by DIMORRISSEY
They walked on, admiring the scarlet bottlebrush flowers, tiny honeyeaters darting amongst them, before stepping onto the smooth path that led to the lighthouse keeper’s sandstone house.
‘What a romantic place to live. Look at the view. It’s like an eyrie,’ said Henri.
‘Think of dragging the groceries up here,’ said Queenie. ‘They used a donkey in the old days, I guess. Like in Greece. The place is empty now that the lighthouse is electronic.’
They explored the overgrown headstones of a woman and a child who died at the top of the cliff in 1924. They crouched and pushed their way beneath the canopy of matted wattle trees to emerge on the tip of the headland, knee deep in prickly, sticky lantana bushes. Queenie leaned against a boulder, peering nervously at the cliff edge and the surf pounding two hundred feet below.
She shivered and grinned at Henri who moved closer to her and wrapped his arm about her shoulders. ‘Scared of heights?’
‘No … but there’s always the fear that this wind could whip you over the edge, or the ground give way.’ She grinned up at him and impulsively he kissed her.
To his surprise — and even more so Queenie’s — she didn’t pull away, but let him gently kiss her, tightening his arm about her.
Henri pulled slightly away and gazed into her eyes. ‘I’ve been wanting to do that for a very long time.’
Queenie’s mouth curved in a teasing smile. ‘What took you so long?’
Henri smiled and wrapped both arms about her, giving her a lingering kiss. They returned to the car holding hands.
Henri kissed Queenie again at her door but made no move to be asked inside or to appear too passionate. He judged that one step at a time with Queenie would be the wisest move, although not the easiest for him.
Tango stopped the car and stared in amazement at Tingulla. Despite everything he’d heard about it, nothing had prepared him for this. He could imagine how it must have looked when Saskia was growing up. At the moment, closed and empty, it looked neglected and sad.
At the sight of an elderly Aborigine with a shock of white hair coming towards him, Tango got out of the car, extending his hand. ‘You must be Snowy, Saskia has told me a lot about you. I’m Tango, I work with TR at Guneda.’
Snowy beamed and shook his hand warmly. ‘Millie sent you, eh?’
‘She was worried something might be wrong.’
‘Come and have some tea. Nothin’ wrong … yet.’
‘But?’
‘Some men bin here.’
‘What sort of men?’
‘Fellas in city suits. Said they were selling Tingulla.’
‘Ah, I see. That explains why Millie had some sense something might be up.’
‘I dunno anything. Wouldn’t tell me nothing.’
‘I’ll see what I can find out. Saskia says it’s all her mother thinks about … getting back here. Funny they didn’t hear it was up for sale.’
Snowy shrugged. ‘Bin some funny business goin’ on, I reckon.’
Tango slept in the shearers’ quarters, but it was a restless night and he woke early, the shadows of a dream drifting at the fringes of his unconscious. He got up, pulled on his boots and walked outside.
He strolled about the property in the soft dream-like dawn. He wandered down to the creek and sat by a willow that Queenie had always favoured. Of all the properties he had been to, none held the magic of Tingulla.
He found Snowy at the stables, fondling the mane of the large white Arabian. ‘What a magnificent horse,’ exclaimed Tango.
‘This is Nareedah.’
‘Could I ride her?’
‘If you like.’ Snowy stood back and watched Tango make friends with the horse and ease into the saddle.
‘See you later, Snowy.’
‘I’ll get breakfast started.’ Snowy didn’t make a move, however. With a thoughtful expression in his black eyes he studied Tango on Nareedah until they were out of sight.
Tango threw his small swag into the back of his car and leaned on the door, delaying saying goodbye to Snowy. He was reluctant to leave Tingulla. He had explored as much as he could, knowing Saskia would want to know every detail. ‘I’ll see what information I can dig up around the traps in town. I’m glad you’re here, Snowy.’
‘I wouldn’t leave this place to the dingoes, don’t you worry.’
‘It certainly is a special place. It’s got a certain feel … a presence about it. I can’t explain it.’
