Heart of the Dreaming (44 page)

‘I have been looking around at possible hotels to buy and locations suitable for one of our hotels. Australia is an expanding market. I would very much like to see the Kurrajong.'

‘It's not for sale, I'm afraid — nor is it finished … but if you don't mind seeing it as it is …' relented Queenie.

‘I would enjoy that very much. I'd like to visit some places outside Sydney, seeing that this is my first trip here.'

‘Allow me to be your tour guide for a day.'

‘I'd be enchanted.
Merci.'

Queenie hesitated about driving the famous head of one of the world's great hotel chains to the mountains in her Range Rover four-wheel drive, but decided he'd have to take her as she was.

Henri enjoyed the drive. They took the scenic Bells Line of Road into the mountains and stopped for coffee at a roadside orchard stall in Bilpin and bought apples, then drove through Mount Victoria to Katoomba and Queenie's hotel.

Henri was amazed as they drove to the entrance. ‘
Mon Dieu.
I wasn't expecting anything as fabulous as this.'

He wandered with Queenie all over the building, making small suggestions and asking questions before they lunched on the terrace.

Monsieur Ambert had prepared a simple meal, not flamboyant, but exquisitely cooked and presented. Henri eyed the cracked blue swimmer crabs on their bed of ice, the Sydney rock oysters and the smoked salmon, fresh fruit, green salad and cheese.

‘I hope you like seafood. Sydney is famous for it. I had it brought up fresh from the fish markets this morning.'

Henri sighed over the fresh fruit flan and coffee. ‘My compliments to your chef. I think you are going to do well here, Queenie. A satisfying meal means a satisfied customer; an exceptional meal like this turns a satisfied customer into a passionate one. It's hard to believe you are a novice in this industry. You have a natural instinct for style, comfort and presentation. I hope you have a practical streak as well.'

Queenie flushed with pleasure at his compliment. There was a sincerity about his words. ‘I avoid unnecessary extravagance, but spend money where and when I think it's effective.'

‘Admirable. You have also trained your staff well. Now all you need are the guests.'

‘I know. This is all a bit of a gamble for me. Most people told me I was crazy to do it. I'm hoping my launch extravaganza will spread the word.'

It was early evening when Queenie dropped Henri outside the Wentworth Hotel.

‘It has been a delightful day. Allow me to reciprocate. May we dine together tomorrow evening?'

Queenie shook his hand. ‘I'd love to, Henri. I've had a nice day too.'

Queenie found herself changing her mind several times over what to wear to dinner with Henri Barnard and taking special care with her hair. He called for her in a limousine and smiled mysteriously when she asked where they were going.

Queenie shrugged, smiled and relaxed, happy to go along with whatever plans he had concocted.

The chauffeur sped across the Harbour Bridge and headed through the scalloped string of northern beaches until they arrived at the narrow Palm Beach peninsula, the northern tip of Sydney. It had taken almost an hour, though time had passed swiftly as they chatted amiably. They wound around the Palm Beach headland, glimpsing the old sandstone lighthouse atop the nearby Barrenjoey headland, the beam flashing across Pittwater, the mouth of the Hawkesbury River and the Pacific Ocean.

‘We're running out of land — where are we going?' joked Queenie.

The car glided along the narrow cliff road past luxurious homes nestling amongst the trees.

‘The opera star, Joan Sutherland, has a home here, I believe,' said Henri, peering into the gathering darkness where the houses climbed down the cliff from the road to face the wide open sea.

The car swung into the circular driveway of what appeared to be a large home but from its discreet sign, Queenie realised it was a small hotel.

‘I never knew about this place, or this part of Sydney,' said Queenie.

‘A friend of mine owns it, so I had to visit. It's primarily an exclusive restaurant but it has several small suites on the level below,' said Henri as the maitre d' ushered them into the plush and elegant drawing room which served as the restaurant's bar.

