FOLLOW THE MORNING STAR Page 3

  He licked his lips. ‘Hello,’ he managed, then looked from one to the other and asked, ‘Who are you?’

  Chapter Three

  In a sun-soaked square south of Florence Colin Hanlon lowered the airmail edition of the Herald Tribune and reached for his glass of Pellegrino. He had a sudden desire for a strong draught beer and a meat pie. An old woman in a long black dress swept a shadowy doorway; two young men in smart suits and dark glasses watched the movement of a young woman’s hips as she crossed the narrow cobblestone street.

  Colin turned his eyes away from the woman. He was in enough trouble already. He had been thinking about his current predicament. Flight seemed the only answer. If he had his way he’d just jump on a plane and flee. But there was the problem of his wife Dina. She held the purse strings. He had to persuade her to leave Italy before she got wind of the mess with this girl. Returning to Australia until it all blew over was the obvious answer. Colin began to plot the psychological ploys he’d use to introduce his plan. For the first time in years he’d begin to talk about his childhood home. Soon he was oblivious to the sights, sounds and smells around him. He was remembering the song of a magpie in a gum tree, the feel of a strong fast horse under him, and the sight of Tingulla homestead from the grand front entrance.

  He sighed. Queenie was ruling the roost these days — as she’d always wanted and their father had always intended. Colin still felt bitter. The more he began to compare his present life to that of his sister, the more a burning resentment began to build in his belly. Queenie always came up smelling like a rose no matter what blow fate dealt her. Colin didn’t like to admit it but he’d had chances and muffed them. If he’d shown more interest in the property and at least paid lip service to his father it might have been left to him instead of his sister.

  He had succeeded in getting Tingulla away from Queenie once, yet had failed to make a go of it. Once the property was in his hands, it had begun to lose money rapidly. For this Colin blamed a string of bad luck, but most especially his wife Dina. It was still a taboo subject between them, each blaming the other for a failure made more bitter because Queenie had returned to Tingulla after they had left and pulled it back from the brink of ruin. For Colin, Dina’s demands were impossible to keep up with — she had no idea of what life on a huge station was about. She’d seen Tingulla as another prize possession to be acquired, a place to show off to friends, for parties, to be written about in women’s magazines with her posing prettily in the drawing room or on the verandah. Dina blamed Colin for failing to keep the place running smoothly while at the same time being at her beck and call to join her on trips to Surfers Paradise, to social events in Sydney and Melbourne, as well as on jaunts abroad. It was all thanks to her father anyway — Alfredo Camboni’s money was paying most of the bills — so Dina had called the shots.

  Dina and her father’s money dominated and dictated Colin’s life. He had been involved in a string of Camboni’s failed or illegal enterprises. His personal life had sunk to debauched and squalid depths. Colin was tired and bored with la dolce vita, it was no longer a sweet life. He would tell Dina how he yearned for the healthy Australian lifestyle of his youth when everything was an adventure and opportunity beckoned. Then, in an apparent surge of homesickness, Colin would suggest they go back to Australia and start afresh.

  Perhaps he would somehow make a claim on the family heritage. Why should Queenie have it all? Sure he’d been left a large sum of money and city real estate, but what was that compared to one of the biggest and best merino studs in the country? The more Colin thought about this idea the better he liked it. As well as needing to escape his current problems, Colin wanted his independence; first off, financially — he was sick of being treated like Dina’s lapdog. Then with financial independence would come personal freedom. The idea was immensely appealing.

  ‘Look out, Queenie!’ he said to himself. And, smirking inwardly, thought, ‘And look out, Dina’.

  At that moment his wife appeared in the square with a lady friend. They carried the inevitable boutique bags. He eyed Dina critically from behind his sunglasses. She was more than voluptuous these days: the luscious dark fruit of her beauty was overripe, bursting with years of indulgence. The thick dark hair was dyed raven now to cover the bands of silver. The make-up was heavy but did little to disguise the wrinkles caused by hours beside villa pools and Riviera beaches.

  She waved at Colin and joined him at the table, dropping the bags and introducing her new friend, Sylvie. ‘Order us a Campari, darling, we are so weary and hot.’

