by DIMORRISSEY
‘He knows she is doing interior design work, that’s all. He’s not really interested. So … how long before we can move to Europe, Pappa?’
Camboni smiled paternally at his glamorous womanly daughter who could still behave like a spoiled and wilful ten-year-old. ‘Don’t be impatient. I cannot wave a magic wand. I’ll see what I can do. Incidentally, you’d better tell Colin what you have decided for you both!’ he laughed.
John and Queenie studied the plans and building applications for the old Victorian homes in Randwick’s George Street. John was frowning and Queenie chewed her bottom lip as Sarah came in carrying a tray of coffee and cake.
‘Problems?’
‘Yes, some other company has also made an offer. Substantially higher, we understand. We have to decide by the end of the week if we are going through with renovating these places or not,’ said John.
‘I don’t like the way we’re being pushed. It makes me suspicious,’ said Queenie.
‘I agree. I don’t want to get caught in a bidding battle. I think we have to decide on our limit and if we lose, c’est la vie, eh, Queenie?’
John reached for the cup Sarah held out to him. ‘There’s something going on we don’t know about. I just feel it in my bones.’
Queenie continued to stare at the papers.
Saskia watched Bobby massage a special liniment he had made into Bill’s long powerful legs. ‘You really love Bill, don’t you?’
Bobby straightened up, gave a little groan and began rubbing his back. ‘I guess I do, Saskia. I’ve looked after a lot of horses in my time but this bloke is special.’ He winked confidentially. ‘But for goodness sake, don’t tell him.’
Saskia laughed. ‘Tango says he’s doing great times in training.’
‘Yeah. Quite amazing really.’
‘So, do you reckon he’ll qualify for the Melbourne Cup?’
‘We’ll see, we’ll see. Time for our walk. See ya, Sas.’
Bobby headed away from the stables with the big horse quietly following like a dog. Once they’d crossed the paddock, Bill would start running in circles around Bobby, following the rules of some game between the two of them.
Saskia saw Tango strolling towards her. ‘Can I help you wash down those two thoroughbreds?’ she asked.
‘It’s okay, Mick has done it. He’s a good bloke as well as an excellent jockey. I was just going for a walk along the creek before lunch. Want to come?’
‘You bet.’
The creek was four feet across and mainly shallow, though after heavy rains it sometimes churned along like a small, angry river. Today, under the clear blue sky, dotted with puffs of cloud, it flowed quietly, making soft music at mini-waterfalls as it dropped into small pools. Grasses, shrubs and reeds fringed the stream and Tango led the way as the two of them picked their way along its edge, following the creek’s meandering path through the paddock.
Saskia had come to regard Tango as a man because of his adult physique and his acceptance as a peer by other adults. But now, as they paddled, peered under rocks and just wandered in silence, Tango seemed like any teenage boy enjoying the pleasures of a favourite haunt.
They both stopped as they rounded a bend to find an ibis standing midstream on spindly legs, his white head and long black beak prodding under the water. The bird lifted its head, swallowed and stepped forward, gracefully probing under the water and eating as it made its way upstream with Saskia and Tango following slowly and softly a short distance behind.
Dragonflies dipped and hovered above the water like shimmering, twitching jewels of turquoise, gold, and red. Small fish darted in pools and a kookaburra chortled in a tree whose roots dipped into the water. The two stopped pointing out things and talking and became silent as if caught in a spell. Stealthily they crept around a large boulder shadowing a deep pool. On the flat edge of the rock, wet and glistening, lay a small brown creature, its dark fur shining in the sun.
Saskia caught her breath in delight as the platypus slid with a plop into the water, its stumpy tail waggling, its broad flat bill poking into the roots of the rushes. ‘I’ve never seen one before,’ she whispered.
Tango grinned back. ‘Nor have I.’
They watched its darting progress through the water, marvelling at its grace before it disappeared under a log embedded in the bank.
