Heart of the Dreaming

by DIMORRISSEY

  Henri lifted her slim body in his arms and carried her unprotestingly to the bed. Between kisses he tenderly slipped the clothes from her body, catching his breath at the sight of her firm flat belly, slim hips, the length of her legs and the soft fullness of her breasts. ‘Oh, Queenie, you are so beautiful … so sweet …’

  She reached up and drew him close, and with eyes closed, her fingers tangled in his hair and she lost herself in their loving embrace.

  Henri was a considerate and skilled lover, and Queenie quivered with pleasure at his touch. But later, as he held her in his arms, he didn’t see the tears that rolled down her cheeks.

  She realised it was only with TR that she had experienced overwhelming passion and unbounded love and that she would never find it again. It had not just been the magic of a first love, she knew now how special their love had been, and it made her heart ache. She knew she had always felt Warwick was second best, but he had been so good and affectionate in other ways she had accepted the loss of passion. And now with Henri. Was this to be her fate — never to give her heart? She had given it once and could never do so again.

  As she lay in the darkness in Henri’s arms she slowly realised how she would have to compromise and adjust. It was time she grew up, faced reality, dismissed a once-cherished dream and got on with her life as it was to be. There were good things and good people in her life. She could be happy and at peace.

  Yet the memories came flooding back … of TR telling her not to be content with being merely happy when he could make her joyously and deliriously happy. And then how they had hurt each other. It was time to realise that all that belonged to yesterday and was finished. The future was what mattered. She trembled and Henri whispered. ‘Are you cold? Come under the covers.’

  ‘No … I must go back to my room.’ She pulled her dress over her head as he pulled on his trousers to walk her down the corridor.

  ‘It is I who should be tiptoeing down the darkened hall,’ he smiled, kissing her at her door.

  ‘Goodnight, Henri. See you in the morning.’ The door clicked softly behind her.

  Henri padded back down the carpeted corridor thinking, ‘Ah, Queenie, you are like a bird who must fly free. No one will ever cage your heart and soul. But I will be content with whatever you decide to share with me.’

  It was Saturday afternoon. So far everything had gone smoothly and as planned, even though it had been a stiflingly hot day. The compliments from the guests came freely and effusively and, apart from some minor hitches behind the scenes, the launch of the Kurrajong was going well. Tonight was the grand dinner and ball.

  Queenie had planned to make a short speech and as yet she hadn’t given it much thought. She walked onto the deserted terrace with a cup of tea. The guests were either in the village, bushwalking, horse riding, or in the gardens. Some were resting, or preparing for the ball.

  She sipped her tea and stared across the valley where the sun was beginning to slide behind the sandstone cliffs. Queenie narrowed her eyes and stared at the sky, lowering her cup into the saucer. A dusty gold light hung in the sky. It was too early for the often spectacular displays of colour that came with summer sunsets. It looked as though a yellow scrim, or sheet of plastic film like the movie people had used to diffuse the light, had been slipped across the sun. Slowly the realisation inched into her mind, much as she didn’t want to believe what she instinctively knew. She lifted her head and drew a deep breath. Unmistakably there came the faint smell of distant smoke. Bushfire.

  Snowy found her on the staircase and, seeing his face, Queenie spoke first. ‘I know, Snowy. Let’s hope it’s not as bad as it could be.

  ‘Lot of big scrub out there.’

  Where it was, how far away, in what direction the wind was driving it, all were unknown. What Queenie did know was that the Kurrajong was vulnerable.

  She went to the phone and the local Volunteer Bushfire Brigade confirmed her fears. ‘It’s still over the western ridge, but it could sweep through the valley and up to you in no time. You’d best start preparations just in case. We’ll do our best, but if the fire is on a wide front we won’t be able to cover all of it.’

  Quietly Queenie asked the staff to assemble in the privacy of the large kitchen where she briefly told them the news. ‘Those who wish to leave and see to the safety of their homes please do so. Those who can stay to help with preparations here in case the fire does threaten us, their assistance would be appreciated. I will notify the guests and arrange for them to leave if there is any chance of danger.’

