by DIMORRISSEY
She nodded, calmly answering him. ‘Gus is dead. I had to put him down.’
Reaching inside her clothing, from against her chest, she brought out the tiny joey flung aside by its mother, the grey kangaroo, in the hope of drawing attention to herself and away from the baby. ‘I’m afraid this one has lost its mother.’
She stood there, her eyes closed in pain, the infant kangaroo cupped in her hands.
Gently her father took the joey and put it in his jacket pocket. ‘I reckon well have to feed this fella with an eye dropper eh, Queenie?’
He took her hand and they began walking, while the Aborigine collected the reins of the horse, and leading it, followed behind Patrick Hanlon and his daughter Queenie.
I
1960s
Tingulla
Chapter One
Queenie sat on the splintery railing deep in thought, her wrinkled riding boots hooked over the wooden pole beneath, her favourite Akubra hat pulled into a comfortable shape low over her eyes, partly obscuring her face.
To the stockmen, drovers and casual workers around Tingulla homestead, Queenie had always been the boss’s skinny daughter. They knew and admired her prowess on a horse and with a rifle, and she was regarded as a tough little tomboy who would one day grow up. They had grinned at the way she bossed around her younger brother, Colin, who was so different in temperament and ability.
But now the men were aware Queenie was more of a woman than a girl. Her beauty was startling. She had thick golden brown hair that, when loosened, fell in soft waves past her shoulders. Her face was wide and open with high cheekbones, and her lips curved upwards in repose or when she flashed her devastating wide smile. But it was her eyes, a deep emerald green, fringed with heavy dark lashes, which captured attention. She moved with a feline grace even when tackling rough jobs about the property. The men no longer joked around with her as they had done when she’d been ‘just a kid’.
On this typical blue and gold Australian outback day, Queenie was surrounded by several dozen friends and neighbours who had gathered at the famed Tingulla Station to celebrate her twenty-first birthday. Sons and daughters of workers and wealthy landowners were spending two days at Tingulla for the festivities. There was no point in travelling miles ‘just for a party’. Besides, Tingulla’s hospitality, with Rose Hanlon’s style and flair, was legendary, so they would stay as long as possible.
An informal rodeo was in progress and from beneath her battered hat Queenie studied the ring of friends perched around the stockyard. It was hard to tell the boys from the girls — all wore the same bush uniform of denim jeans with varying shades of blue or grey shirts, heads covered by worn hats, and dusty elasticsided boots on their feet. Their shouts of derision and encouragement could be heard back at the homestead as each of them took a turn aboard an unbroken horse in the small yard.
Suddenly Queenie was aware she was being watched and she lifted her head like an animal sensing danger. She caught a flash of amused blue eyes studying her and a slow grin spreading across a tanned face.
TR Hamilton. He was a station hand at Bilbao, a nearby property. He was older than Queenie and she hadn’t had much to do with him. She’d seen him with her father and the owner of Bilbao looking at horses several weeks back. Cheeky devil by the look of him. She turned her head, deliberately ignoring him.
Shouts rang out as another rider hit the dust and one of the station jackaroos yelled, ‘Hey, Queenie, why don’t you show these blokes how it’s done? You’re always saying there isn’t a horse you can’t ride. No one has been able to ride any of these to a standstill!’
The lad who was picking himself up from the dirt in the ring slapped his crumpled hat back on his head muttering, ‘That’s because they’re flaming bloody brumbies only good for pet food!’
‘Go on Queenie … let’s see how good you are,’ called one of the girls.
Queenie glared at her.
‘Yes, I’d like to see the famous Miss Hanlon stop one of these fellows,’ came a soft but challenging voice.
Queenie turned to see TR Hamilton smiling broadly at her.
She jumped down from the railing, smoothing her hands along the sides of her thighs, and jammed her hat firmly in place.
‘Anyone want a side bet that she’ll last the distance?’ called another of the boys.
Charlie, the stockman who was helping in the yard, grinned at Queenie as she moved along to where the next horse was penned in a small chute. A rope halter and light saddle were dropped onto the horse and buckled in place.
