FOLLOW THE MORNING STAR

by Di Morrissey

  TR stared at her. This seemed ludicrous. That looks like pretty juvenile stuff, why don’t we start with the real stuff? I think I’m pretty tough.’ He paused. Why did he think that? Maybe he was a wimp who couldn’t stand pain or the sight of blood.

  ‘You think you’re tough, huh? Think you’re just going to get out of bed and trundle down the hall? Okay, buddy, let’s try step two. Ill release this traction harness and lay that leg in plaster on the bed. You see if you can swing your body and good leg over the side of the bed and sit up.’

  With his right leg now resting on the bedcover, TR attempted to turn to the left side of the bed and drop his left leg over the edge. The slight movement caused pains to shoot through his body and he felt he was going to faint again. He gasped in alarm and reached out to Jenni as a feeling of panic swept over him.

  ‘It’s all right, I’ve got you. Lean on me.’

  ‘No!’ shouted TR in frustration. He could feel his body start to shake and a ghastly feeling of nausea rose in his throat. ‘Put me back. Let me lie down.’

  ‘Nope, we’re sitting up. One . . . two . . .’ She had him in a firm grip and turned his upper torso towards the left. ‘Get that leg over the bed, TR.’

  Supporting him with one hand behind his back, she lifted his good leg under the thigh and TR struggled with a leg that felt like some dead log. But then he was sitting on the edge of the mattress, the leg in plaster stretched along the bed, the other dangling over the side. He gripped the edge of the bed, wishing his other arm wasn’t bandaged across his chest.

  ‘Don’t let me go, Jenni, I’ll go over.’ He felt he was going to topple forward and fall onto the floor; but worse, he knew he was going to be sick. He started to retch and Jenni had a bowl and a towel in front of him straightaway. When his chest stopped heaving she wiped his face again and dried it with the towel, putting the bowl on the floor.

  ‘This is normal too, I suppose,’ managed TR, feeling shaky and woozy again.

  ‘Yep. Now we have to reverse the whole process and get you back down again.’

  It was agonising. When he was finally lying back down again, he took deep exhausted breaths as Jenni rehooked the traction apparatus. ‘I feel like a steamroller has gone over me.’

  ‘That’s me,’ chuckled Jenni.

  ‘Heck, I’m sorry for being sick and fainting and all. This is bloody dreadful.’

  ‘You did fine, TR. Most guys scream and swear and shout they can’t do it, to leave them alone, the first time. And then they throw up and pass out. You were a model of decorum in comparison. You pass with flying colours. Next we’ll have a go at those so-called juvenile exercises.’

  ‘Not now, not now,’ sighed TR. ‘Let me rest.’

  Jenni picked up the towel and bowl. She looked down at TR thinking what a handsome man he was. She knew he’d been a rodeo champion and visualising him on a horse made her think he must have been a real heartthrob on the riding circuit. She gave him a cheerful grin. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow. I know you’ll be looking forward to that! See ya, TR.’

  TR gave her a small smile and closed his eyes. Getting up on his feet and taking off was not going to be as easy as he’d thought. He was overcome by piercing pains that racked his body and slowly he reached for the buzzer to call the nurse and ask for a painkiller. All he wanted to do was sleep and not be aware of his pain.

  As he slowly drifted into the drug-induced oblivion, he muttered, ‘Oh God, put me out of my misery. I don’t think I can hack much more of this.’

  Chapter Eight

  The cars arrived together, gliding into the underground carpark beneath Bali Hai. Tony Cuomo, George Bannerman and his sidekick quickly went to the lifts and pushed the button marked Penthouse.

  The valet let them into the apartment where Dina handed them each a glass of champagne. ’Make yourselves at home on the terrace, Pappa will be with you in a moment.’ She smiled to herself. Cagey old showman that he was, Alfredo liked to make an entrance. Now, where the hell was Colin? Her father would not be pleased at being upstaged by Colin’s late arrival.

  As she poured herself another glass of champagne and reached for one of the hors d’oeuvres made by the housekeeper, the doorbell chimed and Colin was ushered in, looking rather flustered. He went to her and kissed her cheek. ‘Sorry I’m late.’ He gave no excuse. ‘Where are the others?’

