Heart of the Dreaming

by DIMORRISSEY

  Saskia was beside herself with excitement at the prospect of going to the city for the first time that she could remember, having Sarah’s son Tim as a playmate, and going to real school. Sarah had also promised to take her to Taronga Park Zoo and a Saturday matinee picture show in a theatre as big as a palace.

  Queenie realised she was going to miss Saskia far more than her daughter would miss her parents and Tingulla.

  She and Warwick sat in the study the night before Queenie left. ‘The paperwork for the bank loan isn’t through yet. I’ll have to give you power of attorney so you can sign on my behalf.’ Queenie picked up the pen to sign the document which Warwick had asked the solicitor to draw up. For a brief second her hand hesitated over the paper as TR’s warning flashed into her mind, but she angrily pushed the recollection aside, signed, and handed the paper to Warwick. ‘I guess that’s everything. I hope you won’t find it too dull when all the film people leave. Though you won’t be on your own too long,’ said Queenie.

  ‘Well, it will be nice to get our bedroom back.’ He grinned at her and reached for her hand. ‘Queenie, why don’t we have another baby?’

  It caught her off guard and she stared at Warwick, then smiled. ‘That would be lovely. I’m sort of surprised one hasn’t come along before now.’

  ‘Well, let’s start tonight.’ Warwick clicked off the lamp and stood, gently pulling Queenie to her feet.

  Queenie was saying goodbye to each member of the film crew and when she reached Roger Ambrose, he took her aside to talk privately.

  ‘I’m sorry I won’t be seeing you any more, Queenie — unless you come to Los Angeles. You have a standing invitation to stay any time. I mean it.’ Roger hugged her. ‘You are the most fascinating woman I’ve ever met, Queenie. If you weren’t a married lady I would chase you round the world.’

  His arms were still around her and he bent his face to kiss her on the lips. Queenie turned her face so the kiss landed softly on her cheek. ‘But I am married, Roger. Thank you for the compliment, though.’ She smiled at him, gently extricating herself from his embrace. It was definitely time to be leaving. ‘I hope the film is a big success for you, Roger.’

  He sighed. ‘To be perfectly frank, Queenie, we are having a few problems. Nothing to do with our end here, but not all the money for postproduction has appeared yet. I’m sure there’s no problem, but wheeler-dealers do like to make you sweat a bit.’

  ‘Oh dear. I’m sorry to hear that.’

  ‘Don’t you worry about it, Queenie. That’s my job. You have a big task ahead of you. I hadn’t realised what you were undertaking until I talked to some of the station hands. There are a few bets riding on you pulling this off. Some of the men say a woman hasn’t done anything like this in recent times.’

  Queenie laughed. ‘There have been a couple — Edna Zigenbine and May Steele in the fifties. It’s just a job that has to be done. I have my skills, Roger, and you have yours — they’re just different.’

  ‘We come from very different worlds, Queenie. I think you could conquer mine, but I could never survive in yours. Good luck.’

  Millie, Jim and Snowy farewelled Ernie with handshakes and few words. Queenie gave them each a swift hug and a kiss before turning to Warwick.

  ‘Go well, Queenie, love. Keep the buggers fat and don’t lose any.’

  ‘We’ll take it slow and easy, don’t worry. I probably won’t be able to contact you much. I’ll try to get through from the Windorah pub.’

  ‘Righto. Don’t worry about anything here.’ Warwick kissed her quickly. They’d said their goodbyes the night before.

  Queenie turned to her horse and put one foot in the stirrup. Warwick stepped forward and impulsively put his hands around her waist, murmuring in her ear. ‘I’ll miss you. Don’t forget I love you, Queenie.’

  She swung into the saddle, surprised at the whispered endearment. ‘I love you too, Warwick.’

  She turned the horse and moved to the head of the small contingent. The horses’ hooves clicked on the flagged courtyard, taking the first of many steps on the journey which lay before them.

  Before they had gone far from the house, she looked back and lifted her arm. Warwick blew her a kiss, Jim raised his hat and Millie fluttered a tea towel.

