Heart of the Dreaming

by DIMORRISSEY

  But Dina’s usual solution for getting her way didn’t work this time. Colin sat on the verandah outside their bedroom in his jeans and boots while Dina tossed alone in their bed.

  Dina pulled her peignoir about her and moved outside, looking at Colin’s bare chest in the moonlight. ‘All this work here has built up your muscles. You look very sexy, darling,’ she purred, sitting on his lap.

  ‘Jesus, Dina. Give it a rest. I’m thinking.’

  ‘And you can’t do two things at once? Think and cuddle your wife?’ She got up in a huff and flounced back into the bedroom.

  Colin drained the glass beside his chair. ‘Now listen, Dina …’ he flung himself on the bed beside her. ‘I think we should get out of here. You only spend half your time here as it is — you’re always going down to Sydney, over to Brisbane and the coast, or else you’re shipping half your mates up here to party. I’m going to talk to the accountant and see what he suggests. I reckon we should sell up and move.’

  ‘We’d get good money for Tingulla? And where would we go?’

  ‘I’m sure you’ll have a few ideas.’

  ‘Mmmm … Will Queenie come back here?’

  ‘No. She can’t afford it. And you’re not to breathe a word about this. It’s just an idea at the moment.’

  Dina rolled across him, kissing the hairs on his chest and murmuring, ‘How does the Italian Riviera sound? A nice little villa … long sunny days … ladolce vita … mmmm.’

  ‘Sounds pretty good at the moment. I knew it wouldn’t take you long to come up with an idea.’

  ‘I have another good idea … take your boots off … ’

  Queenie flung herself onto a seat in John and Sarah’s garden. ‘Well, I’ve done it now.’

  ‘What have you done?’ asked Sarah curiously, as she handed her a cold fruit juice.

  ‘Bought a houseful of furniture … even down to jugs.’

  John sat forward in his chair, ‘What sort of furniture?’

  ‘We could have loaned you any extra you needed, Queenie.’

  ‘Sarah, this is not “extra” furniture. This is extraordinary furniture.’ She grinned at her friends. ‘My old boat builder mate doing the floor for me just happened to mention his aunty’s deceased estate was going to be auctioned, and would I like to have first pick of it? So, I bought the lot. The whole house — a small house, mind you — but the most exquisite Victoriana. Good antiques, all in mint condition. The aunt was in her eighties and she’d inherited stuff from her mother. I even bought the china and old paintings, and washstands with bone china jug and bowl sets … It cost a lot, but one twentieth of what we’d pay at auction. I can furnish the whole house now in period, plus sell a few bits and pieces. Sarah, you’ll adore it.’

  ‘How much?’ asked John, loosening his tie and attempting to look stern.

  Sarah laughed at him. ‘John, stop trying to look fatherly. You are as excited as Queenie. What a pair! But seriously, Queenie … it must have taken everything you’ve got.’

  ‘It has. But it will be worth it.’

  John threw his suit jacket on a chair. ‘Well, I’ve had a fruitful day at the office too … I found out about the rest of the terraces in your block. Would you believe they’re all owned by one man? He lives in Melbourne and hasn’t seen them in years. He could be talked into selling. Thinks they’re only worth pulling down and is prepared to sell at the land site value. He doesn’t need the money — he runs some big company,’

  ‘What an opportunity. How could we raise the money?’

  ‘We?’ asked Sarah, looking from Queenie to John.

  ‘By going into partnership, mortgaging everything to the hilt, and taking a bit of a punt,’ grinned John. ‘I think Queenie has stumbled onto a gold mine, and once people see what she’s done with her place, we offer to develop the others. We’ll make more than selling outright and hoping buyers fix them up properly. This way we become the developers. It’s a whole concept that will catch on given the right exposure and publicity. There are inner city terrace blocks all over the place which are suitable. Traffic is so bad people are sick of spreading north and south and driving for an hour or more to get into the city. I’ve done some research and I’m convinced it will be a new trend. And we’ll be in on the ground floor.’

  Queenie looked worried. ‘John, having just gone through losing Tingulla I don’t want you to stick your neck out for me. I couldn’t bear being responsible for you and Sarah losing your home.’

