FOLLOW THE MORNING STAR (55 page)

‘Shower curtains,’ said Raylene promptly. ‘Posh tablecloths.’

‘Taffeta shower curtains?’ screeched the countess. ‘This fabric costs a fortune.’

‘Put plastic under it and charge a bleedin’ fortune,’ declared Raylene. ‘Tell them lah-didah rich ladies it’s the latest thing. They won’t buy it unless it costs an arm and a leg, if you ask me.’

The countess looked thoughtful, then patted Raylene on the back. ‘Ray, you and I are going to get along just fine. Come and have some Russian tea.’

‘Er no thanks. You got any Coke?’

Queenie flew home to Tingulla and felt the familiar rush of affection and peace steal over her as she swept under the wooden archway entrance.

Millie gave her a hug and suddenly the kitchen was overflowing with Jim and Ruthie and Ernie and Snowy. The talk was about the wedding plans and fixing up one of the old cottages for the newlyweds.

‘Ruthie understands nothin’ will change here in the big house with her work just ‘cause she’s married,’ said Millie with a glance at Ruthie who was holding onto Ernie’s hand.

Ernie’s face-splitting grin seemed permanently in place and he nodded too. ‘Same here, Tingulla comes first, like always. Nuthin’ changes.’

‘Cept you don’ go chasin’ other ladies,’ teased Ruthie.

‘You neither,’ he retorted

Snowy smiled benignly and caught Queenie’s eye. Later she went down to the stables and spent a little time with Honey and Star then headed towards the old willow by the creek. She knew she’d find Snowy there, leaning against the twisted trunk of the tree whose delicate branches hung gracefully in a soft curtain over the creek bank.

She sat on the grass and hugged her knees and finally Snowy asked, ‘How’s it goin’, Queenie?’

‘Not so good, Snowy. I miss TR. I’m trying to bury myself in work and get on with things, and now Colin is trying to take Cricklewood away from me.’

‘Lotta worries,’ agreed Snowy. Stiffly he settled his bony and now frail frame on the grass near her. ‘I can’t give you clever advice, like them city fellas. But I can tell ya one thing, Queenie.’

‘What’s that, Snow?’

‘Sometimes you can’t make them things happen yourself. You gotta let life go on like the river. You is tryin’ to stop a river with yer hands. Let him flow.’

‘It’s hard to let things go when they mean such a lot to you,’ she answered softly.

‘Everyting find him place in dis world. Tingulla is your place, your Dreaming place. It all starts here. And you look up and you see ’im, you see your morning star, and you follow that fella, and he see you right. You know when the time comes what to do. Snowy knows.’ He closed his eyes and nodded. ‘Yep, Snowy knows.’

Queenie didn’t answer for she couldn’t speak. Tears welled in her eyes and her throat constricted with the love she felt for this gentle old man who’d been like a grandfather to her.

They sat in silence as the last of the day slid behind the Blue Hills. Finally they both rose and began walking back towards the homestead. At the bottom paddock, Snowy turned to go to the small one-room cottage where he lived. Queenie reached out and took his hand and looked into the kindly face, framed in a fuzz of silver hair, white whiskers poking through the black skin that now looked almost grey with age.

‘I’ll miss you, Snowy,’ she said softly.

He laid his other hand over hers cupped in his palm and shook his head. ‘No you won’t. Snowy always belong dis place.’

Queenie bit her lip and squeezed his hand. ‘Thanks, Snowy.’ She turned away so he didn’t see the tears as they poured silently down her face.

Two days later Queenie got in the car and headed for the coast. She checked into a motel
and stretched out on the bed for an hour before showering and changing. Then she headed to Currumbin Beach, parking by the rocky outcrop next to the surf club.

Colin’s Audi swept into the lot and parked alongside. Taking a deep breath, Queenie got out of the LandCruiser which was smeared in outback red and yellow dust and looked like an honest workhorse beside Colin’s immaculate European car.