Henri spoke softly in French and they were led through the bar, past the candlelit restaurant and through the French doors onto a stone terrace. ‘It's not as grand as the terrace at the Kurrajong, but rather special, don't you agree?'

‘It certainly is,' said Queenie with enthusiasm.

The terrace was narrow, studded with potted palms and small tables and chairs. It faced the expanse of the Pacific Ocean stretching to the distant dark horizon. A full moon painted a path of shimmering light across the swell of the water. Below the terrace, the surf
crashed rhythmically and pleasantly on the rocky shoreline.

‘I thought we'd eat out here, if that is acceptable to you.'

‘Henri, it's magic!'

He smiled at Queenie, seeing the wind lift her hair away from the nape of her neck. ‘The moonlight suits you, Queenie. You are a very beautiful woman.'

Queenie looked down at her hands on the table.

Henri reached across and rested a hand on hers. ‘It was merely an observation, a statement. My French nature appreciates a beautiful woman like a work of art. It was not, as my Canadian side might put it — a pass.'

Henri passed lightly on to talk of other things, charming and amusing her. Queenie felt drawn to this attractive man, and it disturbed her. It was late when he dropped her at her door, kissing her lightly on the cheek.

Queenie soon fell asleep, but her dreams were troubled and her body ached with loneliness.

TR sat by Bobby's bedside in the small intensive care ward of the country hospital. He looked so pale and insubstantial, as if he could float to the ceiling, save for the restricting lengths of tubes and wires attached to his body and the clicking machine beside the bed monitoring his frail heart.

A nurse in a starched uniform appeared silently, giving TR a brief sympathetic smile as she changed the drip bag hanging above Bobby, made notes on the chart at the foot
of his bed and swished out of the room, black shoes creaking on the polished floor.

Bobby moved his head. TR bent closer and was startled when Bobby opened his eyes. ‘Bobby … mate, can you hear? It's me — TR.'

Bobby struggled to focus and his mouth dropped, sounding a gasping rasp.

‘Don't try to talk. It's all right, mate.'

Bobby's fingers twitched and TR took his hand as the old man struggled to speak. TR bent down, his ear close to his mouth.

‘Race … gotta go.'

‘Don't worry about the race, Bobby. You're more important.'

‘No.' The twiggy fingers attempted to grip TR's hand.

‘You go … Bill race … please.'

The old man shut his eyes, his breath coming in short rapid gasps. TR reached for the button and rang for the nurse. ‘Calm down, Bobby …'

The ward sister hurried to the bedside. ‘You'd better leave us, Mr Hamilton. It's too much for him. He's too weak to talk.'

TR walked slowly down the corridor lined with windows that looked onto the bush-like gardens of the small hospital. He found Tango sitting on a bench at the end of the corridor.

‘How is he?'

‘He spoke for a minute. Wants us to go on and race Bill.'

‘Jeez, the stubborn old bugger. He really wants Bill to run in the Cup.'

‘Yeah, a shame. After all his work. Bill stands a good chance, but we'd never make it in time anyway.'

Tango looked at his watch and thought for a moment. ‘It'd be close. But we could try.'

‘No way. I'm not leaving Bobby!' snapped TR, exhausted from tiredness and emotionally drained.

Tango said nothing, giving TR a sympathetic look. They sat in silence for a moment, TR staring at his clasped hands hanging between his knees.

Then Tango said softly, ‘I could give it a go.'

TR looked up and Tango gave him a small smile. A sudden rush of hope and affection for this lanky lad surged through TR. ‘If you drove straight through, you might make it in time for the checkin deadline — all the paperwork is lodged. Hell, what have we got to lose? Let's try.'

Tango slid behind the wheel and TR slammed the driver's door. ‘Good luck, kid. Just do your best and take it easy.'

‘I won't let you down, TR.'

‘We're all in this together, kid. Just take good care of Bill … for Bobby's sake.'

TR watched Tango drive away, towing the horse float, and said a silent prayer.