  They detoured past the filmset, where the director called a halt to filming and everyone cheered and whistled. Queenie grinned at them all, tugged her hat firmly in place and, with Ernie and the horses strung behind her, crossed the creek. Soon the little party disappeared into the trees.

  Colin and Dina sat with Alfredo Camboni and his lawyer in the Cambonis’ darkly panelled library. The lawyer handed a sheaf of documents to Alfredo. ‘It is very cut and dried, Alfredo my friend. You have been outstandingly helpful and more than generous for the past two years. However, business is business, it is time to ask for repayment.’

  ‘And if the debt cannot be repaid?’

  The lawyer shrugged. ‘You have the controlling interest in the collateral. You must call it in.’

  Dina turned to Colin with a small smile, but he was staring at the pattern in the Chinese carpet and didn’t raise his eyes.

  Alfredo folded the papers. ‘Very well, then. You do understand, Colin, this is in all our best interests?’ Colin looked up and gazed impassively back at the older Italian man. Alfredo had arranged his features into an expression of caring concern. Colin saw only the jowls, the watery eyes, the thick pale lips.

  Alfredo continued, ‘She may not see it as being in her best interests at first, but things could get far worse if he tries to pay us back and only gets in deeper with the wrong people. This way, we keep the collateral within the family. You agree it is the better way, si?’

  Colin nodded, rose and left the room. He was clearly distressed.

  Alfredo lifted his eyebrows and turned to his daughter.

  ‘He is still adjusting to the idea,’ said Dina.

  The lawyer spoke quietly behind them. ‘He is probably feeling a little manipulated. You must restore his ego, Dina.’

  Roger Ambrose rubbed a hand across his tired eyes. The entire film crew and cast were gathered in the dusk on the verandah of the homestead. Warwick stood in the background, his arms folded, his face grim. Roger had been talking to them for twenty minutes. He finished and there was silence.

  Then one of the gaffers spoke up. ‘So what’s the bottom line here — moneywise? We haven’t been paid for the last four weeks, a lot of us don’t have return tickets or transport. Is it going to be paid, or what?’

  ‘I’m arranging travel to Sydney. Flights back to the US will be organised from there. As for salaries — I can only promise you I will do my best. It’s very difficult from this distance to know what the exact situation is. I will have more control and power back in LA.’

  ‘Sure,’ came a surly mutter.

  ‘The union isn’t going to like this,’ came another disgruntled voice.

  ‘I know. And frankly, they have my support in putting pressure on the studio.’

  ‘It’s going to kill the prospects of any other film company that wants to come and shoot in Australia,’ said the cinematographer.

  ‘Yeah, we get ripped off to prove a point. Is the picture salvageable?’

  Roger looked uncomfortable. ‘There are only a few scenes not shot. They could be tricked up in LA. The problem is the money needed to complete the picture, the editing, the postproduction and so on.’

  ‘What about the “suits” — and the investors? I bet they’re getting paid.’

  ‘No, I’m afraid most investors went in on a deferred basis, to be paid from net profits after the production company had been paid from the gross.’ Roger didn’t look at Warwick.

  ‘What exactly went wrong?’ asked the make-up girl.

  ‘It’s not a new scenario. A power shift at the top, pressure from the banks on the studio, the new guys decide to push their own projects. There’s a lot of politics and power games being played that have nothing to do w
ith us. I know it seems strange to dump a film that’s looking good and is almost finished, but I think we are pawns in a personal vendetta as well.’

  ‘Jesus, what a business. I just want to make movies. Why does all this crap get in the way?’

  Roger rose. ‘I agree with you. I can only reiterate: I am doing what I can. Although it is out of my hands I feel responsible and will fight for Red Jack as hard as I can.’

  ‘Just get us what we’re owed,’ said the focus puller.

  The group broke up and Roger went over to Warwick who grinned ruefully. ‘That couldn’t have been easy for you.’

  ‘No. And it’s not easy telling you I don’t know when, or if, you and Queenie will be paid for Tingulla. As for your investment … I would say that’s in serious doubt.’

  ‘As one of the crew said … what a business. Does this happen often?’

