Heart of the Dreaming (3 page)

As a small girl she had shared her secrets with Pegasus, the big black horse which had fallen during that terrible storm. Shooting Gus had been like crossing a chasm between
childhood and the real world. Queenie now felt that another step lay before her, and she wondered what waited on the other side of her twenty-first birthday.

She had no desire to giggle and chatter with the girls gathered downstairs. Nor did she feel like galloping through the bush on Nareedah, her young white Arabian horse which had grown to replace Pegasus in her affections. She sighed and flung herself across the floral eiderdown on her bed where Snugglepot, her tortoiseshell cat, snoozed, escaping the demands of a new litter of kittens nestling in a box in the kitchen.

It was dark when her mother pushed open the door and switched on the light. The loud click caused Queenie to stir and Snugglepot to stretch.

‘You lazy girls,' said Rose. ‘Queenie, the party has started and everyone is wondering where you are. They think you're up here primping and preening and you haven't even started getting dressed.'

Rose sighed at the sight of her long-limbed daughter, her hair a tangle of loose waves, her bare body chilled from the cool night air. Queenie was such a tomboy that Rose knew getting her to dress up would be a battle.

‘Come on, Queenie, get dressed quickly. And as for you,' Rose shooed the cat off the bed, ‘down you go and feed those starving babies of yours.'

Rose, elegant in a soft grey chiffon dress with a strand of magnificent pearls swinging
to her waist, left Queenie to dress and went downstairs. Patrick met her on the landing.

‘When is she coming down? I've never known Queenie to take so long. I know she's not used to dressing up — she must really want to impress the boys.'

Rose smiled fondly at the tanned face she loved so dearly, with the crinkles round his eyes and the dimple in his strong chin. As he smiled at her she touched his cheek. ‘She fell asleep, but she'll be here in a few minutes.'

Tingulla was ablaze with lights. The soft hum of the generator was drowned by music and laughter. Small lights were strung around the trees shading the homestead lawns. Flame torches on poles were set among the garden beds and along the driveway. Kerosene lanterns burned on tables set along the verandah. In the main entrance a crystal chandelier cast a glow around the beautiful vestibule with its antique furniture and grandfather clock.

In the music room a group sang around the Pianola, one of the boys pumping the pedals while another attempted to pluck a ukulele with hands more used to roping cattle than picking a tune.

The dusty boys of the afternoon were now scrubbed and slicked, their boots polished to a glass-like sheen. The girls bloomed in pastels, their hair curled in the latest fashion.

One of the girls leaning on the Pianola called across the room, ‘Come and play, TR'.

TR smiled and reached inside his dinner
jacket. Everyone knew TR was never without his mouth organ. It had been his sole companion on many lonely nights out droving and he could play any song after hearing it twice. TR ran his lips along the little silver instrument then leaned against the Pianola and picked up the tune.

At twenty-six, TR Hamilton had the physique of a strong man and had already acquired more bush skills and horse knowledge than most men would ever learn. He was tall with sun-streaked hair, deep sky-blue eyes, and dark brows and lashes. He had a wide, engaging smile that tipped crookedly to one side, giving him a rather quizzical expression. He was softly spoken and had a gentle nature, yet there seemed to be a core of steel running through him. He appeared determined and not a man to be pushed around.

The mixture of young guests blended well. Outback life had made them tough and taught them to grow up quickly. Compared to their city peers they were responsible and competent adults. Most of them gathered for Queenie's party knew each other, though they met infrequently. There was an easy camaraderie amongst them. The practical bush girls didn't play coy games and understood the way of life in the harsh outback. The boys mainly came from prosperous stations or were hardworking station hands aiming to own a property of their own one day.

As TR breathed into the harmonica his eyes closed and he became totally lost in the music, remembering the times he'd heard his father
sing ‘
Oh, Danny Boy'
— generally in his cups at the pub.

TR's father, Riann Hamilton, had been an Irish drifter and a dreamer. A handsome man with dark curling hair, his blue eyes and lilting brogue had beguiled the ladies. He was a moderately successful jockey who had come to Sydney to seek fame and riches. There he married Mary, the daughter of a well-to-do family, and fathered Terrance Ryan.