  ‘Queenie, you’re not responsible. I’m doing it for my family. I see the chance to make money here and make my mark as a developer, and you will be in there to oversee the design and restoration.’ He reached out and touched her arm. ‘Rest assured I’m not taking any risks.’ He stood and dropped his arms about Sarah. ‘At least not any that I can’t deal with. What do you think, Sarah?’

  She linked her fingers through his. ‘I trust John’s judgment. He’s a cautious man, Queenie. Whatever he says,‘I’11 go along with.’

  Queenie was speechless for a moment. She couldn’t help comparing John to Warwick, who’d been so reckless.

  Sarah went and sat beside her, giving Queenie a hug. ‘I think it’s exciting and I’m sure it will work out, even though it’s going to be a lot of work. Actually, I’m quite envious — this project will keep you both so busy and stimulated.’

  ‘You’ll be roped in, too, Sarah, there’ll be plenty for you to do, don’t worry. Now, do you want to see my bargains? I have the key to the old aunt’s house … you’re not going to believe the treasures …’

  Sarah looked at her watch. ‘It’s nearly time to collect Tim and Saskia from their piano lessons, let’s take them along, too.’

  John and Queenie formalised their partnership, calling themselves Heirloom Cottages, and Queenie was amazed at how smoothly John arranged the finance once the owner had agreed to sell.

  ‘He thinks he’s unloading a real lemon on us,’ laughed John. ‘He kept asking had we seen the row of terraces, hinting they were in pretty crummy condition.’

  ‘They are. But they’ve been surveyed and are structurally sound. They knew how to build solid homes in those days. And you know the stone walls that divide all those overgrown gardens? It turns out they’re sandstone!’ exclaimed Queenie.

  Three of the houses were empty, and two were occupied — one by a scruffy group of unemployed young people who slept on dirty mattresses and seemed to drift through days and nights in a stupor of marijuana and alcohol. ‘The lost tribe,’ Millie called them. Queenie wasn’t sure who was living in the last house on the corner of the block. She’d seen lights burning behind the tightly drawn curtains but had been too busy with the purchasing and building plans to pay much attention.

  John had delivered notification of the sale of the buildings and informed the unofficial residents they would have to vacate the premises.

  ‘They’re not paying rent, according to the records. Or if they are it’s a cash in the pocket deal. The bloke selling them told me all the places were empty. In fact, not habitable,’ John told Queenie.

  ‘Those kids are just squatting. I’d better check out the last house then,’ said Queenie.

  It took a long time for the door of number thirty-seven to be opened, and then a double bolt was slid back and the door only opened a slit. Blinking from the bright sunlight Queenie couldn’t see into the darkness of the doorway. She introduced herself and said she was the new owner of the building.

  The bolt was lifted and the door opened, and a middle-aged lady dressed in a smart skirt and embroidered jacket stepped outside, closing the door behind her. She shook Queenie’s hand. ‘Gail Sweet. How do you do?’

  Queenie was taken aback; she had expected some little old lady, not this brisk businesslike woman. ‘I hope you got the notification that you have a month to move. It was my understanding none of these houses were occupied,’ said Queenie.

  ‘I was given permission to stay here by the local council, dear. You see, I’
m a social worker and I work in this area … counselling and so forth.’

  ‘Oh. That must be interesting work, but I’m afraid you will still have to move in the next few weeks. Perhaps you could give me the name of the man at the council … ’

  ‘Don’t you worry. Matters will be taken care of. Er, may I ask what you plan to do with these places?’

  ‘Renovate, restore and sell them. Possibly they will be up for rent again — we think business people and young couples are interested in moving back into the inner city.’

  The woman looked unconvinced and Queenie didn’t like the way her smile became more of a smirk. ‘Well, good luck then. I suppose we’ll be talking again. Good morning.’ She turned inside and the bolt clicked into place.

  Queenie could hear a telephone ringing inside the house as she went thoughtfully through the front gate.

  John mulled over this information. ‘Something doesn’t seem quite right about all that. There’s been no council permission given, and no services are supposed to be connected … It’s very strange.’