  Henri had just come through the swinging doors and he spoke up in the silence. ‘Queenie, what if the fire doesn’t come over this side?’

  ‘Then we have a party as planned,’ said Chef Ambert.

  ‘That’s right, Mrs Hanlon. We’re not going to let all this work go for nothing. We’ll see to our homes and be back.’

  There was a chorus of agreement and Queenie had tears in her eyes as she thanked them.

  Henri came and gave her a hug. ‘I told you there would be a little drama … have no fears. It will be all right.’

  ‘Henri, you have never seen a bushfire. It’s a terrifying, savage beast.’

  ‘Then let us prepare to slay this dragon in case he comes to our door. Maybe he will get lost on the way.’ Taking her hand he led her back to her office. ‘Tell me what to do.’

  With guidance from two men from the bushfire brigade the staff began clearing combustible material from near the buildings, hoses were readied, more sent for, and a water tanker was driven up and parked discreetly out of sight.

  The staff who had gone home began returning and were given tasks in addition to seeing to the last minute details for the dinner and the ball. The sun had set and the sky still glowed ominously. Henri kept monitoring the progress of the fire through the headquarters of the fire brigade.

  Jim and Millie burst into Queenie’s office where she was packing documents and personal effects into her fireproof safe. ‘Queenie, there’s a bushfire over the ridge. We were down in the valley and came up on the little train and couldn’t believe it when we got to the top and saw the sky,’ exclaimed Millie. ‘What are you going to do?’

  ‘All we can — and hope it doesn’t turn this way. Where are Sarah and John?’

  ‘Horse riding on one of the trails,’ said Jim.

  ‘My God, the horses! Jim, will you see to them. Put halters on them in case we have to grab them in a hurry.’

  ‘Righto, Queenie. I’ll go see what else needs doing.’

  Jim had been through a few bushfires and knew the dangers well, the destruction and the unpredictability of a fire out of control. He also knew how fast it could travel.

  Queenie went upstairs and changed into her evening clothes, flinging old clothes and boots on a chair ready in case she needed them.

  Sarah knocked on her door as she was pinning up her hair. ‘Queenie, John and I just got back. What news?’

  ‘Not much. It’s at a critical point, apparently. It can go one way or the other … towards us or away. The timing is crucial here, I’ll have to tell the guests now, so they can get ready in case we have to evacuate.’

  When everyone was assembled in the sitting room, Queenie with Saskia at her side, made a brief announcement that there was a bushfire on the ridge and it could threaten them or head the other way. There was a slight communal gasp, but Queenie’s calmness, her air of authority and sensible comments, stilled their fears. They listened attentively as she offered them two options — to leave as soon as they were ready, or to stay on until the situation was known and then be evacuated if necessary.

  Tremulously, one lady asked. ‘If we wait, how safe will we be getting out?’ Queenie explained that there were several safe roads out and they would have plenty of warning.

  ‘Then we stay!’ called out a man from the back of the room. There was a chorus of ‘Hear! Hear!’ and Queenie quickly sent the waiters around with trays of Bollinger.

  Several
guests moved out onto the terrace to watch the glow in the sky, treating it as a ‘light show’ — an unplanned feature of the hotel opening.

  Dingo and Alf joined Queenie. ‘Well handled, girl,’ smiled Dingo.

  Alf sipped his champagne. ‘Never seen a bushfire. I always figured if I had a fire I’d dive in the surf and to hell with the joint. But then, my place is made of banana leaves, more or less. Not quite like what you’ve got here.’

  ‘Neptune Island has it’s own charm and beauty, Alf.’

  ‘We’re right here with you, anyway,’ said Dingo.

  Queenie touched the two older men on the hands. ‘I couldn’t ask for more. You’re good friends.’

  Laughter began to drift through the hotel as the guests relaxed. Queenie noticed, however, that the film, TV and radio people, along with the press photographers, kept their gear within easy reach and kept making phone calls to their offices.

