Heart of the Dreaming (17 page)

‘Is it time, Queenie?'

Queenie nodded, shivering, her arms holding her tightly distended belly.

‘Go back to bed. I'll be with you shortly. And don't worry.'

Queenie lay in her bed watching the wavering shadows on the ceiling from her small
lamp. She began to feel flickering waves of muscle contractions across her abdomen.

Sister Claire, dressed in her familiar habit, appeared quietly beside her. ‘Doctor Reese will be on his way soon. He'll be here in plenty of time. You have some time to go yet, my dear.'

The next hours passed slowly. The mother superior came and went but Sister Claire stayed beside Queenie, arranging the pillow to make her more comfortable, wiping her brow and murmuring encouraging words. The contractions were stronger and Queenie could see them rippling across her belly.

She pulled up her knees, and tried lying on her side, but could find little relief from the rushes of blinding pain. ‘I want to get up and walk around,' insisted Queenie pacing around the tiny room counting the steps and breathing deeply.

‘Mother Superior doesn't allow patients to do this, Queenie,' worried Sister Claire.

Queenie kept pacing, then returned to the cot exhausted and parched.

Sister Claire gave her a damp wash cloth to suck. The grey light of a rainy day seeped into the room and Sister Claire blew out the lamp.

A few hours later Queenie looked at the tired face of the little nun and in the brief minutes between contractions gasped, ‘Go and eat, Sister Claire — I'm fine. Leave me for a little while.'

Sister Claire nodded and left the room to take some hot tea and toast. The doctor
telephoned and said he'd be on his way shortly. The nun sighed — so much pain and no joy for it all. Indeed, little did Queenie realise the real pain would begin after the baby was taken from her.

Sister Claire's concerned face swept in front of Queenie's eyes as she felt herself being lifted onto a mobile bed which had metal sides raised and snapped in place. Queenie felt like she was being put in a cage and she kicked out with a foot against the metal bars.

‘Take her to the labour ward and do not lower the sides of the bed. And watch her, Sister Claire.'

‘I want Millie … please … get Millie!' cried Queenie fiercely.

Her bed was wheeled into a clinical white room where a black crucifix hung on the wall. Queenie closed her eyes and retreated into her body, breathing through each bolt of pain, the few moments' relief, then the next one. She thought no further ahead than the next second.

The gentle voice of Doctor Reese brought her back to what was happening about her as he examined her. Queenie caught the look and small shake of his head directed at Sister Claire.

‘Millie. Get Millie,' demanded Queenie in a firm voice.

‘She'll be here when it's over, Queenie. Hold on for a bit longer,' said Doctor Reese. ‘I'll be back to see you in a little while.'

Queenie turned her pleading eyes to Sister Claire and with a mammoth effort said, ‘She's
all I've got in the world. Millie Nicholson, she's staying at the Blue Lagoon Guesthouse.' Tears soaked into her pillow and she began rocking herself and murmuring in pain.

Sister Claire looked at the pale girl lying on the bed, struggling so hard and refusing to let the pain overwhelm her. Rising from the chair beside Queenie she left the room.

Millie had watched the rain drip from the sky, knowing Queenie needed her. She sat stolidly in the small public room at the guesthouse with her hat and coat on, waiting. She'd been there since daybreak. Hearing the telephone jangle in the office she was already halfway to the phone before the caretaker called her.

Sister Claire opened the outside kitchen door and let Millie inside. ‘Guests are supposed to wait in our vestibule or in the sister's office, but I think Queenie needs you. It's been such a long hard time for her.'

‘I hope you don't get into trouble for this. Thank you,' said Millie following the nun upstairs.

Queenie smiled and relaxed slightly when she opened her eyes and saw Millie smiling down at her. Millie leaned over and smoothed the damp hair from her forehead. ‘You're doing real good, Queenie.'

When Doctor Reese returned he found Sister Claire sitting by as Millie rubbed Queenie's back. Queenie was in a squatting position on the bed.

She glanced defiantly at the doctor. ‘Millie's not leaving.'

‘All right, Queenie. I'll try to keep Mother Superior at bay.'

