Heart of the Dreaming (16 page)

Warwick smiled at her across the table. ‘Message received loud and clear. The last thing I want is a split in the camp. I want all the men to feel we are on the same team. Don't worry, Queenie, I won't rock the boat.'

Queenie relaxed, mentally thanking Dingo once again for sending this sensible, capable man to her. They finished their meal and Millie brought in the pudding, smiling fondly at Queenie. Warwick watched the warm but wordless exchange between them and wondered at the relationship between Queenie, the half-caste Millie, and Jim.

At the end of the month Queenie knew she would have to make the move to Cricklewood soon. So far she had been able to disguise her condition under the baggy overalls and shirts she wore but the strain of constantly being the lady boss of Tingulla was telling. She had confidence in Warwick Redmond and knew Tingulla would be well looked after.

Queenie now had to face her own ordeal. She could feel the baby moving more each day and it was difficult to stop feeling joyful and awed by the knowledge of TR's child making its presence felt.

Queenie decided to give herself a send-off party and introduce Warwick to neighbours, friends and business acquaintances. She asked Colin to come back from Sydney for a few
days, and to her surprise he grudgingly agreed. ‘I'm supposed to be cramming, but I might as well spend the study week up there. Besides, I miss Millie's cooking,' he confessed.

For the first time since Queenie's twenty-first birthday party, Tingulla looked festive and the sounds of laughter rang through its beautiful rooms. Warwick, dressed in an elegantly tailored Harris tweed jacket, charmed the women and won the approval of the men. His dark, curly head towered above most of the groups of guests as Queenie watched him circulate with ease.

She breathed a sigh of relief. He was going to fit in well. Watching some of the women and their daughters flutter about him it suddenly occurred to Queenie she knew little about his personal life. He had simply referred to his marital status in his letter as ‘unattached' but she wondered if he had ever been married. An attractive, thirty-two year old bachelor who knew the land, was a welcome addition to the area. Queenie smiled to herself. Warwick wouldn't be short of invitations to tennis, the races, dinners and dances.

Queenie was especially pleased, although at first surprised, at how well Colin and Warwick hit it off. Colin's initial caution and hint of resentment had faded, and they quickly became friends. It seemed from snatches of conversation she overheard, that they had visited the same nightclubs in Sydney and Warwick had given Colin several tips about places to go and people to look up. Although twelve years older than Colin, the pair
behaved like a couple of larrikin schoolboys. Queenie hoped Warwick would be able to advise Colin should the need arise. She suspected he'd listen to Warwick Redmond rather than his ‘bossy sister'.

Out of her earshot the guests talked about Queenie doing the right thing and finding the right man for the job. All agreed that running Tingulla was too big a job, even for Queenie, who was looking tired and rundown and obviously needed a rest. Everyone had a suggestion of where she should go, from the Barrier Reef to Europe.

‘I mightn't get past Brisbane,' laughed Queenie. ‘I'm not making any plans.'

Late that night she fell into bed telling herself she just had to hang on several more days and then her secret journey would begin. She gazed about her room, filled with mementoes of her childhood. The next time she returned to this room she would be a mother. She buried her face in her pillow — she had to put that thought out of her mind. She had a trial to face and then it would all be over. But she wished she was bringing her baby back here to where she had enjoyed such a safe and happy childhood.

And, oh, how she wished TR was lying beside her.

Donald the Diviner arrived the day before Queenie was due to leave and introduced himself to Warwick along with his mate, a grinning but shy old Aborigine who had worked with Donald for twenty years. Whenever there was divining to be done, Nugget came along.

It was quite an expedition to the distant paddock — Queenie, Warwick and Jim all went along. At the site, Donald took a flexible, green forked stick, grasped the ends of the fork and then bent them outwards, giving the stick a tension that balanced it delicately. Then he started walking, the Aborigine at his side.

Jim rolled a cigarette and said nothing. Warwick watched their progress, referring to his own scribbled map on a scrap of paper. Queenie was watching Nugget study the ground as he walked beside Donald.

Two hours later Donald stopped and thrust the stick into the ground. ‘Here,' he announced, and demonstrated how the tensioned stick swung downwards, almost as if it had been pulled by an invisible force. ‘What do you reckon, Nugget?'

‘Sure thing, boss. Plenty of water bilong dis place.'

‘There'll be water there,' said Jim firmly.

Warwick was checking his own calculations and turned to Queenie in triumph. ‘Well, he's only a few yards off where I figured to dig anyway.'