  ‘If she’s a social worker, she could start with the mob in number thirty-three,’ added Queenie. ‘I’ve tried talking to them all but it’s useless. Those kids are zonked out of their heads most of the time.’

  ‘We might have to get the strong arm of the law to move them on,’ said John.

  The eviction deadline came and went and nobody even looked like moving. John called in the local police and a male and female sergeant arrived, backed up by a paddy wagon, to move out the young squatters.

  Queenie and John followed the officers inside as they began firmly and politely asking the groggy young people to leave the premises. There was a feeble, ‘Who’s gonna make me?’ but most mumbled sullenly as they scooped up their few possessions.

  Queenie and John looked at each other, wrinkling their noses at the stench and filth in the rooms.

  It was a forlorn group which stood in a bewildered huddle on the footpath. The two police officers were telling them to move along when a station wagon marked with a TV station’s logo swept into the street. A news film crew began setting up their gear as an aggressive reporter began demanding to know why these people were being thrown into the street.

  John’s jaw dropped and Queenie’s mouth set in a grim line. She stepped forward. ‘Just a minute. What do you think you’re doing? These are not innocent victims, as you put it. They’re trespassers.’

  The cameraman and reporter switched their attention to Queenie. ‘Who are you?’

  ‘I own these houses. They’ve had more than a month’s notice. They have been squatting here illegally.’

  ‘Are you a mother by any chance, ma’am?’ Queenie was thrown for a moment. ‘Yes … but what has that … ’

  ‘And so you feel no compunction over throwing a pregnant woman and homeless teenagers into the street?’

  ‘What are you talking about?’ Queenie’s eyes narrowed dangerously, but the reporter pressed on.

  ‘That young woman is expecting a child,’ he pointed to a lank-haired girl whose baggy sweater almost concealed her pregnancy, ‘and these two twelve-year-olds have run away from homes where they’ve been beaten and abused. Here they had shelter and protection.’

  Queenie looked at the two young boys staring defiantly at her. She turned her back to the reporter and strode towards John. ‘I’ve never seen that girl or those kids before. I think we’ve been set up. Who told these TV people about this, anyway?’

  The reporter, trailing his microphone, hurried after Queenie. ‘I understand you want to throw these poor people onto the street and fix these places up to rent to rich people?’

  Queenie spun around and spoke in a low, icy voice. ‘Your information is incorrect and unsubstantiated. Please give me your name, your network and the name of your chief of staff.’

  The reporter hesitated, then began hastily writing on a page of his notepad which he tore out and handed to Queenie. The cameraman lowered his camera.

  Queenie took the paper and glanced at it. ‘Thank you, Mr Cameron. I’ll be in touch with your station. Next time, check your sources.’

  Queenie strode away, followed by John who whispered, ‘Do you think they’ll run it?’

  ‘I doubt it. But they might follow it up. Let’s hope everything just dies down.’

  Within two nights the original group were back in the house again, living by candlelight, eating junk food and sleeping on the floor.

  ‘We should have boarded the place up. I think calling the police again would be a useless exercise. They just get back in. We could hire a security guard for a week or so,’ said John.

  Millie placed a plate of biscuits in front of Queenie and John and remarked, ‘If you don’t mind me saying so, I reckon a blast of birdshot up their backsides would shift them lazy galoots.’

  Queenie and John laughed. Queenie grinned. ‘That’s a damned good idea, Millie.’ She left the room and came back carrying an old shotgun.

  John put his plate down with a clatter. ‘Queenie! You’re not serious? You’re not supposed to have that thing in the city, are you?’

  She gave an innocent shrug. ‘You don’t have to be a party to this.’ Queenie slung the gun over her shoulder and picked up her coiled stock whip which had been hanging over the edge of a bookcase.

  ‘Oh, my Lord … Queenie, what are you up to …?’ John hurried behind her, turning to shake a fist at Millie who stood holding a teapot and smiling broadly.

  ‘You fix ’em, Queenie luv.’

