FOLLOW THE MORNING STAR (52 page)

‘I want to enter Toffee in the Gold Coast Cup. I’ve trained him but I don’t have a licence, so I was wondering if you would enter him for me.’

The farmer slowly finished rolling his cigarette and licked the length of paper. ‘Who owns him?’

‘I do now. With my girlfriend. He had broken down but I reckon I’ve re-educated him and I think he’ll do well. He had a few places and a win before he developed his phobia.’

Angus Wellburn lit up and took a long drag before answering. ‘I’d have to be pretty sure about this fellow now. I mean, I have my reputation to think of, can’t be running a dog under my name.’

‘Listen, Mr Wellburn, come and watch him run on the flat by the river. Time him.’

‘Righto, don’t get yourself in a lather, girl.’ He ambled over to his truck. ‘I’ll follow you down. Did you bring a stopwatch?’

‘You bet.’ Saskia swung into the saddle and patted Toffee. ‘Let’s go, sport. Show us what you can do.’

The beautiful thoroughbred lifted his head and trotted down the road that led to the big flat stretch of kikuyu grass along the riverbank. When the farmer had parked and had the stopwatch ready, Saskia moved into position. At the blast of the car horn, she kicked Toffee into the straight and along the
sweeping bend of the riverbed. As they swept past him Angus Wellburn clicked the stopwatch, looked at the distance, at the hands of the watch, and made a few quick calculations.

Saskia trotted back to him. Toffee looked as though he’d barely expended any energy and could do it several times over before working up a sweat. ‘How’d we do?’

‘Not bad. Hard to judge out here, what with the rough start and all, but . . .’ Angus allowed himself a small smile. ‘He’ll do me all right, I reckon.’

‘Wow! So you’ll do it. You’ll enter him for us?’

‘Hang on. It’s not as easy as that. I’ll have to see his papers and he’ll have to qualify and we’ll have to do some serious workouts, but there’s time. We’ll also have to find a jockey.’

‘I have a friend in mind, if he’s available,’ responded Saskia quickly.

Angus looked doubtful. ‘That’s nice he’s a friend, but is he any good?’

‘He’s won the Melbourne Cup and he is the resident rider for Guneda Stud. Is that good enough?’

Angus tugged at his hat brim and grinned. ‘Yeah, that might be good enough.’ He looked at the horse then Saskia. ‘You’re full of surprises, young lady. Come up to the house and we’ll talk about the details of getting him ready for the race.’

Jenni was just as excited as Saskia and they dubbed themselves the Sweetheart Syndicate. Saskia phoned Mick at Guneda and before she said anything made him promise to keep the
whole conversation confidential. ‘This is just between you and me, Mick. I don’t mind what your answer is, but just promise me you won’t mention this to Tango.’

‘All right, Saskia. You not doin’ sumthin’ you shouldn’t, but?’

‘No Mick. It’s a bit of a game between me and Tango. See, I found this horse . . . ’

His feet up on a chair, Mick listened carefully, pulling thoughtfully at his ear lobe. ‘Well, I’ll tell ya straight, Saskia, Tango is me boss while TR ain’t about, but I have t’say I ain’t too happy at ridin’ Ambrosia for that Camboni fella. He and Colin ran a dirty race against me in the Melbourne Cup. I don’t think he’s gonna make me ride if I don’t want to do it. He’s a pretty good horse but, and stands a good chance, y’know. What’s your bloke like?’

‘He’s good too, Mick. But you’ll have to come and see for yourself. We’ll pay your expenses if you can come up here. You can stay at a farm down the road. I don’t want Colin to see you.’

Mick chuckled. ‘You gonna keep me under a bed? I kin crash in the stable. Good way t’get to know a horse.’

‘Is that a yes, Mick?’ pleaded Saskia.

‘You sound like your mumma. She know ‘bout this plan?’

‘No, but she’s seen the horse and thought he looked good. But I’d rather do this on my own without anyone in the family knowing,’ said Saskia, barely containing her excitement.

‘Tell you what, I was planning on taking a bit
of a break soon as Tango gits back from Dingo’s place. He rang and said he was comin’ back soon, but TR was stayin’ on for a bit. I was gonna go to Tingulla, but I’ll come over there first. Always wanted t’look at that Surfers Paradise place.’

