Heart of the Dreaming (39 page)

Dina slumped in a chair and, picking up a magazine, fanned herself. The novelty of Tingulla was wearing thin.

At dinner that night, as Ruthie sullenly put their meal before them, Dina smiled brightly at Colin. ‘I've solved our party problem. I cancelled it.'

‘Good.'

‘I mean I've cancelled it here. It's now going to be held at Jingles.'

Colin lowered his fork. ‘Where and what is Jingles?'

‘It's a divine new restaurant that's opened up in Surfers Paradise, we can all meet there and stay for …'

‘Surfers Paradise? We're going all the way to the Gold Coast for another of your flaming parties?'

‘Caro,
we'll make a weekend of it. Daddy and some of his friends are coming up from Sydney, there's a race meeting on the Saturday and we can have our party at Jingles Saturday night, stay in the new hotel, relax on Sunday and drive back Monday. It will be fun, Colin …' She leaned across the table touching his arm, one foot rubbing his leg.

‘And what do I do about my problems here? Since Jim left, it's been chaos. I can't get a shearing contract arranged — I sometimes think the station blokes are deliberately going out of their way not to be helpful.'

‘Get a manager to run everything. You're the boss, why should you do all this work?'

‘Because that's a boss's job, Dina,' said Colin in exasperation. ‘Besides, it will cost too much. This place is a huge drain on our resources. And weekends at the bloody Gold Coast don't help.'

‘You're tired. Come to bed, we'll talk about it later.'

But Dina's usual solution for getting her way didn't work this time. Colin sat on the
verandah outside their bedroom in his jeans and boots while Dina tossed alone in their bed.

Dina pulled her peignoir about her and moved outside, looking at Colin's bare chest in the moonlight. ‘All this work here has built up your muscles. You look very sexy, darling,' she purred, sitting on his lap.

‘Jesus, Dina. Give it a rest. I'm thinking.'

‘And you can't do two things at once? Think
and
cuddle your wife?' She got up in a huff and flounced back into the bedroom.

Colin drained the glass beside his chair. ‘Now listen, Dina …' he flung himself on the bed beside her. ‘I think we should get out of here. You only spend half your time here as it is — you're always going down to Sydney, over to Brisbane and the coast, or else you're shipping half your mates up here to party. I'm going to talk to the accountant and see what he suggests. I reckon we should sell up and move.'

‘We'd get good money for Tingulla? And where would we go?'

‘I'm sure you'll have a few ideas.'

‘Mmmm … Will Queenie come back here?'

‘No. She can't afford it. And you're not to breathe a word about this. It's just an idea at the moment.'

Dina rolled across him, kissing the hairs on his chest and murmuring, ‘How does the Italian Riviera sound? A nice little villa … long sunny days …
ladolce vita
… mmmm.'

‘Sounds pretty good at the moment. I knew it wouldn't take you long to come up with an idea.'

‘I have another good idea … take your boots off … '

Queenie flung herself onto a seat in John and Sarah's garden. ‘Well, I've done it now.'

‘What have you done?' asked Sarah curiously, as she handed her a cold fruit juice.

‘Bought a houseful of furniture … even down to jugs.'

John sat forward in his chair, ‘What sort of furniture?'

‘We could have loaned you any extra you needed, Queenie.'

‘Sarah, this is not “extra” furniture. This is extraordinary furniture.' She grinned at her friends. ‘My old boat builder mate doing the floor for me just happened to mention his aunty's deceased estate was going to be auctioned, and would I like to have first pick of it? So, I bought the lot. The whole house — a small house, mind you — but the most exquisite Victoriana. Good antiques, all in mint condition. The aunt was in her eighties and she'd inherited stuff from her mother. I even bought the china and old paintings, and washstands with bone china jug and bowl sets … It cost a lot, but one twentieth of what we'd pay at auction. I can furnish the whole house now in period, plus sell a few bits and pieces. Sarah, you'll adore it.'

‘How much?' asked John, loosening his tie and attempting to look stern.

Sarah laughed at him. ‘John, stop trying to look fatherly. You are as excited as Queenie. What a pair! But seriously, Queenie … it must have taken everything you've got.'

‘It has. But it will be worth it.'

John threw his suit jacket on a chair. ‘Well,
I've had a fruitful day at the office too … I found out about the rest of the terraces in your block. Would you believe they're all owned by one man? He lives in Melbourne and hasn't seen them in years. He could be talked into selling. Thinks they're only worth pulling down and is prepared to sell at the land site value. He doesn't need the money — he runs some big company,'

‘What an opportunity. How could we raise the money?'

‘We?' asked Sarah, looking from Queenie to John.

‘By going into partnership, mortgaging everything to the hilt, and taking a bit of a punt,' grinned John. ‘I think Queenie has stumbled onto a gold mine, and once people see what she's done with her place, we offer to develop the others. We'll make more than selling outright and hoping buyers fix them up properly. This way we become the developers. It's a whole concept that will catch on given the right exposure and publicity. There are inner city terrace blocks all over the place which are suitable. Traffic is so bad people are sick of spreading north and south and driving for an hour or more to get into the city. I've done some research and I'm convinced it will be a new trend. And we'll be in on the ground floor.'

Queenie looked worried. ‘John, having just gone through losing Tingulla I don't want you to stick your neck out for me. I couldn't bear being responsible for you and Sarah losing your home.'

‘Queenie, you're not responsible. I'm doing it for my family. I see the chance to make money here and make my mark as a developer, and you will be in there to oversee the design and restoration.' He reached out and touched her arm. ‘Rest assured I'm not taking any risks.' He stood and dropped his arms about Sarah. ‘At least not any that I can't deal with. What do you think, Sarah?'