  Queenie arrived at the house, flung open the front door and strode into the downstairs living room where three people lounged on a filthy sofa. She pointed the shotgun at them. ‘You’ve got five minutes to get your stuff and get out.’

  They gave her a dazed look and as she clicked the safety catch back, two of them began scrambling for their things.

  With John trailing behind her, Queenie stomped upstairs and pushed open a door where others lay sleeping on old mattresses spread around the empty room. Candle wax lay in congealed puddles and food wrappings were scattered in corners.

  Queenie leaned the gun by the door, unhooked the stock whip from her shoulder, and flicked it delicately onto each sleeping form. With a bullet-like crack, the thin blankets were whipped off them.

  The figures sat up in shock to see Queenie standing over them, her legs astride and a shotgun pointed at them. ‘Out. Now. For good.’

  ‘You bloody shot at us. We can dob you in for that.’

  ‘I used a stock whip. Next time it’s the gun. You’re trespassing.’

  They began to mutter, wrapping their belongings in blankets and filing outside.

  ‘Some more in here,’ called John from another room. ‘They seem unconscious. They’re really out of it.’

  Four people lay sprawled on the floor, spilled bottles of beer and hash pipes beside them.

  Queenie took careful aim at the plaster wall between them. The blast reverberated round the room and, en masse, the sleeping bodies rose, shaking their ringing heads.

  Queenie didn’t have to speak. One look was enough. They followed her down the stairs.

  John slammed the front door behind the last of them and watched Queenie walk swiftly away. He waited till the last of the stragglers had drifted down the block, noting the two young boys and pregnant girl were not in the group.

  They had barely settled back in the house when there was a loud banging at the front door. Queenie waved a hand at John. ‘I’ll go.’

  John heard her calm and friendly voice drift back. ‘Gunshots? No, can’t say I did, officer. There’s always a a lot of cars backfiring in the area … trouble? No, we had some squatters, but the police evicted them. Thanks for your concern. Good day to you, too.’

  Queenie shut the door and walked back into the room and winked at John. As she sipped her fresh cup of tea she said, ‘Y’know, the neighbours were pretty quick off the mark calling the police. I wonder if our friend from the TV station might
be around. John, I think it’s time I had another talk with Mrs Sweet, the social worker at the end of the block.’

  The visit was unproductive.

  ‘No luck?’ asked John.

  ‘She didn’t answer the door. But I felt sure she was there. I thought I heard a giggle when I left.’

  ‘I’ll get my mate down at the council to do a bit of detective work,’ said John.

  It was Saskia who provided the first clue. Sarah had brought her over to Glebe after school and put her bicycle in the back of the station wagon. While Queenie and Sarah worked in the house, Saskia toured the quaint little neighbourhood.

  ‘Our houses are the nicest of them all, though there are lots of old ones like ours,’ she said on her return. ‘Who lives in the last house down there, Mummy?’

  ‘A Mrs Gail Sweet — and she’s not. I think she should be called Mrs Strange. She is supposed to have moved out by now,’ answered Queenie.

  ‘Maybe she’s having a goodbye party. She has lots of visitors.’

  ‘What do you mean, Sas?’

  ‘I went down the back lane and there were cars and a taxi and these men went inside.’

  Queenie glanced at Sarah. ‘That’s very interesting. When John comes over, maybe we’ll have him go knock at the back door.’

  John arrived with his own news. ‘It seems Mrs Sweet must have friends in high places.’

  ‘We think we know why,’ said Queenie. ‘We’d like you to make a few discreet inquiries at the rear of number thirty seven.’

  ‘But that’s all, John,’ admonished Sarah.

  That evening at Sarah and John’s house, while Tim and Saskia watched ‘Dr Who’ on the ABC, Queenie sighed. ‘A brothel. I can’t believe my luck. How are we going to get her out?’

  ‘It’s illegal. Just report her,’ said Sarah.

  John shrugged. ‘It’s not that simple. Half her clients are members of the council, or in big business, and there’s a rumour she has a few friendly detectives looking after her as well.’

  ‘You can’t go in with a rifle this time, Queenie.’

  ‘No. But this time I have a story for Mr Kim Cameron of the “Six PM Newsline”.’