by DIMORRISSEY
It was Jim who took her to one side, suggesting she keep her distance and do her checking up after hours. ‘The men don’t like a woman bossing them around, Queenie. They’re starting to grumble a bit … you being so young, too.’
‘I understand, Jim. But I want them to know that I’m still keeping tabs on them even if I don’t show my face in the shed.’
‘Or your pretty backside in those tight pants,’ thought Jim, knowing full well the sort of remarks being tossed about by the rough and tumble working men. Maybe he’d better get Millie to talk to Queenie. She’d didn’t seem to realise the effect she had on men, especially the kind who’d been in the bush, away from female company for months.
Queenie worked herself to the point of exhaustion. It was getting more difficult to rise at dawn each day to go riding, but it cleared her head. She found herself longing to spend a day in bed just resting and reading, something she had never been tempted to do before. She felt as if her energy was being drained and she worried over accounts and delays with the shearing.
Finally the wool clip was ready for sale and Queenie hoped it would fetch a good price.
Colin arrived home from university for the mid-term break but refused to take any interest in the business affairs of Tingulla.
‘But it’s your future too, Colin,’ said Queenie in exasperation.
‘You own it — you run it. If the place goes bankrupt it’s no skin off my nose,’ he retorted and stormed from the room.
Queenie packed a small bag and left for Brisbane for the wool sales. She felt she needed a break as she hadn’t been into a town in several months. Wearing a dress for a change and strolling down the street, her spirits lifted and she began to feel more positive about her future. She hoped she would hear from TR soon.
The sale took place at the Wool Exchange and she stood nervously at the back of the stuffy crowded room as the Dalgety auctioneer opened the bidding.
Back at Tingulla, Colin sat at Patrick’s — now Queenie’s — desk, rifling through papers and account books out of idle curiosity. Grudgingly he had to admit Queenie seemed to have things well under control.
Colin was bored. He wished Sarah was still around. Most of his friends were busy working on their parents’ properties.
He strolled out to the verandah in time to see a cloud of dust on the road leading to the driveway. Five minutes later the mailman on his weekly round pulled up by the front steps.
He handed Colin a fat bundle of letters, newspapers and a couple of magazines tied with string. ‘You looking after things for a bit, are you? Have you heard what the wool prices are like?’
Colin shook his head. He was not inclined to gossip with the mailman who carried news from station to station.
‘Well, I’ll be on my way. Give my best to Queenie. Tell her I’ll see her in a week or so.’
The mail truck disappeared behind its own dust storm and Colin ambled inside, sorting through the mail. Three letters addressed to Queenie caught his eye and he turned them over to find they were from TR with a return address of a post box in Oklahoma.
Colin went back into the office and sat turning them over. Curiosity soon got the better of him and he walked cautiously into the kitchen. Millie was upstairs sweeping. Colin pulled the kettle of hot water back over the heat and carefully steamed open the flap of the first letter.
As he read he felt angry, hurt and betrayed. The letters were the first TR had written to Queenie; full of love, amusing anecdotes and a promise they would be together soon. He was making top money already and he was investigating some business prospects for their future. Colin read,
… Queenie, darling, I know how you feel about Tingulla and I know you don’t want to leave. So I’m thinking I might be able to buy a property nearby and run a horse breeding and training business from there while we live at Tingulla — after we’re married. What do you think? I miss you so much …
Colin crumpled the letter in a clenched fist. If TR married Queenie and moved in here he’d never stand a chance of becoming boss of Tingulla. Colin suddenly realised with great force how much he wanted to own Tingulla. He didn’t want the daily grind of running the place — he’d hire a manager to do that — but he did want the status and pride of owning one of Australia’s grand properties.
Let Queenie and TR go off and breed horses, or whatever they wanted to do. Tingulla rightfully belonged to him — his father was wrong. He did care about Tingulla. He wanted it.
