Heart of the Dreaming (40 page)

The reporter, trailing his microphone,
hurried after Queenie. ‘I understand you want to throw these poor people onto the street and fix these places up to rent to rich people?'

Queenie spun around and spoke in a low, icy voice. ‘Your information is incorrect and unsubstantiated. Please give me your name, your network and the name of your chief of staff.'

The reporter hesitated, then began hastily writing on a page of his notepad which he tore out and handed to Queenie. The cameraman lowered his camera.

Queenie took the paper and glanced at it. ‘Thank you, Mr Cameron. I'll be in touch with your station. Next time, check your sources.'

Queenie strode away, followed by John who whispered, ‘Do you think they'll run it?'

‘I doubt it. But they might follow it up. Let's hope everything just dies down.'

Within two nights the original group were back in the house again, living by candlelight, eating junk food and sleeping on the floor.

‘We should have boarded the place up. I think calling the police again would be a useless exercise. They just get back in. We could hire a security guard for a week or so,' said John.

Millie placed a plate of biscuits in front of Queenie and John and remarked, ‘If you don't mind me saying so, I reckon a blast of birdshot up their backsides would shift them lazy galoots.'

Queenie and John laughed. Queenie grinned. ‘That's a damned good idea, Millie.' She left the room and came back carrying an old shotgun.

John put his plate down with a clatter. ‘Queenie! You're not serious? You're not supposed to have that thing in the city, are you?'

She gave an innocent shrug. ‘You don't have to be a party to this.' Queenie slung the gun over her shoulder and picked up her coiled stock whip which had been hanging over the edge of a bookcase.

‘Oh, my Lord … Queenie, what are you up to …?' John hurried behind her, turning to shake a fist at Millie who stood holding a teapot and smiling broadly.

‘You fix 'em, Queenie luv.'

Queenie arrived at the house, flung open the front door and strode into the downstairs living room where three people lounged on a filthy sofa. She pointed the shotgun at them. ‘You've got five minutes to get your stuff and get out.'

They gave her a dazed look and as she clicked the safety catch back, two of them began scrambling for their things.

With John trailing behind her, Queenie stomped upstairs and pushed open a door where others lay sleeping on old mattresses spread around the empty room. Candle wax lay in congealed puddles and food wrappings were scattered in corners.

Queenie leaned the gun by the door, unhooked the stock whip from her shoulder, and flicked it delicately onto each sleeping form. With a bullet-like crack, the thin blankets were whipped off them.

The figures sat up in shock to see Queenie standing over them, her legs astride and a
shotgun pointed at them. ‘Out. Now. For good.'

‘You bloody shot at us. We can dob you in for that.'

‘I used a stock whip. Next time it's the gun. You're trespassing.'

They began to mutter, wrapping their belongings in blankets and filing outside.

‘Some more in here,' called John from another room. ‘They seem unconscious. They're really out of it.'

Four people lay sprawled on the floor, spilled bottles of beer and hash pipes beside them.

Queenie took careful aim at the plaster wall between them. The blast reverberated round the room and, en masse, the sleeping bodies rose, shaking their ringing heads.

Queenie didn't have to speak. One look was enough. They followed her down the stairs.

John slammed the front door behind the last of them and watched Queenie walk swiftly away. He waited till the last of the stragglers had drifted down the block, noting the two young boys and pregnant girl were not in the group.

They had barely settled back in the house when there was a loud banging at the front door. Queenie waved a hand at John. ‘I'll go.'

John heard her calm and friendly voice drift back. ‘Gunshots? No, can't say I did, officer. There's always a lot of cars backfiring in the area … trouble? No, we had some squatters, but the police evicted them. Thanks for your concern. Good day to you, too.'

Queenie shut the door and walked back into
the room and winked at John. As she sipped her fresh cup of tea she said, ‘Y'know, the neighbours were pretty quick off the mark calling the police. I wonder if our friend from the TV station might be around. John, I think it's time I had another talk with Mrs Sweet, the social worker at the end of the block.'

The visit was unproductive.

‘No luck?' asked John.

‘She didn't answer the door. But I felt sure she was there. I thought I heard a giggle when I left.'

‘I'll get my mate down at the council to do a bit of detective work,' said John.

It was Saskia who provided the first clue. Sarah had brought her over to Glebe after school and put her bicycle in the back of the station wagon. While Queenie and Sarah worked in the house, Saskia toured the quaint little neighbourhood.