Queenie climbed to the top of the fence looking at the horse’s frightened, angry eyes. She began to talk soothingly and didn’t notice the two boys tighten the flank rope so that it would crush the horse’s testicles once Queenie’s weight was in the saddle.
‘See if she can stay on this one,’ hissed one boy, winking at the other.
Queenie lowered herself onto the saddle and twisted the reins around her fists. The horse flattened its ears and its nostrils flared as the whites of its eyes bulged in agony.
With a screaming whinny the horse rose upwards, pulling its feet together beneath the centre of its body, attempting to rid itself of the weight on its back.
The gate to the chute was flung open and the horse, seeing freedom and open space, exploded into the yard. But in seconds it realised it was trapped by the fence encircling the stockyard. With the bit pulling on its mouth, the horse lowered its head and began bucking violently, throwing out its legs and arching its back, as it leapt and thudded to the ground, slamming Queenie up and down in the saddle. She hung on grimly, her feet still locked in the stirrups, her braid of thick hair flying wildly about her head as her hat spun to the ground.
As the crowd cheered Queenie’s bravura performance with the wildest of the horses so far, TR Hamilton was studying the frenzied horse through the eyes of a horse-wise bushman.
Suddenly the horse stopped bucking and lunged at the far stockyard rails, determined to wipe this hindrance from its back by crushing it against the thick wooden poles and posts. In the same instant TR leapt down into the ring and ran at the horse, waving his arms. The horse turned sharply and reared, attempting to strike at TR with its front legs.
Queenie hit the ground hard. The watching guests gasped as TR ducked beneath the flashing hooves to grab the bridle. The horse tried to bolt but TR dug his heels in the dirt and pulled hard on its head. He was soon joined by Charlie and between them they managed to stop the wild horse, which now stood motionless, panting and glaring at the two men.
‘You all right?’ asked TR as he held out a hand to help Queenie to her feet.
She brushed his hand aside and stood up. ‘Just what do you think you were doing, you fool? I was in complete control until you flew at him,’ she snapped.
‘Be careful who you call fool, my girl. That horse was going crazy. Your friends had tightened the flank rope.’ TR turned away angrily. ‘You were lucky he didn’t try to wipe you off on the rails the minute he came out.’
The crowd had begun to drift away by the time Charlie had lifted the saddle and restraining ropes from the horse and let it loose in the stable yard.
‘Well done, lass,’ he said patting Queenie on the shoulder. ‘That was a dirty trick they pulled. That flank rope would’ve made a dead horse buck.’
With that he turned back towards the house, leaving Queenie and TR standing alone in the stockyard. TR stooped to pick up Queenie’s hat and, flicking off the dust, held it out to her. She didn’t move.
‘Hey, don’t feel badly. You didn’t lose face. Not many blokes could have stayed on that horse at all.’
Queenie still didn’t move. ‘I like to fight my own battles, thank you.’
‘You could have been hurt. I was only trying to help you.’ TR was still holding her hat in his outstretched hand.
‘It was unlikely. Your intentions might have been good but you caused more trouble than if you’d left me alone.’
TR walked up
to her and slammed the hat on her head. ‘It wouldn’t hurt you to say thanks, you know. But don’t worry, from now on I’ll leave you alone.’
He strode from the yard, wrenching open the gate as Queenie straightened her hat and glowered after him.
‘She’s not what you’re thinking,’ came a quiet voice beside TR. ‘Queenie’s no snob. She does ride better than most of the men on this station.’ It was Charlie, talking as he coiled a rope.
‘Is that a fact?’ said TR tersely. ‘I was thinking she seemed a bit of a spoiled brat.’
‘Aw, Queenie gets her way most of the time because she is generally right, although she can wind everyone around her little finger.’
‘Well, she’s not winding me around any finger, the ungrateful little wretch,’ answered TR.
‘She’s as tough as an old gum tree despite being such a pretty little thing. Not many kids have to shoot their favourite horse when lost in a storm. No, mate, the spoiled one in the Hanlon family is her younger brother, Colin. You obviously don’t know the Hanlons.’
