FOLLOW THE MORNING STAR

by Di Morrissey

  At its sound and sudden approach, the herd leaders bellowed and soon all that could be seen of the great mob of dromedaries was a huge cloud of red dust as they pounded away in panic.

  The old bulls tried to break the pattern of flight by occasionally veering away to the east or west, but the chopper would quickly buzz them back in the direction of the mob to be attended to by one of the motorbikes.

  There were two men waiting out of sight at the yards as the angry and frightened camels streamed past the hessian fences and into the pens. In the melee some camels escaped, but most milled about in confusion. The men swiftly had the yard sliprails in place and before long the vehicles appeared through the dust cloud.

  TR and Tango were trailing in the ute when Dingo’s voice crackled over their radio. ‘There are a couple of runaways a kilometre west of you, see if you can get them. They’ve been running like the clappers and the pilot says they look like bloody beauties. You know what to do. Good luck.’

  TR and Tango glanced at each other. ‘I was hoping we wouldn’t have to do this,’ said TR.

  ‘I’d do it, but you’re a better shot with a rope, TR.’

  ‘You sure about that?’ he asked as they stopped and quickly changed places, Tango getting out to help boost TR into the back of the utility truck and then getting behind the wheel.

  ‘Tie yourself in position to that window bar, and don’t fall,’ yelled Tango excitedly.

  There was a rope tied to one end of the bar across the back of the window behind the driver. Slinging it around his waist TR knotted the other end in place, giving him a sort of sling support to lean against. Grimly he picked up the specially made pole with a lasso at its end and they sped off in the direction given by Dingo.

  Tango pointed out of the window at what appeared to be a distant puff of red smoke. ‘There they are!’ He put his foot down and roared after the young pair who were still running fast but tiring. He headed after one, gaining and closing on the camel running at a steady lope. He drew level and TR, holding on with one hand, leaned out and dropped the looped rope neatly round the head of the camel bringing it to a choking halt and crashing it to the ground.

  ‘Tie him off, Tango!’ yelled TR, knowing he couldn’t move fast enough with his bad leg.

  Tango had stopped the ute and he almost fell out of the door as he grabbed the rope and hauled it in, hand over fist. As he struggled with the thrashing camel, TR slid as best he could over the side of the ute.

  ‘Watch he doesn’t bite, he’ll take half your arm off,’ he cautioned. Then, with practised swiftness and sureness, TR whipped the length of the rope from the pole and around the legs of the camel, front and back. With the camel immobilised they stood back, both breathing heavily from the exertion. TR was also experiencing a lot of pain caused by this exertion.

  ‘You haven’t lost your touch, TR,’ said Tango, when he’d caught his breath.

  TR looked bemused. ‘If you ask me how I did that I wouldn’t be able to tell you. I guess it’s all just there in my head. Put the blindfold on him to lessen the trauma a bit.’

  Tango carefully tied the cloth over the camel’s eyes, avoiding the flashing teeth. The animal calmed, and lay still on the ground trussed up like a turkey. ‘Right, let’s get his mate.’

  The process was repeated but this time as they drew beside the racing camel and TR leaned out with the pole, something strange happened and he lost his concentration and missed the camel.

  It was like a slow-motion movie happening in his mind, blotting out everything around him. He was galloping down a slope beside a runaway white horse and he reached out and pulled a young woman from the horse onto his saddle. He could smell her hair, feel her hand through his shirt, and he knew it was Queenie.

  Tango had circled the camel and they were pulling back alongside it before TR’s vision cleared; then, with a quick swing, he shot the lasso surely over the camel’s head.

  He didn’t think more about the flashback until the two rogue camels had been trussed up, blindfolded and winched into the back of the truck they’d called in by radio. But as they drove back to the gorge, TR was quiet.

  ‘You all right, Dad? Didn’t strain or hurt yourself, did you? I shouldn’t have let you do this. It was a bit risky,’ worried Tango. Then he grinned, ‘But it seemed like a good idea at the time’.

