Heart of the Dreaming (48 page)

Seeing the stables Saskia cried out, ‘Oh, no, they're on fire … Mum,
Mum?
'

One end of the stables was completely demolished and the last section was about to collapse on the flames burning inside.

Tango spotted the figure in the white shirt on the ground and dashed forward, dragging
Queenie away. ‘She's all right, Sas … just knocked out, I think. I guess she breathed in smoke.'

‘There's no doctor here, Tango …' sobbed Saskia.

Tango didn't reply. He gently tilted back Queenie's head and dropped his mouth onto hers, steadily breathing into her, and pushing grimly on her chest.

Tears running down her face, Saskia crouched, holding her mother's hand while Tango worked. In minutes Queenie began coughing and opened her eyes, turning her head away.

‘It's all right. Don't talk, just breathe slowly and deeply,' said Tango.

Queenie nodded and did as he said, finding her head clearing and her eyes focusing properly again, despite the sudden glare of a handheld light from a TV news crew, swift on the scene.

She smiled at Saskia and Tango. ‘Thanks, my darlings. God, I hope the horses went the right way.'

Tango and Saskia exchanged a relieved grin as they helped Queenie to her feet.

‘I'll be fine.'

‘Bloody great stuff,' exalted the Channel Nine reporter to his cameraman.

Back inside the hotel, the fire chief called everyone into the ballroom. ‘The bus is here, there isn't room for everyone. Those who are willing to stay in the cellars, could you please make your way there now. The evacuation is precautionary now. We think the hotel is safe.'

Queenie sipped a glass of water Dingo handed to her, marvelling at the calm manner of everyone about her.

Quietly they split into two groups in an organised fashion, the larger group heading for the cellars. Only forty could fit on the bus.

A TV cameraman switched on the portable light on top of his camera and began filming the sad exodus.

Two firefighters came into the room and went to their chief, speaking animatedly to him. The chief headed back outdoors.

As the last of the guests climbed onto the bus, welcomed cheerfully by the driver, the fire chief stepped onto the bus and made an announcement. ‘Driver, wait just one minute. The wind has changed. Turned right around, it's burning back on itself. If it doesn't swing round again, we're safe.'

A cheer rang through the bus. The driver licked his finger and stuck it out his window. ‘Yep, nor'easter. She'll be right now.'

‘Give it a few more minutes. I'll go tell those down below they might not have to spend the night in the cellar after all.'

There were a few more moments of indecision and chatter, then the group left the bus and filed back into the hotel.

The bus driver shrugged. ‘I guess I'll join the party.' He eased out of his seat and followed.

Those who had been sheltering in the cellar came back into the ballroom and joined the others as groups gathered at windows watching the retreating fire begin to burn itself out.

Henri and two young waiters began opening more Bollinger and Chef Ambert set out platters of his famous chocolate torte, hastily flung back in the fridge several hours before. The band members, in dinner suits dishevelled and dirty with ash, but cheerful nevertheless, began playing a lively tune and a festive air of celebration, relief and the exhilaration of having survived danger, swept through the room.

Saskia squeezed her mother's arm. ‘Everyone's having a better time than before.'

‘Whatever the damage, it can be repaired. I think this hotel has now become part of local folklore. In a strange way fate has actually done you a favour', added Henri.

As the party got into full swing, Queenie, Jim, Tango, Snowy, and Dingo prowled outside the hotel, shining torches into the smouldering darkness.

Returning to the candelit ballroom, Queenie walked to the front of the band and waited for them to finish the number, then stepped up to the microphone. It took a drum roll to still the dancers and groups at the tables who eventually quietened and turned their attention to Queenie. The cameramen picked up their cameras.

‘Ladies and gentlemen, dear friends, each of you. How can I begin to thank you all for what you have done tonight? You have shown great courage and friendship which I will never forget. Thanks to you, the Kurrajong is saved and although we have water damage within the hotel and the grounds are destroyed, there is nothing which cannot be put right in time.'

At this point a cheer rang through the room.

Queenie smiled. ‘I'm sorry for the interruption to the festivities. I did have a speech prepared in which I planned to extol the virtues of my hotel, but I now realise a building is only a shell, and while one can offer hospitality and comfort to the best of one's ability, the true spirit of a place comes from the people who care for it. I can say I don't think you'll find more loyal or caring people than the staff of the Kurrajong and the first guests we have embraced. You will always be welcome here and I hope you share the feelings we have of being present at a special if traumatic birth.'

Applause rang out. ‘Long life to the Kurrajong,' called out a man raising his glass.

‘To the Kurrajong!' Glasses were raised as the toast rang through the room.

