Heart of the Dreaming (4 page)

Rose caught her breath. Queenie looked upset enough, there was no point in berating her further. ‘Oh, Queenie! Would you mind telling me just what you were doing on the roof?' asked Rose.

‘So, he snitched on me, did he?' said Queenie angrily.

‘Who?'

‘TR Hamilton. He went running to tittletattle, did he?'

‘No, Queenie, he didn't,' said Rose calmly. ‘The point is, what are we going to do about that dress?'

Queenie slumped on her bed looking sad. ‘I'm sorry, Mum. I know you went to a lot of trouble to have it made for me. But it just felt so … uncomfortable. I mean it was stiff and … unfriendly. I thought I'd pick some jasmine to soften it up a bit …'

Queenie looked forlornly at her dress and Rose moved to the bed and gave her a hug.

‘Never mind, darling. Let's see what we can find in my cupboard. I know there are no party dresses in your wardrobe!'

With their arms around each other they moved down the hall to the main bedroom where Rose began rifling through the back reaches of her wardrobe.

‘Queenie, try this on. It was my favourite party dress when I went out dancing with your father on trips to Sydney. I know it's oldfashioned but somehow I think you can carry it off … it will suit you, I'm sure.'

She handed the silvery satin dress to Queenie whose eyes lit up. ‘I remember this dress!
When Sarah and I raided your clothes for dressing up, I always picked this one!'

Rose smiled to herself, remembering the times she'd found her clothes in disarray, knowing full well Sarah and Queenie had passed many a happy hour delving into her clothes, jewellery and powder, convinced she'd never known.

Queenie pulled off the ruined taffeta ball gown and slipped the shimmering dress over her head where it slithered around her, skimming the curves of her body, stunning in its classic simplicity.

‘I used to call that my Jean Harlow dress,' smiled Rose. She took Queenie by the shoulders and slowly turned her around to face the full-length mirror on its stand.

The mirror was a legacy of an old woodcarver who had worked at Tingulla in her grandfather's day. Around the mirror he'd created a cedar frieze of Australian animals. Wombats, koalas and emus peered between flowers and leaves, framing Queenie's enchanting reflection.

Queenie stared at herself. Who was this tall elegant creature in a dress that shone like moonlight on water, highlighting the soft curves, the creamy shoulders, the long graceful neck?

Rose rested her head on Queenie's shoulder speaking to her daughter's reflection. ‘It's time you realised you're turning into a woman, Queenie. You can't stay a tomboy in trousers forever, my girl. You'd better start getting used to people looking at you as a grown woman.'

Queenie grinned and fell into a silly pose, spoofing the models in the fashion magazines her mother subscribed to. The graceful beauty in the mirror was replaced by a young woman giggling in amused embarrassment.

‘I'd like to see me try and ride in an outfit like this!'

Rose laughed. Queenie was still her down-to-earth daughter. Smiling fondly at her, she smoothed Queenie's hair. ‘Queenie, before you go …' Rose lifted a small blue velvet box from the top of her dresser and kissed Queenie as she placed it in her hands. ‘Your father and I were going to give this to you later, but I think you should have it now. Happy birthday, darling.'

Queenie gasped as she saw the delicate opal necklace shining against the silk lining of the box. She lifted up her mass of shining hair and her mother clasped the necklace around her throat.

‘These opals were from Great-grandfather Ned Hanlon and they have been passed on to all the Hanlon girls,' said Rose. ‘Your father gave this to me the day we were married … now it's your turn.'

The milky opals set in dainty filigree gold seemed to come to life as they touched Queenie's skin, flashing and burning with a redgold fire in their depths.

‘I don't know what to say. You and Daddy are too good … I love you both so much. It's just lovely,' said Queenie, hugging her mother with tears in her eyes.

‘You're a beautiful young woman and we
love you too,' said Rose softly, thinking how lovely Queenie was in her heart and mind and how unaware she was of her appearance. Rose patted her cheek. ‘Off you go and put some of that jasmine in your hair as you planned.'

As Queenie skipped from the room in her bare feet Rose admonished, ‘Queenie — wear those silver sandals I bought for you …
not
riding boots!'

