Aiden responded slowly. ‘I’ve not much say when it comes to my father, but I’ll mention it to him.’
Davidson reappeared, sitting patiently on his horse a few yards away. At the sight of the aboriginal the ringbarkers picked up their axes and wordlessly went back to work.
‘You best be off,’ Sears told them. ‘I don’t need no trouble with Davidson, the white-eyed crow. He keeps the blacks away from us and in return we keep our heads down.’
Edwina kept pace with her brother as they retraced their path back through the camp. ‘What was he talking about? There are no blacks out here.’
‘Some of the men reckon they’ve seen them. Glimpses, mind; probably their imaginations. There’re no blacks left here. The government’s rounded most of them up, well, apart from those working on properties.’
Behind them Davidson’s attention remained on the ringbarkers as they peeled off into the scrub. He was always watching everyone, all of the time. It unnerved some, although Edwina had grown used to his ways. An old man who’d once worked on the property told her that a crow could tell the difference between a good human and a bad, that they were able to communicate the same and were equally happy solitary or foraging within a group. Davidson was the loner kind, their white-eyed crow.
‘I told you that I would do the talking, Edwina,’ said Aiden. ‘It’s just not right you interfering like that.’
‘I’m sorry, Aiden, but Mr Sears is in charge. Father always says that our role is to simply make sure the work is progressing, listen to their grievances and –’
‘My role,’ corrected Aiden crossly.
They could have easily begun arguing; instead, Edwina held her tongue.
‘Anyway,’ said Aiden as they walked their horses towards the camp, ‘they’re a rough lot. Next time you better stay at home.’
‘Rough or not it doesn’t make any difference as long as they do the work,’ replied Edwina, ignoring her brother’s comment. ‘Though I can see why some landowners are replacing their ringbarking teams with Chinese contractors. I’ve heard that they’re cheaper, keep orderly camps and are quite subdued in comparison.’
‘I’d rather have men we know. Mr Sears wants to buy a block of land on the outskirts of Wywanna. Have a permanent base in the district,’ answered Aiden.
‘And he wants Father’s help,’ finished Edwina. They walked through the camp. One of the tents was torn badly, a gaping flap poorly stitched together. A copper sat overturned in the dirt and flies buzzed around an indistinguishable mass.
Edwina always hated it when they were developing land dense with timber. She had to remind herself that if the rains came at the right time, by next year the skeletal earth behind them would be flush with new vegetation and far more productive. If only that plant life were natural grasses and not more wheat. She would make a point of speaking to her father again about her idea. Clearing was a necessary evil out here. It was how you made country. But the way you used that land was even more important when it came to making a decent living.
The thwack of axes biting into wood grew in volume, echoing through the timber and scrub. Behind them the starved dog followed them to the camp’s edge and watched them leave.
Chapter Two
Hamilton Baker leant against the windowsill of the permanent rooms he kept in the dusty town of Wywanna, watching as Gloria Zane began to undress. It was late Tuesday afternoon, far too early for such amusements, but availability and necessity combined to quell his fastidious attitude to the proper use of one’s time. Not that the time of day ever bothered Gloria. She was one for the moment. A seizer of life in the truest form. Today his lover wore an embroidered pink silk kimono-style gown and she dropped it dramatically on the large four-poster bed, revealing a matching chemise. The sight quite stymied all thoughts of the two children he’d left behind on the property. Davidson could be relied upon to keep an eye on them.
‘Well?’ asked his lover.
Hamilton was more than pleased to see Gloria’s breasts freed from the restrictions of current fashion. ‘Better,’ he replied. Flat chests and drop-waisted styles did nothing for him, but Gloria was all for keeping up with the young.
The woman was well built, of more than pleasing proportions. If one didn’t look at the pudgy hips of middle age or the dimpled thighs she could well have passed for a younger woman. Hamilton observed the way Gloria settled in the velvet chair like a cat, her bottom padding its way into the soft cushion. Not that he wanted a younger woman. Younger women were hard work. They wanted things, expected things, and some complained like screeching cats when they didn’t get their own way. He’d had any number of those types in Sydney, years ago, where bordello women fancied themselves to have airs and graces. Gloria on the other hand was savvy to the ways of the world, specifically men. And apart from a sharp mind and athleticism, she needed nothing from him. Gloria Zane was rich.
