FOLLOW THE MORNING STAR

by Di Morrissey

  Doctor Kleindorf was short and balding with a silver goatee, rimless round glasses, fleshy red lips and watery eyes. He was dressed in a pinstriped suit, polka dot bow tie, and his main accessory was a fob watch on a heavy gold chain. A small circular gold pin with a dot of sapphire in its centre signified he had been awarded the Order of Australia. Queenie had no doubt braces held up suit pants that were creased knife-sharp.

  The room was claustrophobic and depressing. She wondered how patients suffering from depression must feel in here. She almost wished she hadn’t made the appointment and flown to Melbourne to see the man considered to be Australia’s most eminent neurosurgeon and neuropsychologist.

  As if sensing her feelings of disquiet, Kleindorf began speaking softly and it took a few minutes for Queenie’s ear to adjust to his voice. ‘I have studied your husband’s X-rays and medical report. It does seem a somewhat straightforward matter . . .’

  ‘Straightforward! I wouldn’t say . . .’

  ‘I was referring to his physical injuries, my dear. I understand how distressing the effects of it all must be. But frankly, post-traumatic amnesia is quite common as a result of the sort of head trauma your husband has suffered. So, we can consider this aspect as being a positive one, yes?’ He gave a strange chuckle, which Queenie soon realised was a form of punctuation to his speech and had the curious effect of seeming to minimise the seriousness of the words he spoke. It occurred to her it was rather like a judge sentencing you to forty years behind bars. The words, delivered in a friendly tone with this chuckle, made you feel positively warm and glow with pleasure. After all, it could have been life. A clever psychological ploy no doubt, thought Queenie, trying to concentrate on what the doctor was saying.

  ‘Two brain areas are most vulnerable to injury with closed-head trauma — the inferior-medial and anterior segments of the temporal lobes, and the inferior and polar areas of the frontal lobes bilaterally.’

  ‘Doctor, please, speak English. Tell me in plain words what I want to know . . . namely, how bad is my husband’s problem, will he recover and if so, when, and what can I expect during this process?’

  ‘Not even God can give you a time and a date or a full and accurate prognosis, my dear.’ He held up a pudgy white hand. ‘Please allow me to continue and explain a few things to you. A little more understanding will help you come to terms with his disorder.’

  Queenie relaxed and let his whispery accent lecture her.

  ‘Be glad that in recent years the study of memory problems has surged due to our increasing interest in dementia. We have an ageing population that is living longer than in any previous time. We have come a long way in these studies since the Russian physician Korsakow made his findings and Ebbinghaus started a new era of investigation into memory. Today we have fields such as cognitive psychology.’ He chuckled. ‘We all possess a collection of individually acquired, learned and stored information particular to each of us. Our ability to retrieve at will selective portions of this reservoir of personal and formal knowledge is an unique human attribute. I won’t go into the types of memory function — such as repression and immediate recall, learning and retrieval — but let me say that with closed-head injury a variable degree of improvement occurs with the passage of time. Rest assured the memories and knowledge stored by your husband remain intact. It is his ability to retrieve these that is impaired. Long-standing social habits, motor skills, language and so on are undamaged — they are virtually automatic skills.’

  ‘That’s all very well, but if he has no recollection of his past life it makes dealing with the present very difficult,’ said Queenie sadly.

  The doctor agreed with a chuckle. ‘Now, what your husband is suffering from is known as retrograde amnesia. He may have permanent amnesia — either partial or total. There are instances where total recovery has been spontaneous, others where recovery has been gradual and sporadic. Often there is some learning loss or impaired function to a lesser or greater degree.’ Kleindorf spread his hands and lifted his shoulders. ‘That is the unfathomable quotient — the fate factor’.

  ‘There is no treatment, no drugs?’

  ‘None proven for this type of amnesia. If it had been brought on by alcoholism we could give vitamin B and proteins, but for a severe bang on the head . . .’ Kleindorf looked mournful and made a helpless gesture again.

  Queenie looked down at her hands, gripping them together in her lap. ‘There is nothing I can do?’