Since early morning, the crowds had poured through the turnstiles into the racecourse, filling the car park and grounds. Tables and chairs, rugs, mats and beach umbrellas, were spread out; and picnics ranged from catered hampers to casual plastic food coolers filled with ice, cold drinks and sandwiches.

The men came in tails and top hats, the women in designer gowns and hats — more elaborate than any Easter parade. Girls came in fancy dress, from flappers to crinolines, while their male dates appeared in anything from formal wear to wet suits.

The bookmakers had set up their stands and touts did the rounds of their ‘connections' to get the inside tips. Much of the activity centred around the stables where the expensive stars of the day waited, watched over by trusted minders and candidly discussed by the public as they read of their life history. At around
three that afternoon, over a two mile course, one of them would go down in racing history as a champion.

The stall labelled Sweet William was still empty.

Mick had slept in the empty stall reserved for Bill, wondering what had happened to Bobby and Tango. The pink and navy silks that had belonged to TR's father and which Mick would wear, hung on a peg on the wall. Once again Mick trudged around to the office to see if there were any messages.

The steward looked up at the shy young Aboriginal boy looking hopefully at him. ‘You're in luck, Mick. Let's see here … TR rang, Bobby's had a heart attack but Tango is on his way with Bill.'

‘Did he say how Bobby was doin'?'

‘Nope. But your horse will be here if they don't hang about. Good luck, sport.'

Mick found Clayton Hindmarsh, decked out in a grey top hat and tails, pacing about the stalls. ‘Where the hell are they?'

Mick told him.

‘Let's hope that kid gets here okay. Well, there's nothing else can be done in the meantime.'

The big Southerner slapped the small jockey on the shoulder. ‘I figure you need some chow, Mick. C'mon, I'll treat you — then you'd better hang by the gates.'

Tango, used to driving in the bush, found the highway traffic hard going. He stopped at a truck café for coffee to keep himself awake. He bought a Violet Crumble bar,
ripped it open and ate it as he checked on Bill in the float, who gave a soft, unhappy whinny.

The constant flip-flip of the broken white lines dividing the road began to mesmerise him, but his concentration soon returned when he found himself in a stream of traffic and began looking for directions.

The car began to jerk and make a slight grinding sound. Tango swore under his breath and eased down a gear. It slipped and the gears screamed. He knew there was something dramatically wrong with the gearbox, and in a few moments his fears were confirmed. He pulled over to the side of the road.

Tango peered into the engine and saw that it was a major problem. Desperately he looked at the unheeding flow of traffic, then at his watch. There wasn't time to thumb a ride to a garage, get the car fixed, and go on.

Gingerly he opened the float and backed out a nervous Bill. He stroked the big horse, calming him. Bill didn't like the noise and rush of passing cars, but as Tango talked softly to him and smoothed his head, he settled down.

Suddenly decisive, Tango locked the car, took the saddle from the float, threw the horse rug on Bill, buckled the saddle in place and swung into it.

‘Only one thing for it. Let's go, mate.'

All over Australia lunch parties in hotels, restaurants, homes and offices were getting underway. Sarah had arranged a big party and Queenie and Judy were explaining the significance of the Melbourne Cup to Henri. ‘It's bigger than our
National Day, the whole country stops. Now, you have to buy your sweep ticket.'

‘My what?'

‘Everyone runs a sweep. You put your money in and the names of all the runners are put in a hat and everyone draws one. Whoever gets the winner, gets the money.'

A similar party was being given by Sarah's parents. However, the Quinns had arranged a barbecue for all hands on the property, and their sweep was being drawn around the beer keg.

At Guneda and in Scone excitement was running high and the pubs overflowed as TV sets tuned in to the live coverage and everyone was set to cheer home their local heroes, Bill and Bobby.

In the Champagne Bar at Flemington Racecourse, Alfredo Camboni, Colin, Dina and a group of friends were laughing loudly and raising their glasses to toast their own horse running in the Melbourne Cup — Silver Lining.