  At a querying look from Chef Ambert, Queenie nodded and the chimes rang, and everyone was ushered into dinner. Guests were seated at circular tables in the ballroom. The small orchestra — many of them locals — filed in and began playing in the background.

  The meal was splendid and as Queenie circulated she heard nothing but praise. Henri sat beside her and squeezed her hand as the dessert appeared. Jim, looking uncomfortable in a hired tuxedo, slid to Queenie’s side and whispered in her ear. She excused herself and followed him into her office and picked up the telephone from her desk. ‘Hello, Queenie HanIon here.’

  ‘It’s turned, Mrs Hanlon, it’s over the ridge and heading your way. You’d better get people out of there. I’m real sorry to tell you this,’ said the fire chief.

  ‘Not your fault. Thanks for your help.’

  ‘We’ll send as many men as we can spare. Goodbye.’

  Queenie returned to the ballroom and went to the microphone. The orchestra stumbled to a halt. ‘The fire is heading this way, ladies and gentlemen. We don’t know if it will reach us, but I’ve asked the buses to be out the front in twenty minutes to take you into Katoomba.’

  No one in the room moved. ‘What are you going to do?’ called out one of the journalists.

  ‘Stay and fight. This place means a lot to me,’ smiled Queenie ruefully.

  ‘Then we’ll stay,’ came another shout which was followed by a cheer.

  ‘We’re with you. Hell, this place is too precious to lose,’ came another voice.

  One of the radio journalists turned to a newspaper colleague and shrugged. ‘Bit like being on the Titanic, isn’t it?’

  ‘Bloody good story, though,’ came back the other. They both reached for the Bollinger bottle and poured another drink. ‘Could be a long, thirsty night, mate,’ said the radio man, raising his glass.

  Everyone hurried to their rooms to pack for a last minute dash if they had to run for it, and to put on practical clothes. Then they assembled on the floodlit terrace where the volunteer bushfire fighters issued instructions for fighting the blaze and for their personal safety.

  The fire could now be seen coming over the ridge like an army marching in close formation wearing uniforms of burning yellow beneath a huge black flag of death, smoke and ash. Occasionally there were explosions like fireworks going off as giant gum trees ignited, their eucalyptus oil burning like fuel. The wind had picked up and the fire was gathering pace, jumping streams and roads and racing towards the hotel.

  The smoke reached them, bringing an acrid smell of burning wood and eucalyptus oil.

  The hoses were turned on to damp down as much of the building as possible. Downpipes were blocked and gutters filled with water. Piles of hessian wheat bags were handed out and large tubs of water placed in as many places as possible to wet the bags, a simple but effective weapon in combating small fires.

  Soon a powdery ash began to drop on them like warm black snow. The heat could be felt in the air and, most frightening, was the crashing roar as the beast lunged forward, devouring everything in its fiery path.

  The wine cellars were stocked with food, water, bedding and first aid supplies, ready to be used as a shelter if needed.

  Teams of guests were organised to tend hoses, or as bucket brigades, to stand at the ready around the grounds, armed with the wet bags waiting like a rag-tag army for the enemy.

  ‘It’s like Custer’s Last Stand,’ quipped the TV cameraman to Kim Cameron who was holding a microphone in one hand and a champagne glass in the other.

  ‘From such stuff are awards made. Stand by for a piece to camera,’ replied the intrepid reporter.

  The advance line of the fire sneaked into the grounds in small embers, flaring and catching isolated dry grass. As soon as a fire was spotted the shout went up and the wet bag brigade attacked, smacking down the bags until all that was left was a singed and steaming patch of black. But behind these first windborne sparks came the ominous roar of the main fire, and all of a sudden all the lights went out … the power lines had been destroyed.

  Fire fighters all around the grounds were forced towards the buildings as the roaring fire raced into the grounds on all fronts, pushed along by a heat-powered wind. Trees in the garden exploded into flames. The guests could feel the heated air scorching their skin and the smell of the burning bushland was overpowering. They began to choke on the smoke and exchanged fearful looks.

  Almost immediately the fire brigade captain came along the line telling everyone to retreat to the main building.

