by DIMORRISSEY
Queenie shrugged. ‘You say I’m fit and healthy. There’s a homestead there, although it’s run down — but it’s quite liveable. I’m taking Millie, my housekeeper and the senior stockman to work with me.’
‘There is the matter of regular medical checkups, Queenie.’
Queenie looked concerned, wondering how she was going to get around that problem. She couldn’t appear anywhere in the district while she was pregnant.
Understanding her difficulty, Doctor Miller smiled at her. ‘Well, I suppose I could drop in and see you at Cricklewood every couple of weeks. I make rounds to the outlying districts on a regular basis. A month before time you’ll have to go to Charters Towers.’
Queenie looked relieved. ‘Thank you, Doctor Miller.’
Queenie did some shopping, stocking up with baggy men’s shirts and loose workmen’s overalls, and by the time she set off back to Tingulla it was dusk. She didn’t want to stay in the pub in town or drive late into the night. So after several hours driving she pulled off the track and lit a campfire, opening the sandwiches and Thermos of hot tea before rolling into her swag on the ground by the car.
She lay there thinking about the day. Even though her plan was now in place, she hated all this deception. She felt she was being pushed along a path she didn’t want to follow. Trying to think through all the possibilities and the final outcome was hard. She sighed, telling herself to cope with each day as it came along. Why, oh why, had TR been so stubborn? Things could have been so different. She stared at the sky, a deep black dome inlaid with shining sparkles and pinpricks of silver. She remembered looking at these stars with her father, finding the Southern Cross and trying to count the Milky Way.
Out here, far from any town, the night sky seemed close and comforting. An image of TR’s brilliant blue eyes flashed in her mind, and her heart lurched.
Softly she began counting the stars, longing for sleep to come and obliterate the memories.
At Tingulla the next day, Queenie sat in her office and wrote letters to stock and station agencies, advertisements for the Land and Country Life newspapers and, on the spur of the moment, a quick note to Dingo McPherson.
During their morning smoko Jim looked solemn as Millie blurted out the news about Queenie. ‘Now you keep it to yourself, Jim. But I just don’t think it’s right. Her giving away a baby to strangers. A baby we could all love. But that’s Queenie’s decision.’
Jim gave Millie a sympathetic smile. They had no children and Millie longed for a large family. She had faint memories of her own sisters and brothers, an extended family of cousins and kids who seemed to belong to everyone. Until they were taken away to the mission schools. She’d lost touch with all her family now. In their place she had, in her secret heart, replaced them with the Hanlons.
Slowly the muddled pieces of Queenie’s life began to fall into place. It was Dingo who came to her rescue with the name of a possible manager. The man who would be the ‘boss’ of Tingulla had to have a variety of skills — knowledge of farming and grazing, and accountancy and managerial abilities. He would need the respect of the men working on the station; foresight and business acumen in planning sales of wool and stock; and the ability to keep everything in running order. Above all, Queenie wanted someone who would recognise and continue to nurture the spirit of Tingulla.
A married couple would have worked out well, but Dingo wrote in glowing terms of a single man, Warwick Redmond, whom he knew from his days in the Kimberleys in Western Australia.
… He’s young still, about thirty, I think, but he’s been around big stations in the West. He is exceptionally personable, has all the right qualifications and is keen to move to the other side of the continent. His family had some money and he hoped to get a place of his own but they did their dough on some wild oil exploration deal, I believe. He has four sisters who all married quite well. He was the baby of the family and unfortunately the money had been lost by the time he was ready to set himself up in the world. But he’s been a hard worker, done a variety of things, even worked in the city for a bit. He ran one of my mate’s properties for a couple of years and he was real pleased with him. I think Warwick’s been kicking round the city for a bit and he’s dead keen to get back on the land.