  ‘I’m afraid so. Swings and roundabouts, as they say. It’s addictive, though. Anyone with any business sense would stick to accounting or growing beans, but I find myself diving head first into another project full of hope and optimism right on the heels of a disaster.’

  Warwick didn’t answer. The two men walked along the verandah in the still night.

  ‘You’re lucky to live here away from the rat race with your lovely family. I think you’ve come out on top no matter what, Warwick.’ Roger headed off to the shearing shed where beer was flowing to soften the blow of Red Jack’s fate.

  Warwick retreated to the study with a bottle of rum and a glass. Thank God Queenie was away. How was he going to tell her this news? Warwick opened a drawer and took out a small cash box, found the key he had secreted on a shelf, and unlocked it. He spread the papers from it on the desk and studied them carefully.

  At daybreak he stirred, his head resting on his arms, his neck stiff, the bottle empty. The figures on the paper hadn’t changed.

  The Channel Country of southwest Queensland is generally dry, barren, and red. Its flat, scorched surface is crisscrossed by a maze of cracks and splits like parched wrinkles in an ageing face. When heavy rains come to the far north and the Gulf Country, the flood waters flow south, dribbling and gushing into the channels and forming creeks and rivers which fill up and overflow, so the land becomes a giant lake or inland sea. When the waters eventually recede, dormant grasses, seeds and flowers spring up to make a verdant carpet on the soaked, ochre earth. It is feed that fattens cattle, and for a brief time the face of the land looks youthful.

  Once it belonged to the Aborigines. It was their mother — the source of all life, all meaning. Strewn across it were secret places and features of special spiritual significance, all tangible links with the time of creation — the Dreamtime. It was a relationship with the land, the past, the eternity, that few white people knew about, and even fewer understood.

  To most whites the Channel Country was tough country when dry; impossible when wet. Only when it bloomed and fattened cattle and made stock routes passable was it of any real use.

  Queenie and her team picked up their seven hundred head of Herefords in the small township of Boulia on the edge of the Channel Country. The cattle were in holding yards, fretful and nervous at their confinement.

  Queenie shook hands with the sales agent and climbed the fence to sit beside Ernie. In the yards close by, two drovers were having trouble guiding cattle into the back of a large truck. The animals’ hooves clattered and slipped on the wooden ramp as cracking whips startled them into the dark and crowded cavern.

  ‘I reckon we got a good buy here,’ said Queenie.

  Ernie was watching the men loading the cattle trucks. ‘How come we’re droving the old way, walking ours and not trucking them down to Cricklewood?’

  Queenie smiled. ‘I wondered when you’d ask, Ernie. One reason is it costs too much. Second reason — I want to do it this way. I think it’s better for the animals and if we take it slow and easy they shouldn’t lose condition. Three …’ Here Queenie stared into the distance seemingly talking to herself. ‘It’s also good for me. I need some time and space and peace. I want to calm my spirit and find my own Dreaming. I love this land but every so often you have to make contact and be with it — breathe the air, sleep on the earth, follow its rhythms, get back in harmony with it.’

  Ernie understood. His face broke into a wide grin. ‘Like going walkabout … to sing the Dreaming songs.’

  ‘I’m glad you understand, Ernie. Tubby doesn’t see it that way, but he’s happy enough for the job. Come on, then. Let’s get this show on the road, as the picture people say.’ Queenie lifted the scarf knotted around her throat and tied it bandit-style over her nose and mouth, and uncoiling her stock whip, jumped down from the fence.

  A cloud of red dust rose above the pens, men shouted, whips cracked and cattle bellowed as the animals were herded from the yards and headed down the dusty road to the outskirts of town.

  Two men standing on the pub verandah holding schooners of beer watched their noisy, dusty progress. ‘That’s the mob with a sheila boss drover.’

  ‘Flaming hell, what next? Does she know what she’s doin’?’

  ‘They reckon. Hanlon’s daughter, Queenie. You know — the bloke whose wife was murdered and he drowned in the big flood.’

  ‘Oh yeah. She doesn’t have a big plant. Good looking mob, though.’

  ‘Kinda miss the droving days. Using motorbikes for mustering, sending the cattle round the place crammed in trucks … not the same as going down the track.’