Colin was wearing aviator sunglasses, cream linen slacks and a pale lemon silk shirt. He locked the car and came towards where Queenie stood, her hands thrust deep in the pockets of her cotton skirt. Colin smiled a lazy smile. ‘Hi, Queenie.’

‘G’day.’ She was brusque. ‘Shall we walk?’ She turned and headed towards the beach.

Colin picked his way through the soft sand, shaking his leather loafers until they reached the firm sand near the water’s edge.

‘I suppose this has come as a bit of a surprise to you,’ began Colin. ‘It did to me.’

‘Yes, it was a surprise, a nasty one,’ answered Queenie curtly. ‘I can’t believe Dad wouldn’t have told me about changing his mind.’

Colin threw up his hands. ‘There you go again. What makes you think you were privy to every thought he had? Although you had wormed your way in pretty thoroughly in those last months while I was away at school.’

‘And playing around in Sydney while we worked,’ retorted Queenie bitterly. ‘It also surprises me this letter turns up right now.’

‘There’s a simple explanation for that,’ said Colin easily.

Queenie cut him off. ‘Yes, so I heard. Well, how does Dina feel about moving back to the land?’

Colin was silent and Queenie sensed she’d hit a nerve. ‘This has nothing to do with Dina,’ said Colin slowly. ‘Cricklewood has been left to me, to do with as I see fit. It’s solely my decision.’

‘But if she doesn’t want to live there, what will you do? Put in a manager? Stay there alone? You can’t very well commute on weekends. And how does this fit in with your job at Harmony Hill?’

‘Queenie, I don’t have to tell you any of my plans. In fact, I shouldn’t even be speaking to you.’

‘So why did you agree to see me?’

Colin shrugged. ‘You asked.’

They took a few steps in silence and Queenie wondered again at her brother. He was a total stranger to her, not from their lack of contact or different lifestyles, but because of his bitterness, his cunning, his greed. He was a man she didn’t like or respect. Yet, he was her brother, the same flesh and blood who’d shared her childhood. Where had it all gone wrong? With the vile murder of their mother Rose? When had Colin changed and become this stranger? If she had seen it, or been aware of some critical turning point, perhaps she could have stepped in and saved Colin from himself. But as the recriminations stabbed at her conscience, swift flash-card images flitted
through her mind of Colin being spiteful, hurting her, his cruel sense of humour and his ultimate treachery in keeping her and TR apart. With a pang she realised that Colin had always been and always would be this way.

Queenie stopped walking and turned to face him. ‘All right, Colin, let’s stop beating around the bush. You don’t want Cricklewood at all.’

Colin stepped back. ‘Well you’re certainly wrong there, sis.’

‘What I mean,’ continued Queenie, ‘is you don’t want to own Cricklewood. You don’t care about it; you don’t care that I’ve slaved to get it up and running and to make it the viable proposition Dad always dreamed of. Now that it’s profitable you just want to walk in and strip it. Well I’m not going to let you, Colin.’

‘You can’t stop me, Queenie,’ said Colin evenly. They had turned around and were now walking back towards the surf club.

‘Maybe I can’t. But I can give you what you want.’

Colin pushed his sunglasses down to the tip of his nose and peered over them at her. ‘Oh? And what’s that?’

‘Money.’

He was silent and they walked a few more paces before Queenie asked softly, ‘How much, Colin?’

‘I know what Cricklewood is worth,’ he answered slowly, dropping all pretence.

Queenie gave a bitter laugh. ‘I bet you do. I bet that was the first thing you checked out.’

Colin spoke slowly and with icy calm, his hands thrust in his pockets as he looked down
at the sand. ‘I want a lot more, Queenie. You can double that.’

She stopped, staring at him in shock. ‘Well there’s no way I can raise that sort of money. Even if you want to sell Cricklewood yourself, I’ll challenge you and fight you through the courts and hold up any sale for years. Even if it does cost me every penny,’ she added. This was far worse than she’d expected.