‘And to you, Queenie.'

‘Three cheers to our hostess! Hip-hip hooray!'

Tears sprang to Queenie's eyes as the crowd rose to their feet and three loud cheers rang through the room. Unable to speak, she blew them a kiss and hurried through the well-wishers.

Millie followed Queenie into the kitchen and hugged her. ‘You've come through this one, girl. It'll be all right.'

‘I don't know how I'm going to raise the money to rebuild and repair. The insurance won't cover all of it. But I'll face that tomorrow. I'm going to enjoy my party.'

Queenie joined the overflowing table of her family and friends, squeezing between Alf and Sarah.

The bus driver took another slice of torte and headed for his bus as the media people clamoured to get back to the city with their stories for the morning news. ‘She's going to get more coverage out of this for her hotel than if everything had rolled along without a hitch,' said a cameraman, slinging his tripod into the luggage compartment.

‘There wasn't a hitch,' replied the reporter from the
Australian. ‘
It was just different to the planned itinerary.'

They were right. The fire at the Kurrajong with its dramatic film, TV, radio and pictures on the front page of the newspapers, dominated the news the next morning. The hotel had become famous overnight; and so had Queenie.

Plans to close the hotel until repairs had been completed were shelved as the phones ran hot with people wanting to come and stay despite the damage; and offers of help poured in.

TR followed the news and when Jim returned to Guneda he listened to his first-hand account of the events.

‘Jim, it sounds strange, but that night I had a premonition Queenie was in danger. Personal danger, I mean.'

Jim gazed steadily at him. ‘Yeah, she nearly got burned up in the stables. Tango saved her.'

TR's eyes closed briefly as a stab of fear hit him at the thought of anything happening to Queenie. It was swiftly followed by a rush of affection for Tango. ‘I'm glad he was there.'

‘Saskia was with him, too. She wouldn't stay and wait while they looked for Queenie.'

TR grinned. ‘His shadow. Though I can see Saskia is like her mother and has a mind of her own.'

‘Yeah, that's for sure. Well, hopefully this hotel thing will work out and Queenie will be able to get the money together to buy back Tingulla one day. That is, if she doesn't get dragged off to America by the French bloke who's always hanging around.'

Jim turned away and didn't see the effect these last words had on TR.

Jim shook his head in disbelief as he watched Tango, TR and two of the workers pound around the freshly cleared and fenced playing field at Guneda. They were riding hard and fast on sprightly new polo ponies, cutting and swerving with agility as they swung their mallets, missing more often than connecting with the ball.

‘You blokes are still a bunch of amateurs,' muttered Jim, trudging away. He didn't see the point of polo, TR's new passion. TR and several other property owners in the district had formed polo teams and they played with enthusiasm, if not skill.

TR and Tango spelled their ponies and TR grinned at Jim's retreating back. ‘Jim thinks this charging around chasing a ball on horseback is a bit of a waste of time.'

‘Well, this is only practice. Wait till he sees the Guneda team thrash the opposition next weekend.'

But Jim decided not to stay for Guneda's first tournament. Instead he told TR he'd like to take off for a few days to visit Snowy at Tingulla. Jim had a feeling Snowy had news of the new owners. Queenie had asked him to find out what he could, but he'd been unable to discover any details in the district or through the country grapevine. He now had a feeling there was news.

‘Been living with an Aborigine too long,' he muttered to himself. Millie often told him his ‘sixth sense', or intuition, was the same as her ability to receive messages by some unfathomable ancient telepathic sense.

Whatever news there was, Jim hoped Snowy would be kept on at Tingulla no matter who was running the property. They all regarded Snowy as Tingulla's spiritual guardian.

Snowy recognised Jim's car as it swung around the stables at Tingulla several days later, and came to greet him, grinning broadly. ‘G'day.'

‘G'day, Snowy. How you goin', all right?'

‘Orright,' replied Snowy, completing the laconic outback greeting ritual.

‘Place looks a bit quiet — what's the score, Snowy?'

‘No one seems to know who's the new big boss. Some mystery man in Sydney paid the money. New manager came out to inspect the place. Moving in next week.'

‘I thought there might be news. Good fella?'

‘Seems to know what's what. Old bloke, no missus, bin on the land all his life. Just goin'
to run the place, he said. Putting sheep back on it.'

‘That's good. You stayin'?'

‘Yeah, he wants to get back as many of them old boys as we can. Word has gone around the district. All them fellas that left Colin'll come back, I reckon. Good for the place.'

‘What about the house?'

