales, or Brisbane.’

  Queenie smiled at him, seeing a small boy with a new toy. ‘Let’s hope both Red Jacks fly high then. Thank you, darling.’ She kissed him, trying to hide the misgivings she felt about this expensive indulgence.

  Queenie took Nareedah for a long ride and came back via the new filmset down by the creek. In a day the crew had completed the home of Red Jack and her father. The cabin looked a solid construction but was only a facade.

  ‘Jonesy’ Wilson, the Australian actor playing Red Jack’s father, was stretched out in a chair, his hat over his face, a bottle of beer at his feet. Babette Larchmont, the cover-girl American movie star playing Red Jack, was huddled with the director arguing over some fine point of her performance. Tyler (Ty) Barda, the hero — known to the Aussies on the quiet as ‘Try Harder’ — was nowhere to be seen. Queenie suspected he was probably sleeping off another hangover.

  Roger Ambrose took Queenie’s arm as they walked to the shade of the trees lining the creek bank, to watch the crew preparing for the shoot. As they sat down in director’s chairs, there was suddenly a new sound that made everyone take notice — an aeroplane engine starting.

  ‘Ah-ha,’ exclaimed Roger. ‘Red Jack is about to get off the ground,’ he smiled at Queenie. ‘How do you like your anniversary gift?’

  ‘It was a surprise. I don’t know that we need a plane, or can afford it. But it was a sweet gesture … I suppose.’

  ‘If an extravagant one,’ added Roger.

  Queenie sighed. ‘Yes, Warwick is inclined to splurge a bit. He gave me some story about money from the film helping to pay for it. The way the crew eats, I think we’ll be out of pocket!’

  Roger grinned back at her. ‘I think he meant profits from his investment in the picture.’

  Queenie stared at him. ‘Warwick invested money in the film?’

  ‘Oh dear, have I stepped out of line? Didn’t you know?’

  ‘No, I didn’t.’ Queenie looked puzzled, thinking aloud. ‘How could he put money in the film and afford to buy that plane? We’ve been running pretty close to the wind on our overdraft.’

  ‘It’s not my business, I know, Queenie, but I think Alfredo Camboni might have helped out.’

  ‘Helped out!’ Queenie’s eyes blazed. ‘That man doesn’t do anything out of the goodness of his heart.’ She snatched Nareedah’s dangling reins and swung into the saddle. ‘This has been a private conversation, Roger. Please don’t feel you have broken any confidences.’

  She rode off and Roger Ambrose was glad he wasn’t in Warwick’s shoes, having to face Queenie with an explanation. Warwick had been carried away b
y the glamour of the film industry and by the idea of quick and easy money. He had conjured up images of Hollywood film moguls and their ‘deals’. And as he had put it to Roger, rather naively, he wanted a ‘slice of the action’.

  Roger sighed, he didn’t have the heart to tell Queenie about the dismally low percentage of films that went into profit. Distributors, production companies, the studio, all creamed what they could from the exercise in the guise of fees and expenses for the making of the film, the marketing, the promotion and the selling of it.

  Millie quietly put Saskia to bed as the argument between Warwick and Queenie raged behind the closed door of the study. Warwick finally left, slamming the door behind him, and picking up a bottle of rum and a glass, headed for his back bedroom. Yet again, Queenie slept on the sofa in her study.

  TR was putting his horse through a stunt jump for the cameras down at the set by the creek when the mail truck, trailing a cloud of dust, trundled to the homestead.

  Millie appeared at the front steps wiping her hands on her apron as the driver jumped down and greeted her with a big grin. She peered past his shoulder at the figure in the passenger seat. ‘Who’s that with you, Tom?’

  ‘A visitor.’ His grin widened and he tipped his battered broad-brimmed hat to the back of his head. He called over his shoulder. ‘Hey, we’re here. You can get out.’

  The woman inside had been waiting for her door to be opened. She impatiently wrenched at the awkward handle and hitched her tight skirt above her knees so she could make the long step down to the ground. Tom continued to grin as he stared at her shapely legs. She slammed the door and strode towards them, an almost comic figure — someone dressed for a Vogue fashion spread in New York, but looking hot and bewildered in this outback setting.

  ‘This’ere is a friend of TR’s, Millie. All the way from America,’ Tom announced, as if introducing a visitor from outer space.

  Millie’s eyes widened and she hurried forward. ‘Hello, hello. I’m Millie. Come on in out of the sun, you look all hot and bothered.’