by DIMORRISSEY
Millie bustled, hurrying them about, trying to avoid any prolonged and agonising goodbyes. She was brisk and bossy. Snowy stood quietly by, watching the proceedings. Taking off their hats, the remaining men on the station drifted up to stand awkwardly in the background. They each shook Queenie’s hand and wished her luck.
Queenie stood before Snowy, Saskia at her side. ‘Well, Snowy … keep an eye on things for me. I’ll miss you.’
‘Don’t you worry. I’ll be here when you come back. When you come back as boss,’ he added.
Queenie hugged the old man as he pushed a small package into her hand. He swung Saskia into the air. ‘My spirit watch you every day so you be one good girl, orright? And if the spirit come back and tell me Saskia not happy, Saskia afraid, or Saskia lonely, then I send good spirits back to cheer you up. Old Snowy be looking out for you, okay?’
‘Thanks, Snowy.’ She kissed his kindly smiling face.
‘Now you and your mumma go. And don’t look back. Bad luck to look behind. You keep walking forward.’
‘We will, Snowy,’ Queenie’s voice was husky. Taking Saskia’s hand she climbed into the back seat behind Millie and Jim.
Jim revved the engine, and the wheels crunched on the loose stones and the car moved away from Tingulla homestead. Queenie took Saskia’s hand and squeezed it.
Saskia squeezed it back whispering, ‘Remember what Snowy said, Mummy, don’t look back.’
Holding hands tightly, Queenie and Saskia sat silently in the back of the car watching the familiar trees slide by as they headed for the unknown challenges of the city. It seemed impossible that they were leaving behind everything they loved so deeply.
Queenie clenched her free hand and realised she was still holding the tiny package Snowy had given her. She unrolled the soft wrapping of paper bark and found a small carved song stick, painted with the symbolic markings of the tribes who had first known and named Tingulla.
Quickly she wrapped it back up so no other eyes would see its sacred markings. Queenie felt this precious totem would keep her safe but like herself, one day it must be returned to its rightful Dreaming place — Tingulla.
III
1980s
Return to the Dreaming
Chapter Twenty-Five
The first few weeks in Sydney passed in a blur of faces, noise, movement and a claustrophobic mass of buildings towering above and pressing in on all sides.
Queenie felt constricted, as if she couldn’t take a deep breath. She longed for the peace of the bush.
Sarah knew what she was experiencing. ‘Queenie, I went through the same thing when John and I were first married and I realised I was staying in the city and not going back to the country to live.’
‘I feel I’m on a strange kind of holiday and then it hits me, I can’t go back … home. I don’t have a home.’
‘You know you and Saskia can stay with us as long as you like — there’s plenty of room.’
‘You’ve been wonderful. Saskia has settled into school and it’s good for her to come home to a busy and happy household. But I have to start sorting out my life, Sarah.’
‘I understand. How is your money situation? John and I will give you a loan … until you get on your feet,’ Sarah quickly added, seeing Queenie’s mouth set in a stubborn line.
‘Thanks, but no, Sarah. We’ll manage. never want to borrow another cent ever again.’
‘I won’t try and talk you out of it, Queenie. I know you. As much as we love having you stay here, perhaps you’d feel better in your own place — more settled. We’ll talk to John about finding a place tonight.’
John returned from taking Saskia and young Tim to feed the ducks in Centennial Park; and while Sarah took the children upstairs to bathe and get ready for dinner, John showed Queenie a list of houses and apartments to rent.
‘I wish you could afford to buy something rather than rent. What about the flats Colin owned in Double Bay — are they all rented?’
‘I don’t know. I assume they are, knowing how money-conscious Dina can be. But I’m not about to ask any favours from them. What have you got?’
They studied the list of rental places John had on his books. ‘I’m more into the selling and developing side so I haven’t seen any of them. My secretary suggested these as possibilities.’
‘None of these mean a thing to me. Where’s Balmain?’