Queenie walked from the Wool Exchange well pleased with the price her nine hundred bales of merino fleece had fetched. After a year or more of hard work it had been sold in a matter of seconds. She wondered where Tingulla’s wool would finally end up — perhaps in a Saville Row suit or European couture dress. She recalled her conversation with the beefy and jovial Dalgety wool agent who had predicted wool prices would continue to rise due to the overseas demand. ‘This country rides on the sheep’s back, Queenie, don’t you forget it.’
Queenie decided to treat herself to some new clothes even though it would be weeks before the wool cheque was deposited in the bank. Trying on a skirt in a cramped dressing room of Fletcher Jones, a sudden feeling of nausea swept over her. A nervous reaction to the tension of the sale, she supposed. She quickly dressed and headed outside, turning into a small Greek cafe and milk bar. She sat in a booth and ordered a pot of tea and raisin toast and soon felt a bit better.
She hoped Colin would at least be pleased she had managed so well. Queenie began planning how some of the wool money would be spent around Tingulla. The shearers’ union rep had been a bit militant and threatening when she had talked about next year’s shearing contract. The woolshed with its prewar equipment needed updating.
That evening Colin sat at the long dining room table with a glass of Scotch beside his untouched dinner.
Millie clattered angrily in the kitchen dishing up Jim’s dinner, muttering, ‘Waste of good food. I’m not going back in there — he snapped my head off.’
‘Just leave him be, Millie. Come on, where’s my steak?’
Colin shoved his plate to one side, took his glass and went into the office. Pulling writing paper from a drawer, he began to write in swift, determined strokes, sealed the letter and addressed it. He then picked up the three letters from TR and threw them in the ashes in the open fireplace and dropped a lighted match on top. Quickly they caught fire, curled and disintegrated.
Far away on the coast in Brisbane’s Grand Hotel Queenie eased herself into the creaking iron bed. She lay there as the light from the small bedside lamp with its dusty fringe threw shadows around the room. For a while she stared blankly at the fly-spotted ceiling, unconscious of the noise from the bar downstairs.
Clicking off the light, Queenie curled on her side hugging her knees, overwhelmed by the enormity of the realisation that she was pregnant.
Chapter Eight
For several weeks Queenie tried to blot out of her mind the knowledge of the child growing within her — as if by ignoring it, the reality would go away. She was not prepared to feel happy or defeated by it. Had there been news from TR she might have felt differently, even though they had parted on angry terms.
She couldn’t understand why he hadn’t contacted her. She didn’t want to believe she had slipped to the fringes of his mind as he was swept along in the excitement of rodeo riding in America.
At first she was puzzled by his apparent silence, but as the weeks passed she found herself becoming annoyed, then angry. She vented this anger by flinging herself into a frenzy of reckless activity, exhausting herself by taking physical risks. She rode unbroken horses and took Nareedah on wild gallops, jumping over fallen trees and charging through the bush in pursuit of big kangaroos just for the release it brought.
One quiet Sunday when most of the station hands had gone into town and Millie and Jim were resting in their own quarters, Queenie wandered through the empty house brooding about her plight. She walked up and down the verandah pausing to look
across the peaceful grounds in the hope of spotting a rising cloud of dust that might signal the arrival of a visitor … anyone. She suddenly wanted to see TR, and badly. She closed her eyes as anger, desire and loneliness spread through her like a wind fanning a bushfire.
Soon she found herself on Nareedah, racing wildly through the scrub country. She had no memory of saddling her but now the fire in her heart began to subside, quelled by the exhilaration of the ride and the eucalypt-scented air.
Suddenly a grey kangaroo, as tall as a man, appeared from behind a growth of shrubs where it had been grazing. Startled by the galloping horse it veered and bounded away and Queenie nudged Nareedah after it.
Within seconds the frightened kangaroo was almost at top speed, slowed only by the thickness of the scrub and its swerving changes of direction. The white horse kept close to its zigzagging course, urged on by Queenie’s low voice — ‘Faster, girl, faster …’
The roo stretched out, increasing its speed and heading in a straight line. It took huge leaps powered by the immense force of its back legs, its extended tail providing perfect balance. Queenie had eyes only for the giant kangaroo and was oblivious to all else. It was for this reason that she didn’t see the fence.
