by DIMORRISSEY
TR’s father never got him that horse, and he never struck it lucky with the winners. The whisky finally claimed him in a dingy room in the Green Man Public House at Wattle Flat. His few possessions were forwarded to his wife — a fob watch, a tobacco tin of personal papers, and a pink and navy racing sash and cap.
TR’s mother returned home to her parents and TR was sent to a fine school by his grandfather. The family were disappointed when, at fourteen, TR ran away to the bush. By the time he was eighteen TR had discovered he had a special way with horses. He could look at a horse and see not only its physical make-up, but also sense the animal’s temperament, stamina and potential. He could tell which horse had the heart and guts to make it go on when others might falter. It was a treasured talent in the bush where men’s lives and fortunes often depended on their horses.
During his years growing up in the city TR had hung around the Randwick Racecourse with the jockeys and trainers who’d known his father, and he’d listened, and watched, and learned.
But it was the tales of the bush and wild exploits of the country men that he remembered best. His father had instilled in him a passion for the wide open country and the land where a man was as good as his horse, his fists and his wits.
TR had risen from junior station hand to drover for one of the great pastoral families in the far north and he dreamed of one day making his own fortune. Deep down he wanted to fulfil his father’s dream and vindicate him in his mother’s eyes.
She had stuck by her man, too proud to ask family or friends for help, and her air of gentility had set her apart from the earthy country women who might have helped her. Instead, she struggled on alone, teaching her son about the finer things in life which she had once known. Although there was little food on the table, manners and etiquette were observed to the letter. She died when TR was sixteen, her son already won over by the bush.
The song ended and TR opened his eyes as the group about him clapped. Overwhelmed by memories TR excused himself and slipped quietly into the moonlit garden.
Upstairs Queenie tugged at the fastenings on the emerald green taffeta ballerina dress which Millie had painstakingly ironed. Gazing at her stiff and formal reflection, Queenie wrinkled her nose in distaste and squirmed uncomfortably in the boned and wired strapless ball dress with its flounced skirt. She lifted the heavy curtain of her burnished hair and coiled it in a looping bun, then decided against that and let her thick hair tumble over her shoulders. She reached for a tortoiseshell comb to pin it back behind one ear then stopped suddenly and smiled — she knew just the thing she needed to make her feel right.
In her bare feet, Queenie hitched up her dress and sat on the windowsill, throwing her legs onto the slanting roof. Gripping the corrugated iron with her toes and gingerly hanging on, she worked her way to the far corner where the branches of the peppercorn tree brushed against the roof. Entwined among the boughs spiralled a jasmine vine, thick with sweetly perfumed white clusters.
Queenie began pulling at the vine to bring the flowers within reach. As she leaned forward and tugged at the strong vine, her foot slipped and she slid with a clatter towards the edge of the roof. The strip of metal guttering broke her fall, and she flung her body flat onto the roof, one foot dangling over the edge, the other supported by the flimsy leaf-filled gutter. Her breath came in short startled gasps as she remained motionless.
A calm voice from below drifted up to her. ‘Just what are you doing, exactly?’
It was TR standing in the shadows of the peppercorn tree peering up at the dangling leg and taffeta skirt. Despite the precarious position Queenie seemed to be in, he sounded faintly amused.
As TR watched, the leg disappeared and there was a scratching and a rustle as Queenie swivelled her body around so her legs were now angled up the roof and she could look over the edge.
‘None of your business. What are you doing prowling around in the garden?’ demanded Queenie.
‘Oh, I was just taking a breath of fresh air. Are you planning on making some sort of entrance swinging through the trees like Tarzan?’
Queenie glared at him. ‘Very funny. For your information I was just getting some flowers. I slipped.’
‘You’re obviously not as good on rooftops as you are on a horse,’ said TR swinging into the tree and climbing till he was almost level with her nose. ‘You were after these, I suppose.’ He reached out to gather the heady sprays of delicate white flowers, and sniffed them appreciatively. ‘Very lovely. Allow me.’ He passed them to Queenie who silently took them from his hand.
‘Now, how are you going to get back inside? Come down the tree with me.’ TR held out his hand to her.
‘No, thank YOU,’ said Queenie stubbornly, feeling rather foolish. She gripped the stems of the flowers between her teeth and scrambled crablike back through her window.
She heard TR’s soft laughter floating behind her as she slammed the window closed.
Rose swept into the kitchen where Millie and young Ruthie were putting the final touches to the bowls and platters of fresh salads, vegetables and fruit — luxuries flown in for Queenie’s party.
Millie bustled about, wrapping her hands in a towel as she pulled open the door of the Aga cooker. The smell of fresh baked bread filled the room. With flour up to her elbows, Millie pulled out the tin pans and upended them on the bench, banging the bottoms to loosen the perfectly baked loaves.
Rose breathed in the delicious smell, tapping the base of the loaves which gave a hollow ring.
‘Done to perfection as always, Millie. The nun who taught you to bake at the mission did a splendid job.’
Millie was too busy to be flattered. ‘They taught us lots of things at the mission. Taught us to forget lots of things, too,’ said Millie, beginning to whip a bowl of Tingulla cream with a wire whisk.
Rose was unperturbed at Millie’s reference to the missionaries’ attitude to the Aboriginal children in their care. Millie was a pretty, plump woman in her late thirties, light enough to pass as having Mediterranean blood. She had come to Tingulla as a shy young girl fresh from the mission, with a confused and blurred knowledge of her Aboriginal heritage. The nuns had preferred to ignore the fact that a white man had been tempted by black flesh and that the resulting offspring had as much claim to an Aboriginal upbringing as they did to a white one. Instead, the children, whether they were full blood or quarter-caste, were thoroughly schooled in Christian morals and manners.
Rose thanked Millie and walked through the ground floor rooms and along the verandah where groups of young people had gathered. Seeing Queenie’s best friend, Sarah Quinn, crossing the lawn, she moved outside and stopped her.
‘Sarah, where is Queenie? I can’t find her anywhere,’ said Rose.
‘I haven’t seen her since the rodeo this afternoon, Mrs Hanlon. She must still be getting dressed.’
‘But it’s been ages. And you know Queenie never spends any time getting fancified. I’ve already had to chase her up once.’
As Sarah moved away a voice made Rose spin around. ‘Mrs Hanlon, your daughter was out on the roof a moment ago, I think she must still be upstairs.’
‘On the roof! That little monkey. What was she doing?’ asked Rose as she stared at the attractive young man before her.
TR shrugged. ‘I just happened to be strolling past when I heard a bit of a clatter and saw her. She was by the peppercorn tree. I did offer to help her down but she seems a bit of a tomboy and insisted on climbing back up the roof to her room,’ grinned TR.
Rose sighed. ‘A bit of a tomboy! You obviously don’t know Queenie well. I’d better go and see what she’s up to … thank you.’
TR watched Rose disappear into the brightly lit house, and wondered how such an elegant and gracious woman could have such a gawky and haughty daughter. Shaking his head, he smiled at the thought of Queenie’s face peering over the guttering at him, long hair falling past her shoulders, eyes wide and startled like a kangaroo trapped in a spotlight. There were
n’t too many girls TR could think of who would have been game enough to crawl around such a high and sloping roof.
Queenie intrigued him but he felt it best not to concern himself with the feisty daughter of the family. He was out to impress Patrick Hanlon, though TR suspected he might be able to charm Mrs Hanlon a little. Even so, he preferred to win a job on his own merits.
Rose snapped open Queenie’s door to find her daughter, rumpled and flushed, looking at herself with dismay in the mirror. Her new dress was crushed and soiled with a rip at the front.
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 p
lates 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.