Give the bloke a go, Queenie. I think it could work out well. I’m glad you contacted me, that’s what mates are for. Remember, I’ll always be there should you need me. And I’ll never forget our ride in the dark with the ghosts of the roaring days! You’re doing real good, girl … don’t feel you’re handing over the reins of Tingulla’cause you can’t manage. You’ve been through more than many have to suffer in a lifetime. Go have some fun and see some different scenery. You’ll be a new girl when you get back to Tingulla.
Fondly, Dingo.
The next week’s mail brought a letter from Doctor Miller with some documents for Queenie to sign and details of what the procedure would be when she moved to Charters Towers to await the birth of the baby. She would spend the last weeks in a Catholic-run hostel. Doctor Miller explained that the nuns ran a private service to assist girls and to prevent abortions. They worked with the welfare authorities to place the babies with adoptive parents.
Doctor Miller added that he understood a family had been selected and her child would be fortunate in going to a very good home. Naturally he was not told any details — the ‘transaction’ would be conducted between the mother superior, state officials, lawyers and the adoptive family.
Like a blowfly buzzing in a summer room, thoughts hummed at the edges of Queenie’s mind. She tried to push away the knowledge that she would never see the baby now growing within her body. Vaguely she understood the child would never be able to trace her, nor she it. She was finding it hard to follow the doctor’s advice to try not to think about it, and when it was all over, to put it behind her.
She began the preparations to move to Cricklewood while giving the impression to Sarah’s parents and other neighbours that she was taking a holiday in Sydney and might even go overseas. The Quinns urged her to try and link up with Sarah, although they were a bit vague about her exact whereabouts in Europe.
Queenie just smiled, thanked everyone and went about her tasks.
After a few days she received a letter from Warwick Redmond saying he’d heard from Dingo McPherson that she might be looking for a manager, and enclosing some details about himself.
His references and experience were excellent. From his letter he sounded keen and resourceful with a sense of humour. He’d apparently travelled round the world a bit, but realised he was best on the land and he hoped she’d give him a chance to prove himself. He had done his homework on Tingulla — no doubt much picked up from Dingo — but in Queenie’s mind his biggest asset was the fact Dingo had recommended him. She’d make a few enquiries, and talk it over with Hamish Barton the solicitor, the Quinns and Jim. But already in the back of her mind, she knew, unless something negative turned up, Mr Warwick Redmond had a job.
Chapter Nine
Queenie and Jim had finished drenching the new lambs and decided to stop for a smoko.
Jim lit a small fire as Queenie filled the battered billy from the canvas water bag tied to the front bumper bar of the Land Rover. ‘I think I’ve found a manager, Jim. A bloke Dingo McPherson recommended.’
‘Well, if Dingo put you on to him, he’ll probably be all right.’
‘He’s from the West but worked all over the place. Grew up on the land but apparently his family lost their money and property. He arrives next week. I’ll spend a week or so with him covering all the paperwork, and take him into town and introduce him around a bit to the accountant, bank manager and the stock and station blokes. Then I’ll hand him over to you. Okay, Jim?’
Jim nodded, then reached into his shirt pocket for tobacco and papers and methodically went through the ritual of ‘rolling his own’, paying close attention to every detail.
Queenie watched and said nothing.
The water be
gan to boil and she threw in a handful of tea leaves and stood the billy can in the white ash at the edge of the fire. Jim lit his cigarette with a burning stick from the fire and as he tossed it back, their eyes met, and for a moment there was a wordless communication between them.
Queenie knew that the veteran station hand could not express his trust and loyalty in words, but the look in his eyes made her throat tighten and she felt tears welling up.
She wiped an eye with a dusty hand and reached for the billy. ‘I don’t have to tell you I feel I’m really leaving Tingulla in your hands, Jim.’
‘Don’t worry, lass. I’ll keep an eye on things … and this new bloke. You just look after yourself.’ He reached for his mug. ‘Ta … good brew,’ he said brightly, signalling that there was nothing left to discuss.
