FOLLOW THE MORNING STAR

by Di Morrissey

  The heavy drapes were pulled across the windows blocking much of the daylight, and special lights played across the stage. The fashion buyer for David Jones, dressed in a black Chanel suit and pearls, stepped to the microphone and in a clipped accent welcomed the guests and introduced the Countess Magda Vambery.

  The countess made a dramatic entrance through a small curtained-off area, sweeping in with a flourish, standing centre stage and awaiting the applause, which came falteringly as diners put down their cutlery to give polite acknowledgement to the woman who stood before them.

  She was in her early fifties with thick dark hair that had a silver streak blazoned through one side. Her dark eyes were wide black pools in a creamy face split by a wide scarlet smile and perfect teeth. Large green gems blazed at her ear lobes and around her throat was a gold band studded with gemstones. She wore a dramatic red dress with a fabulously embroidered antique silk shawl draped over one shoulder.

  After bowing her head to thank the audience she stepped up to the microphone and began speaking in a husky Hungarian accent. She described the inspiration for her collection which went back to her great grandfather Arminius Vambery who set out from Constantinople and travelled through the East and published a book called Travels and Adventures in Central Asia in London in 1864. Her brief tale had the audience immediately fascinated and the clothes lived up to their exotic origins. Queenie and Sarah studied them carefully, marvelling at the intricacy of the beading and embroidery; but, as they both noted, what set them apart was the striking use of colour and simplicity of cut and design.

  ‘Not one of them uses any wool, notice that?’ whispered Queenie.

  ‘They’re pretty fantastic just the same,’ replied Sarah,’ and her presentation is great.’

  ‘She could sell ice to Eskimos. I think she could sell these clothes even if they weren’t any good.’

  ‘But, Queenie, they are. Where has this woman been?’

  ‘Let’s find out.’

  Immediately after the show when the models came out for the finale and the countess was presented with flowers, Sarah nudged Queenie. ‘She reminds me of a prima ballerina taking her bows.’

  They went backstage and asked to meet her. The countess was tenderly wrapping one of the bejewelled evening gowns in tissue as the models returned from the haughty heights of elegance to everyday busy career girls.

  Queenie introduced herself and Sarah. The countess glanced at Queenie, taking in the beautiful and tastefully dressed woman and her smart and attractive friend. The countess drew herself up, flinging her shawl over her shoulder, holding out her hand in a regal gesture and flashing a dazzling smile. ‘Magda Vambery. I do hope you enjoyed my collection.’

  ‘Very much indeed. I have to admit I’m surprised we’re not familiar with your label. Have you been established in Europe?’ asked Queenie.

  ‘My family yes. I grew up in couture in Paris where my grandfather fled when things became difficult in Hungary after the war.

  ‘My father came here in the sixties. I stayed in Europe with my husband the Count Maximilan Frederick Muller, but despite a grand title he had little else — the estates were long gone as was the money. Poor Maxie, he lived in the past and never adjusted to having to sully his hands with commerce. We settled here ten years ago but he became very difficult to live with so we separated, he is much older than myself. He lives in Double Bay and we are better friends now than when we were together.’ She laughed, ‘So, darlings, now you know my life story. I have managed a boutique and been the European fashion consultant for exclusive shops and department stores plus I created designs for private clients. But they always brought me European magazines and asked me to copy them, so two years ago I decided to go into business for myself. So here we are!’ She waved an arm around the crowded dressing room.

  Sarah had been looking at several dresses hanging on a mobile rack beside them as the countess spoke. ‘These garments are superbly finished on the inside, you could virtually wear them inside out!’ Sarah exclaimed.

  ‘I insist on attention to detail. It is a European custom. My father and grandfather schooled me thoroughly in this. Was there something you were interested in . . . I would adore to see you in this gown Mrs Hamilton’.

  ‘No, we were more interested in you and your designs,’ smiled Queenie, though she agreed the shimmering jade chiffon gown was exquisite.

  ‘These are such extravagant clothes, surely they only appeal to a limited clientele. Don’t you make more . . . mundane clothes?’ asked Sarah bluntly.