Snowy nodded, and clasped Tango’s hand in both of his as they shook hands.
‘Some spirits are happy and bilong here. Everyone got to find their Dreaming place.’
Tango slid into the car and started the engine. ‘I’ll give Saskia your best, eh?’
‘Tell her old Snowy is looking out for Tingulla.’
Tango could dig up no information but passed on Snowy’s news to Millie who phoned Queenie from Guneda.
Queenie also hit a blank wall when she tried to find out where Colin had gone and why Tingulla was abandoned. Finally she phoned her old friend Dingo to ask if he had heard anything about Tingulla being sold, and he was as surprised as she had been. ‘Where’s Colin?’
‘I don’t know. I haven’t been able to raise any of the Cambonis either.’
With John and Sarah’s help Queenie began some detective work around the big real estate offices, investment companies and large accountancy firms.
It was Judy Thomas who led them to the first clue, giving them the name of a friend’s husband who was a merchant banker.
‘Yes.’ he said. ‘I was offered Tingulla a couple of weeks back. Not really the sort of thing that interests our clients. Hang on and I’ll see if I made a note of the offer.’
That led Queenie and John to another discreet market speculator who had handled the sale for the anonymous vendor.
‘The vendor must have been Colin Hanlon,’ said John.
The financier shook his head. ‘No. I don’t believe it was. It was a big fish.’
‘What’s the state of play at present.’
‘Gone, I’m afraid. I know it’s been taken off the market. I think it went to a syndicate.’ He could tell them no more.
Queenie slammed a fist into the palm of her hand. ‘Dear God, why doesn’t anyone use their names?’
John shrugged. ‘I’ll keep trying. But frankly, Queenie, I think we’re too late.’
‘Find out who bought it and we can make them a better offer.’
‘Queenie, where are you going to get the money? You’ve sunk everything into the Kurrajong.’
‘I don’t know. But if there’s a chance I can buy Tingulla, I will. It hurts me that Colin did this without telling me.’
‘It sounds like it was very deliberately done,’ said John gently.
‘Let’s keep digging,’ said Queenie.
A week later John took Henri to lunch at the Tattersalls Club. The two men had become friends, though John was aware Henri wanted to talk about Queenie more than any other subject.
The club secretary came into the dining room and quietly told John he had a phone call. He excused himself, wondering who would interrupt his lunch at the club.
Henri sipped his Rosemount Chardonnay as John returned to the table. ‘Bad news?’
‘That was Sarah. They found out that Queenie’s brother Colin and his wife have moved away to Italy. To live.’
‘How did Queenie take that news?’
‘She told Sarah she hopes he chokes on garlic.’
The two men grinned at each other, knowing Queenie. ‘There was more news which Queenie doesn’t know yet. Judy’s husband Eric is a stockbroker and he’s found out that Tingulla was bought as a long-term investment by some private company no one has ever heard of and no further negotiations will be considered. Queenie is going to be very disappointed.’
‘I shall go and see her,’ said Henri.
The next evening, armed with roses, Bollinger champagne and Je Reviens perfume, Henri headed for the mountai
ns, on his way to the now completed Kurrajong Hotel, and the woman he loved and wanted to marry.
Chapter Thirty-Two
Queenie signed each embossed invitation to the opening of the Kurrajong Hotel with her favourite fountain pen, making her distinctive little circle above the ‘i’ of Queenie.
John and Henri had persuaded her to use her maiden name because the Hanlons of Tingulla were well known. People would expect that a hotel owned and run by the daughter of one of the country’s most beautiful properties must have a certain style.
Initial invitations had gone out weeks before, she was now sending confirmed invitations and passes. Queenie sipped iced water from a crystal glass with a slice of lime in it. She wished it was a winter opening and not at the height of a scalding Australian summer. A winter launch party with log fires, frosty grass, mist in the valleys and hearty meals would be more suited to the ambience of the Kurrajong.