TR fell into step beside the older man as they moved towards the homestead.
‘No, I don’t know them well. I met Mr Hanlon when he came over to Bilbao where I’ve been working. He asked me over to his daughter’s party. By the way, I’m TR Hamilton. I’ve been breaking horses and doing a bit of mustering at Bilbao.’
The old stockman threw an amused glance at TR. ‘A horse breaker, eh? You blokes all reckon you can outride the wind.’
TR shrugged. ‘I do all right with horses.’
Charlie pointed in the direction of the homestead. ‘The house is over that way. I’ve got to get the horses back. Nice meeting you.’
TR was tempted to help Charlie with the horses, preferring their company to the social round planned for Miss Hanlon’s twenty-first. He hadn’t come to this weekend party to meet the daughter of Tingulla but in the hope of talking her father, Patrick Hanlon, into giving him a job. His contract at Bilbao was due to run out.
Queenie walked around the rear of the large house past the cool side verandah where she could hear the girls chatting as they relaxed after the rodeo. The swinging seat creaked comfortably and ice cubes tinkled, but Queenie didn’t feel like being sociable.
She stepped into the dimness of the house and edged past the kitchen where she could hear her mother Rose talking to Millie, the halfcaste housekeeper who was part of the family. Millie had been with them for as long as Queenie could remember. Mission educated, she had come to the family as a shy young nanny to help Rose and Patrick with their new baby daughter. Millie now ran the entire household with steamtrain energy and efficiency.
Millie had grown up with the Hanlon family as Rose had blossomed from a hesitant young bride to the gracious and poised mistress of the great expanse of Tingulla. Millie had married Jim Nicholson, a white motor mechanic who now also worked at Tingulla looking after the vehicles and machinery. Jim and Millie had been together fifteen years and both were indispensable to the smooth running of the giant homestead and property.
Rose was hoping that since Millie had no children, she would pass on her skills to her assistant Ruthie. However, Patrick was not so sure Ruthie would become as efficient as Millie. Although she was mission educated since the age of ten, Ruthie, now seventeen, was a full-blood Aborigine and Patrick sensed there was still a tribal influence in her heart — even if she didn’t know it yet.
Faintly, Queenie heard her mother and Millie issuing instructions to the nervous Ruthie and to Stan, the tough old shearers’ cook.
Stan had been called in to slaughter a lamb which was now turning slowly on a roasting spit in the garden. Nearby a marquee had been erected and tables were set with Rose’s inventive decorations and flower arrangements. Country hospitality was famous, but at Tingulla it was legendary.
Queenie tiptoed up the cedar staircase, past the collection of famous early Australian art her mother had acquired. She stopped to admire for the thousandth time a Turner landscape — one of several valuable English paintings Rose had inherited, and which hung as a reminder of her English homeland — a stark contrast to the Australian bush scenes.
In her room, feeling stiff and bruised by her fall, Queenie peeled off her grubby clothes and dropped them onto the shining cypress floor. The late sunset light streamed in through her window and the lacy curtains rose and fell in the breeze.
Queenie felt restless and was beginning to regret all the fuss being made over this birthday. She felt strangely alone, wishing she could share the tumbling thoughts and feelings inside her. She’d always been able to talk to her mother, but this was different — nothing specific, but somehow troubling.
As a small girl she had shared her secrets with Pegasus, the big black horse which had fallen during that terrible storm. Shooting Gus had been like crossing a chasm between childhood and the real world. Queenie now felt that another step lay before her, and she wondered what waited on the other side of her twenty-first birthday.
She had no desire to giggle and chatter with the girls gathered downstairs. Nor did she feel like galloping through the bush on Nareedah, her young white Arabian horse which had grown to replace Pegasus in her affections. She sighed and flung herself across the floral eiderdown on her bed where Snugglepot, her tortoiseshell cat, snoozed, escaping the demands of a new litter of kittens nestling in a box in the kitchen.
It was dark when her mother pushed open the door and switched on the light. The loud click caused Queenie to stir and Snugglepot to stretch.