  ‘Shopping is such hard work, isn’t it?’ said Colin without smiling.

  Dina took off her designer sunshades and her dark eyes were cold.

  ‘Are you being facetious, darling?’

  ‘Who me? Never.’ Colin signalled the handsome young waiter whose surly manner towards Colin and lazy smile at the two women made it obvious he was very aware of his sex appeal. Dina and Sylvie fluttered at him as he placed the tall glasses of ruby liquid before them with the bottles of soda and thin slices of lemon.

  ‘So what have you been doing, Colin?’ asked Sylvie in an attempt to thaw the frost hanging between husband and wife.

  ‘I’ve been mustering, racing through the outback and surfing on the Gold Coast.’

  ‘Scuse?’ Sylvie looked blankly towards Dina. Dina shrugged and sipped her drink.

  Colin explained. ‘I was thinking about life back in Australia.’

  ‘You’re not homesick for that primitive place, surely. I hear it is very uncultured,’ remarked Sylvie.

  ‘I wonder where you heard that,’ said Colin looking at Dina, who ignored him and put her dark glasses on again. ‘Depends on what you call culture.’

  ‘What we have here is culture. The art in the Uffizi goes back centuries. It is magnificent,’ said Sylvie.

  ‘Our art goes back at least forty thousand years and is magnificent also,’ said Colin.

  ‘Depends on what you consider magnificent. I wouldn’t compare the clay daubings in some cave in the same class as the paintings of Botticelli,’ sniffed Dina.

  ‘Depends on what you call art, doesn’t it,’ grinned Colin.

  ‘Oh pleeze. This is too boring. Let’s decide where we’re going for lunch,’ declared Sylvie.

  ‘Right. Let’s not get our priorities out of order.’

  ‘Colin!’ snapped Dina in annoyance. ‘What is the matter with you?’

  ‘He’s homesick,’ joked Sylvie.

  Dina peered intently at Colin. ‘This is true?’

  ‘Where’s home? I don’t know, Dina. I was just thinking about Australia. Maybe we should take a trip back. Your father is getting on and now he’s retired to the Gold Coast we could visit him and I could have my surf.’

  ‘Would that make you feel better, hey?’ She leaned over and tweaked his nose. He brushed her hand away in irritation.

  ‘What about your family, Colin? Where are they?’ asked Sylvie.

  ‘They’re dead,’ he answered shortly.

  ‘Not his sister. His beloved sister Queenie. He doesn’t speak to her,’ added Dina with a small smirk at Sylvie.

  ‘Oh?’ Sylvie was immediately interested, sensing gossip.

  ‘Give it a rest, Dina.’ Colin stood. ‘You girls go off to lunch. I’ll meet you back at the villa.’

  ‘Going for an early siesta, sweetheart?’

  ‘No, Dina. I have some work to do.’

  ‘Work? How boreeeng,’ said Sylvie.

  ‘He calls it work. He pushes some papers around, makes telephone calls and zips up the autostrada for meetings. I think he makes meetings just to get away from me sometimes.’ Dina pouted childishly at her younger husband who looked trim and fit beside her plump softening, though the effect Colin achieved was more by expensive tailoring than physical activity.

  Looking from one to the other Sylvie began to suspect Dina felt a little insecure. She eyed Colin thoughtfully. Dina had said he was very good in bed. She wond
ered if there might be the opportunity to find out for herself. She knew Colin would never flagrantly cheat on Dina — it was common knowledge she held the purse strings. But judging from the subtle swift glances Colin was giving her, if they were very discreet she could find out for herself just how good a lover Dina’s husband really was.

  Queenie paced one more time around the shady hospital gardens. Poinciana trees bloomed like orange and green floral-patterned parasols about the lawns. Splashed onto the green carpet were neat flowerbeds where rainbows of flowers were imprisoned behind a barricade of white painted stones. It was just too much to bear, to have TR alert and conscious yet totally unaware of who he was, where he was or who his family was.