Yet again she ran through the sequence of events for the opening weekend. Family and friends would make their own way to the Blue Mountains. Dingo was flying from Western Australia. Dear Alf, who still ran Neptune Island, was coming south for the first time in years and even promised to wear shoes. Saskia had insisted Tango be invited and Snowy was taking his first train trip to get there. Millie said he told her he shook like a leaf every time he thought about it. ‘From excitement as much as nerves! I think he’d rather walk,’ laughed Millie.
The official guests were mainly from Sydney — travel and tourism luminaries, journalists and photographers, TV news crews, including her friend Kim Cameron who promised to do a splashy piece on the hotel, and politicians and radio personalities. Everyone was coming by train, but not the normal electric train which ran from Central Railway Station.
Queenie had met Damien McPhee, a former football star now head of the State Rail Authority, and he offered her the use of two antique commissioner’s carriages which would be hooked up to two more restored 1950s carriages, to be hauled by the famous 3801 steam locomotive.
All the carriages, once used for the commissioner’s tours of inspection, were immaculately restored and preserved. The polished cedar interiors had marquetry inlays of Australian wildflowers and animals worked in lighter coloured woods. There were shining brass fittings, lots of leather and it even boasted a four-poster bed. The main section of the carriages resembled a Victorian sitting room with comfortable chintz and leather lounges, a bar and a small piano.
On boarding, waiters would serve champagne cocktails and give each guest an impressive press kit with details of the Kurrajong’s facilities and history including the programme of the weekend activities.
Guests would be collected at the tiny railway station in horse-drawn sulkies and wagons from the district’s carriage club. In the warm night air the horses would clip-clop through the bush to the dramatically floodlit building for cocktails and a light supper. The spectacular view from each room would have its full impact on the guests when they woke in the morning.
On Saturday morning a lavish breakfast would be served on the terrace with its heart-stopping view. Then there was time to dawdle through the delights of the gardens; paddle around the lake, go for bush walks or horse riding. Lunch was planned as a picnic at the base of the nearby waterfall, although only a narrow veil of sparkling water was flowing at this dry time of year. It would be an upmarket barbecue under a marquee on a private property which the hotel would lease for such occasions.
In the afternoon the guests could rest, or stroll down to the village and browse through the antique and craft shops. It wouldn’t take long for guests to later discover the shady swing seats and hammocks scattered invitingly in peaceful corners of the grounds.
Saturday evening was to be the main event; apéritifs and a few brief speeches followed by a grand dinner and formal ball. On Sunday afternoon the guests would return to Sydney, suitably impressed — so Queenie hoped — by the stupendous Kurrajong Hotel in the mountains.
Midweek Millie arrived with Saskia. The next day Queenie waited at the station to meet Snowy. They embraced warmly and she saw that although Snowy had aged a bit, he was still strong and his wise eyes still twinkled. He walked to the front of the train and studied the hissing engine. Shaking his head he reached out and patted the black metal. ‘He’s one mighty fella orright.’
‘Was it a good trip, Snowy? Comfortable?’
Snowy was still a bit overwhelmed. ‘Not like riding a horse. Them clickety-clacks started talking to me.’
Queenie laughed and picked up his small suitcase, linking her arm through his. ‘I know what you mean. Something comes into your head and it starts repeating itself with the rhythm of the wheels.’ She didn’t add that every time she had taken a train journey the wheels always sang to her, ‘Tin … gulla … Tin … gulla … Tin … gulla.’
‘Just you wait till you see the Kurrajong, Snowy … it’s a pretty swish place now I’ve fixed it up.’
‘You never do anything by halves, Queenie. What mob’s coming to this party then? What they gonna say when they see an old black fella here?’
‘They’re going to see a dear old friend, who’s looked after me all my life. And besides, I think you’ll be more than a match for them. I reckon the press are going to love you, Snowy.’ She squeezed his arm as she opened the car door. ‘Making this a success means a lot to me, Snowy. It’s a way of getting back Tingulla. But that’s just between us.’
Snowy settled into the car. ‘Ah, that’s okay then. I reckoned you weren’t turning into some city slicker.’
Millie and Saskia showed Snowy over the hotel and he began to take everything in his stride, adjusting with great aplomb to this different world.
