Heart of the Dreaming

by DIMORRISSEY

  ‘Who was it, do you know?’

  ‘Yeah, some Italian millionaire — or now ex millionaire — Camboni. That was the name. Apparently he paid way over the odds in the first place.’

  ‘Too bad,’ said Queenie, picking up her papers, and smiling, left the council chambers.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  The months sped by at Guneda with the routine broken by the sudden arrival of Clayton Hindmarsh. The American was astounded and pleased at what TR had achieved. After inspecting every horse, building and paddock, TR introduced him to his and Bobby’s personal investment — Sweet William.

  The horse and its trainer intrigued Clayton. He spent a lot of time watching Bobby put Bill through his paces, and over dinner one night said to TR, ‘That’s a damned fast horse, TR, with a goodly string of wins on the city circuit. You should enter him in your Melbourne Cup.’

  ‘Bobby beat you to it, Clayton. It’s been his dream for two years now. The race is only a couple of weeks away and he has Bill on this amazing training programme. That horse has a heart and stamina you wouldn’t believe.’

  The next morning they joined Tango at the little racetrack and watched Mick take Bill for his early morning sprint.

  ‘I’d sure like to be there when he crosses the finish line,’ sighed Tango. ‘I think Bill stands a good chance.’

  TR slapped the boy on the back. ‘You’ll be there. You have to help Bobby, me and Bill get to Melbourne. It’s a long drive and there’ll be a lot of stopovers. We’ll need an extra hand to keep an eye on Bill round the clock.’

  Tango grinned at TR, his eyes shining. ‘Wow, thanks, TR. I never thought I’d be helping get a horse in the Cup.’

  ‘Heck, I’m gonna stay for the Cup, too,’ declared Clayton. ‘I’ll be there with bells on, and the celebration after Bill wins is on me! Say, who you gonna get to ride him?’

  Tango stared in amazement at Clayton. ‘Why, Mick’s our jockey.’

  Clayton turned to TR. ‘He’s just a hick jockey, TR. Sure, this black kid can ride okay … but in the Melbourne Cup?’

  ‘This isn’t like in the South, Clayton. That Mick is an Aborigine doesn’t come into it. And some of our bush jockeys are pretty damned smart riders. It’s the relationship between horse and rider that counts.’

  Clayton smiled. ‘I consider I’m put in my place, TR. You’re right, it’ll be an advantage for you. Some jockeys have never ridden their mount before the race. Good luck to y’all.’

  They allowed themselves at least two weeks for the trip, making it a bit of a holiday, and taking the drive at a leisurely pace. They often camped at a local showground or racecourse, keeping up Bill’s training sessions on whatever track they could find.

  Country newspapers soon picked up their story. It made good copy — the bushies with their well-known horse rambling through the countryside in an almost absurd approach to the biggest horse race in Australia. People came to watch Bill run at their local track and he left behind a trail of fans who all promised to ‘put a bob or two on him in the Cup’.

  At Wagga Wagga Bill ran a sluggish time and Bobby checked him with a worried frown. ‘He’s off his feed a bit. I reckon we should rest up a day or two.’

  They rented a box at stables near the racetrack and Bobby concocted medicine for Bill, who looked lethargic but was still happy to play and go for walks with his mate, Bobby.

  Bobby slept on a shelf in the box, a sleeping bag thrown on the hay, to be on hand in case Bill developed any complications. However, Bill soon returned to strength and seemed as robust as ever — but Bobby looked grey and haggard.

  ‘Taken a lot out of him,’ muttered TR. ‘He frets over that horse worse than any mother with a sick baby.’

  ‘Just like you do over Bobby,’ said Tango who was very aware of the bond between TR and the old man.

  When Bobby decided Bill was fit again, they set off, Tango and TR sharing the driving while Bobby kept an anxious eye on the float carrying Bill, towed behind their Holden station wagon.

  ‘There’s the New South Wales-Victoria border. Not far now, Bobby,’ said TR buoyantly. The old man didn’t reply.

  ‘Just as well, we’re cutting it a bit fine for time,’ said Tango, filling the vacuum in the conversation.

  TR glanced at Bobby, ‘I think we’ll stop at the next town and check into a pub for the night. Get a decent night’s sleep.’

