FOLLOW THE MORNING STAR (4 page)

‘Stop it, Queenie!’ retorted Sarah sharply. ‘No “what ifs”. Don’t even think such thoughts. Just keep willing him well. It’s probably going to be a long haul, but you’ll both get there. Never stop thinking that, Queenie.’

To everyone who knew Queenie and TR this tragedy was heartbreaking. Their love was a rare and beautiful thing. If two people deserved to be happy, they did; surely fate couldn’t conspire against them again.

But it had, and Queenie knew that despite all the kind wishes, no one could help her now. No one, not even Tango who had sat with her through the long hours, could ease the pain she was feeling. A wave of intense helplessness overcame her. Queenie was used to being in control of a situation, of taking action to solve a crisis. Here she could do nothing but wait. Suddenly she gave in to her despair and frustration, desperate racking sobs shaking
her body as she rested her head on the edge of TR’s bed where he lay motionless, heedless of her tears.

Saskia arrived the next day in a flurry of nervous activity. Devastated by the news of the accident, she had rushed to Brisbane as quickly as her exams would allow.

Her initial shock at seeing TR had turned into frustration at his unchanging condition. As she made her way down the hospital corridor to his room, she tried to get her anger under control. But when she entered to find Tango standing by a silent and still unmoving TR, she could bear it no longer.

‘Now listen to me, TR, this isn’t fair. You can’t do this to us. Come back to us and get better; stop hanging around like some wet rag. Come on, TR, damn you, come back.’ Angry tears sparked in her eyes and Tango reached over and took her hand.

‘Take it easy, Sas. Getting mad won’t help,’ he said gently.

‘Why not? What else can we do?’

Tango shrugged and said quietly, ‘I’d give him my legs if it’d help him’.

Saskia melted and rushed to embrace Tango — she knew he idolised TR as much as she did. ‘Oh, you poor thing, Tango, I know how much you love him. I’m sorry. I just wish we could help both of them through this.’

Queenie came softly into the room and reached out to put her arms around her children. ‘You are, my darlings, you are.’

The three of them clung together and
Saskia was first to straighten up and glance at the bed. She let out a gasp. ‘Ooh, look.’

TR’s eyes were open. He looked slightly dazed. He blinked and looked at the three adoring faces bending over him.

He licked his lips. ‘Hello,’ he managed, then looked from one to the other and asked, ‘Who are you?’

Chapter Three

In a sun-soaked square south of Florence Colin Hanlon lowered the airmail edition of the
Herald Tribune
and reached for his glass of Pellegrino. He had a sudden desire for a strong draught beer and a meat pie. An old woman in a long black dress swept a shadowy doorway; two young men in smart suits and dark glasses watched the movement of a young woman’s hips as she crossed the narrow cobblestone street.

Colin turned his eyes away from the woman. He was in enough trouble already. He had been thinking about his current predicament. Flight seemed the only answer. If he had his way he’d just jump on a plane and flee. But there was the problem of his wife Dina. She held the purse strings. He had to persuade her to leave Italy before she got wind of the mess with this girl. Returning to Australia until it all blew over was the obvious answer. Colin
began to plot the psychological ploys he’d use to introduce his plan. For the first time in years he’d begin to talk about his childhood home. Soon he was oblivious to the sights, sounds and smells around him. He was remembering the song of a magpie in a gum tree, the feel of a strong fast horse under him, and the sight of Tingulla homestead from the grand front entrance.

He sighed. Queenie was ruling the roost these days — as she’d always wanted and their father had always intended. Colin still felt bitter. The more he began to compare his present life to that of his sister, the more a burning resentment began to build in his belly. Queenie always came up smelling like a rose no matter what blow fate dealt her. Colin didn’t like to admit it but he’d had chances and muffed them. If he’d shown more interest in the property and at least paid lip service to his father it might have been left to him instead of his sister.

He had succeeded in getting Tingulla away from Queenie once, yet had failed to make a go of it. Once the property was in his hands, it had begun to lose money rapidly. For this Colin blamed a string of bad luck, but most especially his wife Dina. It was still a taboo subject between them, each blaming the other for a failure made more bitter because Queenie had returned to Tingulla after they had left and pulled it back from the brink of ruin. For Colin, Dina’s demands were impossible to keep up with — she had no idea of what life on a huge station was about. She’d seen
Tingulla as another prize possession to be acquired, a place to show off to friends, for parties, to be written about in women’s magazines with her posing prettily in the drawing room or on the verandah. Dina blamed Colin for failing to keep the place running smoothly while at the same time being at her beck and call to join her on trips to Surfers Paradise, to social events in Sydney and Melbourne, as well as on jaunts abroad. It was all thanks to her father anyway — Alfredo Camboni’s money was paying most of the bills — so Dina had called the shots.

Dina and her father’s money dominated and dictated Colin’s life. He had been involved in a string of Camboni’s failed or illegal enterprises. His personal life had sunk to debauched and squalid depths. Colin was tired and bored with la dolce vita, it was no longer a sweet life. He would tell Dina how he yearned for the healthy Australian lifestyle of his youth when everything was an adventure and opportunity beckoned. Then, in an apparent surge of homesickness, Colin would suggest they go back to Australia and start afresh.

Perhaps he would somehow make a claim on the family heritage. Why should Queenie have it all? Sure he’d been left a large sum of money and city real estate, but what was that compared to one of the biggest and best merino studs in the country? The more Colin thought about this idea the better he liked it. As well as needing to escape his current problems, Colin wanted his independence; first off, financially — he was sick of being treated like Dina’s
lapdog. Then with financial independence would come personal freedom. The idea was immensely appealing.