  TR returned his grin. ‘No I’m hunky-dory.’ For TR this expedition, which had seemed a mad enterprise, was like life blood flowing into his veins. He felt stimulated and enlivened with an energy he hadn’t known since regaining consciousness in the hospital. For the first time he felt like he had come back to life.

  ‘We have journeyed this way before, eh Queenie?’ said Henri as the dark blue Rolls Royce sped smoothly and quietly up the Bells Line of Road through the mountains.

  ‘A few times before, I think,’ she smiled. Queenie was comfortable and relaxed, Henri was a good driver and the car smelled of leather and his Guerlain aftershave.

  There was a reception committee waiting to welcome them — beaming staff lined up at the entrance to the Kurrajong in a spontaneous greeting.

  Henri gestured towards the reception crowd. ‘My God, it looks like the staff of a stately mansion waiting to pay homage to the mistress.’

  But there was no obsequious tugging of forelocks, only a genuine and friendly warmth as the chef, Monsieur Ambert, stepped forward to welcome Queenie ‘home’. Carol and John Macquarie, who had managed the hotel since its opening, were next to take Queenie’s hand and they led her inside as Chef Ambert and Henri talked in rapid French.

  Everything was exactly as they expected it to be and Queenie and Henri exchanged a quick glance of approval at the flower arrangements, the polished wood, the shining silver and crystal — the attention to small details that made this hotel so special. Restored by Queenie to its former splendour it had become one of the grand boutique hotels of the world. The majesty of its setting on the edge of a breathtaking mountain valley with great sheer sandstone cliffs made it unique.

  They toured the entire hotel, dropping into the kitchen to sample the soup de jour, talking to the head gardener in the greenhouse, and pausing to ask guests how they were enjoying their stay. As they walked around the Kurrajong’s exquisite little man-made lake, Queenie gazed into the dark trees of the mountains ringing the valley.

  ‘I’m remembering the night of our gala opening,’ she said to Henri, ‘when all this was nearly destroyed by the bushfire. What a drama that was, what a disaster it nearly was!’

  ‘And what a heroine you were, dear Queenie.’ Henri took her arm. ‘Yet what seemed to be a major disaster turned out to be a huge blessing. The Kurrajong was on the front page of every newspaper and all over the TV news. You couldn’t have bought all that publicity! So often it turns out that adversity has a silver lining. Never forget that, Queenie.’

  Queenie didn’t answer, and Henri squeezed her arm. ‘Come, what say we enjoy ourselves and row around the lake and over to the pavilion. We can pretend we are in Switzerland.’

  Queenie nodded and they headed for the little jetty where the canoes and row boats were tied up. ‘Do you know, Henri, I always meant to organise a small musical event here. Chamber music or a small orchestra performing in the pavilion in the middle of the lake while guests sat around the lakeside — a sort of siesta-time symphony!’

  ‘A wonderful idea, we shall do it,’ smiled Henri.

  ‘I’ve arranged with John and Carol that we meet with the staff at five this afternoon to make our announcement,’ said Queenie.

  Henri helped her into the dinghy. ‘Forget business for a little while, enjoy the view.’

  Queenie leaned back in the little boat and shut her eyes as Henri guided it across the lake. For a brief moment she almost believed she was gliding across a lake in the Alps, embarking on some mysterious and romantic journey.

  The staff were gathered in the dining room and although rumours had circulated there was some concern about what Queen
ie would be announcing.

  As she stood before them she glanced around the worried faces and smiled. ‘I have good news and sad news,’ she began. ‘I am selling the Kurrajong.’ There was a startled and worried gasp from the staff and Queenie smiled again. ‘However, the good news is, our Kurrajong has been bought by Monsieur Barnard and will be part of the Montpelier chain, which you all know is one of the world’s finest hotel groups.’ At this announcement there was a burst of applause.

  When it died down Queenie continued. ‘I am undertaking this for purely financial reasons; the Kurrajong, thanks to you all, continues to be an enormous success. I am sorry I haven’t always been able to be as hands-on as I would have liked, but you know how closely I have kept tabs on you all.’ There was a small titter. Everyone knew very well Queenie kept a very close eye on all details of the hotel and its staff, even from a distance.

