by Di Morrissey
‘Any cook or missus over at Cricklewood now?’
‘No. We’re on our tod. I sent the other hands over to Tingulla. I figured things could be left as they were for a week or two. But we can scratch up a meal with what we’ve got. There are plenty of supplies in the homestead.’
They drove on through the late afternoon. Queenie kept driving — she knew that if she stopped now she’d fall asleep and she didn’t want to miss the approach to Cricklewood. Although only six hours’ drive from Tingulla, the country was very different, with different species of trees and soil that was less red; the terrain was flatter and was crisscrossed with narrow creeks, with the occasional granite outcrop rearing into the sky. The place brought back memories of one of the saddest and most difficult periods of her life. How grateful she was that Millie and Jim and Snowy had stood by her. They’d been her family at a time when she had no one, only a vindictive brother consumed by jealousy and hatred. How lucky she’d been to have the support of such devoted friends as Sarah, Dingo and old Alf. She hoped that over the years she had been able to help people too and that they in turn had helped others.
‘Never forget a good turn, repay it to another person when you can,’ she’d told Tango and Saskia. ‘It’s a chain that links us together.’
‘Spreading good karma,’ interjected Saskia, then explained the expression to Millie, who nodded in agreement.
‘We have different words for it but it’s all part of looking after each other. The sisters at the mission taught us about God and what the Bible says, but what my own people say makes just as much sense. Sometimes they say the same thing, just in different ways. I don’t have the knowledge of my people as good as I should, I was taken away from my family too soon. But Snowy has taught me a lot. Though he can’t teach me the women’s business. I’m a bit of mix up stew, eh, Sas?’
‘You are a wise owl, Millie. You just listen to your heart and your spirits. You’re always right, you know.’
Millie ruffled her curls. ‘You bin talking to Snowy.’
Saskia had told Queenie of this conversation and Queenie thought again how enriched their lives were by sharing the ancient culture of the people of their land. It angered and hurt her when she saw a once proud and self-sufficient people reduced to a half-white life, losing their traditions. At times she’d had to be tough in dealings with some of the itinerant Aboriginal workers who’d got on the grog or acted irresponsibly. But she was equally swift to spring to their defence when others — be they wealthy landowners or prejudiced townies — trotted out cliched attitudes towards Aborigines, their beliefs and culture. She despised the reserves and shantytowns just as much as the inner-city ghettos. While not believing they could become tribal once more, it did seem to be the most successful way of life for them. Why couldn’t they absorb the best of both worlds? It was the same with the people in the city and the people in the bush, neither way of life was for everyone but there was something to be gained from both.
‘You thinking big thoughts, boss?’
‘How could you tell? I was pondering a bit of a philosophical dilemma, Ernie, and what I’ve decided is that life is a question of balance and harmony.’
‘Too much on one side and you gonna fall over,’ said Ernie sagely.
Queenie chuckled. ‘You’re right. That’s a very good way of putting it. Hey, here’s our road.’
They turned off onto a smaller dirt track marked by a post with a kerosene tin nailed to it with a faded name in white paint on its side — Cricklewood.
As they always did, the memories came flooding back as Queenie recalled the months she’d spent here during her pregnancy with Tango. She sighed. Millie and Snowy had helped her through the long sad months while she waited for the birth of TR’s child; with TR unaware of what was happening and lost to her — thanks to Colin’s deliberate interference. The great hole in her heart caused by having to give Tango up at birth had healed, thanks to Millie and fate bringing them all back together again.
Cricklewood had blossomed in the intervening twenty-five years. New fences, improved paddocks where new feed was high, more buildings and sheds. On the huge spread were ten thousand head of prime beef stock — Romanoglas, Poll Herefords and Brahman-Hereford cross. In separate paddocks were kept the prize stud bulls. In a new tin and fibro shed they’d set up a small laboratory and office where semen samples and breeding records were kept. Sales of their semen stock were sold abroad and an invitro insemination and embryo programme was working well.