‘Look out, Queenie!’ he said to himself. And, smirking inwardly, thought, ‘And look out, Dina’.

At that moment his wife appeared in the square with a lady friend. They carried the inevitable boutique bags. He eyed Dina critically from behind his sunglasses. She was more than voluptuous these days: the luscious dark fruit of her beauty was overripe, bursting with years of indulgence. The thick dark hair was dyed raven now to cover the bands of silver. The make-up was heavy but did little to disguise the wrinkles caused by hours beside villa pools and Riviera beaches.

She waved at Colin and joined him at the table, dropping the bags and introducing her new friend, Sylvie. ‘Order us a Campari, darling, we are so weary and hot.’

‘Shopping is such hard work, isn’t it?’ said Colin without smiling.

Dina took off her designer sunshades and her dark eyes were cold.

‘Are you being facetious, darling?’

‘Who me? Never.’ Colin signalled the handsome young waiter whose surly manner towards Colin and lazy smile at the two women made it obvious he was very aware of his sex appeal. Dina and Sylvie fluttered at him as he placed the tall glasses of ruby liquid before them with the bottles of soda and thin slices of lemon.

‘So what have you been doing, Colin?’ asked
Sylvie in an attempt to thaw the frost hanging between husband and wife.

‘I’ve been mustering, racing through the outback and surfing on the Gold Coast.’

‘Scuse?’ Sylvie looked blankly towards Dina. Dina shrugged and sipped her drink.

Colin explained. ‘I was thinking about life back in Australia.’

‘You’re not homesick for that primitive place, surely. I hear it is very uncultured,’ remarked Sylvie.

‘I wonder where you heard that,’ said Colin looking at Dina, who ignored him and put her dark glasses on again. ‘Depends on what you call culture.’

‘What we have here is culture. The art in the Uffizi goes back centuries. It is magnificent,’ said Sylvie.

‘Our art goes back at least forty thousand years and is magnificent also,’ said Colin.

‘Depends on what you consider magnificent. I wouldn’t compare the clay daubings in some cave in the same class as the paintings of Botticelli,’ sniffed Dina.

‘Depends on what you call art, doesn’t it,’ grinned Colin.

‘Oh pleeze. This is too boring. Let’s decide where we’re going for lunch,’ declared Sylvie.

‘Right. Let’s not get our priorities out of order.’

‘Colin!’ snapped Dina in annoyance. ‘What is the matter with you?’

‘He’s homesick,’ joked Sylvie.

Dina peered intently at Colin. ‘This is true?’

‘Where’s home? I don’t know, Dina. I was
just thinking about Australia. Maybe we should take a trip back. Your father is getting on and now he’s retired to the Gold Coast we could visit him and I could have my surf.’

‘Would that make you feel better, hey?’ She leaned over and tweaked his nose. He brushed her hand away in irritation.

‘What about your family, Colin? Where are they?’ asked Sylvie.

‘They’re dead,’ he answered shortly.

‘Not his sister. His beloved sister Queenie. He doesn’t speak to her,’ added Dina with a small smirk at Sylvie.

‘Oh?’ Sylvie was immediately interested, sensing gossip.

‘Give it a rest, Dina.’ Colin stood. ‘You girls go off to lunch. I’ll meet you back at the villa.’

‘Going for an early siesta, sweetheart?’

‘No, Dina. I have some work to do.’

‘Work? How boreeeng,’ said Sylvie.

‘He calls it work. He pushes some papers around, makes telephone calls and zips up the autostrada for meetings. I think he makes meetings just to get away from me sometimes.’ Dina pouted childishly at her younger husband who looked trim and fit beside her plump softening, though the effect Colin achieved was more by expensive tailoring than physical activity.

Looking from one to the other Sylvie began to suspect Dina felt a little insecure. She eyed Colin thoughtfully. Dina had said he was very good in bed. She wondered if there might be the opportunity to find out for herself. She knew Colin would never flagrantly cheat on
Dina — it was common knowledge she held the purse strings. But judging from the subtle swift glances Colin was giving her, if they were very discreet she could find out for herself just how good a lover Dina’s husband really was.

Queenie paced one more time around the shady hospital gardens. Poinciana trees bloomed like orange and green floral-patterned parasols about the lawns. Splashed onto the green carpet were neat flowerbeds where rainbows of flowers were imprisoned behind a barricade of white painted stones. It was just too much to bear, to have TR alert and conscious yet totally unaware of who he was, where he was or who his family was.

The doctor on duty, who’d been hastily summoned when TR had regained consciousness, had peered into his eyes with a small torch and done a superficial examination, but even without the brain scan and other tests it was obvious the concussion had affected his memory. For how long was still the unanswerable question. Doctor McConnell already had him booked in with a neurosurgeon for comprehensive tests and possible exploratory surgery.

Gently they had explained to TR what had happened. They told him his name and who they all were. He had smiled politely at these strangers, but then, weary and uncomprehending, had asked to be left alone. Now that he was fully conscious he was aware of the pain from his shattered hip and leg and had a
constant aching head. He was given painkillers and he slept in long dreamless spans of time. Each time he awoke it was to the same blank unknowingness.

While the hurt, frustration and fear haunted Queenie and Tango and Saskia, it was as if TR wasn’t curious or didn’t care. The physical pain and the knowledge of not being able to move at will were so overwhelming they consumed his attention.

‘This is quite normal, even with patients with no memory loss,’ the sister had said. ‘As his body starts to mend, his mind might heal too. You must be patient.’