‘You're both wrong,' laughed Queenie. ‘I bet you ten dollars, Donald's mate Nugget is the true diviner. That old Aborigine knows where the water is. I don't know how, but I just know he does.'

Warwick started laughing too. ‘I think you might be bloody right, Queenie! Well, I hope he pays him a bonus.'

Queenie finally managed to coax the reluctant Nareedah into the horse float and slammed the little door on her rump. The Land Rover was packed and Jim would bring more gear and supplies over to Cricklewood in a few weeks.

Queenie gazed at the stately entrance to the homestead with its airy verandah, elegant columns and beautiful gardens. She felt a lump come to her throat as she climbed into the driver's seat, telling herself she wasn't leaving Tingulla forever.

Warwick stood in the mauve shadows of the front step under the drooping, heady wisteria blooms, wondering why Queenie seemed so sad at leaving. He had done his best to assure her all would be well. He had hoped he'd won her confidence. She'd told him she was spending a few weeks with Millie at the other property, Cricklewood, before leaving on her holiday trip.

Ruthie had taken over Millie's duties and Warwick promised Queenie that everything at Tingulla would continue to run on oiled wheels.

Jim pulled off his hat and leaned forward. He gave Millie a kiss on the cheek and dropped his arm around her shoulders, giving her an affectionate squeeze. ‘G'bye, old girl. Look after yourselves. I'll be over to visit, but send a message if you need anything or if there's any … problem.'

‘We'll be right, Jim. Don't worry. Snowy is already there,' said Queenie.

Millie pulled herself into the seat beside
Queenie, tying her straw hat under her chin. ‘Well, let's be off. Hooroo, Jim.' She fluttered a hand out the window.

Taking a deep breath, Queenie turned the ignition key. The throaty engine roared to life and the sturdy vehicle rolled down the grand drive.

The house behind them was empty. But for Queenie it was filled with memories.

Cricklewood was a vast change from Tingulla.

Patrick Hanlon had bought the property for its development potential not long after the War. The previous owner hadn't returned from the front and his widow and young family had sold, leaving a rundown homestead which had been slowly deteriorating ever since.

Patrick had periodically made running repairs but Queenie and Millie faced a big task to make the house liveable.

Queenie, however, enjoyed the physical activity of scrubbing and washing and wielding a hammer and saw. ‘I'm not much of a handyman I'm afraid, Millie,' muttered Queenie, with nails clenched between her teeth. She was struggling to lift floorboards.

‘You're doing real good, Queenie. Leave the hard jobs for Jim when he comes over. Or Snowy could help.'

‘Snowy has his hands full with fencing and repairing the sheds. One day I'll get around to turning this place into a decent sort of home. Who knows, maybe Colin might want to work this property some time.'

‘I thought your Dad left Cricklewood to you.'

‘That's true, but I was thinking if I ever get my horse breeding programme developed or get into beef, Colin might like to go into partnership with me.'

Millie didn't answer immediately. ‘Better wait till he graduates.' Millie couldn't see Colin readily agreeing to live at Cricklewood, no matter how well it was fixed up. He was too much of a snob to give up living at Tingulla.

The last weeks of her pregnancy dragged slowly. Queenie gave up riding and took long walks about the property, taking sandwiches down to Snowy at lunchtime. Gradually she familiarised herself with the layout of the land, mentally mapping the terrain for future development.

Heading up towards a rocky outcrop one morning, Queenie was startled by a sudden noise. Catching a glimpse of a low, dark shadow crashing through the undergrowth, Queenie turned swiftly back towards the homestead. She took her .303 rifle from a rack in the kitchen, checking the safety lock, and put it on the shelf behind the seat of the Land Rover.

The vehicle bumped across the paddocks close to where Snowy was splitting logs, fitting the strainers and stays together with wire to make a sturdy fence. Queenie stuck two
fingers in her mouth and leaned out of the window, whistling to Snowy.

The Aborigine sauntered up to the car with a questioning look. ‘Hop in, Snowy. There's a decent old razorback boar up on the hill. I disturbed him while I was walking.'

Once they reached the hill Snowy checked the ground and quickly found the animal's tracks. With the rifle held ready, Queenie walked carefully beside the old man as he silently moved through the scrubby bush. She wished she had one of the strong dogs with her, and kept her finger close to the trigger, ready to fire.

After a few minutes Snowy halted and pointed to the scrub about fifty yards ahead, then whispered, ‘Mebbe better I kill him. You give the rifle to me, Queenie'.