Things happened quickly when the baby began to thrust insistently into the world. Sister Claire and Doctor Reese took over, preparing Queenie for the delivery room. At the last moment Sister Claire took Patrick's watch from Queenie's wrist and slid Rose's engraved gold wedding band from her finger and handed them to Millie.

Millie waited, alone in the room. Forty minutes later Sister Claire came in and whispered. ‘It's all over. She's very tired. Would you like to see her?'

‘The baby?'

‘The baby is fine. I'm sorry she can't see the child. She has to put this from her mind and heart now.'

Millie nodded, her own heart aching as she went to Queenie's side. Queenie's green eyes were hollow and so dark they looked almost black. Millie took her hand and patted it, unable to speak. She took the watch and buckled it back on Queenie's wrist and slipped Rose's ring back on her finger.

Millie sought Sister Claire and took her aside. ‘Please let me see the baby, just for a moment. I can't have kids. Queenie's my only family.'

Sister Claire stared at the kindly woman, a mix of race and cultures, who obviously cared deeply for the beautiful young white woman who had suffered so much. ‘Stay here. I shouldn't — but just for a moment.'

Sister Claire returned holding a tiny bundle
in a simple white blanket. ‘I'll be back in two minutes. I have to speak to the doctor.'

She shut the door behind her and Millie looked down at the sleeping child. Gently she unfolded the blanket and touched the small pink hand. The little hand curled around Millie's dark finger and held on. Softly she ran her finger along the baby's chubby legs then stopped, staring at the infant's upper thigh. ‘Well, I'll know you if we ever meet again.'

At that moment the baby opened its eyes and stared up at Millie.

Millie smiled. ‘If I ever wondered who your Dad was, I know now. There's no mistaking who
your
father is, little one.'

TR awoke with a start, alert and tense, thinking a voice had shouted to him. Queenie's voice. He heard it so clearly and felt her presence so strongly. It was as if she was in the room. He could smell the lingering fragrance of her hair and skin. Instinctively he reached beside him, finding the bed cold; and when he clicked on the bedside lamp, the room was empty.

He thought he had been successful in pushing the memory of Queenie to the back of his mind, hoping to ease the pain. Yet in seconds he was enveloped by an immense longing for her. Why had he felt her presence so forcefully?

TR swung his legs out of bed and reached for his wallet in his jacket hanging on a chair in the motel room. His lean and muscular body had lost its tan, and bruises shone on his naked hip where he'd taken a fall. Pulling a piece
of paper from his wallet he unfolded the letter Colin had written with such malice — the letter TR believed was from Queenie.

Again the anguish he'd suffered on reading the letter surfaced. He simply didn't understand. TR looked at his watch, it was midday in Australia. He reached for the phone and asked for the overseas operator.

Hearing the friendly nasal accent of the Australian country operator putting the call through from town to Tingulla, TR could see the study where the radio telephone sat by Patrick's old desk.

A man's voice he didn't recognise answered as the operator told TR to go ahead. ‘I was trying to reach Miss Queenie Hanlon,' said TR, hearing his own voice reverberate back to him.

‘I'm sorry, she's not here. Is this personal or business?' came the strange voice.

TR hesitated. ‘Personal. I'm a friend. I'd like to talk to her. When will she be there?'

‘I'm sorry, mate. Queenie has gone away on a trip. I'm Warwick Redmond, the manager here. Can I pass on any message if she gets in touch?'

‘No … thanks. No message.'

TR replaced the receiver and sat on the edge of the bed staring about the Superior Room of the Lone Star Inn. There was no way he was going to sleep now. He pulled on his jeans and boots and denim jacket and strode from the room.

His hands thrust deep in his pockets, shoulders hunched miserably, TR wandered down deserted Pennsylvania Street where neon signs flashed and an occasional car cruised by. Tomorrow he would move on to another Midwest town, another ‘thrill-packed' rodeo, where hungry young cowboys were anxious to knock the Aussie from his pedestal.