  The countess clutched her head in horror. ‘I do not do mundane! Never!’ Then calming herself she answered softly, ‘I cannot produce on a large scale, so I have carved a niche for myself which few others can fill. My designs are not for everyone’s pocket but you get value for money. These are classic and will last and look au courant for years.’

  ‘I can see that,’ said Queenie. ‘Would it be possible for Sarah and I to visit you at your business? We’d like to talk to you some more, we’re venturing into a fashion enterprise of our own. Nothing like this,’ she hastened to add.

  The countess hesitated. ‘My salon is very busy, I generally go to my clients for a private consultation.’

  ‘We would prefer to come to your premises,’ said Queenie firmly.

  Countess Magda Vambery gave them a shrewd look then seemed to come to some decision. ‘Very well,’ she nodded, ‘I’ll make an exception.’

  She took a card from her bag and quickly wrote an address on the back and handed it to Queenie. The cream card was simply engraved Countess Magda Vambery. Couturier. There was a post office box address in Vaucluse and a telephone number. On the back the countess had written in flowing script.

  Queenie and Sarah looked more closely at each garment in the collection with the countess pointing out details and finish and explaining its inspiration. ‘Each garment has its own little story going back to the stories my grandfather told me from his father when he travelled to all those exotic places. For example, the pattern of that beading comes from Central Asia,’ said the countess. ‘This hooded cape is based on one worn by the desert tribes of Oxus he described when on his way to Khiva.’

  Queenie and Sarah finally dragged themselves away and once in the privacy of the huge lift they looked at each other with large smiles.

  ‘She’s quite something, isn’t she?’ said Sarah.

  ‘The countess is a great performer,’ agreed Queenie. ‘But I think she is a very astute business lady.’

  ‘I agree. Beneath that glamour queen act is a very shrewd woman.’

  Queenie had a growing feeling of excitement. ‘We definitely have to talk to her. She could be just what we need.’

  ‘Queenie! You’re not contemplating bejewelled sweaters are you?’

  ‘No of course not. But she has great flair and I think she had business skills that could be useful to us. I also think the countess might be scratching to rub a few shekels together, despite all the glitter.’

  ‘Let’s visit the “salon” as soon as we can,’ said Sarah. ‘And I’ll get John to check out her business reputation.’

  They looked at each other and grinned. ‘This is going to be fun,’ said Queenie. ‘I rather like the countess.’

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  In the bright West Australian light a grey falcon swept leisurely across the brilliant sky giving a loud cluck-cluck call as it pursued a small bird. Dingo glanced up and squinted. ‘Don’t see them too often.’

  He swung the Toyota over to a paddock where two camels were grazing. ‘These are a pair of racing camels I’m using for breeding,’ Dingo explained. ‘The racing is starting to get serious now. And it’s damned good entertainment.’

  ‘What’s this camel idea of yours, Dingo? Surely not racing camels? You won’t make another fortune that way.’ Tango rolled his eyes. ‘And I’m not going to train them!’

  ‘You could,’ retorted Dingo, ‘I train ’em just like stockhorses. Break
them the same way too.’

  ‘So what is the plan?’ enquired TR with genuine curiosity.

  ‘Exporting wild camels — and ones we breed — to the Middle East. Ours are disease free and can be used for all kinds of purposes, not just as a food source. I’ve done my homework,’ added Dingo, seeing their sceptical faces.

  ‘You’re mad,’ exclaimed Tango good-naturedly.

  ‘Possibly,’ replied Dingo without rancour.

  TR laughed. ‘So what’s your plan?’

  ‘A round-up. A camel muster. There’s a mob of feral dromedaries out there and we’re going to round them up.’

  ‘On horses? Oh no! You are mad.’ Tango shook his head in dismay as Dingo looked pointedly at the racing camels. ‘Not me, no way.’

  ‘Well you can definitely count me out,’ grinned TR, tapping his bad leg.

  ‘Rubbish, lads,’ admonished Dingo. ‘It’ll be the greatest muster of all time! We’ll make history. They’ll write songs about us.’

  ‘Yeah, yeah,’ grinned Tango.

  TR’s smile faded. ‘I . . . I don’t think I’m ready to ride yet, Dingo.’