  They checked in to the Commercial Hotel but Bobby excused himself halfway through dinner. ‘I feel a bit crook. Tired as hell. I’m going upstairs to bed.’

  ‘I’ll sleep with Bill, don’t worry about him, Bobby,’ said Tango.

  TR headed into the bar for a nightcap. The man beside him gave him a nod. ‘Just got in?’

  ‘Yeah, on the way to Melbourne.’

  ‘For the Cup?’

  ‘Yeah, bringing my horse down, slow and easy. Taking a couple of weeks to do it.’

  ‘Cripes. Are you walking him like Zulu?’ laughed the man.

  At TR’s blank expression the old man explained. ‘Zulu. Won the Cup in 1868. They reckon he walked down from Sydney and went on to win. Hey, what’s your horse called, I’d better put some money on him.’

  Later TR walked down the hall to the shared bathroom and hesitated outside Bobby’s door. He tapped quietly and pushed the door open. Bobby was asleep, his bedside light still burning. TR tiptoed over to the bed to turn it off.

  One look at Bobby’s ashen face and laboured breathing had him running down to the manager’s office. ‘My mate’s ill. Get an ambulance. Fast.’

  Queenie planned to have the gala opening of the Kurrajong Hotel in the New Year. She was now spending several days a week in the hotel supervising the details of decoration and finish. The other days she was in Sydney haunting the antique shops and auction rooms for furniture, fittings, and accessories.

  She was thrilled at how the forlorn old building had blossomed. Local craftsmen had been recruited for most of the internal renovations and they took pride and pleasure in bringing ‘the old lady’ — as the hotel was fondly known — back to life.

  The carved woodwork gleamed under new French polish, the stained lead-light windows had been replaced and repaired where necessary, the fireplaces were opened up and chimneys cleaned, walls marble-washed in soft pastels, the bedrooms wallpapered in Victorian flower patterns. Old-fashioned washstands topped with hand-painted Victorian tiles stood in each bedroom with fine china jug and washbowl sets filled with flowers from the garden. Big beds, some cedar four-posters, others brass with ceramic inlays, were covered in quilted feather eiderdowns.

  Despite the period appearance of the furnishings, ultra modern conveniences like concealed heating and air conditioning, added to the comfort. Drawing and sitting rooms, sun rooms, and reading rooms with big log fires made the Kurrajong seem like a stately home.

  Queenie fitted out a billiards and games room and installed a library. On the western side she added a conservatory. Its partially glassed roof and walls were screened with plants to filter the sun. Exotic tropical plants flourished and flowered in pretty hand-painted ceramics and old Chinese pots. The white cane furniture was upholstered in pastel pink and green chintz and, from the gardenlike protected indoor environment, guests could watch the activity on the miniature lake, or the gentle swaying of the big old trees.

  Members of the local horticultural society had offered their help on a voluntary basis to restore the gardens. They researched the original design and replanted and pruned, bringing the rose arbour and banks of pink and mauve hydrangeas back to life. They trimmed the old magnolia trees and gardenia bushes and planted beds with English flowers which did well in the mountains. Victorian era garden-edges of lacy ironwork were found in an old shed and painted and put back in place around the formal garden.

  What had first appeared to be an overgrown swamp turned out to be a miniature lake. It was drained and cleaned and planted with water lilies and irises. A photo from the historical society showed a small
gazebo in the lake’s centre, so Queenie had a new one built and had Saskia’s friend, the boat builder from Balmain, build punts for the guests to paddle on this tranquil waterway or to row to the gazebo. Wild ducks quickly made the lake their new home.

  The kitchens were modernised to meet health department and fire safety regulations. Huge old wooden refectory tables were found in storage and were dragged into the kitchen, and freezers and a cool room were installed in the spacious pantry.

  Through the Paragon staff Queenie unearthed a one-time haute cuisine chef who had retired to the mountains from Sydney. Monsieur Ambert was getting bored and embraced Queenie with gusto when she offered him the job of head chef.

  Queenie had heard how temperamental and unpredictable chefs could be. She took him on a tour of inspection of the hotel and his domain. ‘So, Monsieur Ambert, does the kitchen meet with your approval?’