Queenie drove towards the old homestead which had been renovated and was now rather charming. It had been very run-down but a new verandah and roof had been added, along with two additional wings at right angles to either end of the house, so that it was now u-shaped. With a fine garden and a shady windbreak of trees planted around it, the freshly painted homestead was attractive, cool and practical.
Queenie parked at the front entrance and while Ernie began unloading their gear and supplies, she went around to the locked sliding glass doors across the inner patio. As soon as she put the key in the lock she knew something was wrong — the doors were unlocked.
‘Ernie!’ she shouted, running into the house.
It was obvious thieves had broken in.
Upturned furniture and discarded items were scattered everywhere. Running to the small office she found the safe had not been opened. When Queenie got to the kitchen she saw what they’d been after. Dismayed, she stood in the doorway. Hearing Ernie rush down the hall calling her name she answered in a flat voice, ‘In here, Ernie’.
‘Oh struth,’ said Ernie behind her as he took in the scene.
Every cupboard was hanging open and foodstuffs littered the floor. A cloth had been pulled from the table flinging a bowl, jug and pepper and salt shakers to the floor. Queenie bent and picked up the pieces of the broken jug.
‘Probably wrapped stuff up in the tablecloth,’ commented Ernie, following her to the pantry door.
‘They were after food and supplies,’ said Queenie. ‘Flour, sugar, tea, tinned stuff.’ She turned around and anger welled in her voice. ‘Look, the bastards even had the hide to cook themselves a meal.’ The remains of eggs, bacon, bread, and something sticky trailed across the bench, table and floor. Ants were still busy and Queenie stuck her finger in the mess and smelled it. ‘Golden syrup.’
‘You gonna call the sergeant?’
‘I guess so. Though I’d say they’re several days gone.’
‘Youngsters, eh?’
‘I suppose so, Ernie.’
Ernie began picking things up off the floor, not sure where to start, when another angry shout came from Queenie.
‘Damn them! They’ve cut the phone line.’ heavily on a chair at the kitchen table.
‘How ‘bout that cuppa?’ said Ernie.
‘Okay.’ Queenie went to the stove and struck a match and lit a gas jet. ‘Well, that’s working.’ She filled the kettle.
‘Do ya reckon they’ll be back?’
‘I doubt it, Ernie. If they do come back they’ll be bloody sorry. Go have a look around the yards and sheds, see if they took any gear. Bet they did. Probably setting themselves up to go cross-country, that way no one would spot them.’
‘I’ll take a good look and see if they were on horses or in a truck.’
Queenie opened their tuckerbox and took out some fruitcake and leftover sandwiches and sliced some more corned beef and a tomato. She made a pot of tea and cleared and washed down the kitchen table so they could eat their supper.
Ernie came back in, looking grim. ‘Yeah, they took some gear. They were on horses and raided the tack room. Blew off the padlock with a shotgun by the look of it.’
Queenie’s mouth tightened but she said nothing, indicating the tea and food on the table. Ernie went to the sink and washed his hands, put his hat to one side and sat down. They said little during the meal and when they’d finished Ernie carried his plate to the sink.
‘Leave it Ernie, I’ll clean
up this mess later. You go into town and fetch the sergeant. You might as well stay overnight and head back in the morning. There’s no rush now.’
Ernie unloaded the last of their gear from the truck and came back into the house carrying the rifle and stood it carefully by the back door. ‘They busted the laundry door and got in, then just opened them glass doors from the inside and took stuff out that way.’
‘This place is off the beaten track, what would they be doing out here?’
‘Keepin’ away from the law, I’d reckon.’
‘Yes, they’re probably wanted for something.’ Queenie glanced at the rifle by the back door, memories of the brutal death of her mother suddenly making her heart wrench.
‘You sure you’ll be okay?’
‘Yes, Ernie, get on your way,’ she sighed wearily.
It took Queenie several hours to clean up and she hesitated when it came to the pantry and kitchen. Perhaps there were clues — fingerprints or something. Well, there wasn’t a detective in the district and it was doubtful they’d ever find the person or people who had broken in now. So she swept up as best she could then slopped the mop into the bucket of water and began washing away the spilt flour, broken biscuits and other mess.