  ‘Ar, I was just kidding, I’ll get some of the boys to do the hard work. But it’d be good if you could follow in the ute and lasso any strays. No one was better than you with a rope, TR. I have a special pole arrangement for catching them,’ said Dingo, seeing TR’s dubious look.

  Tango glanced at TR. It was still hard to believe but, as he’d noticed at Tingulla, TR had developed a definite wariness towards the horses he had once loved.

  ‘Even though we won’t be using horses in this madcap round-up, you really have to face up to getting on a horse again, Dad,’ said Tango softly. ‘It’d be a million to one chance you’d fall again.’

  ‘My luck hasn’t been very good lately,’ said TR.

  Dingo stuck his hands on his hips and said, trying to make light of the situation, ‘Maybe if you fell off, your memory’d come back.’

  Tango looked at Dingo in shock, then burst out laughing and TR half-heartedly joined in. However, later Tango took Dingo aside to discuss the matter. ‘We have to get him back on a horse. This is crazy,’ said Tango in exasperation.

  ‘Don’t worry, Tango, I have just the horse. I even have a saddle to suit him. I had a bloke here who was a paraplegic and we got him riding. TR’s problem is in his head not his leg and hip.’

  So, despite TR’s protests, Dingo announced he was taking him for a trot round the back paddock the next day.

  The little grey filly had a sweet face and a patient nature. She was already saddled when TR and Tango arrived at the yards.

  ‘Crikey, what kind of a saddle is that?’ asked Tango, eyeing the high-back, broad saddle with its high wide pommel and leather brace.

  ‘It was for holding the crippled bloke in the saddle; I figured it’d give TR some extra support till he’s strong enough and used to riding again,’ explained Dingo.

  TR tried not to show how nervous he really felt. He wasn’t sure that he even remembered how to ride, he was just assuming it would come naturally — everyone kept telling him what a marvellous horseman he’d been. ‘And where’s the hoist to lift me into the saddle?’ he joked. Although he walked quite well with his cane, throwing his leg over a saddle presented a definite challenge.

  ‘That’s Lacey’s party trick,’ said Dingo, approaching the grey filly. ‘Come here, TR; stand next to me.’

  Taking the reins, Dingo quietly directed the filly with soft words and a gentle nudge with the stockwhip. The filly sank to her rump then rolled to one side so that TR was able simply to step into the saddle at ground level. Once TR was aboard, Dingo took his cane and handed him the reins, saying, ‘Hup, Lacey’.

  The filly righted herself and rose back on to her legs. Dingo adjusted TR’s feet in the stirrups. ‘If you feel like you can’t hold the seat well, there’s a leather brace that can wrap round your middle attached to the saddle.’

  ‘No, thanks,’ said TR.

  ‘Then relax the white knuckles,’ grinned Tango.

  But TR just sat there, immobilised, gripping the reins as the horse waited patiently. He was feeling strange sensations jerk through his body; the nerve endings in his bad leg, hip and arm sent shooting pains through his body. He felt shaky as if he might topple over, and he broke out in a nervous sweat.

  ‘You’re going to look pretty silly just sittin’ there, not going anywhere after all that effort getting on,’ commented Dingo.

  Tango’s heart felt like it would crack. He could barely stand to see TR — once so magnificent on a horse, who had ridden with such fluidity and grace, as one with a horse — transformed into a fearful and trembling wreck. Finally he walked to TR and rested his hands on top of his father’s, feeling the fists like solid iron, so hard was TR gripping the reins.

  ‘It’s all right, Dad,’ Tango said gently. ‘You can do this.’

  TR looked down at his son, their eyes matching in blue intensity; but where the expression in Tango’s was soft and sympathetic, TR’s eyes looked hard-edged like a diamond. TR didn’t answer, and seemed in an almost catatonic state, unable to function. Tango gently tapped the horse on the rump and she moved forward. TR swayed momentarily, caught himself and turned his attention to the movement of the horse.

  Some kind of automatic pilot took over and TR found he was acting on instinct. The horse trotted obediently around the saddling yard, circling to the left then to the right as TR directed.

  Tango and Dingo broke into applause.