‘You lazy girls,’ said Rose. ‘Queenie, the party has started and everyone is wondering where you are. They think you’re up here primping and preening and you haven’t even started getting dressed.’
Rose sighed at the sight of her long-limbed daughter, her hair a tangle of loose waves, her bare body chilled from the cool night air. Queenie was such a tomboy that Rose knew getting her to dress up would be a battle.
‘Come on, Queenie, get dressed quickly. And as for you,’ Rose shooed the cat off the bed, ‘down you go and feed those starving babies of yours.’
Rose, elegant in a soft grey chiffon dress with a strand of magnificent pearls swinging to her waist, left Queenie to dress and went downstairs. Patrick met her on the landing.
‘When is she coming down? I’ve never known Queenie to take so long. I know she’s not used to dressing up — she must really want to impress the boys.’
Rose smiled fondly at the tanned face she loved so dearly, with the crinkles round his eyes and the dimple in his strong chin. As he smiled at her she touched his cheek. ‘She fell asleep, but she’ll be here in a few minutes.’
Tingulla was ablaze with lights. The soft hum of the generator was drowned by music and laughter. Small lights were strung around the trees shading the homestead lawns. Flame torches on poles were set among the garden beds and along the driveway. Kerosene lanterns burned on tables set along the verandah. In the main entrance a crystal chandelier cast a glow around the beautiful vestibule with its antique furniture and grandfather clock.
In the music room a group sang around the Pianola, one of the boys pumping the pedals while another attempted to pluck a ukulele with hands more used to roping cattle than picking a tune.
The dusty boys of the afternoon were now scrubbed and slicked, their boots polished to a glass-like sheen. The girls bloomed in pastels, their hair curled in the latest fashion.
One of the girls leaning on the Pianola called across the room, ‘Come and play, TR’.
TR smiled and reached inside his dinner jacket. Everyone knew TR was never without his mouth organ. It had been his sole companion on many lonely nights out droving and he could play any song after hearing it twice. TR ran his lips along the little silver instrument then leaned against the Pianola and picked up the tune.
At twenty-six, TR Hamilton had the physique of a strong man and had already acquired more bush skills and horse knowledge than most men would ever learn. He was tall with sun-streaked ha
ir, deep sky-blue eyes, and dark brows and lashes. He had a wide, engaging smile that tipped crookedly to one side, giving him a rather quizzical expression. He was softly spoken and had a gentle nature, yet there seemed to be a core of steel running through him. He appeared determined and not a man to be pushed around.
The mixture of young guests blended well. Outback life had made them tough and taught them to grow up quickly. Compared to their city peers they were responsible and competent adults. Most of them gathered for Queenie’s party knew each other, though they met infrequently. There was an easy camaraderie amongst them. The practical bush girls didn’t play coy games and understood the way of life in the harsh outback. The boys mainly came from prosperous stations or were hardworking station hands aiming to own a property of their own one day.
As TR breathed into the harmonica his eyes closed and he became totally lost in the music, remembering the times he’d heard his father sing ‘Oh, Danny Boy’ — generally in his cups at the pub.
TR’s father, Riann Hamilton, had been an Irish drifter and a dreamer. A handsome man with dark curling hair, his blue eyes and lilting brogue had beguiled the ladies. He was a moderately successful jockey who had come to Sydney to seek fame and riches. There he married Mary, the daughter of a well-to-do family, and fathered Terrance Ryan.
Once he’d spent Mary’s dowry and what little he’d won, Riann had persuaded her to move to the bush with their baby son so he could ride the country circuit.
Riann was absent for weeks at a time leaving his wife and small son to the isolation of a tiny house in a country town where people minded their own business. Mary had only a nodding acquaintance with some of the local townsfolk and eked out what meagre funds she had to care for herself and TR.
When Riann did return he’d spend most of his time charming drinks from the locals in the pub, or sitting on the house’s small front porch with TR on his knee, spinning tales of the horses and the racing world. He promised TR that one day he’d own a horse of his very own.