Heart of the Dreaming (13 page)

‘Colin, let him finish.'

‘Oh, you'd like that … just let him read on without saying anything! Just because you're getting everything!'

‘Colin! What are you talking about? I'm sorry Mr Barton, I wasn't paying attention, could you repeat that.'

The solicitor read through the brief but specific will. Tingulla estate and Patrick's undeveloped property, Cricklewood, were left to Queenie. Colin would receive a large cash settlement, put in trust until he was twenty-one
and spread out in several payments, along with a block of flats in the expensive Sydney suburb of Double Bay. The income from this was to go into Colin's estate but he could not sell the building for five years.

Patrick's personal possessions were left to Colin, Queenie inherited those of her mother. Other bequests went to Millie and Jim; Rose's nephew in England; the Flying Doctor Service; and small personal mementoes were to go to good friends — amongst these was Patrick's favourite stock whip which was to go to Snowy.

Queenie was stunned. Colin turned on her angrily. ‘So that's what you were up to while I was away at uni … conning Dad into making you the boss of Tingulla. I'm his
son!
I should own this place!'

‘Colin … I had no idea …'

The solicitor held up a hand. ‘Please, please. When your father came into town to lodge this with me, he left a letter to each of you explaining his reasons. I will give them to you now, perhaps you would care to read them in private later. I can make no comment about the contents of this document — it was made at your father's discretion. I would like to say, however, that I would like to offer my services to you and advise you about managing your inheritance. You will need financial advice, Colin, and, Queenie, you of course will need to find someone to manage Tingulla for you.'

‘That won't be necessary, Mr Barton,' said Queenie. ‘Colin will finish his studies and we'll run it together. I can manage quite well as we are in the meantime.'

The solicitor looked thoughtfully at the beautiful, pale young woman sitting very straight in the chair before him. ‘You are aware of the magnitude of Tingulla, Queenie. Your father was also beginning to develop some new ideas, I understand. Surely you don't think …'

Queenie cut him off. ‘I am fully aware of my father's plans for Tingulla.'

‘You
might be, but what about me? You don't expect me to stay down there in Sydney sitting for lousy exams while you play mistress of the manor!' exploded Colin.

‘You have to graduate, Colin. Dad wanted and expected you to.'

‘You're not telling me what to do just because you're two years older than me.'

‘Well, Queenie is twenty-one and of legal age. Which means she has the right to make decisions, Colin. Look, I know you're upset, why don't you come and see me in my office in town in a day or so?'

Colin rose to his feet and slammed his cup down. ‘I'll do that. And I intend to fight this. It's not right.' He banged the door behind him.

‘Oh dear, I'm sorry he's taking it like this. It is a little unusual for the daughter to inherit the property. But I'm sure it's all explained in these letters.' The solicitor pushed Patrick's letters across the desk. ‘I wish you too would think carefully about your future, Queenie, and come and discuss it with me. I'm sure I can be of help.'

‘Thank you, Mr Barton. If I need advice I'll call you.'

Queenie rose and opened the library door. ‘Millie will fetch your coat and hat. Thank you again.'

Queenie turned and hurried upstairs, her composure crumbling as she clutched her father's letter.

Colin sat in a far corner of the verandah and ripped open the letter from his father. Patrick had written brief, casual letters to him at university. Rose had been the letter writer and had kept him up to date on all the news and daily activities of Tingulla.

Biting his lip Colin read:

Folding the letter quickly, Colin thrust it in his jacket pocket and hurried across the lawn, his hands deep in his pockets, his shoulders hunched.

In the solitude of her room, Queenie turned her letter over in her hands then opened and smoothed the thick paper covered with Patrick's familiar writing.

These words stabbed through the protective wall Queenie had built around her heart. Running from her room, she went out of the house, through the gardens and past the sheds and stables to the shearers' quarters. She hammered on the wire mesh door.

TR was reading at the rickety table, but seeing Queenie he stood quickly, tipping over his chair, and held out his arms. She clung to him, sobbing, while he smoothed her hair, his arms wrapped about her tightly, shielding and loving her.

TR walked along Hudson Street in Charleville, past the stock and station agent, and past the grain store, to the Empire Hotel on the corner. The giant boab tree with its bulbous trunk and spiky fronds shaded the side of the pub's open verandah where a few drinkers lounged with their frothy beers.

He walked up the front steps, past a utility truck and a tethered horse and into the cool interior. On his left were the creaking stairs which led to the basic bedrooms above with their sagging brass beds, pine wardrobes and dressing tables. He headed past the public bar and through the ladies lounge until he reached an oak door with frosted glass panels featuring an etching of an emu, and gold lettering announcing that within lay the dining room.