  ‘Yeah, you’re right. I miss it a bit meself. ‘Nother beer?’

  The two old drovers turned inside as the last of Queenie’s mob plodded past with Ernie on the tail.

  Once they were out in open country the days fell into a quiet rhythm as the cattle moved steadily towards Cricklewood. Ernie and Queenie rarely had contact during the day although they were in sight of each other. Evenings were spent around the campfire quietly chatting. Occasionally someone made a joke, but often the time passed in companionable silence.

  Tubby went ahead each morning in the truck and made camp for the night. A cooked meal with fresh damper was always waiting. Tubby also checked the horses’ shoes, replaced any when needed, and took a turn as ringer riding night watch.

  The ringer’s job was to circle the resting cattle, all the while singing softly or reciting to the stars, the familiar voice soothing the animals. While most cattle slept, legs awkwardly folded beneath them, some would stay on their feet as sentinels, and others might stand to urinate before settling down once more. A sleepless beast might poke out into the edges for a feed. The ringer would settle it back with the mob and continue his rounds.

  It didn’t take long for drovers to get to know their herd; like a schoolteacher with a new class, they were quick to spot the troublemakers and the leaders. On this trip there were two cows that had adopted the role of teacher’s pet. They were first on their feet to lead the cranky mob away at dawn — if there was good feed about the animals were reluctant to move on — then they’d slowly drift back through the herd to plod along with whoever was riding as tailender, seeming to prefer human companionship.

  Experienced drovers knew never to relax their vigilance, especially at night when the chance of a rush was greatest. Anything could spook a herd and a rush was a terrifying thing to experience. Stories were told of bad rushes, how mobs had thundered over a camp, killing stockmen and hammering gear into the hard-packed earth.

  At daybreak, after dishing up breakfast, Tubby packed the camp while Queenie, the cattle and Ernie headed out for the day’s walk. The midday meal was simple fare: corned beef, damper and sweet rock cakes with a billy of black tea, eaten by a small fire in the shade of a tree — if there was one.

  Sitting comfortably in the saddle, Queenie thought how few travellers appreciated these paths that traversed the outback. Most people roared past on bitumen roads that speared across the desolate plains, or raced through skies with scarcely a glance at what lay below; others sat in tra
ins bound to one set of tracks, confined in a capsule that didn’t allow you to smell the air, feel the sun on your face or hear the call of birds. Unseen were the songlines of Aboriginal belonging that linked one tribe’s territory to the next.

  Also unrecognised by such travellers were the stock routes, where the travelling sheep and cattle slowly munched their way from one part of the country to another. The land looked almost like desert but to the initiated there was a complexity of highways spreading in every direction, each with its own folklore and mythology.

  As suddenly as it had grown, the greenness disappeared. Between sunup and morning smoko, they travelled off the green carpet onto the terracotta dirt where the feed for the cattle was sparse. Most of the channels still held water, but the sun was quickly shrivelling what little growth was left.

  Queenie looked across to where Ernie was riding on the left flank. He pointed his whip towards a dead tree, a bleached skeleton in the stark terrain. When she rode closer Queenie grinned at the sight of a rusting iron canoe in this arid scene. Roughly made from galvanised iron, someone had used it during the floods many years before. But on what errand, wondered Queenie. Now it lay incongruously under the blazing sun, a nautical body on a hard red sea.

  At sunset they reached the Diamantina River — a broad, bare, gouged ribbon with a trickle of water at its centre. Tubby had made camp and the billy of tea was a welcome sight.

  After eating, when the last of the light had faded from the sky, and the lone evening star shone beside the moon, Queenie announced she’d take the late watch. She rolled into her swag, comfortably tired, idly thinking that people in the cities were probably pushing and shoving their various ways home from crowded offices in noisy traffic. Here her day was dictated by the rising and setting of the sun.

  She had specifically asked for Sparky to be her night mount, a small roan which had the best night sight of the horses. It was a skill some had and others didn’t. The night horse was kept saddled and standing close by the camp, ready to be ridden at a split-second’s notice if the cattle rushed in the night. Ernie was on first watch so she closed her eyes and slept.