  ‘I believe there is, my dear.’ He chuckled again and Queenie looked up hopefully. ‘You can prepare yourself for what may be inevitable — that your husband may never recover. So you will have to re-educate him totally. In other words, give him back his past.’

  ‘It would never be the same!’

  ‘It will make life with him more bearable for you and your family. And in the meantime, you must prepare yourself for his times of confusion and agitation. It’s not going to be easy for you, Mrs Hamilton, but I rather feel that you are not the sort of person who gives up easily.’

  The doctor pulled the fob watch from his vest pocket and glanced at it. ‘Our time together is now over. If you have any further questions you want answered, do not hesitate to telephone me.’ He stood and Queenie rose also, towering over the short doctor who seemed unfazed at his reduced stature.

  He led her to the door. ‘My dear,’ he said with warmth, ‘have faith and perseverance and I’m sure good will come from this.’

  Queenie felt reassured. ‘Thank you, Doctor Kleindorf . . . And you’re right — I don’t give up easily.’

  ‘Then your husband is very fortunate. I wish you both well. Good day, Mrs Hamilton.’

  Queenie held what TR always called a board meeting when there was a family matter to be discussed. In the rented unit at Riverside Terrace overlooking the Brisbane River, the three of them sat around the dining room table as Saskia dished up the takeaway Chinese meal.

  ‘ . . . So that’s the essence of what Kleindorf had to say, he was very clinical.’

  ‘Well at least we know a bit more now. But what’s the next step?’ asked Tango.

  ‘You two have to go back to work.’

  ‘No! You need us. And we can help with TR,’ exclaimed Saskia.

  ‘Sas, he won’t be out of hospital for months, with or without amnesia. There is little we can do for him just yet. The doctors and nurses are caring for him.’

  ‘But we can’t not be with him!’

  ‘Sas, he doesn’t know us. He’s not missing us,’ said Tango gently.

  Saskia put down the plastic tub of fried rice, tears springing to her eyes. ‘We can make him know us and love us again.’

  Queenie touched her arm. ‘I know how you feel, darling. And that’s what we might have to do. Give him back his past, as Doctor Kleindorf said. But for now he’s having a hard enough time dealing with the day-to-day discomfort and pain. Sweetie, he might have to learn to walk again too.’

  ‘Oh God!’ Tango let out his breath in anguish. ‘Oh no!’

  Queenie took hold of Saskia’s and Tango’s hands on either side of her. ‘We’re going to pull him through this, kids. I swear to you, we’ll do it. We’ll get him back, no matter what,’ She spoke with fervent power, gripping their hands, her eyes burning with passionate determination. Looking at her, feeling the strength and energy flowing through her hands, Saskia and Tango believed her. In the brief silence they bowed their heads spontaneously, all thinking their own heartfelt prayer.

  A calmness settled on Queenie and she gently let go of their hands. ‘Let’s eat.’

  Late one afternoon before he left for Guneda, Tango was sitting by his father’s bedside. TR awoke from a long sleep and Tango fetched them both a cup of tea.

  TR peered at the black tea with lemon. ‘This is how I like it, eh?’

  Tango grinned. ‘You always said it was spending so much time in the bush with black billy tea and damper.’

  ‘Yeah, can’t carry milk around the bush. Can’t s
tand that powdered stuff, it . . .’

  ‘ . . . goes lumpy,’ they both said together.

  They stared at one another.

  ‘Is that what I’ve said before or are we just thinking alike?’ asked TR.

  ‘Bit of both,’ said Tango. ‘Guess there’s a lot of stuff you know that you don’t know you know . . . for the time being anyway.’

  TR closed his eyes. ‘I’m really trying not to think about . . . all that. It’s a bit hard for a bloke to take in. I feel so damned busted up.’

  ‘Yes, and so you are. I just wanted to let you know I’m going back to Guneda. We have the yearling sales coming up and you know . . .’ Tango paused. ‘I was going to say, you know what a busy time for us that is. Do you remember anything about the horses or Mick or Bobby Fenton . . . ?’