TR glanced at his watch — it was eight-fifteen. Breakfast was still being served. He took a table, upending his hat on the floor
by his feet. The only other diners were a commercial traveller and another man — possibly a grazier, thought TR, glancing at the uniform of tweed jacket, woollen tie and riding boots, and noting the squatter's hat hooked on the back of his chair. They nodded and exchanged a brief ‘G'day'.

Through the swing door to the kitchen where TR could hear the sound of pots banging, came a peroxide blonde with over bright lipstick and tired eyes. She placed a typewritten cardboard menu in front of TR.

‘What'll it be, luv?' she inquired, taking a stub of pencil and a notepad from the pocket of her grubby apron.

‘I've been up some time, guess I'll go for the full breakfast and a pot of tea,' said TR smiling and handing back the menu.

‘Mixed grill; steak and eggs; bacon, eggs and sausages; or ham and tomato?'

‘I'll try the mixed grill, but leave out the liver would you please.'

‘Righto, luv. I'll give it to the dog hanging round the back door.'

TR was spreading a layer of Robertson's marmalade on his second slab of toast as the chair opposite was scraped back from the table. TR got to his feet. ‘G'day, Dingo. Good to see you. I'm afraid I started without you,' he said as they shook hands.

‘Don't stand on ceremony, TR. Trip took a bit longer than I expected. So now … you've changed your mind about the rodeo job? figured with Patrick gone, you'd be needed at Tingulla.'

‘It's a bit awkward, to tell you the truth. I was working on a special project with Patrick for breeding up some better horses — we even talked about maybe getting into breeding quarter horses for sprint racing — but that doesn't seem practical for the moment. Queenie has enough on her plate just keeping the place running. They're about to start shearing.'

‘Queenie? She's running that big property on her own?'

‘Well, she still has all the old hands about the place, and Patrick had already contracted for the shearing team, but I just felt it put me in a bit of an uncomfortable position … for several reasons. I'd like to know if the offer is still open to ride the rodeo circuit in America.'

‘Just tea and toast please, luv,' said Dingo to the waitress. ‘Yes, it's still open. You have to pay your fare over there, they'll take care of all the expenses once you're signed up. I reckon you could make yourself a fair old packet, TR. And the ladies are going to take a fancy to you too, I reckon.'

‘The fare will take everything I've saved, and it's a bit of a gamble, but heck, if you don't take a risk or two you'll never know, will you?' grinned TR.

‘That's right, mate. My bet is, in a year you'll be a celebrity with a fair old bankroll, no strings attached. Then you can come back here and marry any girl you choose … that's if you get away from those Yankee ladies. Hell, they might even put you in the movies!'

‘I don't want to know about any of that stuff. I just want to make enough money to put a down payment on a place of my own.'

It hadn't been an easy decision for TR.

Queenie had taken over the reins of Tingulla with a vengeance. She was determined the shearing would go smoothly and that Tingulla's wool would fetch a good price. Colin had sulked back to uni and Queenie was up at dawn each day for a fast ride on Nareedah before facing the decisions of the day.

TR had watched her dealing with the men, and with Millie and the house during the day; aware of the paperwork and business details she was probably wrestling with at night.

One morning he rode out after her at daylight and found Queenie sitting on a rock gazing sadly into the distance. He dismounted and let his horse graze as he went and sat beside her. They sat in silence for a few moments then TR gently took her hand between his own. He stared at her long slim fingers with their oval nails then lightly kissed her hand and squeezed it between his own strong suntanned hands.

‘Queenie, we must talk. I can't bear to see you carrying everything on your shoulders. You must share some of the load.'

‘I can manage.'

‘I know you can, and you're doing beautifully. But it's not right that you tie yourself down like this. Please consider getting in a manager … at least until Colin finishes at uni.'

Queenie's lips tightened but she didn't answer.

‘Queenie … there's something else … what about us?' said TR softly.

She turned to him, her face expressionless. But the struggle not to give in to her emotions wavered, and her huge emerald eyes grew moist.

‘Oh, Queenie … I love you.' TR wrapped his arms around her. ‘Please tell me the truth … do you love me?' He held her by the shoulders, his fingers burning through her shirt as he stared into her uplifted face.

Unable to speak, Queenie nodded her head and closed her eyes as a tear slipped from under her lashes.

Tenderly TR drew her to him once more. ‘That's all I wanted to know. Queenie, I want to marry you. I love you with all my heart and I'll never, ever stop loving you. But we have to wait …'

He took her hands in his, suddenly shy. ‘I can't marry you when I'm a penniless nobody and you're the mistress of Tingulla. Everyone will think I married you for your money.' A rueful smile crossed TR's face.

‘I don't care what people think,' said Queenie fiercely.

‘Queenie, you must. Think of me.'

‘I am thinking of you — you said you want us to be together. We know we love each other, it doesn't matter what silly gossips say!'