‘Our houses are the nicest of them all, though there are lots of old ones like ours,' she said on her return. ‘Who lives in the last house down there, Mummy?'

‘A Mrs Gail Sweet — and she's not. I think she should be called Mrs Strange. She is supposed to have moved out by now,' answered Queenie.

‘Maybe she's having a goodbye party. She has lots of visitors.'

‘What do you mean, Sas?'

‘I went down the back lane and there were cars and a taxi and these men went inside.'

Queenie glanced at Sarah. ‘That's very interesting. When John comes over, maybe we'll have him go knock at the back door.'

John arrived with his own news. ‘It seems Mrs Sweet must have friends in high places.'

‘We think we know why,' said Queenie. ‘We'd like you to make a few discreet inquiries at the rear of number thirty seven.'

‘But that's all, John,' admonished Sarah.

That evening at Sarah and John's house, while Tim and Saskia watched ‘Dr Who' on the ABC, Queenie sighed. ‘A brothel. I can't believe my luck. How are we going to get her out?'

‘It's illegal. Just report her,' said Sarah.

John shrugged. ‘It's not that simple. Half her clients are members of the council, or in big business, and there's a rumour she has a few friendly detectives looking after her as well.'

‘You can't go in with a rifle this time, Queenie.'

‘No. But this time I have a story for Mr Kim Cameron of the “Six PM Newsline”.'

‘Queenie, if you go to the media, remember you are the owner of the building housing a brothel. This could backfire,' cautioned John.

‘We'll see.'

Queenie called the young TV reporter and they sat in an Italian coffee shop around the corner from Mrs Sweet's establishment. She told him of her plans for the restoration of the houses and her belief that the neglected area would be developed as a unique part of the city.

‘I'm impressed. I admit that before, we did get a tip-off that some tough woman was throwing women and kids into the street.'

‘Who had never set foot in the place before you arrived.'

He had the grace to look embarrassed. ‘Yeah … well, when I got back to the office I did do a bit of checking. We have a file on you. You're something of a heroine … droving all those cattle on your own, the er … loss … of your mother and father. And husband … plane crash, wasn't it?'

He sipped his short black. ‘You've had it tough, all right. But what is the mistress of Tingulla doing in Glebe?'

Queenie bit her lip. ‘That's another story. My brother is running the station. I wanted a fresh start. Too many memories there.' She hoped he wouldn't probe further, and he seemed satisfied.

‘Well, I'd have a hard job making you out to be the bad guy. Let's go after Mrs Sweet, eh?'

At the end of the week Queenie visited number thirty-seven. ‘Mrs Sweet … it's about your moving out … '

‘Well, dear, I'm afraid it would be very inconvenient for me to leave.'

‘I understand. However, I think it might be even more inconvenient for your, er … social cases, if you don't leave my house,' said Queenie.

The smirk changed to a hard expression as Mrs Sweet demanded, ‘And what exactly does that mean?'

‘Let's not play games any longer. It means that a TV cameraman and reporter have photographed the comings and goings to your
establishment and the story will go to air, with a nice preview in the
Sunday Telegraph.

‘You wouldn't dare.'

‘I'm afraid I would. In fact our conversation is being recorded and filmed.'

Mrs Sweet glanced behind Queenie, suddenly noticing the camera poking around the edge of a parked van. She turned inside and slammed the door.

Queenie lifted the metal flap of the letter slot in the front door and called through it, ‘Out. By tomorrow, Mrs Sweet. And the girls.'

A furniture van arrived early in the morning and Mrs Sweet and entourage disappeared with no more fuss.

Queenie called Kim Cameron. ‘She's gone. What are you going to do with your story?'

‘There isn't one, I'm afraid. It got killed. I suspect there might have been a newspaper editor or TV proprietor among her customers.'

‘Oh, Kim, that's too bad. After all your work.' Privately Queenie was elated. ‘I'll send you an invitation to the launch party for Heirloom Cottages. Maybe you could do a story on that.'

Kim Cameron thanked her but doubted he'd do a story on trendy homes. However, he wouldn't turn down an invitation to free food and booze. ‘Thanks, Queenie, I'll look forward to it.'

With the row of terrace houses now safely in their possession and ready to be renovated Queenie concentrated on putting the finishing touches to her house, which would be used as the model. She moved in the antique
furniture and added the final touches of Brussels lace curtains and old embroidered bedspreads she'd found in spotless condition at a church bazaar.