The sun was directly above them now and they were feeling the heat. The water was clear, cool and inviting. ‘Do you want to go in?’ asked Tango.
‘It’s hot. Let’s.’ Unselfconsciously they pulled off boots, pants and shirts, Saskia wading into the cool water in her panties and camisole top — she didn’t need to wear a bra. Tango splashed in beside her in his underwear.
‘Not deep enough to swim, but deeper than a bath,’ he said.
‘You could drink this water.’
‘I wouldn’t though, probably full of sheep’s piddle.’
‘Oh yuck, and I was enjoying this,’ giggled Saskia.
Saskia lay in the water hugging a small protruding rock. Tango lay across the upstream opening to the pool and let the water flow across his chest.
‘I wish I didn’t have to go back to Sydney,’ sighed Saskia.
‘What’s your life like down there?’
‘It’s nice. I’m glad my mother is doing well now. But I miss the bush.’
‘Do you miss your father?’
‘Yes. Sometimes. That’s why I like it here so much … I have Jim and Bobby and TR. I miss old Snowy, too.’
‘Who’s he?’
‘The head stockman at Tingulla. He’s sort of like a grandfather. He’s Aboriginal.’
‘What’s your mother like?’
Saskia laughed. ‘I couldn’t describe her. You’ll have to meet her for yourself.’
‘I once asked TR what your mother was like and he said the same thing — I’d just have to meet her.’
‘I like TR.’
‘Me too.’
‘Where are your parents?’
‘Dead. They were killed in a car accident a couple of years ago. That’s when I came away to the bush. I never liked the city, I always wanted to get to the country. But they were my adoptive parents — dunno where my real parents are.’
‘Did you finish school?’
‘High school. But TR is trying to talk me into going to uni. I’m doing a correspondence course,’ said Tango shyly.
‘That’s terrific. My mother wants me to go to uni, too but I can’t imagine what I’ll do with my life.’
‘I feel a bit the same way. I do know I want to stay on the land, though.’
Saskia nodded. She didn’t confide in Tango and tell him her dream was the same as her mother’s … to return to Tingulla.
They left the pool and picked up their clothes, walking along the bank letting the sun dry them before getting dressed again. Tango followed the track that led away from the creek. ‘We’ll go back this way.’
The path led through a paddock smothered in golden dandelions and Paterson’s curse — the prickly, purple-flowered weed. The track dipped down a small hill and as Saskia wandered ahead of Tango she disturbed a blanket of thousands of white butterflies which had been resting on the ground with their wings upright and together. They rose in a great cloud, the tips of their wings edged in black lace, a gold dot in the centre of each wing. They rose endlessly from around their feet, fluttering about their heads, and several alighted in Saskia’s dark curls like pretty clips.
‘It’s a plague,’ laughed Tango, waving his arms at the army of silent wings.
‘They don’t do any damage, and they’re so pretty,’ said Saskia. Spontaneously she stretched out her arms and began dancing, spinning and laughing in the cloud of swirling butterflies.
Joining in her laughter, Tango took her hand and they finally emerged from the moving cloud. As the young couple moved away, the butterflies floated back to nestle on the ground in their hollow.
Queenie was poring over plans at her kitchen table when the
phone rang.
‘It’s me — John.’
‘I was just thinking of you! I’ve been looking at our development ideas …’
‘We lost,’ interjected John bluntly.
‘Oh. By how much?’
‘Quite a lot. Whoever wanted those Randwick places paid through the nose for them. They must figure they’re going to make a killing.’
‘We’ll have to find something else to throw our money at then.’
John drew a deep breath. ‘Queenie, I’ve been thinking, and it seems to me I have to put my capital to work. Now this deal has fallen through I’ve been considering investing in a big waterfront property that’s come on the market. It’s costly but I figure in a few years Sydney waterfront mansions will be up there with Californian prices.’
‘I understand, John. You go ahead. I’ll look around some more. I still need to raise a lot more money before I can make an offer for Tingulla. Something will come along.’