A few moments later Queenie descended the broad staircase as music and laughter drifted from the rooms below. Patrick, crossing the vestibule, looked up as Queenie came down the stairs, smiling at him.

‘Hello, Daddy … I'm ready at last. I had a few interruptions.'

Patrick was silent, simply staring at her.

‘Well … what do you think?' Queenie twirled around on the bottom step.

Patrick shook his head and blinked. ‘For a moment there, it was like seeing again the girl I fell in love with … You look so like your mother did then … How I remember that dress — how it felt when we danced … And I see she gave you our present. Happy birthday, precious girl.' He leaned forward under the twinkling chandelier and kissed her.

Queenie hugged him then touched the opal necklace. ‘I don't know if I deserve this, but I'll treasure it all my life. I'm very proud to be a Hanlon. Thank you.'

Patrick grinned at her. ‘I hope Greatgrandad Ned can see you from up there. He'd
be proud and happy too.' Patrick stood looking at the vision before him, the memories of falling in love with Rose flooding back to him. ‘You certainly look lovely. I don't know where my Tingulla tomboy has gone. Overnight you've turned into a princess.'

‘Not so, Dad, though I do feel like Cinderella. Tomorrow it's back to britches and bulldust for me!'

Patrick laughed. ‘Enjoy your party, Queenie.' He watched her move away, a silvery sprite on the verge of womanhood yet still so much a simple girl.

Where indeed was the tomboy who worked so tirelessly beside him with such high spirits and the lithe strength of a young man? Queenie was better with horses than any of the men, and she was fearless and bright. She was still impetuous and convinced she could take on the world and win. She wanted to learn everything, do it all and do it better than anyone else. There was still so much she had to learn, but there was time enough to teach his daughter more about life, and men, and the land.

Seeing Queenie tonight, a lissome young woman, Patrick wondered what the future held for her. Queenie was so much stronger and more capable than her younger brother, Colin. There was such a small difference in age; such a huge difference in their attitude and approach to life.

As always when he compared the two, Patrick was troubled. Queenie would probably marry and move to another property, and Colin would run Tingulla. In his heart Patrick
would have preferred his daughter to be boss, but in Australia it was the men who ran things. A woman at the head of a huge station was unheard of.

Patrick strolled into the garden, his attention caught by a burst of raucous laughter from several boys. Colin was in the group, obviously enjoying the smutty joke someone had told. Patrick sighed, knowing Colin would probably be drunk and unruly before the night was out.

By the barbecue Stan, the shearers' cook, was carving giant slabs of roast lamb from the carcass turning on the spit over the coals. As the heaped plates of meat, salads and baked vegetables began to diminish under the assault of healthy young appetites, Millie and Rose moved into the garden, carrying between them a silver platter laden with the classic Australian dessert — a pavlova. The meringue shell was surrounded by flickering candles and piled high with whipped cream topped with exotic fruit from the tropical north of Queensland.

Queenie smiled her way through the ritual of blowing out the candles, standing with her head bowed, looking shyly amused as the merry crowd roared the birthday song, which TR accompanied on his mouth organ, giving Queenie a cheeky wink as he played.

Then in groups they piled into trucks and moved down to the spruced up woolshed in the gully where a bush band was thumping out infectious country music. Light bulbs covered in coloured cellophane were strung
along the beams and the woolshed floor had been swept and scrubbed. Clean sawdust was scattered in the shearing stands where the merinos, heavy with the wool which had made Tingulla wealthy, were shorn each season. Temporary tables and chairs were grouped along the galvanised iron walls.

The air was heavy with the sweet sticky smell of lanoline, the natural odour of wool. Outside, wooden kegs of beer were set on trestle tables and around them stockmen, ringers, drovers and workers from Tingulla, along with male friends and neighbours, too shy to join in the dancing, settled instead to serious drinking.

Queenie was in constant demand for dances. She was puzzled at first, then amused at the way the boys she had known as good mates for most of her life were treating her tonight. They were either deferential or restrained, holding this new ethereal Queenie at arm's length, unable to produce their usual teasing banter; or else they clasped her to their chest with clammy hands and breathed heavily into her hair. Queenie suffered the strained silences and moist breathing and hoped things would get back to normal tomorrow.