She linked her fingers through his. ‘I trust John's judgment. He's a cautious man, Queenie. Whatever hesays,‘I'11 go alongwith.'

Queenie was speechless for a moment. She couldn't help comparing John to Warwick, who'd been so reckless.

Sarah went and sat beside her, giving Queenie a hug. ‘I think it's exciting and I'm sure it will work out, even though it's going to be a lot of work. Actually, I'm quite envious — this project will keep you both so busy and stimulated.'

‘You'll be roped in, too, Sarah, there'll be plenty for you to do, don't worry. Now, do you want to see my bargains? I have the key to the old aunt's house … you're not going to believe the treasures …'

Sarah looked at her watch. ‘It's nearly time to collect Tim and Saskia from their piano lessons, let's take them along, too.'

John and Queenie formalised their partnership, calling themselves Heirloom Cottages, and Queenie was amazed at how smoothly John arranged the finance once the owner had agreed to sell.

‘He thinks he's unloading a real lemon on us,' laughed John. ‘He kept asking had we
seen
the row of terraces, hinting they were in pretty crummy condition.'

‘They are. But they've been surveyed and are structurally sound. They knew how to build solid homes in those days. And you know the stone walls that divide all those overgrown gardens? It turns out they're sandstone!' exclaimed Queenie.

Three of the houses were empty, and two were occupied — one by a scruffy group of unemployed young people who slept on dirty mattresses and seemed to drift through days and nights in a stupor of marijuana and alcohol. ‘The lost tribe,' Millie called them. Queenie wasn't sure who was living in the last house on the corner of the block. She'd seen lights burning behind the tightly drawn curtains but had been too busy with the purchasing and building plans to pay much attention.

John had delivered notification of the sale of the buildings and informed the unofficial residents they would have to vacate the premises.

‘They're not paying rent, according to the records. Or if they are it's a cash in the pocket deal. The bloke selling them told me all the places were empty. In fact, not habitable,' John told Queenie.

‘Those kids are just squatting. I'd better check out the last house then,' said Queenie.

It took a long time for the door of number thirty-seven to be opened, and then a double bolt was slid back and the door only opened
a slit. Blinking from the bright sunlight Queenie couldn't see into the darkness of the doorway. She introduced herself and said she was the new owner of the building.

The bolt was lifted and the door opened, and a middle-aged lady dressed in a smart skirt and embroidered jacket stepped outside, closing the door behind her. She shook Queenie's hand. ‘Gail Sweet. How do you do?'

Queenie was taken aback; she had expected some little old lady, not this brisk businesslike woman. ‘I hope you got the notification that you have a month to move. It was my understanding none of these houses were occupied,' said Queenie.

‘I was given permission to stay here by the local council, dear. You see, I'm a social worker and I work in this area … counselling and so forth.'

‘Oh. That must be interesting work, but I'm afraid you will still have to move in the next few weeks. Perhaps you could give me the name of the man at the council … '

‘Don't you worry. Matters will be taken care of. Er, may I ask what you plan to do with these places?'

‘Renovate, restore and sell them. Possibly they will be up for rent again — we think business people and young couples are interested in moving back into the inner city.'

The woman looked unconvinced and Queenie didn't like the way her smile became more of a smirk. ‘Well, good luck then. I suppose we'll be talking again. Good morning.' She turned inside and the bolt clicked into place.

Queenie could hear a telephone ringing inside the house as she went thoughtfully through the front gate.

John mulled over this information. ‘Something doesn't seem quite right about all that. There's been no council permission given, and no services are supposed to be connected … It's very strange.'

‘If she's a social worker, she could start with the mob in number thirty-three,' added Queenie. ‘I've tried talking to them all but it's useless. Those kids are zonked out of their heads most of the time.'

‘We might have to get the strong arm of the law to move them on,' said John.

The eviction deadline came and went and nobody even looked like moving. John called in the local police and a male and female sergeant arrived, backed up by a paddy wagon, to move out the young squatters.

Queenie and John followed the officers inside as they began firmly and politely asking the groggy young people to leave the premises. There was a feeble, ‘Who's gonna make me?' but most mumbled sullenly as they scooped up their few possessions.

Queenie and John looked at each other, wrinkling their noses at the stench and filth in the rooms.

It was a forlorn group which stood in a bewildered huddle on the footpath. The two police officers were telling them to move along when a station wagon marked with a TV station's logo swept into the street. A news film crew began setting up their gear as an
aggressive reporter began demanding to know why these people were being thrown into the street.

John's jaw dropped and Queenie's mouth set in a grim line. She stepped forward. ‘Just a minute. What do you think you're doing? These are not innocent victims, as you put it. They're trespassers.'

The cameraman and reporter switched their attention to Queenie. ‘Who are you?'

‘I own these houses. They've had more than a month's notice. They have been squatting here illegally.'

‘Are you a mother by any chance, ma'am?' Queenie was thrown for a moment. ‘Yes … but what has that … '

‘And so you feel no compunction over throwing a pregnant woman and homeless teenagers into the street?'

‘What are you talking about?' Queenie's eyes narrowed dangerously, but the reporter pressed on.

‘That young woman is expecting a child,' he pointed to a lank-haired girl whose baggy sweater almost concealed her pregnancy, ‘and these two twelve-year-olds have run away from homes where they've been beaten and abused. Here they had shelter and protection.'

Queenie looked at the two young boys staring defiantly at her. She turned her back to the reporter and strode towards John. ‘I've never seen that girl or those kids before. I think we've been set up. Who told these TV people about this, anyway?'