‘Queenie, that's typical of your stubborn, impetuous nature. Grow up, for goodness sake. Think about it. It might not seem
important now but in years to come it could begin to be a problem, with you owning the property and me feeling like just a hired hand.'

Queenie exploded, pulling away from him. ‘Don't tell me to grow up, and if that's the way you think … then stay a hired hand and forget about sharing your life with me and Tingulla.'

‘Queenie, I'm going away to America … to make some money … for us. Give me a chance — a year. That's all I ask.'

She scrambled to her feet and threw over her shoulder. ‘A year! I thought you loved me …'

She flung herself back into Nareedah's saddle and galloped off, leaving TR shaking his head and muttering, ‘Queenie, Queenie … I
do
love you …' Then suddenly angry at her, he shouted after the disappearing white horse, ‘You don't make loving you
easy
!
'

TR and Queenie avoided each other for the next two weeks and before Queenie knew it, he'd left.

When Jim came back from driving TR into town to catch the train down south, he handed her a letter.

In the quietness of the sunny study Queenie slowly opened it.

Later Millie placed a cup of tea on the desk beside Queenie who was working on the accounts. ‘Too bad TR has gone away to America. I thought he wanted to stay at Tingulla. Got used to him round the place.'

‘He wants to make a life of his own and earn more money than he makes at Tingulla, Millie. I don't wish to discuss it. Thanks for the tea.'

Millie left the room with raised eyebrows and a small sniff.

Inside, Queenie was desperately sad and lonely. She agreed that saying goodbye to TR would have been painful, but she was sorry
they had parted on bad terms after a silly argument. She longed for his strong arms and soft voice, she'd miss his laughing blue eyes and dry sense of humour. She had come to rely on him more than she realised. Just knowing TR was about the place gave her strength. She felt very abandoned and a little sorry for herself. ‘Damn him,' she cursed, sipping the strong refreshing tea. She'd show him. She could manage — with him or without him.

Queenie flung herself into the shearing season, hovering around the shearing shed to make sure the sheep weren't badly cut and that the fleeces were properly graded and baled.

It was Jim who took her to one side, suggesting she keep her distance and do her checking up after hours. ‘The men don't like a woman bossing them around, Queenie. They're starting to grumble a bit … you being so young, too.'

‘I understand, Jim. But I want them to know that I'm still keeping tabs on them even if I don't show my face in the shed.'

‘Or your pretty backside in those tight pants,' thought Jim, knowing full well the sort of remarks being tossed about by the rough and tumble working men. Maybe he'd better get Millie to talk to Queenie. She'd didn't seem to realise the effect she had on men, especially the kind who'd been in the bush, away from female company for months.

Queenie worked herself to the point of exhaustion. It was getting more difficult to
rise at dawn each day to go riding, but it cleared her head. She found herself longing to spend a day in bed just resting and reading, something she had never been tempted to do before. She felt as if her energy was being drained and she worried over accounts and delays with the shearing.

Finally the wool clip was ready for sale and Queenie hoped it would fetch a good price.

Colin arrived home from university for the mid-term break but refused to take any interest in the business affairs of Tingulla.

‘But it's your future too, Colin,' said Queenie in exasperation.

‘You own it — you run it. If the place goes bankrupt it's no skin off my nose,' he retorted and stormed from the room.

Queenie packed a small bag and left for Brisbane for the wool sales. She felt she needed a break as she hadn't been into a town in several months. Wearing a dress for a change and strolling down the street, her spirits lifted and she began to feel more positive about her future. She hoped she would hear from TR soon.

The sale took place at the Wool Exchange and she stood nervously at the back of the stuffy crowded room as the Dalgety auctioneer opened the bidding.

Back at Tingulla, Colin sat at Patrick's — now Queenie's — desk, rifling through papers and account books out of idle curiosity. Grudgingly he had to admit Queenie seemed to have things well under control.

Colin was bored. He wished Sarah was still around. Most of his friends were busy working on their parents' properties.

He strolled out to the verandah in time to see a cloud of dust on the road leading to the driveway. Five minutes later the mailman on his weekly round pulled up by the front steps.

He handed Colin a fat bundle of letters, newspapers and a couple of magazines tied with string. ‘You looking after things for a bit, are you? Have you heard what the wool prices are like?'

Colin shook his head. He was not inclined to gossip with the mailman who carried news from station to station.

‘Well, I'll be on my way. Give my best to Queenie. Tell her I'll see her in a week or so.'

The mail truck disappeared behind its own dust storm and Colin ambled inside, sorting through the mail. Three letters addressed to Queenie caught his eye and he turned them over to find they were from TR with a return address of a post box in Oklahoma.

Colin went back into the office and sat turning them over. Curiosity soon got the better of him and he walked cautiously into the kitchen. Millie was upstairs sweeping. Colin pulled the kettle of hot water back over the heat and carefully steamed open the flap of the first letter.