FOLLOW THE MORNING STAR (13 page)

There was a tap at the door and Queenie stood in the doorway in her white damask dressing gown, her brushed hair flowing across her shoulders. Saskia could smell the drift of the citrous perfume she wore. ‘Are you asleep, Sas?’ she asked softly.

‘No,’ mumbled Saskia.

‘I can’t go to bed knowing you’re so upset.’ Queenie knelt by the side of the bed and put her arms around her daughter, smoothing her flushed face. ‘I know it must be hard for you if you’re not liking what you’re doing, but just hang in there for a while longer. We all have to, darling.’

‘All right.’

‘You don’t sound very convincing.’

‘I’m tired, Mum, I don’t want to talk about it any more.’ She rolled onto her side.

Queenie rose. ‘Shall I wake you up for a ride in the morning?’

‘I guess.’

As the dawn chorus of kookaburras and magpies began, Queenie tapped at Saskia’s door and spoke softly to the bundled shape beneath the flowered sheets. ‘Sas? Wake up. You coming for a ride?’

There was a muffled response.

‘I didn’t quite get that. Yes or no?’

‘Okay. Give me two minutes.’

Saskia was sleepy and quiet and they saddled the horses in silence.

‘You feel all right about taking Star out?’ asked Queenie as the stallion balked at taking the bit.

‘He’ll be fine. We can’t blame the horse for what happened to TR, Mum.’

‘I know. But Star gives me such baleful looks. I think he thinks I’ve done something to TR. And he’s cranky he hasn’t been taken out as often, so watch him, Sas, he’ll be frisky.’

Saskia whistled for Spike and TR’s blue heeler bounded up to them. She swung into the saddle and Star danced about impatiently. Queenie watched her daughter settle him down and had to admit she was more than competent in dealing with horses.

‘You ready, Mum?’

‘Lead on, Macduff.’

Mother and daughter turned out of the yards in the brisk morning air, each enjoying the rhythm of the horses striding forward, their heads lifted and ears pricked, as the smells, sights and sounds of a new day unfolded. The speckled blue, black and white cattle dog raced ahead, returning to check on them every so often.

On the crest of the hill they reined in and gazed down at the gracious mansion in its glorious grounds. Queenie sighed. ‘I always feel so wonderfully lucky that this is where I was born and grew up, and that I am here today with my family and with the knowledge that the dream will go on. It will always be your home too, Sas, no matter where you go in this world or where you come to rest. But remember what Snowy has taught us — the land is on loan, it owns us, not we it. We must look after it because if we harm the earth we destroy our Dreaming.’

‘Yes, our Dreaming place.’ Saskia felt the tension of the previous night slipping away. ‘I understand better now why you wanted to stay here and not marry and move away after Dad died. Grandpa Patrick was right in leaving Tingulla to you. Y’know, I sometimes think
about Uncle Colin . . . Do you suppose he is happy over there in Italy?’

‘I don’t know, Sas. In his heart I don’t believe so — he shared the same childhood as me. I just wish we could have come to some understanding.’

‘Have you forgiven him for what he did to you and TR?’

‘I can never truly come to terms with the fact he deliberately schemed to keep TR and me apart, and it worked for a while too. All because he felt I had come between him and his inheritance. Colin has never forgiven me and although I’ve tried to let my anger and resentment go, I can’t rid myself totally of the bitterness I still feel. I wish I could be more forgiving, Sas, but what Colin did . . .’ She paused. ‘I couldn’t bear to think TR was lost to me again.’

‘He’ll come back to you again, Mum.’ Saskia regretted their sharp words of last night as she saw the deep sadness in her mother’s face. How she and TR loved each other, how could he not remember?

‘How was he when you last saw him?’

The same. Well . . . I wasn’t going to say anything but . . .’

Queenie glanced at her sharply. ‘But what?’

‘He just seems so . . . unresponsive. He doesn’t seem to care about getting better. He doesn’t even want to try. That’s so unlike TR.’

‘I know. The sister said the same thing to me. But he’s in terrible pain, Sas.’

‘I know. But he does have times when the painkillers are working when you can get
through to him. I’ve tried talking to him, everybody has. He’s just sort of given up, like he’s waiting for something or someone to do it for him.’

‘I’ve tried to put myself in his position and it’s frightening. But in my case I just can’t make my mind a blank. The more I think about it, the more the memories crowd in.’ Queenie’s eyes filled with tears. ‘I’m sorry, darling. I didn’t mean to get upset.’

Saskia reached over and squeezed her mother’s hand. The horses fidgeted at the movement. ‘Don’t worry, Mum. Everything is going to be all right. And don’t worry about me either.’

They smiled at each other, then Queenie wheeled Honey about. ‘Race you back.’

Queenie took off with a reckless spurt, digging her heels into a surprised Honey’s sides. Saskia checked on Spike’s whereabouts, giving a low whistle, and as soon as the dog appeared, raced off after her mother.

Jim and Millie were standing on the verandah enjoying a mug of tea as they saw the two horses streak across the flat ground at the base of the hill, the chestnut stockhorse ahead of the black thoroughbred.

‘Seems a bit irresponsible galloping down the hill like that. We don’t want another darned riding accident,’ muttered Jim.

Millie sighed. That’s Queenie. Always has thought she can just jump on a horse and gallop away from her troubles.’

But Queenie was feeling less troubled now that she’d cleared the air with Saskia and
had decided on a plan for Tingulla, and if TR wasn’t going to stir himself and make an effort to get well, she’d rouse him from his pitying lethargy herself.