  TR shook his head.

  ‘Guneda?’

  TR looked blank then winced in pain and rubbed his leg encased in plaster beneath the sheet.

  ‘Do you want me to tell you about Guneda?’ asked Tango. ‘It means a lot to you.’

  TR looked despairing. ‘Not now. I’m just not ready to take anything in. None of you, the people, places, things you talk about, mean anything. Christ, I wish it’d just come back.’ He hit his head in anger and frustration.

  Tango put his hand on TR’s good arm. ‘It will. Take it easy, TR. One day at a time. I’ll phone you and come and see you when I can. Though Guneda is down near Scone so I can’t pop in and out as often as I’d like, but I’ll call you.’

  ‘Don’t know what we’re going to talk about,’ said TR irritably.

  Tango stilled the anger that flared at his father’s attitude. He paused then spoke in a steady voice. ‘Let’s assume we’ve just met, we like each other and I’d like to share some of the stuff going on in my life with you. You just be a sounding board, and we’ll see how we get along. Okay?’

  TR reached up and held out his hand. They shook hands. ‘It’s a deal.’

  As Tango left the room, his heart lurching, TR said, ‘Good luck, son, with whatever it is you’re doing. You seem like a capable bloke. I don’t think you need me.’

  Tango lifted a finger in a small salute and closed the door, near to tears. ‘Oh yes I do, TR. If you only knew how much . . . how much we all need you.’

  TR turned his head away as the door clicked shut. These people, his family, who were they? What was this life he’d led? Behind him lay a past of memories he could not recall. Ahead lay a future that held only uncertainty. The pressure of having to appear interested, to try to make sense of what everyone told him, was becoming intolerable. All he wanted was for his body to heal, for the pain to go away; then maybe he could start to come to terms with his past — and his future. The way he felt now, if he was physically able, he’d walk out the door and go far away where he wasn’t known, where nothing was expected of him, where he could lead a life of his own choosing. At the moment he felt helpless, like a baby, a victim, an invalid.

  A surge of anger swept through him and he longed to kick the metal tray away from the foot of his bed, to throw something, but he couldn’t move and he had no way of adequately expressing his frustration and anger. He rang the buzzer and asked for a pill. Oblivion was all he craved, a black dreamless state that passed in too brief a time. But always there was the hope that when he awoke, his life would be as it was.

  Chapter Five

  The ground temperature at Brisbane airport had edged over the thirty-two degree mark. The departing silver jets evaporated in the shimmering heat haze in a matter of seconds.

  In the international terminal a crowd surged forward each time a new batch of passengers came through the doors from the customs hall.

  A chauffeur in black uniform and sparkling white shirt held a small sign with Camboni-Hanlon written on it.

  ‘Thank heavens, there’s the driver Pappa has sent.’ Dina waved her handbag and hurried forward, leaving Colin to struggle with the baggage trolley laden with designer suitcases.

  Colin had managed to convince Dina that an extended trip to Australia would be good for both of them. She hadn’t taken much persuasion — she hadn’t seen her doting father for months. Within days of making their decision, they had packed up and flown out of Italy, leaving servants to close up house and send their possessions on after them.

  Colin sat in the front of the limousine as half the back seat held the last of Dina’s bags that wouldn’t fit in the boot. Dina pulled her silk blouse away from her clammy skin. ‘Colin, get him to turn up the air-conditioning, I’m still hot.’

  Colin looked at the driver, who shrugged and reached to work the control lever in the dashboard.

  The long dark car glided past the entrance to the domestic, private and charter aircraft terminals where taxis and cars were double-parked amidst a melee of passengers and luggage. Suddenly Colin leaned forward and turned sharply. A tall young man was getting out of a taxi, slinging a bag casually over one shoulder, an old bush hat tilted down over his face. Something about his looks, his movements, caught Colin’s attention, but in a second they’d passed him. He was a young man; the man whose image had flashed into Colin’s mind would be older now.

  ‘I’m seeing ghosts,’ Colin thought, leaning back in his seat. The memory of TR brought back bitter feelings, for Colin blamed TR as much as Queenie for usurping his place at Tingulla.