‘No, Snowy,' she said softly but firmly.

‘He's one big fella. Mebbe dangerous.'

She shook her head and motioned him on.

A rustle from the prickly clump of scrub brought them both to a halt again. They exchanged a quick look and Snowy circled downwind to get on the other side of the animal now screened by the bushes.

Steadily Queenie raised the rifle and braced her legs, feeling off balanced by the bulge of her belly. She moved one foot slightly behind the other to steady herself and as she did the baby fluttered. Flashing into her mind came a kaleidoscope of confused images; images of the blood and horror she had seen when wild pigs attacked and disembowelled stock with their deadly tusks. The vision blurred, and so did reality.

The scrub ahead went out of focus. ‘Oh, God.' The rifle suddenly felt very heavy and her knees weak, the barrel of the rifle pointed toward the ground and it seemed as if the whole world was coming to a stop. The bush had gone quiet.

The sharp deliberate snap of twigs by Snowy sounded like a gunshot. Sensing danger, the startled wild pig tensed, lowered its head and charged towards the threat it could smell upwind — Queenie.

The angry black razorback rocketed out of the bush. Queenie instinctively raised the rifle and aimed at the blur but couldn't pull the trigger. She knew she had time for only one shot, and it had to kill, not wound.

On its short legs the pig surged forward with tremendous speed, powered by two hundred pounds of muscle, squealing demonically, its nostrils flaring.

There was barely ten yards between them when Queenie's vision cleared and she fired. Momentum carried the huge pig almost to her feet where it crashed to the ground, blood gushing from a hole between its eyes.

‘Good tucker,' commented Snowy.

As they dragged the carcass towards the car, Queenie was shaken by a sudden spasm. She leaned against the side of the engine as cramps crushed her lower pelvis. Closing her eyes, she took deep slow breaths as the pain washed over her. Lifting the heavy pig had been too much.

Snowy stood stoically by, saying nothing. He had asked no questions nor made any
comment about Queenie's condition or why she was at Cricklewood. In the depths of his dark eyes there sometimes flickered a question but now he gazed at her sympathetically, waiting till she spoke.

‘Whew,' Queenie smiled weakly at him as the pain subsided and she opened her eyes. ‘That's one big pig. Let's get it back to Millie. You can butcher him and we'll have wild boar for weeks!'

But Queenie couldn't face eating the game meat. She felt queasy and unsettled and was anxious for the next visit from Doctor Miller. She had only one more week to go before moving to Charters Towers to spend the final weeks there before the birth.

Two days later the cramps returned and when she noticed spots of blood, Queenie called Millie and told her she was going to Charters Towers. ‘I'm not waiting. I'll drive myself. Take care of things here, Millie. As soon as I can I'll be in touch.'

Millie shook her head. ‘You're not going there by yourself. I'm coming too.' She marched from the room and began putting clothes in a small suitcase.

Queenie didn't try to dissuade her — she knew it would be pointless. Millie would follow her anyway. And she was glad to know Millie would be close by. She didn't like to admit it, but she was a little scared, wondering what giving birth would be like. How was this bulge ever to get out of her body?

They drove mainly in silence, Millie wishing
she could drive properly, casting anxious looks at Queenie who gripped the wheel as ripples of pain caught her unawares.

Queenie concentrated on driving and the physical event she was facing. She tried not to think about the consequences.

Doctor Reese was surprised to see Queenie sitting white-faced in his office with a concerned half-caste Aboriginal woman hovering beside her.

‘Problems?'

Queenie nodded and followed him into the surgery.

While Queenie got dressed, Doctor Reese approached Millie. He felt uncomfortable speaking to the housekeeper, unsure of her role in Queenie's life. ‘She'll have to go into the private hospital where she can be monitored until the birth — probably only days away. There's nothing drastically wrong, but she needs to be watched, just in case. She tells me she had a bit of a fracas with a wild boar. Not a good idea in her condition.'

‘That's Queenie,' said Millie philosophically. ‘No one can tell her what to do or not to do.'

‘Well, I'm afraid she's going to be under the thumb of the Sisters of Mercy. They run a tight ship over there.'

Millie and Queenie stopped at a milk bar in the centre of Charters Towers — a thriving outback town — and bought thin white bread sandwiches and bottles of coloured fizzy soft drinks which they shared sitting on the grass in the town's park.