‘It’s not the most desirable area, but it’s close to the city, right on the edge of the harbour.’
‘It has water views?’
‘Not of the most salubrious part of the harbour … it’s close to where freighters and the less glamorous shipping comes in.’
‘I like the idea of looking at the water because it would be different. I certainly can’t afford the harbour views in posh suburbs. Let’s look at this one.’
The next morning John drove slowly along narrow winding Wharf Street, pulling up before a rusty gate, an overgrown garden and a flight of steps disappearing through a grove of creaking bamboo. Echoing from below came the blast of a ship’s whistle and the answering bleat of a tug’s horn.
‘I don’t know about this, Queenie.’
‘It’s different,’ she grinned at him.
The house was a tiny Federation cottage, dust-covered and musty from eighteen months of being closed up.
‘It’s small — three bedrooms — but it has a nice little patio out the front … somewhere under the leaves,’ said John cheerfully.
Queenie wasn’t looking at the antiquated kitchen with its old Kookaburra gas stove, or the terrace littered with debris from the overhanging orange and mandarine trees. She was watching the activity on the water directly below their miniature front garden.
Cranes swung from freighter to dock and, on Russian and Japanese cargo vessels, crew in dark uniforms scurried about their decks. A dark sinister submarine lay in the shadows of an inland dockyard and moored midstream was a small grey naval warship.
‘I like this. It’s interesting. I like the activity. We don’t have to look any further, John.’
He gave her a quizzical look. ‘Sure you’re not being impulsive? The house and garden need work — though the rent is cheap enough. It’s not a fashionable area.’
‘I have made up my mind and I’ll stick to it. Saskia will like it too,’ she said decisively, and John shrugged his shoulders amicably.
Sarah and John sent a team of professional cleaners and a gardener over to work on the house and garden as a house-warming present.
Saskia was entranced with the quaint location and scrambled through the front garden fence down to the dockyard and in two hours she had made friends with an old man who ran a boat shed. He told her she could use one of the dinghies to paddle around that part of the harbour any time she wished.
Queenie went to Lawson’s auctions on a rainy day when few buyers were about and picked up antique furniture from a deceased estate for a fraction of its value. In three weeks the house was charming.
John shook his head. ‘Queenie, you’re amazing. I wish you’d transform some of the houses I have to sell. This is a picture.’
‘Oh, it’s not finished yet, wait until I’ve done the garden. I found a potter who makes great urns which I’m planting with geraniums and flowers for the terrace.’
John sat in the swinging love seat, watching Queenie pour tea. ‘And where did you find all this wrought iron furniture?’
‘It’s Victorian. Now I’ve got wheels I’m finding my way all over the city.’
‘Queenie, you must be the only woman in Sydney driving about in a Range Rover. You don’t need a four-wheel drive in the city.’
‘It’s practical. It’s been great for throwing furniture in the back and it’s what I’m used to driving. Can’t get about on horseback down here.’
John was pleased to see how well she was adjusting to the city and that her sense of humour was surfacing again. ‘So what now? How’s your money holding out?’
‘I’ll have
to look for some kind of work. But first I need to sell my mother’s art collection. I’m paying back that bank debt and I need money to live on.’
‘I know a reputable dealer I could put you in touch with.’
‘Thanks, John. I thought I might do a bit of homework and investigate the art scene myself. If I do sell through your dealer I still want to have some sort of knowledge.’
‘Sarah said you’d want to do it all yourself. You certainly are thorough.’
‘I appreciate your help and kindness. You and Sarah have been wonderful.’
John stood and lightly rested his hand on her shoulder. ‘You’re like family, Queenie. We‘re here for you, day or night.’
