Heart of the Dreaming (33 page)

‘And where is the money coming from? You're the one always saying we can't afford to spend.'

Queenie's voice was brisk. ‘Warwick, this opportunity is too good to miss. We will have to cut corners or sell something to raise the money.'

‘Like what, Queenie?'

‘Like the plane.'

‘No!' Warwick was about to argue but recognised Queenie's stubborn expression. ‘All right, I'll talk to the bank about increasing the overdraft.'

‘I'm going to walk them down to Tingulla,' continued Queenie. ‘I'll take Ernie. You, Jim, Millie and Snowy can run things here.'

‘That's a helluva cattle drive. You'll be gone for weeks. You'll miss the wrap party. Contract a droving team to bring the cattle down,' he protested.

‘We can't afford it. And I'll miss the what?'

‘The end of filming party. It'll all be over by the time you get back.'

‘Let's hope things can then get back to normal. I'll say goodbye before I leave.'

Once she had made up her mind and the deal had been sealed, Queenie and Ernie began getting the droving plant together. They'd be on the track, sleeping in swags and on their own, as they slowly walked the cattle out of the remote Channel Country down the stock route to Cricklewood. Queenie estimated they'd be gone six to eight weeks.

They would need a cook who could double as a farrier as the horses would go through many shoes. The cook would take the one supply vehicle and go ahead, setting up each night's camp. The rest of the gear would be carried by three packhorses.

Queenie had her own reasons for doing it herself. She was looking forward to being in
the open air and away from the world. Ernie would be company round the campfire at night and invaluable if they struck any problems in the outback. But she knew there would be long quiet days in the saddle plodding along behind the cattle. It all seemed immensely appealing compared to the turmoil created by the film makers.

Before he left, TR found Queenie working in the tackle room at the rear of the stables.

‘Sorting out the gear for your drove, huh?'

‘Yes. I'm really looking forward to it,' Queenie replied.

‘I can understand why. Been a bit of a circus around here, hasn't it?'

‘Yes. Thanks for your help. You and Martine are leaving?'

‘Yes. I just wanted to say goodbye and …' TR ran his fingers through his thick golden hair, a habit Queenie recognised as an indication that he was feeling uncomfortable.

They gazed at each other. TR wanted to tell her Martine meant little to him, even though in Kentucky she had seemed more important in his life. Perhaps because she was secure and confident running her own business. However, she was a fish out of water in the Australian bush. But there was something more important …

‘Queenie, you can tell me this is none of my business, but I feel I have to say something. You're my …' He was going to say friend but it seemed so inadequate. 'I know how much you love Tingulla and I don't want to see you get into trouble …'

‘What are you talking about, TR?'

‘Please don't get your back up. It's about Warwick. The way he gambles … Queenie, I just wonder if you know how much money he's losing at the racetrack. And other places.'

‘Gambles? For godsake's, TR, the man has a few bets now and then. That doesn't make him a gambler. Why are you telling me this? What are you trying to do?' demanded Queenie angrily.

TR spoke softly and calmly. ‘Queenie, listen to me. I happen to know Warwick has lost a lot of money at the races this past year. A lot. He's in hock to several SP bookies. I know you've had a hard time at Tingulla with the drought, and it worries me that Warwick has a tendency to spend money he hasn't got. When the day of reckoning comes along I don't want to see you hurt.'

‘TR, you're mad. And out of line. How dare you march in here with such wild stories, insult my husband and infer I'm some dumb female who doesn't know what's going on …'

‘That's not what I meant, Queenie, and if you don't want to listen to a friend, then more fool you,' retorted TR.

‘Keep out of my business, TR. And keep out of my life.' Queenie was shouting, her throat tight, a pain constricting her chest, tears springing to her eyes.

‘All right, I will. Don't say I didn't try to help you — or warn you.' TR strode from the stables hurt and angry. He left Tingulla a few hours later without seeing Queenie again.

From a corner of the upper verandah
Queenie stood by a jasmine-covered post watching the Range Rover carrying TR and Martine, and towing the horse float, head for the boundary and the road south. Soon they were just a smudge of dust on the horizon and Queenie turned inside with a heavy heart.

Queenie had her droving team well organised. The plant consisted of six stockhorses, three packhorses and Tubby, the cook and farrier, with his four-wheel drive wagon that carried food, cooking utensils, water and gear to shoe the horses. He would travel ahead of Queenie, the cattle, Ernie and the horses.

Ernie was now in his twenties, still shy, but his infectious humour remained as effervescent as ever. Knowing that he had a multitude of tribal skills — many learned from Snowy — and that he was a good stockman, made Queenie feel secure. Ernie could survive off the land if needed but, above all, he was regarded as part of Tingulla's ‘family'. Together they made an easy-going and professional team.

Queenie paused in her packing preparations to smile at the activity around her. Here she was following in the tradition of the overlanders and first settlers who opened up the
outback with a horse, a dream and a spirit of adventure; while all around her the twentieth century technicians buzzed frantically in the bizarre, confined world of the movie set, artificially manufacturing dreams and stories.