Chapter Nine

Queenie sat in the sun in the garden, her eyes closed, her face lifted to the early morning warmth. She stretched comfortably and took a deep breath of the fresh clear air, then got to her feet and went into her office and rang Guneda. She had decided it was time to take Tango into her confidence and tell him about her vision for the future of Tingulla.

‘Tango darling, listen to this. I’ve been doing some research into the wool industry generally and I want us to get involved in the final product — textiles and garments. I want to launch a range of Tingulla fine wool fashions, knitwear and wool fabrics using Australian mills, spinners and knitters. Tingulla will be the brand name.’

Tango let out a whistle. ‘Wow! Tingulla’s merino wool is famous — it’s a great idea. Ambitious, but no reason why you can’t make it work.’

‘There’s more. It’s not just wool we have as a resource, there’s the skins. I also want to add a merino leather fashion range as well.’

‘I didn’t think there was a demand. Merino leather has that sort of wrinkly texture,’ said Tango dubiously.

Queenie’s enthusiasm bubbled down the phone. That’s part of its appeal — it’s much softer, has that interesting texture and natural colour; it’s perfect for high fashion clothes.’

‘I suppose so. Sounds like you could be onto something, Mum. But where are you going to get the hides tanned? There aren’t too many fellmongers or tanneries operating these days. A few of the sheepskin hides are just salted and exported to places like France, the majority are just dumped. It’s a cheap resource. But I’m sure you’ve done your homework,’ said Tango, knowing his mother’s thoroughness.

‘Yes, I have. Now, Dingo knows a couple of old blokes who still do some tanning and I talked to them. The long and short of it is, I’ve decided to set up our own fellmongery attached to the old tannery at the abattoir. I’ve had advice from the Meat Research Corporation and there are new methods that don’t use chemicals and are environmentally safe.’

‘Okay, Mum. Three questions.’

‘Shoot.’

‘How are you going to pay for all this and will it make money? Why set up the whole shebang yourself rather than send the skins out? And what does TR have to say about it all?’

Queenie took a deep breath. ‘Right. Let me
answer in order. I plan to sell the Kurrajong Hotel for finance because I
do
believe producing our own woollen finished garments, knitwear and leather fashions can become a viable national, as well as export, business. Not just for Tingulla’s wool but for other woolgrowers too. The great studs could produce individual styles like the French wine industry produces famous regional products. So yes, I believe it will make money. Marketing will be crucial, of course. Part of the money-making exercise is controlling and doing it ourselves. I see combining the best of the old with the best of modern technology.’

‘And TR?’

Queenie shifted uncomfortably, moving the phone to her other ear. ‘I haven’t talked to him about it. It seems so hard when he really has no idea what I’m talking about. As to the money, the Kurrajong is mine and TR has always agreed I can do what I want with it, seeing as I created it.’

‘I think you should pay him the courtesy of telling him your idea,’ said Tango gently. ‘What if his memory suddenly comes back and he thinks what you’re doing is crazy?’

‘You’re right. It’s just that he doesn’t seem interested in anything outside the hospital at present.’

‘Mum, when he comes back to Tingulla it might give him an interest. It’s a new project and he could get involved right from the start.’

‘Tango, that’s a great idea.’

Queenie was glad she’d talked it through with her son and she’d fill Saskia in on the
details of it all next time she rang. But she wasn’t so sure about telling TR. He seemed so uninterested in anything to do with her that she felt utterly disheartened.

Although Colin still hadn’t given Camboni a definite answer — he resented his father-in-law’s assumption that he would do whatever was expected of him — he had realised that this job could be very useful. He would be in Queensland, within striking distance of Queenie. The resort would give him a respectable and credible front and when the time came, he’d just split. He really couldn’t care less what happened to any of Camboni’s projects. He was looking out for number one — Colin Hanlon.

But before making a final decision, he drove out to inspect the site of the proposed resort. He turned off the Pacific Highway onto the road inland and was soon winding through the curves and rolls of the lush green hills. The bitumen gave way to a dirt road. Queenslander farmhouses, set high above ground on poles and shaded by latticed verandahs, were tucked in the valleys. Around them the patchwork of fields were dotted with fat cattle knee-deep in lush feed. Small dams and creeks were full and it reminded Colin more of England’s west country. Progress hadn’t touched the area in the past fifty years. There were old post and rail fences, and in small towns, the occasional pub, general store and garage harked back to a slower time. Yet so close, over the border of the four-lane highway, lay
glitterland. The ribbon of international resorts, towering blocks of luxury units, small brick boxes of less lavish home units, shopping centres, entertainment strips, complexes for holiday-makers, golf courses, and water sports centres, smothered what had once been quiet white beaches where rainforest swept down to the sand.

Once, small coastal townships of friendly locals had welcomed the dribble of families who came at Christmas to camp in tents and caravans and enjoy the peace and beauty of simple pleasures. But what they’d come for in the first place was all gone now. Most of the beaches were overshadowed by bland tower blocks of air-conditioned luxury with chlorinated pools on roofs and patios, the rainforest represented by potted palms on balconies and carefully arranged larger palms in manicured gardens front and back. The main streets were ribbons of commercialisation — noisy, gaudy, brash — but sun-soaked enough to make the holidaying southerners feel they had reached a tropical paradise. The heat, the sunshine, the informality and hedonistic lifestyle gave the strip of beaches a blatant sensuality that generated round-the-clock excitement. Even late at night the streets were ablaze with light and throbbing with traffic, nightclubs and partying holiday-makers determined to have a good time all the time.

Colin found it all rather gross. He had learned to appreciate the classier European resorts along the Mediterranean. They had style, he reflected as he drove further away
from the Gold Coast, which he labelled a plastic fairyland in his thoughts but never in conversation with Camboni and his mates as they seemed really to believe it was paradise.