  ‘The Kurrajong will always be very close to my heart.’ At this her voice trembled and a few of the women wiped tears from their eyes. Queenie thanked everybody for their past support and hoped they would continue to serve Montpelier with the same devotion.

  She then introduced Henri, who assured everyone that very little would change, that everyone’s job was secure and, while he would be making regular visits, Carol and John Macquarie would continue to manage the hotel. He hoped to increase European visitors to this Australian gem in the Montpelier crown and would be also be sending some of his European staff to do some of their training here. He added that as the Kurrajong was now part of an international chain there would be similar opportunities for Australian staff to work in Montpelier hotels in other parts of the world. He added they must also prepare for the increase in Asian visitors.

  In closing, he announced that the most prestigious suite in the hotel would be named the Tingulla Suite in Queenie’s honour, which brought a round of applause. Finally waiters circulated with trays of Moët et Chandon champagne and Henri proposed a toast and a vote of thanks to Queenie and wished her luck in her new venture. Holding aloft their champagne glasses, the staff cheered and stamped their feet.

  Queenie was deeply touched at the obvious care and affection with which the staff regarded her and for the next forty-five minutes she went among them asking about their lives and families and promising to return often to see them.

  Later, as she and Henri ate dinner on the moonlit terrace, she reassured him that everybody would continue their loyal service to him and the Kurrajong.

  ‘It is because of the respect they have for you,’ said Henri.

  ‘This place will always hold a special place in my heart,’ sighed Queenie.

  ‘It will for me too,’ whispered Henri, taking her fingertips and kissing them. They exchanged a meaningful look, each remembering the times they had shared here when Henri had courted her.

  Queenie gave him a slow fond smile and he was first to look away. He rose and went behind Queenie to pull out her chair for her. ‘A nightcap before we retire, Queenie?’

  She nodded and walked beside him, smiling at the staff in the dining room as she and Henri headed for the discreet and elegant bar that overlooked the floodlit lake and gardens. For the first time in many months Queenie drew strength from another person and she was glad that Henri was there with her. This beautiful hotel in the mountains was an oasis and she felt that the mountains were a barrier to the outside world and her other life. And that for a brief interlude she could forget.

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Colin was whistling in the shower and Dina, who rarely rose from her bed when Colin left early, flung back the covers and padded into the study. She picked up Colin’s briefcase and tried to open it, but it was locked. She replaced it then went to the bookshelf and took down Patrick’s book, finding the letter back in place. Thoughtfully she returned to bed.

  When Colin returned to the bedroom and slipped his shirt on, Dina rolled over and sleepily remarked, ‘Caro, can you leave me a cheque? I left my chequebook and credit cards at Pappa’s.’

  ‘Why don’t you ever have any cash, Dina?’ muttered Colin.

  Dina waited for a moment or two then went into the study as Colin was ripping a cheque from the book inside the open briefcase.

  ‘Write down what you’ve done with this cheque on the stub,’ instructed Dina, wrapping her arms around him from behind. Colin handed her the cheque over his shoulder, snapped the briefcase shut and stood it up. Dina quickly looked at the left-hand numerals of the open lock, then, turning Colin around, she gave him a sensual hug, rubbing against him and leaning around him to look at the numbers on the other lock. ‘Come back to bed, caro.’

  Colin gently but firmly pushed her away. ‘No, Dina, I’ll be late for an appointment.’ He turned back to his bag, spun the dials on the lock and put it on the floor. ‘I’ll just grab a cup of coffee, want one?’

  ‘No, grazie.’ Dina scribbled the numbers she’d memorised on a piece of paper and went back to the bedroom, putting the paper in the drawer of the bedside table then settling down in bed.

  Colin, holding his briefcase, and wearing sunglasses, appeared at the bedroom door. ‘I’ll be back late. You eating with your father?’

  ‘I suppose,’ mumbled Dina.

  ‘Get your chequebook back.’ Colin left and Dina went back to sleep.