‘You need something that will turn over and make money, rather than a long-term investment. I’ll keep my eyes open too.’
Queenie talked to Judy about looking for a new investment opportunity. ‘But while I’m looking, I guess I’ll go ahead and do the Woollahra house for the Ashleys, then,’ sighed Queenie.
‘Frankly, I think you need a bit of a holiday, Queenie.’
‘I can’t afford the time. But I might take this weekend off and go somewhere. Saskia is staying over with a girlfriend, so I’ll have some time to spare.’
‘Go to the mountains, you haven’t been there yet, it’ll be a change.’
‘That sounds like a lovely idea.’
Once Saskia had been waved off on Saturday morning, the house seemed very quiet, so Queenie threw some clothes in a small bag, told Millie she was taking off for the weekend, backed the Range Rover out of the drive and was soon travelling along Parramatta Road on her way to the Blue Mountains.
She left the old town of Penrith, crossed the Nepean River and began the steep climb up the escarpment. Queenie’s heart lifted at the sight of miles of empty rugged bushland. Sheer jagged cliffs with smooth orange and cream sandstone faces stood across valleys which dipped and dived, then soared steeply in impenetrable dark green waves forming the Great Dividing Range.
After driving through a string of small towns in the mountains, Queenie stopped in Katoomba — once a fashionable and popular holiday resort, now just a stopover point for travellers. Queenie wandered down the main street with its slightly rundown, old-fashioned shops with striped awnings over the footpath. She continued past the once grand cinema, and turned into the only cheerful spot, the Paragon Cafe. The smell of homemade chocolates, pastries and rich coffee was appetising. She ordered Earl Grey tea and scones and chatted to the dignified elderly woman who had owned the Paragon for over thirty years.
‘Times have changed in the mountains. It used to be the favourite place for honeymooners and holiday makers. Most of the old guesthouses are a bit rundown, not too many visitors come up here now. Though a lot of people are moving here to live. I sense our time might be coming again.’
The woman suggested Queenie stay out of town in a small boarding house, the Echoes.
Finishing her tea, Queenie set out to explore the small town, its antique shops and tea-rooms, finding it all charming, if rather economically depressed. By late afternoon she had put on her riding boots, thrown a sweater over her shoulders and set off on a bush walk. Within a mile she came across a small farm where a wooden sign advertised, Horses for Hire. She decided to explore further on horseback.
The poor old mare she rode was tired, but pricked her ears and stepped out under Queenie’s gentle hand, seemingly glad to be away from the confines of the farm. They meandered through thickly timbered bush, where ferns and lush damp growth obscured the sunlight, and the earth smelt rich and dank. A rivulet trickled through the shadows on its way to join a larger flow of water tumbling into huge falls several miles further along. The horse drank the icy water and then splashed through it and on up the bank on the other side.
They reached open ground some time later and followed the path along the edge of a ravine. The track detoured round a grove of tall pine trees and Queenie’s horse plodded slowly. She didn’t mind the slow pace. It was peaceful, with only the call of the bellbirds and the noisy darting of scarlet and blue rosella parrots, to interrupt the silence.
A broken wooden sign with peeling white paint lying on the ground caught her eye. Hotel was all it said. Queenie stopped and dismounted. An overgrown track led into the grove of pines.
It was only one hundred yards through the pines when she came across two stone posts and rusty grand gates hanging crookedly at the end of a driveway. She looped the reins over the gate and walked up the driveway, past the old fountain and overgrown gardens, and caught her breath as she saw for the first time … the hotel.
It looked like it had fallen off a Bavarian mountain — a pastiche of a romantic, fantasy castle, its turrets, balconies and domed roofs faded and peeling.
The building was immense, perched on the edge of the cliff facing the breadth of the valley. All the rooms looked across to the Kurrajong Mountains — sandstone cliffs capped by dense bush. Once-formal gardens ran in tiers on either side of the building.