Nearby, one man watching the raucous group commented to his friend, ‘I thought Camboni did his dough in some real estate deal?'

‘Yeah, he did. He's got everything riding on this horse. It's his last chance to win back some of the money he lost.'

Tango and Bill were cantering steadily down the side of the highway. Tango was trying to judge the timing without tiring Bill who was a bit edgy at the stream of passing cars.
Some drivers added to the problem by blaring their horns.

A police car passed and pulled in, and a well-built officer stepped from the car and motioned Tango to stop. ‘Against the law to ride a horse on a main thoroughfare, sonny. You trying to run the Melbourne Cup by yourself?'

‘We're in the Cup. My horse float broke down. I figured I could still make it in time.'

‘Pull the other one, kid.' The officer looked at Bill. ‘Strong looking horse. Where did you come from? Where did you say you broke down?'

‘Couple of miles back. We're from Guneda, near Scone. We were taking it easy, then our trainer had a heart turn and we stopped to put him in the hospital. He insisted we try to get his horse here.'

‘Scone, eh? Got a cousin up that way. Rich part of New South Wales. Who owns your place?'

‘An American — Hindmarsh. But it's run by TR Hamilton.'

‘Hamilton … TR … say, isn't he the rodeo champ who made it big in America some years back?'

‘Yeah. Sarge, I hate to be rude, but I've got to get moving. How far is it to the racecourse?'

‘Now just a minute, son.' The policeman went back to his car and spoke on his radio.

He strolled back to where Tango was waiting impatiently. ‘What's your name, kid?'

‘Tango.'

‘Your real name.'

‘Tobias White.'

‘I see why you prefer Tango. What's the horse called?'

‘Sweet William — Bill,' answered Tango between gritted teeth.

‘You two are a bit of a traffic hazard. I'd better escort you.'

He got back in his car, turned on the flashing blue light and drove ahead, followed by Tango and Bill.

The police radio was monitored in the newsrooms of radio and TV stations and created background noise in the news chief's office in newspaper buildings around the city. They all pounced on the brief conversation between the traffic cop and his base about escorting a kid from the bush riding his racehorse to the Cup. Racing to the highway, they began photographing and filming Tango and Bill, talking to him from their cars as they cruised beside the cantering horse.

It didn't take long for the full story to emerge — of the once-famous trainer, Bobby Fenton, lying in the country hospital willing his horse to go on without him; and the young strapper's desperate bid to get to the course on time, where the Aboriginal bush jockey waited for his ride of a lifetime. Embellished with racing rhetoric, the story was beaten up to whirlwind proportions in the news slump prior to the afternoon race.

In the last two miles leading to the racecourse, people who'd heard the story on radio and TV began lining the streets. Cars stopped and people shouted and waved encouragement
to Tango and Bill. The grinning cop leading them in his police car waved back to the crowd.

A small boy tugged at his father's arm as they passed. ‘Is that horse going to win, Dad?'

‘I don't reckon he stands a chance after the effort to get here. But, by God, I'm going to put a couple of dollars on him. They call him Bill, son, give him a wave.'

There were cameramen and press photographers waiting as the police car nosed through the crowd to lead Bill to the horse gate. The white-coated steward glanced at his watch and quickly directed the policeman, while Tango and Bill followed.

‘You're just going to make the two-hour deadline.'

Tango was close to tears as the crowd of well-wishers pressed forward. Mick pushed through them and grasped Bill's reins as Tango pulled him to a halt and slid stiffly from the saddle.

‘How's Bobby?'

‘Dunno, Mick. All he wants is for Bill to run in this race. Am I in time?'

‘Yeah. You done good, Tango.'

‘Well, it's up to you now, Mick.'

Leading Bill, Tango followed the hurrying young jockey.

Over the public address system the announcer confirmed the arrival of the missing starter. ‘Sweet William, number seventeen in the Melbourne Cup, is here. He's arrived, ladies and gentlemen, with barely minutes to spare.'