When all was back in place she decided to run a bath and relax her aching body and frazzled mind and put this violation behind her. As she watched the water run into the new enamel tub from the solar-powered water heater, she thought back to the old tin tub and the wood-burning chip heater it had replaced. For a moment she felt nostalgic for the funny old yellow and black patterned tiles in the bathroom, the flowered lino in the kitchen and the ancient wooden beds with thinning chenille bedspreads. It had served the series of bachelor managers well enough but two years ago the place had been completely renovated. One of the few things that had remained was the old brass plaque screwed by the front door with Cricklewood engraved on it. Her father had told her it was named after the London suburb where Great-grandfather Ned’s family had once lived.
Lying back in the warm water Queenie closed her eyes and began to think through her plans for selling the next batch of calves and arranging another shipment of semen stock through her New Zealand agent. Gradually she relaxed but as she let her mind and body unwind the tight control she held on her emotions sagged and she felt overwhelmed, tears welling in her eyes. Trying to cope with the enormity of TR’s injuries and the loss of his memory was a massive struggle for her. She had been trying not to address the future too much, dealing with problems as they arose in the inevitable planning and organisation that went into running two large stations. But this intrusion into her life — this robbery at Cricklewood — had dealt her a hard emotional blow. For the moment everything just seemed too hard and Queenie gave in to a helpless few minutes of crying and feeling sorry for herself. By then the bath water was getting cold and she felt uncomfortably stiff. She fell into bed, overwhelmed, and sobbed herself to sleep.
Awakening to sunshine and birdsong Queenie felt much better. She’d fallen instantly into a dreamless sleep and had slept soundly. Her energy and vigour were restored. She stretched, showered and dressed quickly and made her way to the kitchen, ravenously hungry and desperate for a cup of tea.
Seeing there were no eggs, bacon, cereal or porridge, Queenie toasted the last of the bread she and Ernie had brought and heated a can of baked beans with slices of corned beef. Then, with toast and marmalade and a mug of tea, she carried her tray onto the verandah and ate with relish. Judging by the activity from the birds flying in and out of it, she knew the mulberry tree must be full of ripe berries, so after breakfast she took a large billycan down to fill with one of her favourite fruits. She especially loved Millie’s mulberry jam, but a bowlful of fresh berries with some tinned cream would make a nice lunch.
It was midmorning by the time she got around to heading down to the tree shading the old chicken run. But as she crossed the expanse of land between the house and the nearest shed she stopped and looked across at the top paddock. It was empty. Now why have they moved the bulls from there? she wondered. She walked over to the old stables and horse paddock where Dinky, their oldest bull, resided with some rangy stockhorses. Dinky still performed his duties but in his old age had become something of a pet, preferring the company of horses and people to other cattle.
Dinky was nowhere to be seen.
Fear began to gnaw at the pit of Queenie’s stomach. She whistled and two stockhorses trotted to the fence. The other two kept here were nowhere in sight. It was an open paddock with several large trees in its far corner but there was no way they could hide the bulk of Dinky or two horses.
Queenie vaulted over the fence and ran across the field into the next paddock and headed down to the far side of the creek where the water tank stood by an old windmill. Rapidly she swung up and started to climb the rusty rungs of the windmill base. Halfway up she steadied herself and looked across to the west where the prize stud bulls were. This paddock too was empty.
‘Oh hell no, not the bulls. Dear God, not the bulls.’ She clambered up a little further, shaking with the realisation of what had happened. In a far paddock she could make out half a dozen smudgy brown shapes of the heavily pregnant Hereford cows. It was too far in the other direction for her to see where the rest of the calves and steers were.
She clambered down, slipping in her haste and banging her knee against the metal. Racing to the storage shed in the distance she leaned against the corrugated tin door, shoving it open. Bales of hay were piled to the ceiling and a few tins of motor oil, spare parts and fencing gear were stacked along one wall. In the shadows of the opposite corner leaned a battered motorbike. Checking it swiftly, Queenie wheeled it outside and, after a couple of hefty kicks, got it going. She roared away to check the rest of the paddocks close to the homestead.