Snowy shrugged, ‘Dunno. Manager bloke didn't seem too interested. Mebbe it'll stay locked up.'

‘Queenie won't like that.'

‘Well, at least they ain't gonna turn it into a fancy hotel like her other place,' said Snowy with a wry grin. He was still talking about his visit to the opening of the Kurrajong to anyone who'd listen.

‘I'll pass the news on to Millie for Queenie. Do you know what price they paid?'

‘No one knows anything 'bout the sale. All done real quiet. Don't reckon the manager bloke knows either.'

Jim stayed the night, yarning with Snowy and the young jackeroo helping with the fences, before heading back to Guneda.

Under Queenie's gentle but firm persistence the Kurrajong began to return to a state of grace and beauty. The horticultural society flung themselves into the resuscitation of the grounds, though it would take a season or more for their efforts to blossom. The water damage was repaired and broken fixtures and furnishings replaced. The gazebo, the lake boats and the garden furniture were replaced
by a young artist who created rustic furniture from the blackened, twisted bodies of the burnt trees, polishing and lacquering them into small, beautiful monuments.

Henri came to visit, bringing Judy and Eric with him.

Judy scrutinised Queenie sternly. ‘My dear, you need a rest. The launch itself was demanding, let alone having to fight a bushfire. And restore the place. You need a holiday. You should go away.'

‘I can't leave,' protested Queenie.

‘What you need is a good manager, like you put on a valuable property,' suggested Eric. ‘Surely there's someone you could hire to run this place. You didn't plan to spend the rest of your days managing a hotel in the mountains?'

Queenie knew they were right, but finding a suitable person to run the Kurrajong and maintain her standards would not be easy.

Once more Henri came to her rescue. ‘I have the perfect couple. But I cannot take the credit. Monsieur Ambert, your devoted chef, suggested them and I took them out to lunch one day.'

‘Who are they, Henri?'

‘A retired couple who have done everything from running a hamburger joint near the Newport Arms in Sydney, and a bush pub in Wee Waa, to owning a caravan park at Seal Rocks, and a children's holiday hostel at Manly.'

‘God, the last thing I'dwant after that would be to take on a grand hotel in the mountains. Running the Kurrajong is a bit different.'

‘They have retired up here, but they are
still only in their late fifties — they are practical, sensible and enthusiastic. Meet them at least, Queenie, and see what you think.'

Carol and John Macquarie were ideal. Queenie liked them immediately and saw they had a lot to offer. What they lacked in sophistication, Chef Ambert was swift to make up for with his European flair.

Queenie felt as though she was growing small wings and could rise above, and float away from, the day-to-day hassles. It was a nice feeling. ‘How can I thank you, Henri?'

‘By coming to New York with me. You will find it stimulating and exciting, I promise.'

‘I am tempted. I do need a holiday.'

‘I was not thinking of a holiday.'

Queenie stared at him. His craggy, tanned face with gentle brown eyes magnified behind his flattering square glasses, was filled with love. Henri was not tall but years of kayaking down white water rapids and winter skiing had given him a strong physique. He radiated strength and security.

‘Just what were you thinking of, then?'

‘Queenie, you must know I love you dearly. I want to marry you. If you are not prepared for that commitment yet, at least come with me and see for yourself what America has to offer. Think what an opportunity it would be for Saskia.'

Queenie lowered her eyes. ‘Henri … I … need time. Time to think about it.' Her voice was husky with emotion.

‘I didn't expect an answer right away.' He smoothed her hair and kissed her lightly.

Henri was not the type to sweep her up in his arms, smother her with fervent kisses and insist she come with him
now.
Although a small voice in Queenie wanted him to do just that. Involuntarily it jumped into her mind that it was just the impulsive passionate thing TR would do.

At the thought of TR, the familiar pain stabbed her. She had to rid herself of the anguish that burned inside her like a constant small flame. Somehow she had to extinguish it forever.

‘Henri, I will think about it. Seriously. But I need to go away to think. Give me a few days.'

‘Of course,
chérie.
But Queenie, don't go to the Kurrajong and get caught up in work. Go somewhere peaceful where you can think clearly. I want you to be very sure in your heart.'

‘I know, Henri. I have a special place to go.' She kissed him gently on the cheek. He squeezed her arm, his touch filled with longing.

‘I'm sorry to put you through this,' she whispered, and turned and left him.

While Jim was strolling about Tingulla visiting his favourite spots in peace and quiet, at Guneda it was all action and high spirits.

The First Scone Polo Tournament was under way at Guneda. Knockout competitions were being held between the various teams which ranged from raw beginners to more practised players. Somehow the teams balanced out with experienced players and rank
amateurs on each side. It was the horses that proved the most knowledgeable.