The kangaroo had cleared it with an effortless bound and had kept going. Nareedah balked and swung to the left, but still slammed into the taut wire strands. Queenie, off balance, flew out of the saddle and over the wire.
She came to, unaware how long she had blacked out — seconds or minutes. Faithful Nareedah was still standing on the other side of the fence, picking at the thin coarse grass. Slowly Queenie sat up and felt her head, but apart from a headache and slightly bleeding lump on her forehead she seemed to be in one piece. She tested her legs — no breaks — then crawled to the fence post and leaned against it.
Still dazed she rested for a moment, when it suddenly struck her — perhaps she had harmed her child. She touched her stomach lightly, undecided as to whether losing the baby would be a good or a bad thing.
Slowly she began to realise what she had subconsciously been doing to herself. She had no right to force the situation. What if TR suddenly walked in the door that afternoon and found she had deliberately caused a miscarriage?
But there had been no news from TR. A thought hit her like a blow — perhaps he’d had an accident. Maybe he’d taken a bad fall in a rodeo and was lying injured in some strange hospital. This possibility hadn’t crossed her mind before; she’d been so selfishly wrapped up in her own problems. Scrambling to her feet she painfully eased her bruised body back into the saddle and headed for Tingulla at a sedate pace.
Queenie clattered into the rear courtyard and slid from Nareedah, shouting for Ernie to stable her horse. She plodded wearily through the kitchen, tossed her hat on the sideboard and sank into a comfortable chair.
Millie appeared, took one look at her and tutted, kneeling to pull Queenie’s riding boots from her feet. ‘What are you trying to do? Kill yourself? Go have a hot bath, girl, and stop trying to be two men around here.’ Millie watched her go with a puzzled and worried expression.
Silently Queenie trudged upstairs.
Inhaling the sweetness of the rose oil, Queenie lay back in the steamy water and closed her eyes, trying to visualise the tiny form inside her womb. A smile crept to her lips and slowly the tension flowed from her body as she relaxed and began to accept what was happening to her.
Everything would be all right.
Alone in the study and eating a hearty meal for the first time in days, Queenie thumbed through the Brisbane Courier Mail.
She turned a page and froze, dropping her fork with a clunk. She pulled the paper to her with both hands. There, staring up at her from the feature photograph was the smiling face of TR, surrounded by admiring girls in cowboy hats and fringed blouses.
The local-boy-makes-good story related how TR Hamilton had won the Texas Triple Rodeo Crown for buckjumping and bull riding, pocketing a hefty pile of American dollars for beating all comers. Down Under Cowboy Comes Up Tops boasted the banner on the picture.
The initial shock gave way to a flush of pride, but after skipping through the article in which TR told how much he was enjoying the North American rodeo scene and his success, she looked again at the photograph. The girls had their eyes on TR, not the camera. No wonder he hadn’t written. Too many distractions, no doubt. She threw down the paper and stomped from the room.
Queenie sat under a silvery satin-smooth ghost gum on the bank of the creek not far from the homestead and trailed pointless patterns in the sand with a stick. After the first flash of anger, Queenie had found her head clearing as she walked across the paddock to the creek. Now she could see everything clearly. No longer was she confused and concerned about the path she had to take. It wasn’t going to be easy, and she would need help from the only person close to her whom she could trust … Millie.
She bit her lip and thrust the stick deep into the sand. Millie would not be happy with her solution, but her mind was made up.
Queenie found it hard to take her friend aside and speak to her. There were long silences as they sipped their tea in the kitchen before going to bed.
Despite the fact TR had gone out of her life, Queenie was not ashamed of having loved him. She was sad and scared at being pregnant, and if she was totally honest, more annoyed at herself for getting into this predicament.
She felt like a foolish, ignorant and simple girl. She knew the kind of remarks that would be passed around the woolsheds and pubs — ‘Miss Queenie Hanlon’s up the duff’, ‘she’s got a bun in the oven’, or ‘she’s no better than the gins who sleep with drunken white men for a couple of quid’.