Queenie knew that Jim would be unofficially running Tingulla. However, his cursory schooling didn’t equip him to manage accounts and the administrative work and he had no interest in the business side of the property. Jim was a hands-on, nuts and bolts, practical man of the land — and a mechanical whiz. His love and loyalty for Tingulla and Queenie’s late parents were worth far more than any university degree.
Queenie stood on the platform where a dozen people waited for the arrival of the passenger train from Rockhampton. She exchanged pleasantries with the Station Master who treated the event as a social occasion and made a point of talking to everyone, sifting out bits of news and information from one to pass onto the next person.
Queenie smiled. By the time the distant whistle of the approaching train was heard, everyone on the station would know she was waiting to greet the new manager of Tingulla.
It was probably the day’s hottest bit of news and gave everyone an added interest in the train that for some minutes had been a smudge of smoke on the horizon — the only feature on the great brown expanse of sunburnt grass and the huge, blinding blue sky. Everyone squinted into the heat haze and watched the steam engine emerge as a solid shape from the mirage down the track.
The driver gave an extravagant blast on the whistle and with much hissing of steam and clanging and crashing of iron and steel, brought the train to a stop.
Stockmen threw out swags and saddles, women lined up suitcases. Some had straw baskets or string bags, each topped by the inevitable thermos flask, long emptied of the tea which had sustained them through the journey across the outback.
Queenie sized up the passengers and saw two men who might be Warwick Redmond.
One was short, ruddy and muscular. The other a tall rangy man, thin but wiry. She hoped it would be the well muscled man. Both gazed around the platform, but it was the tall thin fellow with a mop of black curly hair who grinned at her and picked up his bag. ‘You must be Miss Hanlon.’
‘I must?’
‘Dingo described you. He said you had terrific long hair. I’m Warwick Redmond.’
They shook hands and turned towards the gate. ‘Thanks for coming in to meet me personally. I didn’t expect it.’
‘I had to come to town anyway. I thought we might go over to the Crown Hotel for a bite to eat before we face the long drive to Tingulla.’
‘Suits me. I had a stale meat pie for breakfast and I couldn’t get a sleeper so I’ve been folded up in a second class seat for hours.’
‘I guess long legs can be a bit of a problem in cars and trains.’
‘And on horses. Hope you’ve got an eighteen-hander or thereabouts, otherwise I wear my boots out dragging my heels on the ground.’
Queenie laughed. ‘I think we might be able to find one big enough for you.’
She watched Warwick Redmond carefully over lunch. He was affable, easy-going, but had a certain panache. Although he didn’t name-drop or boast, it was obvious he’d travelled abroad and seen more than the inside of bars.
He contrasted the train trip with one he had made on a quaint steam train through the French Alps and compared the stale meat pie with French bread, wine and cheese. ‘Top tucker … travels well too,’ he observed. ‘Reminded me of a painting I saw in the Louvre, a still life of wine bottles, bread and cheese.’ Then, as if embarrassed at the recollection, he flashed a big smile and added, ‘Reckon someone ought to paint a damper served up from a bush oven with a mug of tea and treacle.’
They laughed and Queenie felt herself warming to her new station manager.
He turned the conversation to Tingulla with polite but pointed questions.
It was a pleasant lunch but eventually Queenie indicated they had to get on the road. ‘So many questions! We have a long drive ahead. I’ll fill you in on the family history and what we’re doing as we go,’ smiled Queenie.
Gallantly, Warwick extracted the bill from her fingers and insisted on paying.
The hours passed easily as Queenie drove and answered Warwick’s questions about the state of the land, the stock, and descriptions of everyone working at Tingulla.
Queenie began to relax. He didn’t talk about changes or what he’d like to do at the property. He treated her respectfully but with a certain friendly humour, and seemed unfazed that his new boss was a slip of a girl ten years his junior.