At the end of a chukka, TR, his tight riding pants stained, his face streaked with dirt and perspiration, his gold hair flattened beneath his helmet, changed horses, commenting to Tango, ‘Y'know, one day we'll get the Argentinians over here and play them into the dust. Then we'll prove how good we are.'

‘Cripes, give us a chance, TR! I don't think I know all the rules yet.'

‘Don't hang back, kid, get in there and ride 'em into the ground.'

Saskia and Millie were about to leave for Guneda and the polo match when Queenie spoke to them. ‘I'm going to Cricklewood for a few days, I have something important to think about.'

‘Oh?'

‘Is something wrong, Mum?'

‘Henri has asked me to marry him. I need to think about it.'

‘What's there to think about! He's lovely. Do you love him?' bubbled Saskia.

‘No, she doesn't, and I think it would be a big mistake,' snapped Millie, shocking Queenie and Saskia.

‘Please, Millie, this is very personal and very important. I'll talk it through with you later, but first I have to think about it. For several reasons. One big one being he wants us to live with him in New York.'

‘Oh no! What about
my
life?' Saskia's attitude changed immediately. ‘I don't want to go
to America and leave my horse and Tango at Guneda. And what about Millie? Leave us here, put me in boarding school. Please …' Saskia pleaded. Queenie put an arm about her.

‘It would be a wonderful opportunity for you, Sas. And Millie, I was hoping you'd come with us. At least till we were settled.'

‘No. If you take one step on this walkabout you'll find it's in the wrong direction, Queenie.'

‘I'm not asking you to come just because I need your help, but because you're all the family I've got, Millie.'

‘Millie, don't leave me,' wailed Saskia.

‘Look, I haven't decided yet. But let's leave it this way for the moment. Perhaps you might try it for six months, Saskia; and if you don't like it, then you can come back here to boarding school.'

They both stared at her in angry silence.

‘You aren't helping me come to any decision, you know.'

No more was said. Millie and Saskia left for Guneda and Queenie threw a few things in the back of her faithful Range Rover and headed north, to Cricklewood.

The property had never sold and she'd taken it off the market. Now that she was in a position where she didn't need to sell it, she had decided to keep it for Saskia. She knew her daughter loved the land and the bush and might one day want to settle there. It would never replace Tingulla, but it was still part of their heritage. Saskia knew of her grandfather's dreams for Cricklewood and that it held a special place in Queenie's heart, too.

Queenie had faced crises and turning points in her life at Cricklewood and thought that perhaps there she would find answers, something that would point to the direction she should take. The land was as familiar as always and when she lifted the rusty piece of wire to unlatch the first of the four gates on the track to the homestead, she immediately felt a peace settling on her.

The small house was filled with dust. She opened the windows, lit the stove, brushed off a chair and sat on the little verandah, sticking her feet up on the railing while she waited for the kettle to boil. The quiet midday sounds of the bush were comforting and there was a warm and welcoming feeling about the humble cottage, despite years of neglect.

Later, carrying her chipped enamel mug of tea, she walked about the overgrown garden, remembering how she and Millie had struggled to clear the ground around the house during the months of her pregnancy.

She drove the Range Rover down to the creek, pulled a string hammock from behind the back seat and fastened it between two strong young gums. There, in the dappled light, Queenie swung gently, while two willy wagtails quietly preened their feathers in the branches above her and an occasional dragonfly buzzed lazily past. She let her mind become blank and slowly slipped into a light sleep.

Refreshed and relaxed she headed back to the house at sunset, made a simple meal and flung her swag on the bare wire-sprung bed and settled down for the night.

She woke as she always did in the bush, at piccaninny light. She stretched and lay there watching the pearly dawn seep into the room, listening to the chorus of the morning birds. How she missed the sounds of the bush and station life.

Whenever she thought of Tingulla the images came to her with sound … the wild bush animals and birds; the bleating of sheep; the whinny of a horse; rain spattering on a tin roof; the soft swish of wind through the branches of the sheoaks at the creek; the shouts and whistles and cracks of stock whips from the stockmen; the barking of the working dogs as they rounded up the sheep.

These were sounds she had known since birth, and in her heart this was the music of her Dreaming songs; unlearned internal, rhythms and harmonies — threads which linked her to her spiritual home. The first time she had ever been away from Tingulla as a little girl, she had run to Snowy on her return, overwhelmed at the relief she felt to be back at Tingulla. Later, he had gently explained to her the Aboriginal belief in one's Dreaming place and how she would always be tied to that special place.