Sarah took on promotions and publicity and soon had the interior design magazines, the newspapers, the trade press, the historical societies and preservation trust out in force.

Millie and Saskia kept out of the house as much as possible as there was a never-ending stream of photographers and visitors wandering about, marvelling at what Queenie had done.

Sarah put together a brochure featuring photographs of Queenie's model house and the proposed plans for others in the row. John sold the remaining houses in a matter of weeks.

‘This is easier than selling iced water in the Sahara. It's bloody amazing,' said John.

‘Nonsense. It's a great idea, and what with Queenie's decorating and my publicity push, you had half your work done for you,' retorted Sarah.

‘You're absolutely right. What say we ask Millie to baby-sit and I take you two hard-working girls out to a slap up dinner?'

‘John, that's a lovely idea. I don't think I've been out of these overalls in weeks.'

Sarah studied Queenie. ‘Y'know Queenie, you do look like you've been building a house. Your nails are broken, your hair has been hidden under a scarf for weeks and you haven't seen a lipstick in months. I'm taking you to the beauty parlour in David Jones. Besides,
I've lined up a photo session and interview with you for the
Women's Weekly
next week.'

‘It's nice to have frank friends isn't it, John?' mocked Queenie. ‘No beauty parlours … I'll get myself together. Really, Sarah, I promise.'

Millie mailed a copy of the magazine and newspaper articles about Queenie, Heirloom Cottages and Glebe, Sydney's ‘in' place to live, to Jim.

Jim handed them to TR. ‘Look what Queenie's up to now … never thought she'd take to the city so well.'

‘She's a very determined woman. I don't think she'll stay there though, Jim. I suspect it's all part of a grand plan to get back to Tingulla one day.'

Jim looked thoughtful. ‘I talked to Millie on the phone a coupla days ago. Funny thing, she mentioned Tingulla. Said she was getting bad feelings ‘bout things there.'

‘The old bush instinct at work, eh? Had she heard from Snowy?'

‘Nope. She didn't say nothing, but I think she's feeling worried in her bones. Said she kept having warning dreams about Tingulla.'

‘In that case maybe I'd better drop by and check things out,' said TR. ‘I have to go up north and pick up a horse. It wouldn't be far out of my way. But don't say anything to Millie. Let me find out how things are going.'

The summer holidays arrived and Sydney sweltered under a heat wave. The newspapers had photographs of people frying eggs on the pavement and elderly citizens being treated for heat exhaustion in the crush of Christmas shoppers. The beaches were crowded, the golden sand blanketed with beach towels and colourful cotton umbrellas. Sunbathers burned under the sun's fierce rays before plunging reddened bodies into the cold blue surf for momentary relief.

At sunset the southerly buster with black clouds, high winds and coinsized rain drops, swept in from the ocean to bang doors, whip washing from clotheslines and send umbrellas cartwheeling along the beach. Families hurriedly packed and headed for their oven-hot cars standing on roads where steam rose as the rain hit the melting tar.

The storms passed quickly, and in the
evening coolness barbecues were lit and a haze of smoke and the aroma of grilling meat hung over the suburbs.

Millie prepared to go to Guneda to spend several weeks with Jim. She broached the idea of Saskia going with her for some of the time. Queenie was reluctant. She tried most of the time to push TR to the back of her mind but the contact between him and Saskia brought back painful memories. She couldn't explain to Millie that TR had been the love of her life and that the loss of their child was a wound in her soul that had never healed.

‘It will be so hot out there. What will she do? I don't want to put TR to any trouble looking after a young girl,' muttered Queenie.

‘Jim says TR has more rooms than he knows what to do with, there's a housekeeper and, besides, I'll be there to look after her. What's she going to do here? She's not much of a beach girl, she'd much rather spend her days with horses. TR said she can work in the mornings mucking out the stables and he'll pay her pocket money for doing it.'

‘You seem to have had a lot of discussions with TR.'

‘Aw, come on, Queenie. If you weren't so stubborn you could come with us. A break would do you good. Spend some time with your kid. You're her mother — not me.'

Queenie knew she'd been neglecting Saskia since she'd got involved with Heirloom Cottages. She'd been tired every evening and barely listened to Saskia's chatter about her
day. She couldn't remember when they'd last spent time alone together enjoying themselves.