  The following morning Dina feigned sleep but once she heard the water running and guessed Colin was in the shower, she took the paper with the numbers on it from the drawer and hurried into the study. She spun the dials and snapped open the briefcase. As swiftly as she could without disturbing things, she rifled through papers, folders and documents. A plain school exercise book caught her attention and when she opened it, she found a folded letter inside. It was another letter from Patrick Hanlon, handwritten and dated only two weeks before he died. She read it swiftly then replaced it and glanced through Colin’s notes in the book. There were overseas addresses and contacts in South America and Mexico. There was a bank account opened in his name in both places. There were details of immigration requirements, and names and addresses of consulates. It was enough. She had the picture.

  She carefully replaced the book and slammed the briefcase shut, spinning the combination lock to random numbers. She went back to bed and pretended to be sound asleep. Colin left the apartment without a word or gesture towards her.

  Saskia and Jenni trotted back down the hill to the stables, passing the paddock where Toffee was grazing. Suddenly the horse kicked out his back legs and took off in a playful gallop.

  ‘He’s got the wind up his tail,’ remarked Saskia as they reined in to watch.

  ‘He’s a gorgeous looking horse. Is he really as good as you say, Sas? I mean, do you think he could win races now?’

  ‘You bet he could!’ declared Saskia. ‘I’ve got him completely cured of his bad habits — after working as a stockhorse, bumping around the cattle, he wouldn’t flinch in the middle of the pack running in the Melbourne Cup.’

  ‘Then why don’t you race him?’

  Saskia chewed her lip. ‘I don’t see how I could. And really I just wanted to prove to Tango I could do this. I wanted to prove it to myself as well, even though I was pretty confident that I could train horses. I’ll have to get Tango up here. Maybe he could make an offer for Toffee.’

  ‘Is he for sale?’

  ‘Not really, but he’s just been put out to graze here. He placed in a few races then developed this phobia and I don’t think he was treated very well. Bannerman brought him up here from Tamworth and they raced him once to see if he was as good as he used to be, but he didn’t do well, so I guess they’ve written him off.’

  They headed back to the stables and as they dismounted, Jenni continued, ‘You know, Saskia, if you really wanted to prove something to Tango you should race Toffee.’ Jenni swung her saddle over a rail then turned suddenly, her face bright with excitement. ‘Hey, why don’t you buy him yourself?’

  Cradling the saddle and blanket in her arms Saskia stopped an
d stared at Jenni thoughtfully then smiled broadly. ‘Why didn’t I think of that before? I’ll have to tread softly, I don’t want Colin or the dreaded Georgy Porgy to know their clapped-out racehorse has come good. They’ll put the price up.’

  Saskia brought the subject up casually with Colin that afternoon. ‘I’ve really got attached to Toffee — I haven’t had a horse of my own for ages. Do you think George Bannerman would sell him?’

  Colin didn’t look up from the paper on his desk. ‘He’d sell his own mother for a quid.’

  ‘So I’ll ask him. How much do you think he’ll want?’

  ‘Well, seeing as they have just dumped him now, I don’t think he’d be worth much.’ He glanced at her. ‘You serious about this, are you? What are you going to do with a broken-down racehorse?’

  ‘Oh, I only want to keep him for me to ride. He has a bit more go than the other horses.’

  ‘Let me do the negotiations for you, kid,’ said Colin quickly. ‘I don’t want you to get ripped off.’ Colin was calculating building in a commission fee for himself.

  Over dinner Jenni and Saskia confided their plan to the Gadens but asked them to keep it to themselves.

  ‘Well, if the horse is as good as you say he is, you should race him and find out for sure,’ said Bruce encouragingly.

  ‘How can she do that, Bruce, you have to be a licensed trainer,’ said Ria, ever practical. ‘Do you know a trustworthy trainer who’d enter Toffee in a decent race for you?’ put in Jenni.

  Saskia looked thoughtful. ‘Angus Wellburn, the bloke who owns the dairy farm down the road where I work Toffee, is a retired trainer. I don’t know if he still holds a licence, but he’s taken quite an interest in Toffee. Maybe I should talk to him.’

  ‘Oh do, Sas. See him this afternoon,’ enthused Jenni. ‘I think this is so exciting!’

  Queenie and Henri had finished their paperwork, and contracts had been exchanged and were now in the hands of their solicitors.