TR was tired. His body was sore and his heart ached. The excitement and gratification of proving himself a top-liner had worn thin. The cheering crowds, the acclaim, the money — none of it filled the emptiness in his life. In every town there were girls who sighed over the handsome Australian with the sky-blue eyes and lopsided grin. His elusive and reserved manner made him all the more appealing. There had been several one-night stands — soft bodies, a physical release — but the longing and the loneliness never left him.

The other riders on the circuit couldn't figure out why TR never took more advantage of the women and girls who flung themselves at him. ‘I have a girl at home,' said TR evasively.

Home. Maybe he should go back to Australia. He missed the clear sharp air, the intense blueness of the sky, the song of the
birds, the solitude of the bush. TR turned into an all-night drugstore and sat on a stool and ordered a coffee from the sleepy young black man behind the counter.

‘Out late,' he commented, as he splashed the hot coffee in TR's cup.

‘Couldn't sleep, mate.'

‘Where you from?'

TR sighed. No one ever guessed Australia. They generally thought he was English or confused Australia with Austria. Little was known about Australia other than kangaroos and tennis players. ‘Australia.'

‘Is that right? Well hang me. I'm just reading ‘bout one of your famous authors.'

TR blinked. ‘That makes a change. Most people think I speak English well.'

The young man laughed and poured himself a cup of coffee. ‘I'm a student, doing a comprehensive lit course.'

‘Lit?'

‘Literature. Learning about writing, writers, communication. I've been reading Morris West.'

‘Who?'

‘Shoot. Whereabouts in Australia are you from? He's one of your best writers, man. Along with Patrick White!'

TR shook his head. ‘I'm from the bush. Ask me about horses.'

‘Ask him who won the Melbourne Cup last year … he'll know that one,' came a hearty voice with a deep Southern accent.

TR turned around to see a tall and bulky man behind him.

The man pushed his broad stetson back on his head and extended a hand. ‘Howdy. Clayton Hindmarsh.'

TR shook hands with a bemused smile.

‘An Aussie, eh? I've been down under several times,' said Clayton Hindmarsh, indicating he wanted coffee.

‘This is all a bit much in the middle of the night in a little town in Idaho, to find two people who know Australia,' said TR.

‘That's life, sonny. As a matter of fact, I even know you. You're Hamilton. I watched you ride this afternoon. I check out the rodeo circuit whenever I can.'

‘What were you doing in Australia?' asked TR.

‘Usual thing. Lookin' at horses. And riders and trainers.'

‘You're in the horse business?'

‘Y'might say that. I run one of the biggest horse studs in Kentucky. I move round the country seeing people, lookin' at horses. Must say, I was mighty impressed with the way you handled them cranky cattle out there today.'

‘Thanks. But the novelty is starting to wear off.' ‘Is that so? What are your plans, boy? Going back home?'

‘I've still got another month of my contract to ride out. I really don't know. I had planned to go home and breed, break and train some decent stockhorses.'

‘Whaddya know about racehorses, Hamilton?'

TR laughed. ‘Not much.'

‘Wanna learn?'

TR drained his cup. The fascinated student refilled it and leaned on the bar, following the conversation closely.

‘I'll come clean. I checked you out. I talked to a few people and I heard you're pretty good with horses. Not just riding ‘em, I mean. So … let's talk turkey here,' said Clayton Hindmarsh, slapping his stetson on the counter top. ‘I'd planned to run you to ground one way or another. This chance meeting is fate at work, boy.'

Two days later TR flew to Kentucky to meet Clayton Hindmarsh III on home ground. TR had done a little checking himself and was still somewhat stunned at the extent of the Hindmarsh spread. It was one of the showcase studs in the country, producing some of the top racehorses. Hindmarsh was considered a bit eccentric, but he'd made his millions by sheer hard work, shrewdness and a few lucky gambles.

‘Racehorses are a different breed of horse — high strung, strong, yet fragile. It doesn't take much to ruin a horse's racing career.'

‘So they end up here at stud?'

‘Only the best, TR. I have an old guy who can't read or write but is magic with horses. He's even fixed up some horses and got them racing again. Tommy's gettin' on, he has to pass on some of that magic, before it's too late.'