Once he'd spent Mary's dowry and what little he'd won, Riann had persuaded her to move to the bush with their baby son so he could ride the country circuit.

Riann was absent for weeks at a time leaving his wife and small son to the isolation of a tiny house in a country town where people minded their own business. Mary had only a nodding acquaintance with some of the local townsfolk and eked out what meagre funds she had to care for herself and TR.

When Riann did return he'd spend most of his time charming drinks from the locals in the pub, or sitting on the house's small front porch with TR on his knee, spinning tales of the horses and the racing world. He promised TR that one day he'd own a horse of his very own.

TR's father never got him that horse, and he never struck it lucky with the winners. The whisky finally claimed him in a dingy room in the Green Man Public House at Wattle Flat. His few possessions were forwarded to his wife — a fob watch, a tobacco tin of personal papers, and a pink and navy racing sash and cap.

TR's mother returned home to her parents and TR was sent to a fine school by his grandfather. The family were disappointed when, at fourteen, TR ran away to the bush. By the time he was eighteen TR had discovered he had a special way with horses. He could look at a horse and see not only its physical make-up, but also sense the animal's temperament, stamina and potential. He could tell which horse had the heart and guts to make it go on when others might falter. It was a treasured talent in the bush where men's lives and fortunes often depended on their horses.

During his years growing up in the city TR had hung around the Randwick Racecourse with the jockeys and trainers who'd known his father, and he'd listened, and watched, and learned.

But it was the tales of the bush and wild exploits of the country men that he remembered best. His father had instilled in him a passion for the wide open country and the land where a man was as good as his horse, his fists and his wits.

TR had risen from junior station hand to drover for one of the great pastoral families in the far north and he dreamed of one day making his own fortune. Deep down he wanted to fulfil his father's dream and vindicate him in his mother's eyes.

She had stuck by her man, too proud to ask family or friends for help, and her air of gentility had set her apart from the earthy country women who might have helped her. Instead, she struggled on alone, teaching her
son about the finer things in life which she had once known. Although there was little food on the table, manners and etiquette were observed to the letter. She died when TR was sixteen, her son already won over by the bush.

The song ended and TR opened his eyes as the group about him clapped. Overwhelmed by memories TR excused himself and slipped quietly into the moonlit garden.

Upstairs Queenie tugged at the fastenings on the emerald green taffeta ballerina dress which Millie had painstakingly ironed. Gazing at her stiff and formal reflection, Queenie wrinkled her nose in distaste and squirmed uncomfortably in the boned and wired strapless ball dress with its flounced skirt. She lifted the heavy curtain of her burnished hair and coiled it in a looping bun, then decided against that and let her thick hair tumble over her shoulders. She reached for a tortoiseshell comb to pin it back behind one ear then stopped suddenly and smiled — she knew just the thing she needed to make her feel right.

In her bare feet, Queenie hitched up her dress and sat on the windowsill, throwing her legs onto the slanting roof. Gripping the corrugated iron with her toes and gingerly hanging on, she worked her way to the far corner where the branches of the peppercorn tree brushed against the roof. Entwined among the boughs spiralled a jasmine vine, thick with sweetly perfumed white clusters.

Queenie began pulling at the vine to bring the flowers within reach. As she leaned
forward and tugged at the strong vine, her foot slipped and she slid with a clatter towards the edge of the roof. The strip of metal guttering broke her fall, and she flung her body flat onto the roof, one foot dangling over the edge, the other supported by the flimsy leaf-filled gutter. Her breath came in short startled gasps as she remained motionless.

A calm voice from below drifted up to her. ‘Just what are you doing, exactly?'

It was TR standing in the shadows of the peppercorn tree peering up at the dangling leg and taffeta skirt. Despite the precarious position Queenie seemed to be in, he sounded faintly amused.

As TR watched, the leg disappeared and there was a scratching and a rustle as Queenie swivelled her body around so her legs were now angled up the roof and she could look over the edge.

‘None of your business. What are you doing prowling around in the garden?' demanded Queenie.