A cheer rose from the hundred thousand people gathered around the course.

Relentlessly the cameras followed their last-minute preparations. Mick weighed in and Bill was vetted and declared fit. Several of the mounts were paraded around the saddling enclosure as the crowd, many still undecided which horse to back, eyed the gleaming horses.

Tango hurried to the betting ring and looked at the bookmakers' scrawled figures on the blackboards under their umbrellas. A red-faced bookie, his leather money bag clutched at his bulging belly, eyed Tango. ‘What's it to be, kid?'

‘What are the odds on Sweet William?'

‘A hundred to one long shot this morning, now he's down to ten to one. Been a sentimental surge on him since he turned up.'

Tango emptied his wallet. ‘A hundred and fifteen dollars on Bill.'

‘I hope that's not every last penny you own, kid,' commented the bookie scribbling on a ticket stub.

‘If it is, I'll be ahead then, won't I?' quickly replied Tango.

There was a laugh beside them. ‘You want a tip, young fella? Back Silver Lining.'

Tango turned to find a smartly dressed man beside him. ‘Why?'

‘He belongs to my father-in-law.'

‘Well, Bill belongs to my boss.'

The man's expression hardened. ‘TR Hamilton?'

‘Yeah. I just brought Bill down for TR and Bobby.'

‘G'arn, you're having me on,' interjected the bookie with a big grin.

The man beside Tango turned away saying bitterly, ‘After this race is over, tell TR that Colin Hanlon told you he'd never win.'

Tango looked at the stranger disappearing into the crowd, shrugged at the bookie and went to find Mick.

Clayton Hindmarsh had adopted a protective role towards Mick and Bill. Tango told him that the odds on Bill had slipped. ‘Don't worry, I put a couple grand on him this morning.'

‘At a hundred to one?'

‘Yep,' grinned Clayton.

Mick's eyes bulged. ‘That's
a lot
of money.'

‘Don't worry about it, Mick. You'll clean up with the jockey's cut.'

Mick looked nervous. Changing the subject, Tango told Clayton of the exchange with Colin Hanlon at the bookies.

Clayton looked thoughtful. ‘Silver Lining, eh? Mick, check that horse's number and watch out for him during the race.'

The crowd began to line the rails and the grandstands filled as the procession of twenty-four horses began to file down towards the start. With his binoculars dangling round his neck, his top hat still in place, Clayton gave Mick a boost into the saddle. ‘You got your race worked out in your head; you know Bill; relax, enjoy it, and just be in goddamned front at the finish!'

Mick flashed Tango a white toothy grin and tipped his crop to his skull cap.

Tango smiled at him. ‘Don't get lost, Mick.'

‘I'll try not to, mate.'

Tango touched Bill lightly. ‘Do your best
for Bobby.' The horse rubbed his nose against his hand. Tango followed Clayton.

‘Pin this pass on you, Tango — we're in the Members' Stand,' said Clayton.

Bill eyed the small wire cage and, gently urged by Mick, nosed into it. Both looked apprehensively down the long empty expanse of green track with its white rails curving away before them.

The gates were banging behind other horses. Mick closed his eyes briefly and softly began chanting in a sing-song dialect.

‘You pointing the bone or casting a spell, mate?' the jockey beside him said scathingly.

Mick took no notice, but slowly turned and looked at the other jockey and saw the number — six — Silver Lining. Mick turned away.

With a clang the gates sprang open and Bill leapt forward, responding instantly to Mick's guiding hand. The horses bunched together and for Mick the race became a blur of coloured silks, flying clods of dirt and pounding hooves. His entire concentration was on his horse, timing himself to Bill's rhythm and judging how much energy Bill was expending. He soon realised Bill had a lot in reserve and Mick began looking for the chance to move in to the rails or get to the outside and make a break. He eyed the horses in front of him, looking for the slightest gap.