Magpies carolled in the trees and two kookaburras sat overhead, silently watching in the hope of picking up some tasty scraps. Beds of cultivated flowers were set in the lawns and a bougainvillea vine smothered in scarlet flowers covered the austerity of the public toilet block.

‘Nice place,' commented Millie.

‘You can take walks here, Millie. The guesthouse is only a block away.'

‘I will. There's a good spirit feeling about this place.'

Queenie saw Millie was half smiling, looking into the distance. ‘Spirits, Millie? You can find spirits even in town?'

Queenie threw a piece of ham onto the grass and a kookaburra eyed it carefully before swooping down to pick it up in its large strong beak and carry it to the branch above. She remembered how, when she was a little girl, Millie would tell her stories from the Aboriginal Dreamtime. The stories always involved trees, creeks, rock formations and the shapes of the landscape.

‘Sure, Queenie. The land is our mother. The Dreamtime spirits own the land and we people belong to the land. We don't own the land, it owns us. You feel it at Tingulla. You call it love. You say you love Tingulla, that's because it's your spirit place. It's your mother land.'

Queenie nodded. Despite her mission upbringing, Millie had never forgotten the first lessons she had been taught as a child about her complex heritage. These had been
handed down by word of mouth for tens of thousands of years.

Millie didn't say it, but she knew that same spirit would be in Queenie's child — whatever happened to the baby, Tingulla would be its spiritual home.

Leaving Millie at the Blue Lagoon Guest-house, Queenie caught a taxi to the small private hospital run by the Sisters of Mercy.

The mother superior was brisk and matter of fact, and Queenie felt she was being censured. Under other circumstances Queenie might have reacted imperiously, but she realised that to the nun, she was just another silly girl who had unwisely got herself pregnant.

She stared at the white wall above the mother superior's shoulders as she rattled through the adoption procedure. ‘It's best you don't see the child, but rest assured the baby will go to a good home. We are very particular about the families we select. I assume the doctor has gone over the formal details with you and that you realise this is a final step you are taking.'

Queenie nodded.

‘Very well, then. During your stay here you will observe our routine. When your time arrives you will be taken to the hospital ward.'

The mother superior rose with a starched rustle and Queenie silently followed her down the dim corridor to a cell-like cubicle. ‘This is your room. I hope all goes well for you. God bless you, my dear.'

Queenie let her bag drop onto the straightbacked wooden chair and flopped onto the thin
iron cot, burying her face in the hard little pillow. What was she doing here? She wanted to be back in her room at Tingulla while her mother played the piano in the drawing room and Patrick's cheerful voice called to her to come for a ride.

Running through her thoughts came the soft murmur of TR's voice … 'Queenie, I love you. I always will. Never forget that.'

Angrily Queenie punched the pillow. ‘Who forgot, TR? So much for your promises.'

Darkness crept into the little room where Queenie lay undisturbed until a soft tap at the door roused her. Wiping her red eyes, Queenie opened it to find a young nun holding a kerosene lamp, and smiling sweetly at her.

‘Hello. I'm Sister Claire. I brought you a lamp. We don't have power in this wing. If you want to wash there's a bathroom at the end of the hall and then I'll show you the chapel, dining room and kitchen so you'll be able to find your way about.'

Queenie thanked her and took the thin, white towel from the small dresser and followed the little nun down the hallway. After splashing her face with cold water — there wasn't any hot water — Queenie felt better. Sister Claire chatted easily and Queenie found herself smiling at the nun's sense of humour.

When they found they both shared a love of horses and the bush — Sister Claire had grown up on a remote station — they began talking like two young girls, sharing anecdotes
and stories. A friendship developed and Queenie was grateful she had someone to talk to, for she missed Millie.

Despite doing little, Queenie fell into bed at night physically drained, cursing TR and herself for getting into this situation. She would think twice before allowing her emotions to run away with her again.

She felt like a drudge, her body pushed obscenely out of shape. Her thick long hair had lost its lustre and her eyes their sparkle. She longed to see Millie and began to wish she could escape from this prison.

In the early hours of the morning Queenie awoke and threw back the covers, shivering as her feet hit the icy floor. She hurried down the dark hall, groping her way towards the bathroom when she felt a trickle of warm water down her thighs. She realised the baby was on its way. Fear, excitement and loneliness swept through her.

She tiptoed down a flight of stairs and tapped lightly at the far door. She was a bit taken aback to see Sister Claire dressed in a white cotton shift, her face childlike in the light of the candle she held. Her bare head was covered in a fuzz of cropped brown hair, topped by a nightcap.