  ‘On the patio waiting for Pappa. And just where have you been, Colin?’

  Colin took the caviar cracker from her fingers, popped it into his mouth and grinned at her. ‘Miss me then? As a matter of fact, I’ve been busy. So, Dina, what’s this little gathering for? It’s not a party.’ Colin gave her a shrewd look but Dina shrugged.

  ‘Something to do with horse racing. I’m really not interested. Now that you’re all here, I’ll tell Pappa. I’m going out, but I thought we could go out somewhere nice for dinner later.’

  ‘Okay.’ Colin picked up his drink and headed for the terrace.

  An hour later Alfredo leaned back in his chair, surveying the sunset over the marina. ‘So, we are all clear on how this will work? George, you’re sure the horse is a good one?’

  ‘Yeah, yeah. No sweat. But we’ve got another horse if this one’s not up to it. I’m pretty sure it is though. Just needs a good trainer to bring it up to full potential. The Hamilton outfit at Guneda is the joint. Nobody will know it’s there or see it and gossip. And they are bloody good trainers.’

  ‘But I understood TR Hamilton had an accident . . .’ interjected Tony Cuomo.

  ‘His son Tango is running the place; he’s supposed to be good too,’ said Bannerman.

  Colin looked thoughtful and twirled his empty glass. ‘If he’s anything like his old man, he’ll be bloody good.’

  ‘That’s right. You know TR well I assume, him being married to your sister?’ said Tony Cuomo.

  ‘We don’t have much contact,’ said Colin curtly. ‘It’s probably best he doesn’t know I’m connected with the horse.’

  ‘Let’s run through the logistics once more,’ cut in Alfredo smoothly. ‘Tony, you have spoken to the jockey?’

  ‘Si. He wanted a larger cut but, after a little persuasion, he is now prepared to be more reasonable.’

  ‘George, the horse is your responsibility. It has to beat the favourite,’ smiled Alfredo. ‘Even though we will be giving it a little help. Tony, the punters are in your charge.’

  ‘I have connections at courses around the country. Little old ladies with handbags stuffed with cash,’ Tony grinned. ‘I guarantee we’ll take the bookies by surprise. By the way, George, what is our horse called again?’

  George rolled his eyes. ‘Bloody hell! Ambrosia, whatever that means. Don’t forget it.’

  Tony nodded. ‘Nectar of the gods; how could I forget that.’

  Alfredo leaned over and rapped on the sliding glass door which had sealed them off from the prying ears of the valet. ‘More champagne,’ he called through the glass. ‘We still have time up our sleeve. The horse is to be fine-tuned. Colin, you will handle the paperwork. The health farm will provide a useful cover . . . as well as being a legit business venture for our . . . other purposes.’ Alfredo smiled at him. ‘That is, should you take on the job of running the place. I want it to look like an upfront honest investment. What we run through the books in addition is our business. There will be a lot of cash going through — on paper anyway — because we will be rebuilding the resort from scratch.’ He turned to Tony Cuomo. ‘Profits from this little racing exercise will be channelled into the casino project. After we have all deducted our expenses, of course.’

  Alfredo lifted his glass as the valet appeared with a fresh bottle of champagne. ‘Here’s to the sweet taste of success!’

  Tango sat in an empty horsebox on a bale of hay and looked around. The smooth wooden walls, the even temperature, the comforting smell of hay and lingering odour of manure were familiar and not unpleasant. Just as tack rooms smelled of lanolin and leather, horseboxes always smell
ed of hay. And hay to Tango was romantic. He always thought of haystacks and hayrides and pretty girls. Tractor company calendars always had girls in brief shorts and off-the-shoulder blouses posing with a pitchfork by a haystack. He grinned, remembering Queenie’s tart remarks the time she’d spotted one in the office and turfed it out. ‘The girl should be driving the tractor, that’d sell them,’ she’d said.

  Tango had lost his virginity in a pile of hay in a horse stall out Dubbo way during an agricultural show with an athletic and experienced girl who was caring for some show-jumpers. Tango grinned again, remembering old Bobby Fenton’s casual remark that he’d better pull the straw out of his hair before he fronted up to the Ladies Auxiliary afternoon-tea tent.