  ‘Oui. Inside is very good. But Madame Queenie … the garden …’ He raised his eyes to the heavens and flung up his arms in despair.

  ‘What do you mean? I’ve spent a fortune on the gardens, they are looking superb!’

  ‘Non, non. My garden. Where is the ’erb garden?’

  Queenie breathed a sigh of relief. A kitchen and herb garden was not an impossible demand. ‘If that’s all you require, I will send the head gardener to speak to you. Tell him what you want planted.’

  Several sous chefs, kitchen staff, parlour maids and administrative staff were found among local residents and an immediate loyal fraternity was established.

  Queenie spent hours in her little office overlooking the main terrace and out to the valley and mountains, working on her launch party. There was a constant flow of interruptions and requests for her to come and look at something or give an opinion.

  The opening of the Kurrajong was already generating a lot of interest, as well as bringing new life to the business community in the mountains. The curious local real estate agent kept popping in to check on the progress, hopeful that guests to the hotel might like to purchase a little property in the area. There was speculation in the travel and burgeoning tourist industry as to whether the magnificent hotel in the mountains would succeed.

  In her mail one morning Queenie opened an invitation to a prestigious cocktail party in Sydney being given by the newly restructured State Tourist Board. She decided it was essential to attend, even though she didn’t feel like travelling to Sydney to stand around making small talk. However, she knew promotion of her hotel was essential and she needed to develop contacts in the tourist industry.

  It had been a long time since she had gone out socially and Judy and Sarah persuaded her to buy a madly expensive but exquisite Dior gown … stunning in its simple but superbly cut lines. It was deep purple, almost black, and set off Queenie’s opal necklace perfectly.

  There were a few professional women at the function, mainly from travel agencies, and several wives also attended; but it was primarily a sea of suits, with drifting waiters bearing silver hors d’oeuvre trays and cocktails.

  Holding a now-warm Campari and soda Queenie extricated herself from a circle of travel agents and headed across the room to introduce herself to the director of the Tourist Board who had made a pompous and boring speech. He was delighted to meet the new owner of the Kurrajong and held her hand longer than was necessary. Queenie was introduced to the rest of the circle standing around the director. The names went in a blur as she shook hands. The last man gave her a warm smile and repeated his name in a soft, slight French accent.

  ‘Henri Barnard. Montpelier Incorporated.’

  ‘The Montpelier hotels?’ asked Queenie. As he nodded modestly, she asked, ‘Are you planning on one opening in Australia?’

  He gave a Gallic shrug. ‘Perhaps.’ ‘Not in the Blue Mountains, I hope,’ said Queenie with a smile.

  He laughed. ‘Mais non. But I have heard of your Kurrajong. It sounds most intriguing. Would you tell me about it?’

  They drifted away from the others and he led her to a quiet lounge in a corner of the room.

  As they chatted, Queenie observed Henri, wondering where he was from. She guessed he was in his late thirties. He was tanned, with dark brown eyes behind large square glasses, straight brown hair and perfect teeth. He was impeccably dressed and emanated power, prestige and wealth; but his manner was relaxed and unpretentious.

  He, in turn, was fascinated by Queenie’s beauty, style and business acumen.

  A passing waiter held out a tray of drinks and as they took a glass of Great Western champagne, Henri lifted his in a toast. ‘Here is to the success of your Kurrajong and good luck to a beautiful lady in a Dior gown.’

  Queenie sipped her drink and asked, ‘Are you French?’

  ‘A little. I’m French Canadian. I combine the romanticism of Europe with the pragmatism of North America. My headquarters are in New York.’

  Queenie now recalled reading about the handsome, rich and eligible head of Montpelier and how he had taken an old family hotel chain and turned it into a string of luxurious hotels around the world. ‘What are your plans in Australia?’

  ‘I have been looking around at possible hotels to buy and locations suitable for one of our hotels. Australia is an expanding market. I would very much like to see the Kurrajong.’

  ‘It’s not for sale, I’m afraid — nor is it finished … but if you don’t mind seeing it as it is …’ relented Queenie.

  ‘I would enjoy that very much. I’d like to visit some places outside Sydney, seeing that this is my first trip here.’