  Tango went to the counter of the small airline and greeted the woman behind the desk with a smile and ‘G’day’. She smiled brightly back at him. ‘Hi there. You’re going to Scone, right? Won’t be long. Just waiting for one more passenger.’

  Tango was excited but also nervous at taking over Guneda. It was a showplace thanks to TR’s hard work and inspiration. When Clayton Hindmarsh — TR’s former American boss and subsequent partner — had told TR to build ‘the smartest damn stud in all Australia’, the Kentucky billionaire had imagined TR would model it on Bon Vite, the grandest horse stud in the whole of the South. But TR had created a wonderful blend of the best facilities of international standards that also had a typical, unmistakable Australian character and charm. He had combined factors that were both practical and aesthetic.

  He drew on the past for architectural ideas that gave the classic heritage look of pioneer buildings for sentimental reasons but also because the early bush men and women devised buildings and work areas that suited the climate and lifestyle. The main house was a gracious squatter’s homestead with cool verandahs, lots of lattice, shady trees and big fireplaces in the sitting room and kitchen. Old-fashioned English flowerbeds flourished around the house and colourful shrubs and rose bushes lined the driveway. In the paddocks mares and foals gambolled in the sunshine behind neat white fences.

  The stallions were housed in immaculate state-of-the-art quarters on the other side of the property, which was broken up by a two-kilometre racetrack and large swimming dam used for exercising the horses. Some of the staff were housed in what used to be an old shearing shed. The bleached grey solid wood building had been carefully dismantled, each of the hundred-year-old slabs was numbered, and the lot moved to Guneda and reerected. But inside it was very comfortable and stylish. An open-plan communal living area had furniture made by a local craftsman out of hardwood, normally scorned by furniture makers, but the spotted gum tables and chairs were strong yet delicately shaped. Bedrooms slept four — men at one end, women at the other — though sometimes strappers chose to sleep with a horse if it was about to foal or had been unwell. There was a special bunk room attached to each of the horse’s stalls for this purpose. Old Bobby Fenton had spent nights rolled in hay beside Sweet William when they were on the road to Melbourne for the Cup and TR and Tango had never forgotten it.

  In fact, many of old Bobby’s somewhat unorthodox methods had been adopted at Guneda. It was an eternal sadness to TR that the old man he’d brought back from retirement in suburbia to work with him was no longer alive to see what Guneda had become. TR also missed his advice and the knowledge acquire
d by someone who had worked closely with horses for over sixty years. And now Tango missed the advice, companionship and love of TR.

  For a moment running Guneda seemed overwhelming. Even if TR didn’t realise how much it meant to him at the moment, he had created the place. He’d poured so much of himself into it, Tango felt the responsibility of caring for, as well as continuing it, quite daunting. But the feeling gradually passed and he began to look forward to the challenge ahead.

  The limousine turned onto the Gold Coast Highway and headed south towards Coolangatta. Dina dozed in the back until they were skimming past the sun-drenched towers of Surfers Paradise when she suddenly became alert.

  ‘Wonderful, wonderful. It looks like Honolulu, doesn’t it, caro?’ Dina gushed with enthusiasm.

  Colin shrugged. He was distracted, thinking about his reunion with his father-in-law. Alfredo had hinted there could be some interesting opportunities for him in the family business — it would be useful to earn some money while he worked out how to deal with Queenie.

  At Broadwater the car turned off the Pacific Highway and drove past a park on the ocean side which faced a row of white blocks of beachside units with names like Tropicale, Oceania, Sea Breeze and Pacifica. Another turn or two and beachfront became lagoon, then man-made marina. A towering fence of flagpoles flew brightly coloured flags, each with a picture of water sports, leisure activities, flowers or dolphins.

  The units gave way to pale pink luxury blocks screened by palms. The grassy verge seemed an almost unnatural green. Two large white pillars in the shape of lighthouses formed a gateway and a gold-lettered sign announced they had entered the precincts of The Waterways.