Queenie waved to John as he drove away. He was such a good kind man, and he and Sarah seemed so happy. She sighed. People had probably thought the same about her and Warwick. Well, they had been happy. And there had been lots of good times. If their relationship had been a bit stolid maybe it was because you weren’t supposed to experience or expect the wild and delirious passion of youth in a marriage. But why not? She paused, hidden in the archway of massive bamboo that creaked and sighed above her. The filtered light was green and dreamy and for a moment Queenie closed her eyes remembering …
She shook her head and marched down the steps to the house. Tingulla, TR, her past life had to be put behind her. Whenever she caught herself wallowing in memories she forced herself back into the present. ‘Live for the moment. Day by day.’ That was what she kept telling herself. ‘Let go of the past. It’s over. Don’t look back.’
After she had dropped Saskia at school each day, Queenie began visiting art galleries, art schools, dealers and artist’s studios. She talked to everyone and slowly began to piece together a picture of Sydney’s art world.
Painters were moving away from the small élitist groups of the sixties into a broader sphere now that the government was funding young artists. Art schools were booming and established painters were winning wider acceptance. There was a lot more recognition and understanding of abstract art although the purchase by the Whitlam Government of Jackson Pollock’s Blue Poles for more than one million dollars still caused heated arguments.
Queenie discovered class and snob systems still operated and there were buyers who paid high prices for the signature rather than the painting. She thought the gallery commissions were far too high but it was the only way to reach the high-paying clients. She was reluctant to let a gallery buy her collection and charge her a high commission; and she would have no control over the purchase price. So she decided to put it up for auction with a high reserve price.
As the day of the auction drew near she sat nervously in Sarah’s sunroom. ‘I just hope enough people with money come along to the auction. They’ve done a lovely discreet catalogue, but I wish they’d bang the drum a bit more loudly,’ said Queenie.
‘Let’s do it ourselves then! Make another pot of coffee.’
Sarah sat on the telephone for the next half hour and, adopting a snooty accent, rang all the newspapers, radio and television stations inquiring about the fabulous mystery art collection she’d heard was being auctioned. Could they tell her something about it?
‘Naturally none of the news editors knew a thing about it,’ giggled Sarah. ‘But they sounded a bit interested. Now you mail them all a catalogue and I’ll follow up with another round of calls.’
‘I’ve told the auctioneers I don’t want my name revealed,’ said Queenie.
‘All the better. I’ll plant a few hints about the mystery seller and is it true that a Malaysian tunku, a Japanese industrialist and Australia’s two richest men, as well as overseas galleries, will be bidding against our own galleries?’
‘Sarah! You’re outrageous! What are you doing?’
‘Just asking questions. I’m saying no more than that. You know how one hears things, dahling,’ she joked.
The auctioneer nervously adjusted his polka dot bow tie. The press had been trumpeting about the auction for days, creating more interest in this art sale than any for several years. It had turned into a media event with the social press covering the well-heeled buyers and the evening TV news services setting up cameras in the hope of covering a big sale or a bidding duel between the financial heavies.
The seller was a mystery and several wealthy prospective bidders sat on the end of international phone lines, while the art press raged at the idea of early Australian art possibly being sent out of the country.
The mystery seller kept away. Her adrenalin pumping, she spent the morning slashing at the weeds at the bottom of the garden.
At the end of the day, Sarah arrived with John triumphantly waving bottles of Bollinger. ‘Queenie, you’ve done brilliantly. Made masses of money. You should have been there. It was so exciting, everyone kept applauding. You’ll see it on the news tonight.’
Queenie sipped her champagne. ‘Have made enough to pay back the bank?’
‘The auction rooms will call you soon, but yes. The Turner went for a huge price — two galleries wanted it, one here and one in England, then some Hong Kong buyer stepped in and the bidding went through the roof.’
‘What a relief. But I’m sad, too. They were my mother’s. I kept her portrait, the one of Tingulla, and the Aboriginal works.’
‘Your mother was not materialistic, Queenie. Rose loved beautiful things, but family and people and Tingulla came first. She would have told you to sell them straight away,’ said Sarah gently.