  ‘Allow me to be your tour guide for a day.’

  ‘I’d be enchanted. Merci.’

  Queenie hesitated about driving the famous head of one of the world’s great hotel chains to the mountains in her Range Rover four-wheel drive, but decided he’d have to take her as she was.

  Henri enjoyed the drive. They took the scenic Bells Line of Road into the mountains and stopped for coffee at a roadside orchard stall in Bilpin and bought apples, then drove through Mount Victoria to Katoomba and Queenie’s hotel.

  Henri was amazed as they drove to the entrance. ‘Mon Dieu. I wasn’t expecting anything as fabulous as this.’

  He wandered with Queenie all over the building, making small suggestions and asking questions before they lunched on the terrace.

  Monsieur Ambert had prepared a simple meal, not flamboyant, but exquisitely cooked and presented. Henri eyed the cracked blue swimmer crabs on their bed of ice, the Sydney rock oysters and the smoked salmon, fresh fruit, green salad and cheese.

  ‘I hope you like seafood. Sydney is famous for it. I had it brought up fresh from the fish markets this morning.’

  Henri sighed over the fresh fruit flan and coffee. ‘My compliments to your chef. I think you are going to do well here, Queenie. A satisfying meal means a satisfied customer; an exceptional meal like this turns a satisfied customer into a passionate one. It’s hard to believe you are a novice in this industry. You have a natural instinct for style, comfort and presentation. I hope you have a practical streak as well.’

  Queenie flushed with pleasure at his compliment. There was a sincerity about his words. ‘I avoid unnecessary extravagance, but spend money where and when I think it’s effective.’

  ‘Admirable. You have also trained your staff well. Now all you need are the guests.’

  ‘I know. This is all a bit of a gamble for me. Most people told me I was crazy to do it. I’m hoping my launch extravaganza will spread the word.’

  It was early evening when Queenie dropped Henri outside the Wentworth Hotel.

  ‘It has been a delightful day. Allow me to reciprocate. May we dine together tomorrow evening?’

  Queenie shook his hand. ‘I’d love to, Henri. I’ve had a nice day too.’

  Queenie found herself changing her mind several times over what to wear to dinner with Henri Barnard and taking special care with her hair. He called for her in a limousine and smiled mysteriously when she asked where they were g
oing.

  Queenie shrugged, smiled and relaxed, happy to go along with whatever plans he had concocted.

  The chauffeur sped across the Harbour Bridge and headed through the scalloped string of northern beaches until they arrived at the narrow Palm Beach peninsula, the northern tip of Sydney. It had taken almost an hour, though time had passed swiftly as they chatted amiably. They wound around the Palm Beach headland, glimpsing the old sandstone lighthouse atop the nearby Barrenjoey headland, the beam flashing across Pittwater, the mouth of the Hawkesbury River and the Pacific Ocean.

  ‘We’re running out of land — where are we going?’ joked Queenie.

  The car glided along the narrow cliff road past luxurious homes nestling amongst the trees.

  ‘The opera star, Joan Sutherland, has a home here, I believe,’ said Henri, peering into the gathering darkness where the houses climbed down the cliff from the road to face the wide open sea.

  The car swung into the circular driveway of what appeared to be a large home but from its discreet sign, Queenie realised it was a small hotel.

  ‘I never knew about this place, or this part of Sydney,’ said Queenie.

  ‘A friend of mine owns it, so I had to visit. It’s primarily an exclusive restaurant but it has several small suites on the level below,’ said Henri as the maitre d’ ushered them into the plush and elegant drawing room which served as the restaurant’s bar.

  Henri spoke softly in French and they were led through the bar, past the candlelit restaurant and through the French doors onto a stone terrace. ‘It’s not as grand as the terrace at the Kurrajong, but rather special, don’t you agree?’

  ‘It certainly is,’ said Queenie with enthusiasm.

  The terrace was narrow, studded with potted palms and small tables and chairs. It faced the expanse of the Pacific Ocean stretching to the distant dark horizon. A full moon painted a path of shimmering light across the swell of the water. Below the terrace, the surf crashed rhythmically and pleasantly on the rocky shoreline.