The staff were nervous and excited and small dramas kept flaring up to be quietly doused by Queenie. ‘It’s as if opening night nerves are hitting everyone. I’m jittery too,’ Queenie confessed to Millie.
‘Everything will be alright. So just relax,’ she said calmly. Behind Queenie’s back Millie was double checking things as well, determined that nothing would go wrong or fluster Queenie.
‘I can’t control everything or everyone … but, like the Boy Scouts, I’m prepared,’ said Queenie, giving a Scout’s three finger salute.
She did tell Henri on the phone that she didn’t feel quite as prepared as she had told Millie. ‘You know that awful feeling at the back of your mind, that you’ve forgotten something terribly important and obvious? I just hope it’s only in my mind.’
Henri laughed. ‘I know the feeling well, chérie. Would you like me to come and run my eye over things in a professional capacity as well as a friend?’
‘Yes, I’d love that. I would really appreciate it, Henri, if it’s not’s putting you out. I know how busy you are with your own hotel plans.’
‘Queenie, when are you going to understand I enjoy it. You are so capable, it’s nice to feel you might have a vulnerable spot. Accept a helping hand without feeling you’ve stumbled in any way. Besides, I want to see you.’
He spoke gently and Queenie was touched. ‘Your French charm and Canadian practicality have won me over. Please come with a notebook and white gloves and see if we pass the test.’
Queenie left Henri alone as she was busy during the day with last minute details such as the supply of fresh food coming from Sydney and the flower arrangements which she had designed. She drew sketches for the decorator, inspired by her mother’s imaginative flower displays which had always graced the house at Tingulla.
Henri drifted about the Kurrajong chatting casually with the staff, but behind his glasses, his sharp brown eyes missed nothing. ‘Let me take you to dinner at the local Chinese … for a change,’ suggested Henri.
‘Yes I think I need to get out of here. I don’t think I’ve seen daylight for days!’
They decided to walk through the dusk to Katoomba, and Queenie ate heartily, her nerves calmed by Henri’s amusing chatter about his youthful days in Lake Toba in Sumatra.
‘There was n
othing there, then … an old Dutch Hotel where Sukarno stayed, and a huge volcanic lake filled with goldfish. No people from the outside ever went there. I saw some strange and exotic things while I was there.’
‘You’re not going to put me off my dinner with stories of eating live monkey’s brains are you?’
‘Never. I’ll tell you instead about the secret rites of the Island of Niias.’
The town was quiet and dark as they walked back to the hotel, following the path through the trees in the moonlight.
‘I hope you don’t walk alone in the bush at night,’ said Henri.
‘I’m never afraid in the bush,’ said Queenie with quiet confidence.
Henri put his arm about her waist and gave her a squeeze. ‘You miss your home in the bush?’
‘I do, Henri. It has just been sold, which came as a bit of a shock, but I’ll own it again one day.’
‘Maybe you need a change for a while … why not come to New York and visit me?’
‘A lovely idea … if not very practical,’ smiled Queenie.
Henri didn’t press her. ‘Think about it,’ he said.
All was quiet in the hotel. They walked along the dark terrace, looking over the moonlit valley and sharing the companionable silence with foraging possums and a distant night owl.
Queenie spoke first. ‘I’m not sleepy, I guess I’m keyed up. They all arrive tomorrow night … after so many months of planning, it’s hard to believe.’
‘I have a Moet Petite Liqueur in my suite … which is charming, thank you very much. Would you care for a nightcap?’
Queenie nodded. His room was off the terrace and she settled into an easy chair, kicking off her shoes while Henri took two glasses from the small bar.
An hour passed before Queenie realised the time. ‘Henri, I had no idea it was getting so late … time passes very pleasantly with you.’
She picked up her shoes as he drew her from the chair to her feet. ‘Good night and sweet dreams … have no fears, all will be well this weekend.’
He kissed her lightly but his mouth lingered and Queenie found she was kissing him back with a surge of emotion. His arms went around her and her shoes dropped to the floor as she reached her arms about him.