  The doctor on duty, who’d been hastily summoned when TR had regained consciousness, had peered into his eyes with a small torch and done a superficial examination, but even without the brain scan and other tests it was obvious the concussion had affected his memory. For how long was still the unanswerable question. Doctor McConnell already had him booked in with a neurosurgeon for comprehensive tests and possible exploratory surgery.

  Gently they had explained to TR what had happened. They told him his name and who they all were. He had smiled politely at these strangers, but then, weary and uncomprehending, had asked to be left alone. Now that he was fully conscious he was aware of the pain from his shattered hip and leg and had a constant aching head. He was given painkillers and he slept in long dreamless spans of time. Each time he awoke it was to the same blank unknowingness.

  While the hurt, frustration and fear haunted Queenie and Tango and Saskia, it was as if TR wasn’t curious or didn’t care. The physical pain and the knowledge of not being able to move at will were so overwhelming they consumed his attention.

  ‘This is quite normal, even with patients with no memory loss,’ the sister had said. ‘As his body starts to mend, his mind might heal too. You must be patient.’

  Patience. Give it time. Only time can tell. That was all the experts could offer. Queenie hated the vagueness, the cautious doling out of information, the cloaking of the stark fact that the medical profession didn’t have a clue as to when, or even if, TR’s mind and memory might function properly again.

  As she paced, Queenie tried to think laterally. What should she do? She tried to break down the giant and claustrophobic picture of the whole situation into smaller fragments and to deal with them one by one. First there was TR’s physical wellbeing. His injuries were still major and the prognosis unclear. Doctor McConnell wanted to see how well the bones knitted before considering the possibility of replacement of a bone in the hip or knee. TR’s muscles and tendons were so badly ripped that full mobility was a long way off. He would be in hospital for some time. That meant she would have to take over his work. That would be all right, he would have to explain to her where he was at with the . . . then the realisation slammed into her again. TR couldn’t tell her anything. They couldn’t talk over business matters at all. He remembered nothing.

  Queenie drew a deep breath. Tango. He’d have to take over Guneda completely. She would have her hands full with Tingulla and Cricklewood. Cricklewood was their second property, further out west. Her father had acquired it and now it was a profitable prime beef producer. It carried stud bulls and Queenie had introduced new breeds, artificial insemination and an embryo implant programme.

  Saskia. Saskia had to go back to university and concentrate on her veterinary studies. Queenie suspected her devoted but determined daughter would want to stay and help her, but she had to forestall that at all costs. Saskia was so impetuous. She’d insist on taking leave or deferring the university term somehow so she could help. And the irritating fact was both she and her mother knew her help would be invaluable.

  Queenie brushed a hand across her eyes. She was tired and the heartache of TR’s accident lived inside her like a constant pain. She drew a deep breath and tried to focus her thoughts.

  TR’s longer-term care. She had to get him out of the hospital as soon as she safely could. Queenie had been told it would be several months at least before he could be moved. She tried not to think about that. And as for the amnesia, Queenie was convinced it was only temporary. It had to be.

  So that left her. She would have to divide her time between running two properties and TR in hospital hundreds of kilometres away. She knew she would have to keep well and look after her own health — she could not afford to cave in under any circumstances.

  She thanked her lucky stars for the loyal and efficient workers they had on all three places. Tango and TR had trained the staff at Guneda well. Mick, their head jockey who helped train the thoroughbreds, had two strappers and two other young riders and stablehands under his wing. The slightly built Aboriginal jockey who looked like he’d blow away in a faint wind had a powerful reputation having won the Melbourne Cup on their star stallion, Sweet William. From the shy young bush jockey the legendary trainer Bobby Fenton had brought along to be a winning rider, Mick had developed into a gentle but iron-willed taskmaster.

  Millie and Ruthie in the house and Jim, Snowy and Ernie on the property were invaluable at Tingulla. Ernie spent a lot of time at Cricklewood and had graduated from stockman to stock manager. The handsome Aborigine still loved the hands-on dealing with stock at Tingulla but had done a few courses and now spent several hours a week doing the paperwork.