‘Oh, I was just taking a breath of fresh air. Are you planning on making some sort of entrance swinging through the trees like Tarzan?'

Queenie glared at him. ‘Very funny. For your information I was just getting some flowers. I slipped.'

‘You're obviously not as good on rooftops as you are on a horse,' said TR swinging into the tree and climbing till he was almost level with her nose. ‘You were after these, I suppose.' He reached out to gather the heady
sprays of delicate white flowers, and sniffed them appreciatively. ‘Very lovely. Allow me.' He passed them to Queenie who silently took them from his hand.

‘Now, how are you going to get back inside? Come down the tree with me.' TR held out his hand to her.

‘No, thank YOU,' said Queenie stubbornly, feeling rather foolish. She gripped the stems of the flowers between her teeth and scrambled crablike back through her window.

She heard TR's soft laughter floating behind her as she slammed the window closed.

Rose swept into the kitchen where Millie and young Ruthie were putting the final touches to the bowls and platters of fresh salads, vegetables and fruit — luxuries flown in for Queenie's party.

Millie bustled about, wrapping her hands in a towel as she pulled open the door of the Aga cooker. The smell of fresh baked bread filled the room. With flour up to her elbows, Millie pulled out the tin pans and upended them on the bench, banging the bottoms to loosen the perfectly baked loaves.

Rose breathed in the delicious smell, tapping the base of the loaves which gave a hollow ring.

‘Done to perfection as always, Millie. The nun who taught you to bake at the mission did a splendid job.'

Millie was too busy to be flattered. ‘They taught us lots of things at the mission. Taught us to forget lots of things, too,' said Millie,
beginning to whip a bowl of Tingulla cream with a wire whisk.

Rose was unperturbed at Millie's reference to the missionaries' attitude to the Aboriginal children in their care. Millie was a pretty, plump woman in her late thirties, light enough to pass as having Mediterranean blood. She had come to Tingulla as a shy young girl fresh from the mission, with a confused and blurred knowledge of her Aboriginal heritage. The nuns had preferred to ignore the fact that a white man had been tempted by black flesh and that the resulting offspring had as much claim to an Aboriginal upbringing as they did to a white one. Instead, the children, whether they were full blood or quarter-caste, were thoroughly schooled in Christian morals and manners.

Rose thanked Millie and walked through the ground floor rooms and along the verandah where groups of young people had gathered. Seeing Queenie's best friend, Sarah Quinn, crossing the lawn, she moved outside and stopped her.

‘Sarah, where is Queenie? I can't find her anywhere,' said Rose.

‘I haven't seen her since the rodeo this afternoon, Mrs Hanlon. She must still be getting dressed.'

‘But it's been ages. And you know Queenie never spends any time getting fancified. I've already had to chase her up once.'

As Sarah moved away a voice made Rose spin around. ‘Mrs Hanlon, your daughter was out on the roof a moment ago, I think she must still be upstairs.'

‘On the roof! That little monkey. What was she doing?' asked Rose as she stared at the attractive young man before her.

TR shrugged. ‘I just happened to be strolling past when I heard a bit of a clatter and saw her. She was by the peppercorn tree. I did offer to help her down but she seems a bit of a tomboy and insisted on climbing back up the roof to her room,' grinned TR.

Rose sighed. ‘A bit of a tomboy! You obviously don't know Queenie well. I'd better go and see what she's up to … thank you.'

TR watched Rose disappear into the brightly lit house, and wondered how such an elegant and gracious woman could have such a gawky and haughty daughter. Shaking his head, he smiled at the thought of Queenie's face peering over the guttering at him, long hair falling past her shoulders, eyes wide and startled like a kangaroo trapped in a spotlight. There weren't too many girls TR could think of who would have been game enough to crawl around such a high and sloping roof.

Queenie intrigued him but he felt it best not to concern himself with the feisty daughter of the family. He was out to impress Patrick Hanlon, though TR suspected he might be able to charm Mrs Hanlon a little. Even so, he preferred to win a job on his own merits.

Rose snapped open Queenie's door to find her daughter, rumpled and flushed, looking at herself with dismay in the mirror. Her new dress was crushed and soiled with a rip at the front.