‘Look, Colin, Cricklewood and its stock are worth over three million dollars. I could raise that against the property and possibly Tingulla. And in return you give me the original letter and a letter from you saying full ownership of Cricklewood reverts to me.’

Colin shrugged. ‘And what about the rest of it? All up you’re worth more. I’m an easy man. I’m merely selling my inheritance to my sister for a bargain price.’

‘I can’t raise that sort of money! I’ve sunk everything into a new business. I’m responsible for other people’s money in this deal. I can’t do it! And I won’t.’

‘Don’t bluff me, Queenie; you’ll do it. I don’t expect it to be handed over in a bloody briefcase.’ Queenie wasn’t going to try and bargain him down, if this was the way it had to be, she’d do it — and he knew it. ‘I want a million in cash and the rest can be transferred to my bank account in Mexico.’

‘Mexico?’

Colin took his car keys from his pocket and jingled them as they crossed the carpark. ‘I’ll send you the details. I want this expedited and kept confidential.’ He unlocked the car door
and slid in. He pushed the button which soundlessly lowered the car window, and gave a charming smile. For an instant Queenie saw a flash of their handsome father. ‘Believe me, Queenie, this is best — for all of us.’ The engine purred to life and the tinted window slid back up, obscuring his face. Colin backed out and drove swiftly away.

Queenie climbed into the LandCruiser and leaned her head on her arms on the steering wheel. This was a nightmare. She was being blackmailed but she could see no way of stopping him. The letter from her father seemed genuine, the court case alone could cost her Cricklewood. Maybe this way Colin would be out of her hair for good. But it was such a lot of money. She couldn’t jeopardise the faith the townspeople had put in her, the money her best friend had invested. Why did Colin want so much? And Mexico, what on earth was he doing with money over there? How she wished she could talk this over with TR. But she knew this was something between her, her brother and the ghosts of their parents.

She straightened up and turned on the ignition. Above the throaty gurgle of the engine she said aloud, ‘Don’t worry Dad, I won’t let Cricklewood go.’

If only she could find out what Colin planned. She began desperately to try to think of ways of raising as much money as she could without losing Tingulla and Cricklewood, or risking the new enterprise that she was now committed to, financially and professionally. She slammed her fist on the wheel. Damn
Colin, he’d forced her right back into a corner like he had years before when she’d been forced to divest herself of all that was precious to her.

Inside Colin’s car, Dame Kiri Te Kanawa’s glorious voice sprang from the speaker system at near full volume. Colin glanced in the rear vision mirror and put his foot down on the accelerator. It’d been easier than he thought. He was glad Queenie hadn’t pushed the Dina angle. His wife must not know about this little transaction. This was his passport to a new life. Without Dina.

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Queenie decided to stop in Charleville on the way home. She checked into a motel and was given the last room.

‘Town’s pretty full. There’s a public meeting about wool and beef prices, the drought, interest rates, you name it,’ said the wife of the owner as she opened the door to the modestly furnished room.

‘This will do fine thanks, I’m driving through to Longreach. Where’s this meeting by the way?’

‘At the community hall. Seven o’clock.’

Queenie kicked off her shoes and stretched out on the double bed covered in a brown and yellow bedspread, and dozed after her long drive. Later she took a long hot shower, changed clothes, made herself a cup of tea and flicked on the television, then turned it off, bored. She glanced at her watch and saw it was not yet seven, so she decided to call in at the meeting.

Workers, townspeople, farmers and graziers sat in rows on collapsible wooden chairs listening to the speakers. They blamed the drought, the politicians in Canberra, the bureaucrats everywhere, the banks, the trade unions and the marketing people. Sale prices were fluctuating at an alarming rate, pundits were predicting a coming crash. To most of the audience all solutions suggested by the boys in Canberra seemed inadequate and short-term.