As she was twirled around the floor, she would occasionally catch a flash of blue eyes and lopsided grin observing her discomfort.

TR Hamilton. She'd learned a little about him, but as yet had hardly spoken to him, other than their exchange from the roof. Apparently he was some kind of wonderboy horse breaker, but that was all she knew about him.

As Queenie sat out a dance, Sarah, Queenie's best friend, flopped down beside her, fanning herself with a paper plate.

‘Gosh, it's hot — you take your life in your hands out there. Most of the boys are taking their jackets off. Oops, here comes Mick O'Rourke. Be careful — he treads all over your feet in those great boots of his.'

Queenie looked away as the determined fellow threaded his way towards them.

A hand suddenly dropped lightly on Queenie's bare shoulder. ‘My dance, I believe. Shall we?' TR was standing, smiling down at her, holding out his hand.

‘Have you two met?' asked Sarah glancing from Queenie to TR who were staring at each other without moving or speaking.

Queenie was about to refuse him as he seemed to expect her to leap to her feet. O'Rourke was almost at their table when Queenie found her hand in TR's and she was pulled gently to her feet.

‘Oh, yes, Miss Hanlon and I are old friends, Sarah. We've been climbing together,' said TR as he led Queenie away from the table.

Sarah stared after them murmuring, 'Climbing?' She shrugged and reluctantly rose to her feet to join the disappointed O'Rourke who was watching TR lead Queenie away.

‘We haven't really met, you know,' said Queenie to TR who was still firmly holding her hand.

‘Well, everyone knows the birthday girl. I'm TR Hamilton.' He touched his forehead, tugging at a mock forelock.

Queenie attempted to withdraw her hand but found that he only held it more tightly as they moved past the throng of dancers.

‘What's the TR for? Terribly rude?' said Queenie pulling away from him.

TR was still smiling as he placed his hand firmly under her elbow and led her towards the woolshed door. ‘Actually, it's for terrifically rhythmic. I'm a great dancer. Come on.' He propelled her out the door into the coolness of the night.

Queenie stopped, wrenching her arm from his grasp. ‘Now just a minute, where are you going?'

‘We're going dancing. Too crowded in there,' grinned TR sweeping her lightly into his arms and moving to the music which pounded from the band inside.

‘Oh, really,' muttered Queenie as she found herself instinctively swaying in time to the music, easily following his sure lead.

They continued in silence for a few moments and she had to admit he was a good dancer. It was also very pleasant dancing in the freshness of the night. She could feel the rough fibres of his tweed jacket where her hand rested on his wide shoulder, and there was a faint musky smell about him which made her think of freshly cut hay. He didn't make small talk, although he didn't seem at a loss for words. He was obviously enjoying the pleasure of dancing.

Queenie's heel caught on a rough patch of ground and she stumbled against him. His grip
tightened although he said nothing. Queenie pulled away from him and stopped dancing. Her cheeks were flushed and her eyes glittered.

‘I think we should go back inside,' she said.

TR was about to protest but as he looked at her imperious and cool expression, he realised the haughty manner was disguising a shy and nervous girl. Gently, he led her by the arm back into the woolshed.

‘I'm sure you have a long list of suitors waiting to dance with you. Thanks for the dance. I shan't forget it.'

He relinquished her arm just as O'Rourke came past holding two paper cups of Passiona.

‘Queenie — I've been looking for you for a dance. Hang on till I give Sarah her drink and we'll hit the floor.'

Queenie turned but TR had disappeared into the crowd. She felt vaguely annoyed and didn't understand why. She had liked dancing with him but his presence unsettled her. Strange sensations had rippled through her as he'd held her. She felt he had known the effect he was having on her and was silently mocking her. Perhaps that was what had annoyed her, but she was also concerned at the way she had no control over her body — it just seemed to follow him and melt to his will. Queenie didn't like not being in control and the experience disturbed her.

Firmly she put him out of her mind and followed O'Rourke back to the table where Sarah was surreptitiously rubbing one of her feet.