It was close to lunch time when Ernie and the police sergeant drove into Cricklewood. They clumped along the verandah of the house calling out to Queenie. When no one answered they exchanged a worried look and walked indoors.
‘She must be down the yards somewhere. Take a pew, Sarge, and I’ll go see,’ said Ernie.
Sergeant Andrews lowered himself into a chair, fanning himself with his hat. ‘You want me to come with you?’
‘Nah, just be a jiffy. She can’t have gone too far.’
Bill Andrews scanned the paddocks from the verandah in admiration. He’d been in the bush long enough to know enough about the land and stock to talk easily and competently with the locals. He knew he was looking at one of the best properties in the area.
Ernie heard the spluttering roar of the motorbike and headed towards the shed. As Queenie rode up, Ernie took one look at her face and asked, ‘What’s gone wrong, missus?’
‘Those thieves took the food for a reason. They’ve hit the road with my best stock.’
‘Cattle duffers? Jesus!’ Ernie was wide-eyed.
‘Bloody thieves!’ fumed Queenie, throwing her hands up in despair. ‘They’ve taken a big mob and they’re probably to hell and gone by now. They’ve had days, maybe a week or more, head start.’
‘The sergeant is up at the house.’
‘Get on.’
Ernie swung onto the back of the motorbike and Queenie sped to the house, screeching to a stop by the front verandah where the veteran sergeant now stood holding his wide-brimmed hat in his hands.
‘Cattle duffers! Bastards have taken the best. The bloody lot of them. And a whole lot of unbranded bull calves.’ Queenie shook the sergeant’s hand and then apologised. ‘Sorry, how are you, Bill? Thanks for coming out. Looks like this is more than a petty break-in.’
‘Phone’s out too, huh?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Give me the details and I’ll get onto my radio.’
‘Oh, there’s no rush, they’re probably in another State by now. They could already be broken up and sold,’ she added fiercely.
‘It’s not easy to flog branded prize cattle.’
�
��These fellows were special. And there are always unscrupulous buyers around who don’t ask questions. Someone would just have to keep them quietly under wraps on an isolated property and start selling their potential progeny to the Asian or South American markets.’
‘How far you reckon they’ve gone?’ asked Ernie.
‘Like Queenie says, they could be in Adelaide or even Perth by now,’ said the sergeant with resignation.
‘So what we gonna do, boss?’ Ernie looked at Queenie.
‘Find them. I want my cattle back.’
‘Now settle down, Queenie, it’s not that simple,’ the policeman cautioned.
‘You’re telling me,’ said Queenie angrily. She was furious. ‘A mob of stolen prize cattle doesn’t just disappear into thin air.’
The sergeant reached for his notebook. ‘Give me what information you can and I’ll start checking from my end.’
‘You can’t do anything but let the authorities start checking cattle movements,’ said Tango to Queenie when she called him once the phone was reconnected. She’d already spoken to Saskia.
‘I’m not just sitting by and twiddling my thumbs and waiting.’
‘But you can’t head off on some wild bloody goose chase — that’s a waste of time and energy. You’ve got enough on your plate.’
‘I know,’ she said wearily. ‘Shearing. And hopefully, TR coming home. But, Tango, I’ve been working on a plan and made a lot of enquiries. Ernie and the police tracker have gone over the place and found they went southwest on foot into the ranges, which makes them hard to track. The police had a look from the air but couldn’t find anything. I started checking out the trucking companies and spread the word around the stock and station agents for any gossip. One of Normie Donaldson’s truckies spotted a strange road train and picked it up on the CB radio and said he thought the guy sounded a bit evasive. The truck had a Northern Territory rego and took off like the clappers.’
‘So what are you going to do? It’ll be like searching for a needle in a haystack.’
‘Not necessarily. But, Tango, if I do get a lead on them and decide to take off, I’m going to ask Dingo to come over and supervise the shearing for me. You don’t need him to stay with you much longer, do you?’