Millie knew it too. She could imagine the gloating laughter and comments in the bars proving gleefully that the Hanlons were no better than the rest of them. Her first and immediate reaction was to go around the table and wrap her plump arms about the young woman who gripped a tea cup in both hands, stiff with tension.
‘So that’s how it is, Millie. I’m not saying anything about the father. Don’t ever ask who he is. Please. But I’ll need your help.’
‘Of course, Queenie love. One more little mouth to feed around here is no problem.’
Queenie pulled away and reached for the teapot. ‘I’m not keeping the baby, Millie. I’m putting it up for adoption.’ Queenie spoke softly but with determination.
Millie blinked back the tears and bit her lip as an exclamation sprung to her lips. She wanted to shake Queenie, to shout at her not to be so silly. But it was not her place.
She stared at Queenie’s set face. ‘Why, Queenie? We can all love and look after it. I think it would be a good thing. I brought you up with your mumma. I know about babies … even though Jim and I never … had one.’ The tears slid down Millie’s dusky cheeks.
‘Please don’t cry, Millie. This is hard enough. I will need your help with the practical details. I have to think of Tingulla. I don’t want to look like a silly young girl. I can’t deal with the business of running this place and appear a responsible adult when I obviously can’t even look after myself. Think of the embarrassment and shame it would bring to Mum and Dad …’ Her voice faltered.
Millie sat down and folded her hands. ‘So what do we do?’
Queenie smiled slightly at the loyal Millie accepting the news as her problem too. ‘I’m going into town to see Doctor Miller. He’ll advise me on how I go about … everything. I’ll probably go to Brisbane, maybe even Sydney, to give birth. But in the meantime I plan on moving over to Cricklewood to start work on that property.’
Queenie had thought it all through. She spoke matter-of-factly.
Millie was still struggling to take in all the details. ‘Cricklewood? There’s nothing there. Just a rundown old property that’s been untouched for years and years.’
‘That’s true, Millie. Dad and I did talk about developing the place one day … to run a few cattle and maybe start our horse breeding programme there.
He left it to me in his will and — well — I’m just going to start work on it a bit sooner, that’s all.’
Millie nodded. She understood Queenie would want to be as far away from prying eyes as possible.
‘I would like you to come with me. I’ll take Snowy as well. Jim will have to stay here to keep an eye on things. Obviously he can come over to visit when he has time. It’s a good day’s drive. But I’ll need you with me, Millie. Ruthie will have to take over here. She’s young but you’ve trained her well.’
Millie blinked. This was all going too fast. ‘But who’s going to run Tingulla? Colin hasn’t graduated yet.’
Queenie stood. ‘I’ve put out feelers and made a few enquiries for a station manager. I have explained to everyone, including Colin, that I am tired and need a change and a rest. If anyone asks, I’m taking a holiday.’
She had mulled over the idea of confiding in Colin, wishing she could open her heart to her brother, now her only family. But instinct warned Queenie that revealing the truth to Colin would not be prudent.
Queenie drove into town late the following morning and parked in the middle of the broad street divided by a row of trucks and dusty cars. A cattle dog lay on the road, idly scratching its fleas. Queenie turned into a doorway where a wine-red glass box with a light in it hung above the entrance, with Doctor painted on it in gold lettering.
Doctor Miller was understanding and sympathetic and maintained a detached professional manner. Queenie was brisk and businesslike as she informed him of her plans.
He didn’t try to persuade her otherwise but simply asked in a steady voice, ‘Are you absolutely sure, Queenie?’
She answered firmly, without hesitating. She’d done her soul and heart searching. ‘Yes. You know I have no other choice. And termination is out of the question.’
Looking down, the doctor lifted his pen. ‘Very well then. I will write you a reference to my colleague Doctor Reese in Charters Towers who will take care of matters discreetly. I don’t know that your idea of staying on that undeveloped property during your term months is such a good thing, though.’