  Queenie decided, however, that she’d better send another hand over to Cricklewood. Too many beasts were about to give birth and a muster was looming. Feed had been good, the steers had gained weight and were nearly ready for sale. The surrogate mothers carrying the valuable implanted embryos were also near to birthing.

  And then there would be shearing at Tingulla. They’d been so busy, TR had given her a quick hug and said they’d have to sit down and discuss future projections for all three properties very soon. Queenie sighed. When would that be now? And when his memory came back would it be complete or would there be gaps?

  So many fears and questions crammed into her mind. Again she addressed these. The doctors here were concerned with dealing with TR’s condition; they told her as much as they thought she needed to know, reluctant to admit they simply didn’t have all the answers. Queenie decided she would find the best neurosurgeon in the country and talk through her situation with him so that she had some inkling of what to expect.

  Queenie sighed and looked around her. She had wandered to the very bottom section of the beautiful grounds of the old hospital. The Brisbane River, even though an unattractive sludge colour, shone in the sunlight; magnificent old trees lined its bank and a team of school oarsmen sculled swiftly past, the knife-thin craft barely leaving a wake.

  Having sorted through the pieces of the dreadful picture of her life, Queenie felt no better, but she felt a little more in control. Slowly she was gathering the reins and somehow she would steer them all through this nightmare until TR was well and himself once more. She ignored the swift thought — would he ever be totally himself again? — and squared her shoulders, lifted her chin and turned away from the river back towards the hospital buildings. Despite the determination in the set of her body and her purposeful strides, her heart ached and she felt deeply lonely.

  Queenie had stood on her own two feet since she was a young woman when, after the death of her parents, she had taken over the running of the family properties; but with TR at her side these past years, she had felt comforted and, while not dependent, it was a joy to know she had someone she could turn to in times of confusion and doubt. Queenie knew she had the greatest support from Millie and Jim and the love of Saskia and Tango, but she always felt she had to be strong for them, and it was difficult to lean on them and appear vulnerable. It was at rare moments like this that she longed for her family. The gentleness and caring understanding of her loving mother Rose, and the wisdom and humour of her father Patrick had left their mark, but oh, how she missed them.

  Alone in the shuttered bedroom of their rented villa, y
et another in a succession of European homes, Colin slumped into a chair moderno picked out by Dina. It might be an example of avant-garde Italian design, but it was damned uncomfortable, he thought crossly.

  Colin ran his fingers through his hair. Where the hell had his life gone so wrong? He had no money of his own — he was dependent on his wife for everything, and she never let him forget it. Now he had a pregnant girl on his hands. How different things might have been had he become the master of Tingulla.

  Colin had always taken it for granted that as the only son he would inherit the family properties — during the fifties daughters didn’t figure in the division of property. But then most girls weren’t like Queenie. Her tie with Tingulla was forged in steel, bred into her veins from birth. When they were quite young she’d talked about Tingulla in a way he never truly understood or shared. His father had recognised this and broken with tradition. Recalling the letter Patrick had left to him in his will, Colin realised that his father had also known Tingulla was not in Colin’s blood as it was in Queenie’s.

  Colin had a jealous and possessive nature and his anger and resentment of Queenie’s bond with their father had seethed within him for years, made worse after the death of their mother when he was away at college and Queenie had supported their father physically and emotionally. When it became public knowledge that Queenie could outride, outshoot and outwit most men in the country, he’d been teased endlessly and had found the Hanlon name impossible to live up to.

  Colin swore to himself and leapt angrily to his feet. He didn’t know how, or how long it would take, but he was determined to get even with his sister and get back what was his. Queenie had had it too easy for too long, now his time had come.

  Chapter Four

  Queenie sat in a deep leather armchair in the darkly panelled room where floor-to-ceiling windows were shrouded in tasselled drapes and serious medical tomes lined three walls. An antique glass-fronted cabinet held a skull, the vertebrae of a human spine and a plastic replica of the human brain. There was unidentifiable matter in glass jars of what she assumed to be formaldehyde, but she swiftly averted her gaze from these. The room was a movie-set version of Sigmund Freud’s office.