‘Good on you, Mick. Let me know when you’re arriving.’ Saskia couldn’t believe her luck. Finally she had a chance to prove herself.

Queenie rang Colin’s solicitor but he was unavailable and no one else could help her. She left her name and Sarah’s number, then she rang Tingulla.

‘Millie, it’s me, how are things?’

‘No worries, luv. You gone and sold that hotel of yours?’

‘Sure have. And I’m busy reinvesting the money in Tingulla Fashions. It’s all coming together quite well. There is just one black cloud on the horizon.’

‘What’s that, Queenie?’

‘Colin. He’s up to something. He has his solicitor chasing me. You haven’t heard anything or had any visits up there?’

‘No, nothing. All is quiet and goin’ smooth. Though you’d think the Queen herself was gettin’ hitched with all the palaver over Ruthie and Ernie’s wedding. She wants a big church wedding, being a mission girl, and he wants t’keep it simple. Course, he’s bin pullin’ her leg tellin’ her they is gonna do a full tribal corroboree and she’ll have to wear grass and white paint, no white lace dress and veil.’

Queenie laughed. ‘Tell Ruthie I’d be really
happy if they used Tingulla’s church. We’ve all been married there and she and Ernie are family. We’ll make it a special day. Has she chosen the date?’

‘She’s asked Snowy to decide what’d be the best day. But it’s not far off. She’s gunna be real excited to git married in Tingulla’s church. Thanks, luv. Here, when you comin’ home? And what about TR?’

‘I’ll be home in a week, I guess. But I don’t know about TR. From what Tango tells me, the trip west is doing him good. He’s riding again.’

‘Goodoh. We miss ya, luv. Jim and everyone send their love. And, Queenie, try not to worry about Colin too much.’

‘Thanks Millie. Cheerio.’ Queenie put down the phone feeling buoyed by Millie’s warmth and optimism.

Queenie and Sarah made an appointment to see Countess Magda at her salon. The address they were given was in the inner-city suburb of Surry Hills. Silk House turned out to be an unprepossessing old red-brick building with paint peeling from dusty windows and a litter of company names, scrawled mainly on cardboard, at the entrance. A metal grille zigzagged across a dark and dingy lift and a wide flight of grubby wooden stairs lit by bare bulbs circled the liftwell.

Sarah and Queenie waited for the lift but the metal arrow floor indicator appeared to be stuck at the sixth floor. They looked at one another, shrugged and headed for the stairs. On the fifth floor they turned into a stark bare
fluorescent-lit hallway, walking past Whizz-Kids Graphic Art to plain double doors identified as Suite 503. They knocked and hesitantly opened the door.

Inside was a tiny lobby with another set of doors. A small table featured a telephone, desk diary and a large fishbowl filled with tall white lilies. The room needed painting, but a good Persian rug covered the faded functional carpet and a heavy gold-framed portrait reminiscent of the Flemish school made a brave attempt at class. Sarah pointed to the tiny brass dinner bell on the table and Queenie picked it up and shook it.

Its tinkle had barely faded when the inner doors were flung upon and the countess appeared, pausing dramatically, a hand on each door. She looked stunning, dressed in a black dress with a deep folded cowl neckline with long slim sleeves and an embroidered fringed shawl draped over one shoulder and caught by a huge jewelled pin that matched her earrings. Her lipstick was deep scarlet, her dark eyes outlined in black kohl and her raven hair twisted on top of her head.

‘Welcome,’ she said, extending her hand first to Queenie then to Sarah. She could have been greeting them at the entrance to the inner chamber of a palace.

‘Now let me explain. I do not see clients here, well, very infrequently. I prefer to go to clients’ homes. We have a small fitting room over there but this is where the work happens. Follow me, I know that is what you wish to see.’

She swung about and they followed her through a rabbit warren of rooms housing bolts of fabric, supplies and finished garments, past a packing and consignment room and into a large open space that was clearly the main workroom. Light flooded in through floor-to-ceiling windows. Some pattern-cutters worked at long broad tables and several women fussed around a row of dressmaker’s dummies draped in outfits at various stages of completion. Half a dozen machinists hunched over large buzzing sewing machines.