Snowy, working beside her, read her mind. ‘Them fellas take lotsa trouble to tell a story. Much better to just sit round the campfire and sing stories. Or mebbe paint them on bark. This white fella's way — look like too many bosses. Which one's the storyteller?'

‘It's true, they seem to have all chiefs and no Indians. It's like a lot of little kingdoms with their own rulers. The cameraman is a boss, the director is a boss, the light man is a boss, the designer's a boss

‘Stan is a boss too,' added Snowy.

Queenie laughed. ‘You're not wrong, Snowy … a big boss.'

Stan, the shearers' cook, had proved a key element in the smooth running of the filmset. If the food wasn't up to scratch, there was an outbreak of grumbling and tantrums. The film people were unaware or didn't care about the difficult conditions under which Stan and Millie performed miracles at mealtimes.

‘If they get the same meal twice in a week, they whinge. How do you reckon they'd get on out in the bush?' Stan asked Millie.

Millie paused in her scone making. 'Stan, can you see any of these people lasting one day out there? They're going to be so happy to get back to fairyland or wherever it is they come from.'

‘Disneyland. They told me all about it. Can
you imagine grown-ups spending good money to troop around a huge place that's like a cartoon? Even got flamin' Mickey Mouse and Donald Duck walking about. And as for them orgies in bloody mansions … America sounds a strange place to me.'

Half the fun of mealtimes for the Los Angeles crew was telling Stan outrageous stories of tinsel town.

Millie's workload would be even heavier with Queenie away, so Sarah and John had offered to take their goddaughter, Saskia, back down to Sydney with them while Queenie was droving. She and Warwick talked it over and agreed it seemed like a good idea.

Saskia was beside herself with excitement at the prospect of going to the city for the first time that she could remember, having Sarah's son Tim as a playmate, and going to
real
school. Sarah had also promised to take her to Taronga Park Zoo and a Saturday matinee picture show in a theatre as big as a palace.

Queenie realised she was going to miss Saskia far more than her daughter would miss her parents and Tingulla.

She and Warwick sat in the study the night before Queenie left. ‘The paperwork for the bank loan isn't through yet. I'll have to give you power of attorney so you can sign on my behalf.' Queenie picked up the pen to sign the document which Warwick had asked the solicitor to draw up. For a brief second her hand hesitated over the paper as TR's warning flashed into her mind, but she angrily pushed the recollection aside, signed, and handed the
paper to Warwick. ‘I guess that's everything. I hope you won't find it too dull when all the film people leave. Though you won't be on your own too long,' said Queenie.

‘Well, it will be nice to get our bedroom back.' He grinned at her and reached for her hand. ‘Queenie, why don't we have another baby?'

It caught her off guard and she stared at Warwick, then smiled. ‘That would be lovely. I'm sort of surprised one hasn't come along before now.'

‘Well, let's start tonight.' Warwick clicked off the lamp and stood, gently pulling Queenie to her feet.

Queenie was saying goodbye to each member of the film crew and when she reached Roger Ambrose, he took her aside to talk privately.

‘I'm sorry I won't be seeing you any more, Queenie — unless you come to Los Angeles. You have a standing invitation to stay any time. I mean it.' Roger hugged her. ‘You are the most fascinating woman I've ever met, Queenie. If you weren't a married lady I would chase you round the world.'

His arms were still around her and he bent his face to kiss her on the lips. Queenie turned her face so the kiss landed softly on her cheek. ‘But I
am
married, Roger. Thank you for the compliment, though.' She smiled at him, gently extricating herself from his embrace. It was definitely time to be leaving. ‘I hope the film is a big success for you, Roger.'

He sighed. ‘To be perfectly frank, Queenie,
we are having a few problems. Nothing to do with our end here, but not all the money for postproduction has appeared yet. I'm sure there's no problem, but wheeler-dealers do like to make you sweat a bit.'

‘Oh dear. I'm sorry to hear that.'

‘Don't you worry about it, Queenie. That's my job. You have a big task ahead of you. I hadn't realised what you were undertaking until I talked to some of the station hands. There are a few bets riding on you pulling this off. Some of the men say a woman hasn't done anything like this in recent times.'

Queenie laughed. ‘There have been a couple — Edna Zigenbine and May Steele in the fifties. It's just a job that has to be done. I have my skills, Roger, and you have yours — they're just different.'

‘We come from very different worlds, Queenie. I think you could conquer mine, but I could never survive in yours. Good luck.'

Millie, Jim and Snowy farewelled Ernie with handshakes and few words. Queenie gave them each a swift hug and a kiss before turning to Warwick.

‘Go well, Queenie, love. Keep the buggers fat and don't lose any.'

‘We'll take it slow and easy, don't worry. I probably won't be able to contact you much. I'll try to get through from the Windorah pub.'

‘Righto. Don't worry about anything here.' Warwick kissed her quickly. They'd said their goodbyes the night before.

Queenie turned to her horse and put one foot in the stirrup. Warwick stepped forward
and impulsively put his hands around her waist, murmuring in her ear. ‘I'll miss you. Don't forget I love you, Queenie.'

She swung into the saddle, surprised at the whispered endearment. ‘I love you too, Warwick.'