‘I'll think about it,' she said, and walked away. But Millie knew she would not go to Guneda. She just hoped she'd allow Saskia the holiday trip.

Queenie packed a picnic the following Saturday and she and Saskia caught the ferry across the sparkling harbour to Manly and walked around the rocky headland to Shelley Beach. They found a shady corner against the craggy headland and swam and explored the rock pools as the tide went out.

They ate their lunch and spread their towels out to lie in the sun. Saskia picked up her book.

‘Sas … before you get your nose buried in that book … I know it's holiday time for you, but I still have a lot of work to do getting the houses finished and looking for some more work. I want to build on what we've done so far, it's the only way to make money.'

‘You don't have to entertain me,' came the gruff response.

‘I know. But Millie mentioned to me about you spending time with her at Guneda … '

Saskia didn't raise her head and continued to stare at the page of her book, but Queenie knew she wasn't reading.

‘I just don't know about it. I know you love the bush and horses … I did too at your age — and I still do. I just don't want to put TR to any trouble.'

‘Why don't you like TR?' asked Saskia in a low voice, still not looking at her mother.

Queenie bit her lip. ‘It's not that I don't like him …'

Saskia flared angrily. ‘Well, what then? You won't talk about him. You never see him when he comes to Sydney. Dad said you used to be friends. You grew up together.'

‘That's not quite true … about us growing up together. I met him at my twenty-first birthday party.' Queenie's voice trailed away. ‘People change as they grow older. Lives go in different directions, I suppose. But you're right, I shouldn't deprive you of the pleasure and fun I'm sure you'll have at Guneda. We'll try it for two weeks and see how it works out. If everyone is happy with the arrangement you can stay on a few more weeks. I'll miss you, though.'

Saskia rolled over and gave her mother a hug. ‘Thanks … I'll write, and you can phone me up.' Contentedly she turned on her back pulling her straw hat over her face.

They lay in silence for a moment.

‘Mum … '

‘Yes … ?'

‘Tell me about your twenty-first party. What was it like, what did you wear? Who was there … ?'

‘Oh, it was a wonderful party … how I wish you'd known your grandparents. I ended up wearing your grandmother's satin gown. I still have it put away … I tore my dress.'

Saskia giggled. ‘Tell me the whole story … '

Smiling softly, Queenie told her daughter of the party, climbing on the roof after jasmine, TR breaking up the fight with Colin,
how Patrick had danced with all the young girls and of the beautiful opal necklace they'd given her.

‘I love that necklace,' interjected Saskia. ‘You've promised never to sell it no matter how hard things might get.'

‘I remember, Sas.'

‘And at the end of the party … that was when Grandma was killed?'

Queenie had never spoken of Rose's death in detail to Saskia. She had been told the facts since a young girl but had never expressed any curiosity before. Queenie now found herself telling her daughter in a small voice how hard it had been, how Colin had always blamed her for the death of their mother, maintaining that if Rose hadn't worked so hard at Queenie's party she wouldn't have gone back early and alone to the empty homestead and disturbed the intruders.

Queenie lay with her eyes closed, her lips trembling as she spoke. From under the hat covering Saskia's face, a tear trickled.

She reached out and found her mother's hand. ‘Uncle Colin is mean. He's different to the rest of us. I never think of him as family.'

‘Sas … that's not fair, he can't help how he is … '

‘Well, I don't like him, and I don't like the way he treats you. You're too much of a Pollyanna, Mum.'

Queenie laughed. ‘I've been called lots of things before but never that!

‘Some of my friends think you are so strong and independent, but I know you're a real softie.'

‘Don't tell anyone, Sas.'

‘I won't.'

The two lay in the sun in silence as the tears dried on Saskia's cheeks and Queenie fell into a peaceful sleep, knowing the love of her daughter would always be with her.

With Saskia away at Guneda, Queenie knew Sarah was plotting for her to meet eligible men, and she dreaded the prospect. She wasn't interested in the delicate probing and fencing, the small overtures, insistent questioning and eventual courting by men fascinated by this elusive, mysterious and beautiful woman.

Sarah persisted, telling Queenie she had to come out of her shell. ‘Just for fun, Queenie, and to have some social life. I'm not suggesting that you have an affair — though that might be a good idea — or marry them. You're becoming a recluse.'