  Tango stretched and walked across to the opposite row of occupied horse stalls. He gave the thoroughbreds a pat if they were looking out of the stall, or else he peered in to check on them and greeted each by name.

  Mick poked his head round the stable door. ‘I’m walking Player before going out on the track. I’ll see you out there in half an hour or so.’

  Tango heard him lead the horse away. Even if Mick hadn’t stuck his head in he would have known it was Player by the sound of his footfall on the cement outside the boxes. He was training the thoroughbred for a Sydney syndicate and Tango had high hopes the horse would race well for them. He checked the mixture of oats, corn, tick beans, alfalfa and oaten chaff in the feed bins, looked at the automatic waterers, then stepped outside into the dawn light.

  He walked down to the racetrack, now much improved since Sweet William’s heyday when he was trained by Bobby Fenton. The sun was rising fast but the air was still fresh and cool and Player sidestepped, his tail lifted, eager to get going on the track.

  ‘Bowl along for three furlongs nice and easy, then wind him up and go for the last two,’ said Tango, taking his stopwatch from his pocket.

  At the end of the five furlongs, Tango replaced the watch with satisfaction; Mick had a stopwatch in his head, he could time a race to the split second. ‘Good one, Mick, fast work him on Thursday and he’ll be set for Saturday. I’ll call Mr Stewart and make the arrangements. Take him down and let him have a bit of a roll in the sand.’

  Tango spent the morning working with several other horses, swimming them in the exercise dam TR had built. Later he checked on a pregnant mare then returned to his office. Housekeeper Mum Ryan was as energetic as ever despite mild arthritis, due to her advancing years. She brought him a cool drink and a message that Dingo had called and would be arriving in the morning.

  ‘Great. I’m looking forward to seeing him.’

  ‘He’d been in to see TR. Said he was a bit shocked at how bad he was. Told him he should drag himself out of there.’

  ‘That sounds like Dingo. I might give TR a call. Tell him how things are coming along down here.’

  ‘Give him my love. Though I s’pose he doesn’t know who I am,’ sighed the old housekeeper.

  ‘No, it’s hard. I have to keep reminding myself when I talk to him. It’s almost easier on the phone than it is looking into his eyes — they look back at you with no comprehension of what you’re saying.’

  Tango sipped his drink and rang TR, telling him about Guneda, but he could tell TR wasn’t interested.

  Finally TR said, ‘Your mate Dingo was in to see me. Tell me about him.’

  Tango was delighted by this spark of interest and he responded brightly. ‘He’s been a good friend to Queenie. Dingo is a true living legend. Made and lost several fortunes in the bush, tin mines and gold, then got into making his own gear for bush people which city folk took to as well and now it’s sold all over the world. Cracks him up to see the trendies in LA strutting through Beverly Hills in his outback clobber.

  ‘He was a great bush rider in his time — he started the McPherson Endurance Ride, which was nicknamed the Dingo Cup. He’s sort of retired now, but he still works in the bush. He started painting a few years back, in a naif style, and that took off too. You once said he’s the sort of bloke who gets hit in the bum by rainbows.’

  There was a soft chuckle at the other end of the phone. ‘Doesn’t surprise me. I figured he was someone with a bit of clout. Rounded up the sisters and nurses here quick smart. Yeah, he seems a good sort of a man. I’d like to spend more time with him sometime.’

  ‘We’ll arrange that TR. You just get yourself up on your feet.’

  At Tingulla Queenie was wrestling with details of the coming shearing season. Wool prices were down again. She was convinced there had to be a way of getting a better deal for the Australian wool grower.

  ‘Oh, TR, I wish you were here,’ she cried aloud in frustration. She longed to rush to TR’s bedside and fling her arms around him for comfort. But he regarded her as an outsider now and didn’t seem to want any help from her in his own private war. She knew this was a battle he had to fight himself, with their support coming softly from the sidelines, but how she longed for his support too.