‘Maybe it's his own gift and talent and can't be taught,' said TR, thinking of the skills of some Aborigines.

‘I'd like you to try to learn what you can. I sense you could develop into a helluva horse trainer. It takes a certain way with horses to get them to respond. I think you've got it. Finish your rodeo contract and come back here and see what you think. The job's open any time you want.'

‘I'll have to think about it, Clayton. It's a big step for me. It's not how I saw my life working out.'

‘Life seldom does go entirely to plan, TR. Let me know when you're ready. I got where I am today ‘cause I know horses and I know men. I think you're the right man for the job.'

He slapped TR on the back. ‘Let's go back to the ranch house. Them women have been cookin' up a mess of fine stuff all day.'

The Bon Vite stud homestead was an elegant Southern mansion surrounded by manicured, lush green lawns and neat white fences. Two men were employed full-time painting fences, stables and equipment sparkling white. It reminded TR of a picture he'd once seen of a wealthy stud in Ireland. So green, so neat, so expensive looking.

The Southern women were the same. Soft lilting flirtatious voices, neat hairdos, feminine dresses and smelling of money. They all made a fuss of TR, which had him blushing awkwardly, much to their delight.

Clayton introduced TR to his family, friends and business associates. TR had mint juleps and bourbon pressed on him and he found it difficult to follow the drawling accents and to keep track of everyone he met.

The next morning a pre-breakfast hunt was arranged and TR was astounded to find everyone dressed in traditional British scarlet coats riding to the hounds.

He tugged at his tweed jacket. ‘I'm sorry, Clayton, I didn't come prepared for this.'

Mrs Hindmarsh eyed TR from the tips of his shiny riding boots to the top of his Akubra. ‘Honey, you look more than just fine, believe me. Here, have an orange blossom.' She lifted a crystal flute from a silver tray held by a black waiter in formal attire, even to white gloves.

TR sipped the amber liquid, stifling a sneeze as the champagne bubbles went up his nose.

‘See you at breakfast, TR,' said Mrs Hindmarsh, giving him a knowing smile and fluttering her eyelashes.

TR gulped the rest of his drink.

TR rode easily with the field, preferring not to be at the front — he thought it a bloody stupid sport and was longing for a pot of tea.

As the braying dogs, giggling women and loud men reassembled two hours later, Clayton muttered to TR, ‘Don't get the wrong idea, life ain't like this all the time. This weekend is to humour Mrs Hindmarsh. She loves to party.'

‘Pleased to hear it. I don't think I could last the distance,' grinned TR, eyeing the breakfast spread in the specially erected marquee.

Breakfast turned into brunch, which turned into tennis, which turned into billiards, which turned into late afternoon cocktails, which
turned into a massive barbecue where servants sliced smoked ham and roasted sides of rare beef.

A social photographer clicked away, promising Mrs Hindmarsh she'd make the Sunday colour supplement. TR found himself being frequently posed alongside cooing young women.

The pictures caused much ribald comment at the next rodeo event. The other riders gave TR a hard time, either teasing him about the girls — ‘Watch those Southern belles … ring-a-ding-ding!' — or accusing him of being a snob — ‘Our company not good enough for you, huh?'

He didn't mention the job offer from Clayton Hindmarsh to them, but TR longed to talk it over with someone. He made some international calls, eventually tracking down Dingo McPherson.

Dingo roared with laughter over the long distance line. ‘You wouldn't read about it! Of course I know who Clayton Hindmarsh is! Listen, TR, I know it seems a strange and foreign world over there — well it is! And they have some funny ways of doing things. But Clayton's word is good and if you work with him for a couple of years, you'll be able to write your own ticket when you come back to Australia.'

This cheered TR. He could look on this job as a sort of apprenticeship, learning what he could to set up his own business back home. In his heart he had been considering it a means
of escape, rather than having to face returning to the memories of Queenie.

‘You're right, Dingo. I reckon I'll take it. Any other news?'

‘Need bloody rain, but that's nothing new, mate. No, everything is fine. Let me know how things work out. If I'm in the States, I'll come visit.'