  The grounds were left to burn as water from the lake and the tanker was poured onto the hotel. Hoses played on the roof and on the walls of the building. The boat house and the furniture in the gardens were blazing, and even the gazebo in the middle of the lake was alight.

  Henri left the grounds where he had been beating sporadic minifires with the back of a shovel — the only thing close by when he had seen a flying spark land, multiply, and start a chain reaction of small fires. His shirt was burned, he had singed hair and sore hands. Hurriedly he asked where Queenie was — he knew it must be breaking her heart to see so much being destroyed.

  Henri stopped John as he rushed past with two sloshing buckets of water. ‘Where’s Queenie?’

  ‘We tried to get the horses out but they were panicking. She’s gone to do it.’

  ‘Will she be all right, is someone helping her? I’d better go.’

  ‘Leave her. She knows what she’s doing. If you go she’ll have to watch out for you. Queenie will manage.’

  Henri nodded. He wouldn’t be much help coping with frightened horses.

  Smoke was filtering into the stables and the horses were terrified. There were four of them and each time Queenie grasped one by the halter, another reared and raised its hooves, trying to knock down the stable door with its front legs.

  Holding one horse, she managed to free the second from its adjoining box and grasping each by the halter she ran with them on either side of her, leading them down the path towards the driveway. She dropped their halters, slapped them hard on the rump and for a split second watched them gallop down the drive and away from the fire, before turning around to let the other ones out.

  As she reached the stables she realised the roof was alight. Wooden shingles had dropped into the pile of hay which had burst into flames. The horse in this box was almost demented with fear. Queenie lifted her shirt, and holding it over her nose and mouth and shielding her face with an arm, fumbled to unbolt the stable door.

  Queenie knew what would happen but was not quick enough to grab the terrified horse as it crashed through the doorway, slamming her head against the door. She groaned and slid to the ground. As a black blanket of unconsciousness enveloped her, she prayed the horses would follow the others and not turn towards the oncoming fire.

  The stables were now burning fiercely.

  Everyone who wasn’t immediately involved in fighting the fire gathered indoors. Millie and Judy Thomas led a small group of women down to the wine cellar shelter.

  ‘There’s a chartered
bus on the way to take you out, but it might be wise to wait in here,’ Judy spoke to the group.

  ‘Just in case the fire does come through … just in case …’ added Millie reassuringly. ‘Lie on the floor and throw the blankets over you. Breathe low down. Don’t stand up. Smoke rises.’

  Saskia hurried along the terrace and seeing Tango wrenching the full length drapes from the huge French doors, called out, ‘Where’s my mother?’

  ‘I don’t know, Sas.’

  ‘She’s seeing to the horses,’ came a response in the dark.

  Tango left the damask drapes in a heap on the floor. ‘She’ll need help. Stay here, Saskia.’

  ‘No, I’m coming too.’

  The two of them ran through the dark gardens which smelt of dampened fire. The hotel was dark, save for emergency lanterns and candles, while outside, the red glow of the fire was reflected in the windows.

  Seeing the stables Saskia cried out, ‘Oh, no, they’re on fire … Mum, Mum?’

  One end of the stables was completely demolished and the last section was about to collapse on the flames burning inside.

  Tango spotted the figure in the white shirt on the ground and dashed forward, dragging Queenie away. ‘She’s all right, Sas … just knocked out, I think. I guess she breathed in smoke.’

  ‘There’s no doctor here, Tango …’ sobbed Saskia.

  Tango didn’t reply. He gently tilted back Queenie’s head and dropped his mouth onto hers, steadily breathing into her, and pushing grimly on her chest.

  Tears running down her face, Saskia crouched, holding her mother’s hand while Tango worked. In minutes Queenie began coughing and opened her eyes, turning her head away.

  ‘It’s all right. Don’t talk, just breathe slowly and deeply,’ said Tango.

  Queenie nodded and did as he said, finding her head clearing and her eyes focusing properly again, despite the sudden glare of a handheld light from a TV news crew, swift on the scene.