‘We send out a lot to sewers and finishers, our girls here do the first samples and make the toiles. Detailing, hand-finishing, buttonholing, beading and so on are all done by piece workers.’ The countess waved a hand around. ‘The show at David Jones was good for us. It’s nice to be so busy again.’

They continued through the big work area into an office. It was dominated by a large desk covered in papers, order and invoice books, and swatches of fabric. A white-board on the wall was covered in notes and orders. An older woman sat at a second desk talking rapidly into the phone in a European language neither Queenie nor Sarah recognised.

‘This is the hub!’ exclaimed the countess with a bold sweep of an arm. ‘Now, we come through here, into the secret oasis and we shall take coffee.’

After the crowded beehive they had passed through, it was indeed an oasis. It was a small room, elegantly furnished with antiques and a few fine objets d’art; the walls were hung with
photos of clothes and fashion sketches simply signed
Magda.
A fine old tapestry screen hid a tiny sink and bench where a Russian samovar and heavy Turkish coffeemaker stood. A selection of delectable patisseries was arranged on a Limoges serving dish.

‘Tea or coffee?’ asked the countess.

Sarah eyed the ornate samovar and coffee pot. She would be just as happy with a tea bag or instant coffee, but a glance from Queenie indicated she shouldn’t spoil the countess’s sense of drama and occasion. While the copper samovar was heating the water, the countess spooned Turkish coffee into an elaborate pot. ‘Please, try one of the pastries, my secretary makes them.’

‘Good grief,’ said Sarah picking up an eclair, ‘I’d get fat working here!’

‘How long have you been here?’ asked Queenie.

‘Since I began two years ago. Through a friend’s husband I was able to lease two floors of this building very inexpensively. So far the extra floor is empty. I hoped my business would expand,’ she shrugged.

‘You’re concentrating on a small and elite market,’ observed Queenie. ‘We’re developing a rather different concept. I’d like to explain Tingulla Fashions to you.’ Queenie carefully outlined her vision, sketching in the background of Tingulla. She explained they were looking at both the international and the domestic markets, and she emphasised the project aimed to promote the wool and merino leather industry as a whole.

The countess clapped her hands in delight. A magnificent concept, Mrs Hamilton. Magnificent.’ She turned up her hands in resignation and busied herself with the coffee. ‘Of course, I would dearly love to work with fine wool fabric, but the cost . . . the cost. It is so expensive to import from the European mills.’

Queenie and Sarah nodded in agreement but before they could tell her about producing their own wool textiles, the countess went on. ‘Still, I am doing very well with my old clientele. They are so loyal.’

‘And so old,’ put in Queenie gently.

The countess paused and looked Queenie in the eye, and for the briefest moment her exuberance and confidence seemed to disappear, but then it flashed back. ‘Ah true, true. But loyal, which is very important in business. Yes, the market I know is changing. My clients are from another era, perhaps not the one you had in mind.’

Queenie picked up the cue. ‘That’s right. We are aiming at a much larger and also younger market for volume production without sacrificing style and quality. I’m sure you would be comfortable with that.’

The countess smiled. ‘Of course. But that is your market, not mine.’ She placed the delicate cups of strong coffee before Queenie and Sarah.

Queenie leaned across the desk. ‘It could be yours too, Countess. To be quite blunt, despite all the activity out there in your workroom, you’re in what the economists call a sunset industry.’ She paused, holding the
countess in her gaze. ‘We are what they call a sunrise industry. Would you like to be around for our dawn?’ Queenie leaned back in her chair and waited.

For a moment Queenie and the countess looked silently at one another. Then the countess slowly raised her hands and put her fingers together under her chin. ‘Are you inviting me to join you, to become a partner in this . . .er, sunrise?’

Queenie smiled. ‘It’s a good idea. I need a manufacturing base like this. I need a business headquarters and someone to run it, as well as contribute to the designs.’

Sarah joined in, concerned the countess might get the idea she would be the dominant creative force in the business. ‘Queenie has already done some of the design work — themes mainly — and we have other designers lined up.’

The countess gestured with both hands. ‘I am greatly flattered.’ She hesitated for a moment. ‘Yes it sounds most interesting. In my business I have tended to be dictated to by my clients’ tastes. But I have a gift for looking at a garment and knowing straight away what is wrong, you understand?’