Queenie laughed it off, saying she was too busy being a career girl. But in the loneliness of her bed, she lay between the cold linen sheets and longed for the comfort of Warwick's arms, while in her dreams TR's laughing blue eyes and burning mouth haunted her.

She hated waking to the thought of TR. She still felt guilty about him, as though she had betrayed Warwick. The hurt and grief TR had caused her was lodged like a knot in her body, strangling all feeling, energy, and passion.

TR left his car towing the horse float in the shade of some trees alongside the road leading
to Tingulla's homestead, took the foal out and hobbled it in the grass, and set out to walk the half mile to the house.

Snowy appeared before he reached the main driveway and TR shook his gnarled hand. Snowy didn't seem surprised to see him.

‘Glad to see you, Snowy. I was hoping I'd find you before I got to the house. So … how are things at Tingulla?'

The two men ambled to the fence and leaned on the splintery wooden rails. ‘Not too good, TR. One dam bin poisoned with something, made plenty sheep sick — some died. There's bin a bad outbreak of flies and Colin got in some cowboy shearing outfit, made a big mess of the wool clip — did a terrible job.'

‘Colin couldn't get Samuelson's team in to shear this year?'

‘Dunno what the problem was … mebbe he wouldn't pay their rates, but none of the regulars came. Just this new mob, no bloody good mob.'

‘Colin hasn't been managing too well?'

‘Wants to change everything, do things his way. No good, no one could tell him nothing. And that missus of his …' words failed Snowy. ‘She thinks she still in the big smoke. Nope, things pretty crook here. I promised Queenie I'd keep an eye out, so I'll stick it. Most of the boyshave gone. Newblokes come … and go …'

‘You're a good man, Snowy. Jim sends his regards. Well, I'll head down to the house.'

The garden looked neglected but everything else seemed normal. However, without Queenie in residence the house seemed
forlorn. The housekeeper, a starched and snooty woman who reminded TR of a hospital matron, bustled away to fetch ‘the mistress'. TR was not invited indoors. In his dusty and casual clothes the housekeeper obviously did not consider him respectable or important enough to cross the threshold. TR didn't sit in a chair on the verandah, he knew he wouldn't be staying long.

Dina swept out to greet him, not looking too pleased at being caught without makeup and in a plain skirt and blouse. ‘Why, TR, this is a surprise. I wish you'd let me know you were coming by, I would have been prepared for you. At least let me offer you a cold drink … wine? Gin or whiskey? No? A beer, I suppose.'

‘Nothing thanks, Dina. I'm sorry, I'm not accustomed to making appointments to visit friends. I picked up a horse from a property near here and thought I'd drop in to see how Colin is doing.'

‘He is doing just fine thanks, TR.'

‘Is that so? And what about you, Dina — how are you liking country life? Bit of a change from the social scene in Sydney — don't you miss it?'

‘Not at all. We entertain a lot, and go to the coast regularly, things are working out very well,' said Dina brightly.

‘I'm glad to hear it. Is Colin around?'

‘I'm afraid not. He's in Longreach on business of some sort. I really couldn't say when he'll be back.'

‘I'm sorry I missed him. Tell him hello.' TR
was about to add if he needed any help to call, but figured Colin wouldn't do that, so he kept quiet.

TR put his hat back on. ‘Nice to see you again, Dina.'

‘How are your horses doing, TR? I've been telling Colin he should get into racehorses, Daddy would love that.'

‘You couldn't breed racehorses in this country, Dina. Guneda is doing very well. Seems we're all doing well, doesn't it? G'day then.'

‘See you at the races some time, TR,' called Dina and disappeared into the house.

TR walked down to the stables and found Snowy waiting for him. ‘I got the billy on in the quarters — want a mug of tea before you go?'

‘Bloody oath I do, my tongue's hanging out. She's not up on country hospitality is she?' remarked TR as he followed Snowy. ‘If I believed what she had to tell me, Tingulla is doing fabulously well. But things don't look too good. How long do you reckon they'll stick it out here?'

Snowy shrugged. ‘Hard to say. Bin a bad season and he's done stupid things. His father must be turning in his grave,' said Snowy. ‘What they teach them boys at that fancy school he went to anyway?'

‘I think Colin's problem is he won't listen to advice, he's out of touch and he has a definite problem with a wife who doesn't understand country life.'

‘Well, I hope Colin gets fed up and gets out before he ruin the whole place. Tingulla needs Queenie bad.'