Warwick, however, was glad Dingo had prepared him for Queenie and told him about the tragic deaths of her parents. He had expected her to be tougher. She was dressed in a skirt, a large man’s shirt and jacket with riding boots and broad-brimmed hat, and he saw immediately that she was extremely pretty. Her shining hair cascaded loosely down her back and she seemed rather vulnerable. Obviously running a station as big as Tingulla was too great a task. It needed a manager at the helm.
Over the next few days Warwick’s self-confidence wavered slightly as he saw the scope of Tingulla and began to realise how capably and efficiently Queenie ran everything. She maintained a friendly but businesslike attitude and occasionally quietly tested him as they travelled about the property.
Warwick insisted on looking over every part of the property with either Jim or Queenie. It was a thoroughness that made everyone feel confident the new boss was ‘fair dinkum’ about the job.
It seemed the magic of Tingulla was already starting to grip the newcomer. ‘It’s a beautiful property,’ observed Warwick softly one day, when with Queenie, he was looking over one of the remote paddocks from a slight rise in the plain.
They were standing up in the front of the old Land Rover, its canvas top down, and leaning on the windscreen. After a pause he went on, ‘I understand now why everyone here seems so devoted to it. A lot of love has gone into it over the years.’
The remark surprised Queenie, but she showed no reaction. It wasn’t the sort of emotion bushmen expressed openly. Manliness in the outback didn’t encompass such pronouncements.
‘It’s not all that perfect,’ she countered. ‘I reckon this part needs something to give it a kick along.’ The remark was said lightly, but she was probing and testing him.
Warwick scanned the area, taking in patches of scrub, a few stands of trees, the lay of the low, rolling hills, and what passed as a watercourse. ‘Needs a bore, I’d say. Too far from water for stock to make much use of it.’
‘Well then,’ said Queenie with concealed satisfaction, ‘we’d better do something about that.’ She slipped down into the seat, and swung the Land Rover towards the homestead.
She had settled him into the main guest suite and found him a suitable stockhorse. It was a massive unbroken animal, strong and stubborn. Warwick knew as a point of honour he’d have to break it in himself and it was a frenzied tussle of two strong wills.
The men watched, cheering him on as he took a fall then remounted. Queenie stayed quietly in the background watching Warwick fume and struggle with the big tough horse. In her heart she felt she could have bent the animal to her will with far subtler methods, but she said nothing. Warwick had to prove himself in front of the men.
Warwick had grasped the book-keeping system and stock management programme immediately and had a good knowledge of the wool industry.
/>
After dinner one evening Queenie offered Warwick a port in her study and outlined her future plans for breeding a line of strong stockhorses. Warwick listened and watched her as she talked. He had reassessed Queenie and found her to be more than equal to the job of running Tingulla. He knew she was twenty-two years old, but she was an intriguing contrast — a poised and knowledgeable businesswoman who also showed flashes of the daring young horsewoman he’d heard about. So far he had only seen Queenie trotting sedately on Nareedah but he was impressed by her skill with horses. Sometimes he sensed a fragility about her beneath her assured exterior. He supposed the turmoil of the past months had taken their toll, and she was simply holding herself in check until she could get away and fall apart, then gradually renew her emotional strength.
His respect for her grew and he wondered how he would have coped with the tragedies which had befallen Queenie. She never talked about her personal life, although she referred naturally to her parents in the course of conversation. She was a strong young woman, feminine too, despite dressing like a man most of the time.
Millie tapped on the door and brought in coffee and more cake.
‘Millie, I couldn’t eat another thing. But I’m sure Mr Redmond will. You’ll find Ruthie bakes almost as well as Millie, Warwick,’ she said, as he reached for a slice of fruit cake.
‘Not for me thanks, Millie. I’m rationing my cake intake,’ said Queenie, as Millie ignored her initial rejection.
‘You should be eating up hearty, Queenie.’
‘Thank you, Millie. That will be all.’
Warwick glanced in surprise at the curt tone in her voice.
Warwick faced his first small crisis over a disagreement with Jim.