Queenie spent an hour wandering about entranced, attempting to peer through dusty windows and stained glass doors. It was impossible to tell how many rooms and chimneys there were, but it had all been built on a grand and lavish scale.
A growing feeling of excitement crept over her as she stood on the deserted terrace. Then she swivelled on her heel and marched purposefully back down the drive, mounted the browsing horse and kicked her into a reluctant trot back to the farm.
The next day Queenie visited a local real estate agent who scratched his head and confessed he didn’t know a thing about the old hotel. ‘Been closed up for years. Used to be a real posh place in the twenties, from pictures I’ve seen. Then it got a bit seedy … was the place blokes brought their girlfriends for a dirty weekend. Then it finally folded. No, I don’t know who owns it. It’s not listed for sale, that I can tell you! No one in their right mind would buy it. Motels get all the trade now.’
Queenie returned to the Paragon for a coffee and unearthed some more local knowledge. The hotel had been built by a British shipping magnate just before the First World War, and she was told that there was a lot of information about it in the local historical society.
In the small museum Queenie found a helpful old man who agreed to do a little detective work for her. ‘I want to find out who owns it and if they’ll sell it.’
‘My goodness, whatever for?’
‘It’s a hotel, isn’t it?’
The old man simply shook his head and took Queenie’s phone number in Sydney.
John and Sarah were aghast when she told them her plan.
‘A hotel in the mountains? Nobody goes there.’
‘They will when I open the Kurrajong.’
‘How much work is there to do? It may be beyond restoring.’
‘I have the keys and I’m taking a builder up to check it out on Wednesday. I’d like you both to come.’
John muttered all the way to the mountains, listing the negative aspects and the craziness of the whole idea.
Until he saw it. Then he, too, fell under the spell of the building and its setting.
‘It’s like a dream,’ breathed Sarah. ‘A fairy-tale place.’
‘But it certainly needs work,’ said John.
‘Do you still think I’m crazy?’
‘Yes!’ They both laughed.
In the cold, rational light of the next day, Queenie explained to John that her plan to restore the old hotel was based on more than a romantic whim. There was a huge swing towards interest in nostalgia and ‘the good old days’. Life styles were changing, the affluent middle class and young couples were looking for weekend pastures. There was a creeping awareness of environmental and conser
vation movements and with the peaceful and beautiful Blue Mountains only one and a half hours from Sydney, it’s time for resuscitation was near.
The negotiations went smoothly. A tired old man, the last of the family who originally built the hotel, was only too happy to have this white elephant off his hands. He readily agreed to Queenie’s absurdly low offer.
Triumphantly she told Millie and Saskia. ‘We’re in the hotel business. I’ve called it the Kurrajong and it’s going to put the Blue Mountains back on the map as a tourist resort. You wait and see.’
Saskia hugged her mother in delight, thinking it a great adventure. Millie raised a sceptical eyebrow. ‘Is it going to make money?’
‘That’s the idea, Millie. I’m moving closer to my dream — I know it.’
Later, Queenie sat in John’s office with the final papers and picked up the pen. John stilled her hand with his. ‘Are you absolutely sure you want to sink all your savings into this crazy venture?’
‘Yes, I am. Would you?’
‘I’m not sure. I bought that waterfront place so thankfully I’m not forced to decide. It’s a big gamble … but if you pull it off …’
Queenie patted his hand and signed the documents. ‘There, it’s done now, for better or worse.’
Queenie spent the next few weeks travelling to and from the mountains, drawing up plans, seeking advice and quotations, and getting a pile of paperwork from the council. It was while waiting for some documents to be certified at the council that she idly mentioned to the fellow behind the counter that she had decided on renovating a hotel rather than a whole street of houses in Randwick.
‘What street in Randwick?’ asked the councillor with sudden interest.
‘George Street, beautiful oldhomes that …’
‘Lady, were you ever smart.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘They’re putting a freeway through there, the whole lot are coming down. I gather the guy that bought it lost a packet. Someone pulled a bit of a swifty on him.’