  In the lonely dark hours she wondered if it would be as painful if he’d died. But swiftly this was replaced with the conviction that he would learn to reuse his body again and if his mind remained locked they would just have to get to know one another all over again and fall in love once more. There was absolutely no doubt in her heart that she and TR were destined to love each other forever.

  Queenie sighed and tried to focus her attention on the problems at hand rather than agonise over her and TR’s future or torture herself by reliving moments of their shared past.

  ‘Get stuck into it,’ she told herself, picking up the papers on her desk and applying herself to the column of figures.

  Unconsciously Queenie’s mind was working on two levels. On a mechanical, almost unthinking, level she went through the account books and added up the figures. On a creative level, her mind was starting to work in overdrive. Why couldn’t she sell Tingulla’s wool directly to the international marketplace and gamble on getting the best price she could? It seemed ludicrous that so much of Australia’s raw wool was imported back in textiles. A plan began to form in her mind. She began making notes, slowly at first, then faster as questions, answers and ideas came to her in a creative flood.

  When Queenie eventually stopped and sat back, looking down at the pages of rough notes, she noticed that the small French carriage clock on the desk showed it was almost midnight. She had been working on her notes for more than two hours. She felt very tired, but it was a tiredness that had an edge of excitement. If only she could talk it through with TR. Well, why not?

  She reached for the phone and rang the hospital. The night duty sister told her TR was sleeping. ‘We’ve just given him a sedative to help with the pain. He can only have a painkiller every four hours or so and frankly we don’t like to give them to him all the time, but when they wear off it’s hard for him. I don’t know many men that would stand for this sort of agony without ever complaining. But it’s wearing him down.’

  ‘What do you mean, sister?’

  ‘He’s not very motivated. He’s giving the physio a hard time, he’s not really trying to get better. It’s sort of a catch-22 situation, I’m afraid, Mrs Hamilton. It’s like his mind and body are each waiting for the other to heal first.’

  ‘Oh God, I see what you mean. I feel so helpless. Well if he’s sleeping, just leave a message that I rang and give him my love.’

  ‘I will. How are you managing? It can’t be easy for you.’

  ‘Shearing time. Always brings its own problems one way or another. Thanks, sister.’

  ‘Goodbye, Mrs Hamilton.’ The sister hung up, glad she lived in a unit with only a cat to look after. She’d seen pictures of Tingulla in magazines, and even with a heap of help, running that place would take some special sort of person.

  Saskia decided to skip Friday lectures the following week and go to Tingulla. She needed to talk to her mother. She caught the Friday morning train to Rockhampton from Brisbane and tried to spend the trip studying her textbooks to
assuage her guilt, but spent most of the time staring out the window at the vast Queensland landscape rolling past. She tried to construct the words, the conversation she planned, but the sentences wouldn’t fall into place. There was no easy way to say, ‘Mum, I want to quit’. She knew she shouldn’t drop this so suddenly on her mother at a time when she had so many other problems, but once this next batch of exams was over, she would have to come to a decision.

  She had an hour to wait for the train to Longreach so she nipped into town and treated herself to a steak and chips dinner and returned to the station armed with a large block of fruit and nut chocolate and a paperback novel to see her through the night.

  She arrived at Longreach a little after eight in the morning. She could have called Jim to come and fetch her, but the mailman was happy to offer her a ride to Tingulla. ‘Got a few stops on the way. Good thing you checked in, I always wait for the Brisbane train in case there’s anyone or anything going my way. This an unscheduled trip, is it?’

  ‘Kind of. Had some time up my sleeve and thought I’d come home to study.’

  ‘How’s TR doing?’

  ‘Not a lot of progress.’

  ‘It’ll be a slow job all right. He was lucky I guess. Could have killed or crippled himself.’

  Saskia nodded and didn’t say what crossed her mind — that TR virtually was a cripple, mentally at least.

  She trudged through the kitchen door just as a startled Millie came to see who it was. ‘Sas!’ she said, opening her arms wide. ‘You little monkey! What a surprise. Watcha doin’ here?’

  Saskia hugged her back and threw the letters and magazines rolled in a rubber band onto the table. ‘I brought the mail.’