‘I hope so.’ Queenie raised her glass. ‘To step one. And to you Sarah, for banging the drum so well.’
‘What’s step one?’ asked John.
‘I plan to get back Tingulla if it’s the last thing I do. Clearing my debts is step one.’
‘What’s step two?’
‘I don’t know.’
Sarah and John exchanged a swift look. Queenie had to let go of Tingulla or she’d never settle and be completely happy.
Queenie paid off Tingulla’s massive loan to the bank, kept a small nest egg for herself and Saskia, and invested what was left. Somehow she had to use that to make more money to buy out Colin and Dina — to own Tingulla once more.
She was driving through a back street of elegant Bellevue Hill when she came upon a small art gallery she hadn’t seen before. As soon as she stepped inside she realised it was a quality gallery, small but select. The owner, an American with a silver goatee and red bow tie, left her to browse in peace.
She studied the delicate pencil sketches of Cedric Flower; the lewdly humorous water colours of Norman Lindsay; and the outback oils of Russell Drysdale. Several oil paintings by Sali Herman caught her eye.
‘You have been staring at these for longer than normal. Can I answer any questions?’ came the quiet voice of the gallery owner beside her.
‘I like these. I like his work and I was wondering where he painted them.’
‘Sali is Swiss, but has lived in Sydney for years. He’s in his seventies now, still painting like a fiend. But these are particularly fine examples of his work from the fifties and sixties. They’re titled Terrace Houses.’
‘Where are they? Are these places still standing?’
‘I have no idea. I don’t know Sydney that well myself. If you’re interested I could find out. I’ll call him.’
Queenie could hear the gruff, heavily accented voice booming down the phone.
‘A lady wants to know? Is she pretty?’ asked the incorrigible old painter.
‘Oh, very,’ replied the gallery owner, giving Queenie a smile.
There was a brief exchange and he hung up. He wrote on a piece of paper and handed it to Queenie. ‘You’re invited round for tea at his studio. Watch out though, he’s a terrible flirt.’
Queenie laughed and did indeed ring and make an appointment with the old artist.
Sali Herman was a charmer. Short, balding and overflowing with European manners, he looked twenty years younger than he was. He pushed his hugely fat black and white cat off
a chair and waved Queenie to be seated.
He started by asking her about herself — she was brief, but when she mentioned she was from the bush, Sali clapped his hands and told her of his experiences in the outback, which he adored. He told her of growing up in a family of nineteen children in Switzerland, of coming to Australia as a young man, his many love affairs, his wartime experiences in New Guinea. Several hours were swallowed in a flash.
Sali took Queenie’s arm and led her into the dining room. Fresh tropical fruit, cheeses, French bread and good wine and rich cakes were spread on the table under a gauze cloth. ‘Our lunch,’ he announced.
‘It looks too good to eat. Like a still life, perhaps you should paint it,’ laughed Queenie.
‘I prefer to feed my stomach, then I can satisfy my artistic spirit,’ said Sali.
‘Sali, I nearly forgot to ask, where are the terrace houses you painted? Are they in Australia?’
‘They’re here in Sydney. In my secret place. I will take you there. To Glebe.’
Glebe turned out to be an inner suburb, close to the city. Parts of it were neglected and overlooked, only the larger, wealthier homes on its fringes looked impressive. Tucked away in its leafy back streets were Sali’s row of two-storey terrace houses. They were run down, and badly in need of paint; and although some had the remains of attractive wrought iron balconies, other balconies had been enclosed with ugly fibro sheeting and glass.
Queenie stared thoughtfully at the last house in the row. A peeling yellow and black ‘For Sale’ sign was stuck in the downstairs front window. She went through the wrought iron gate and rapped at the door.
John stood on the footpath staring at the row of terrace houses. ‘You want to buy this house? For God’s sake — why, Queenie? It’s cheap, but you can do a lot, lot better.’