She turned the horse and moved to the head of the small contingent. The horses' hooves clicked on the flagged courtyard, taking the first of many steps on the journey which lay before them.

Before they had gone far from the house, she looked back and lifted her arm. Warwick blew her a kiss, Jim raised his hat and Millie fluttered a tea towel.

They detoured past the filmset, where the director called a halt to filming and everyone cheered and whistled. Queenie grinned at them all, tugged her hat firmly in place and, with Ernie and the horses strung behind her, crossed the creek. Soon the little party disappeared into the trees.

Colin and Dina sat with Alfredo Camboni and his lawyer in the Cambonis' darkly panelled library. The lawyer handed a sheaf of documents to Alfredo. ‘It is very cut and dried, Alfredo my friend. You have been outstandingly helpful and more than generous for the past two years. However, business is business, it is time to ask for repayment.'

‘And if the debt cannot be repaid?'

The lawyer shrugged. ‘You have the controlling interest in the collateral. You must call it in.'

Dina turned to Colin with a small smile, but he was staring at the pattern in the Chinese carpet and didn't raise his eyes.

Alfredo folded the papers. ‘Very well, then. You do understand, Colin, this is in all our best interests?' Colin looked up and gazed impassively back at the older Italian man. Alfredo had arranged his features into an expression of caring concern. Colin saw only the jowls, the watery eyes, the thick pale lips.

Alfredo continued, ‘She may not see it as being in her best interests at first, but things could get far worse if he tries to pay us back and only gets in deeper with the wrong people. This way, we keep the collateral within the family. You agree it is the better way,
si?'

Colin nodded, rose and left the room. He was clearly distressed.

Alfredo lifted his eyebrows and turned to his daughter.

‘He is still adjusting to the idea,' said Dina.

The lawyer spoke quietly behind them. ‘He is probably feeling a little manipulated. You must restore his ego, Dina.'

Roger Ambrose rubbed a hand across his tired eyes. The entire film crew and cast were gathered in the dusk on the verandah of the homestead. Warwick stood in the background, his arms folded, his face grim. Roger had been talking to them for twenty minutes. He finished and there was silence.

Then one of the gaffers spoke up. ‘So what's the bottom line here — moneywise? We
haven't been paid for the last four weeks, a lot of us don't have return tickets or transport. Is it going to be paid, or what?'

‘I'm arranging travel to Sydney. Flights back to the US will be organised from there. As for salaries — I can only promise you I will do my best. It's very difficult from this distance to know what the exact situation is. I will have more control and power back in LA.'

‘Sure,' came a surly mutter.

‘The union isn't going to like this,' came another disgruntled voice.

‘I know. And frankly, they have my support in putting pressure on the studio.'

‘It's going to kill the prospects of any other film company that wants to come and shoot in Australia,' said the cinematographer.

‘Yeah, we get ripped off to prove a point. Is the picture salvageable?'

Roger looked uncomfortable. ‘There are only a few scenes not shot. They could be tricked up in LA. The problem is the money needed to complete the picture, the editing, the postproduction and so on.'

‘What about the “suits” — and the investors? I bet they're getting paid.'

‘No, I'm afraid most investors went in on a deferred basis, to be paid from net profits after the production company had been paid from the gross.' Roger didn't look at Warwick.

‘What exactly went wrong?' asked the make-up girl.

‘It's not a new scenario. A power shift at the top, pressure from the banks on the studio, the new guys decide to push their own
projects. There's a lot of politics and power games being played that have nothing to do with us. I know it seems strange to dump a film that's looking good and is almost finished, but I think we are pawns in a personal vendetta as well.'

‘Jesus, what a business. I just want to make movies. Why does all this crap get in the way?'

Roger rose. ‘I agree with you. I can only reiterate: I am doing what I can. Although it is out of my hands I feel responsible and will fight for
Red Jack
as hard as I can.'

‘Just get us what we're owed,' said the focus puller.

The group broke up and Roger went over to Warwick who grinned ruefully. ‘That couldn't have been easy for you.'

‘No. And it's not easy telling you I don't know when, or if, you and Queenie will be paid for Tingulla. As for your investment … I would say that's in serious doubt.'

‘As one of the crew said … what a business. Does this happen often?'

‘I'm afraid so. Swings and roundabouts, as they say. It's addictive, though. Anyone with any business sense would stick to accounting or growing beans, but I find myself diving head first into another project full of hope and optimism right on the heels of a disaster.'

Warwick didn't answer. The two men walked along the verandah in the still night.

‘You're lucky to live here away from the rat race with your lovely family. I think you've come out on top no matter what, Warwick.' Roger headed off to the shearing shed where
beer was flowing to soften the blow of
Red Jack's
fate.

Warwick retreated to the study with a bottle of rum and a glass. Thank God Queenie was away. How was he going to tell her this news? Warwick opened a drawer and took out a small cash box, found the key he had secreted on a shelf, and unlocked it. He spread the papers from it on the desk and studied them carefully.

At daybreak he stirred, his head resting on his arms, his neck stiff, the bottle empty. The figures on the paper hadn't changed.