  ‘You got your sea legs back, off you go, TR,’ shouted Dingo.

  Tango opened the gate. ‘Go for it, TR!’

  TR was suddenly elated at the sensation of power and motion. After months of restricted movement, he felt wonderful and he soon found he was settling into the rhythm of an easy canter. When he rode back into the yard, Lacey sank to the ground once more and Dingo and Tango watched TR awkwardly but successfully dismount.

  ‘Righto, you’re on the team,’ said Dingo. ‘Let’s pack up and hit the road . . . or rather, the desert.’

  Tango looked at TR. ‘He’s serious about this.’

  ‘Bloody oath I am. There’s money out there in them thar humps.’

  Dingo had organised what seemed like a small army. Three four-wheel-drive open Land-rovers and a Toyota utility truck loaded with supplies and equipment and two stockmen on motorbikes made up what he called the advance party. Support units included a cattle truck, several horses in horse floats and a gyrocopter.

  They were all on Kolareena Station, another of Dingo’s scattered properties out in the flat Kimberley plains. Over the years camels had moved in and multiplied to an estimated three thousand head. There was a large water hole where they went to drink and it was here that salt licks had been dropped two weeks ago. So it was a safe bet that the camels would still be around the water.

  Dingo, who knew his land intimately, had briefed several of the men and told them about a narrow gorge where they were to set up hessian fences. The idea was to drive the camels down the dead-end gorge and into the temporary yards.

  Dingo explained that the camels would be kept in the yards for a week or so to quieten down and get used to being handled. ‘Remember at all times that these are wild animals, they’ve never seen a man before, probably not even a horse. So they’ll be mad as hell and they’ll have a go at you given half a chance. Especially any cows with calves — they’re fighting for their lives.’

  ‘What are they going to make of a chopper and motorbikes then?’ pondered Tango.

  ‘There’s also an awful lot of them,’ added TR. ‘How many are you going to keep?’

  ‘That’s not entirely up to me,’ said Dingo. ‘After they’ve settled down, we’ll cull the mob. You can tell which are the better-natured ones. We feed them hay and watch them chew their cud so you get a good look at their teeth and you can tell their age, and we’ll let the cranky old ones go. Then the sheik’s man flies in and takes his pick. This is a
special consignment, you see.’

  ‘This is no spur of the moment plan by the sound of things,’ observed TR.

  ‘Ah, it all happened by accident. I sold a painting of some camels in the scrub to a gallery in Perth. Next thing I knew I was contacted by the business manager for this Middle East sheik wanting to know if I had any camels for sale. He wanted fresh, healthy stock. I always knew we had a few herds round the place, so I took a little flight over Kolareena and was pleasantly surprised to find I had more camels than I imagined.’

  ‘You ever met the sheik?’ asked Tango.

  ‘Yeah, I met the desert potentate,’ grinned Dingo. ‘Turns out to be a kid in his twenties with so much oil money he has trouble spending it quick enough to keep up with the way it comes in.’

  ‘Does he want some horses?’ asked TR and Tango in unison.

  ‘He bought a lot of racehorses in New Zealand. That was last year’s hobby. Actually, he’s a pretty bright businessman. Harvard degree in business. Their emirate is still run by his father, but Rasheed is hoping when he takes over to bring it into the twentieth century. You might even meet him; he left it open whether or not he’d come down.’

  TR and Tango looked at each other and laughed. Dingo was full of surprises. He was an old man now, but he still charged at life like a runaway bull.

  They set out after sunrise, the four-wheel drives in radio contact with each other and with the gyrocopter skimming ahead to check the location of the camels.

  ‘Don’t get too low and don’t get too close. Keep your distance. I don’t want them scattered hell west and crooked before we get there,’ barked Dingo into the radio.

  The chopper pilot soon reported that a big herd was around the water hole. ‘I’ll wait on the ground for further instructions till you’re in place, then give me the word,’ radioed the pilot.

  The vehicles and bikes fanned out in a V formation, the bikes on the wings. They circled the water hole at a distance until they were approaching it in a direct line to the hessian fences and holding paddocks. Once they were in position, the gyrocopter flew in from behind them.