Gloria’s moneyed taste was evident in her decorating skill, although Hamilton rather suspected that the two rooms he occupied, bedroom and adjoining sitting room, were most definitely not the environs a respected country matron would inhabit. The windows were hung with pelmeted curtains of gold damask, the velvet chairs the palest of pinks, greens and yellows with the walls painted in a rather striking burgundy. Hamilton couldn’t actually say that he found Gloria’s taste to his liking, nor had his description of a relaxing environment been met, yet if one wanted to be stimulated, in every sense, this was the place. ‘So, my dear, what news from your broker?’
Gloria crossed her legs and, extending a manicured hand, prettily lifted the hem of her chemise so that the tops of her flesh-coloured stockings were visible. ‘It’s all margins, margins, margins. Borrow more to invest. George tells me that half of America reads the financials. Cab driver or barber, everyone’s an investor these days.’
‘So we grow wealthier by the minute,’ confirmed Hamilton, although his thoughts were fixed on his lover’s creamy thigh.
‘The market remains buoyant. However, the Americans are facing some stiff competition from my English countrymen at the moment in terms of foreign investment. Good for us, I say. London was always the centre of the financial markets before that pulsing Wall Street artery sucked the power away from us.’ Gloria lit a cigarette before taking a sip of champagne from a saucer-shaped glass, her blood-ox lipstick rimming the crystal. ‘I’m quite interested in investing in the motor manufacturing industry, Austin and Morris in particular.’
‘Automobiles. Everyone wants one of those new-fangled contraptions.’ Hamilton tugged repeatedly at his nose. Automobiles put his boot factories out of business. Why people couldn’t just keep walking or riding he had no idea. He hated automobiles. And he hated spring. It was that time of the year when everything blossomed, while at sixty years of age he was rather inclined to shut down. There was altogether too much heat and dust out here. How he’d managed to endure the bucolic lifestyle of drudge-brown Queensland continued to confound him.
‘Come now, Hamilton, you are not quite as old-fashioned as you would have me believe.’ Resting the cigarette in an ashtray, Gloria walked across the thick pile of the rug to the elaborate dressing table with its collection of bottles, compacts and cut-crystal flagons. Pulling delicately at the chemise, she leant forward, powdering her chest with a large pink fluffy puff, studying her handiwork in the gilt-edged mirror.
The angle afforded Hamilton a generous view of Gloria’s not insubstantial cleavage and a fine spectacle of her upper thighs. He’d always been a man predisposed to the wondrous curves of a plump woman’s arse, a feature that had attracted him to his wife. Now he knew better. Sense and attentiveness should always come first in a woman, physical attributes a close second. Very close.
‘You’re distracting me,’ he complained.
Gloria smoothed her short, waved hair, slid matching gold snake bracelets onto her upper arms and pouted.
‘I detest those things,’ he explained.
‘Well, you don’t ha
ve to wear them, my dear,’ came her reply before she resumed her position in the velvet chair. Her cigarette now a trail of cinders, she lit another.
‘You’re obsessed with those things. I blame what-cha-ma-call-him who discovered that Tut fellow.’
‘It was Howard Carter, darling, the second cousin of my second cousin twice removed. Practically family, when you think about it. And the world’s obsessed with all things Egyptian, not just me.’ She exhaled a long lungful of smoke.
Hamilton sipped his champagne gloomily. It never failed to amaze him how women could be gratified by the silliest of things, fashion and fads. Thank heavens Gloria’s similarities with the majority of the female race were not all encompassing.
‘Considering the falling farm prices it makes it difficult to remain enthusiastic about Australian agriculture. The good news, however, is that people are drinking more.’ She lifted her glass in salute.
‘So the rum business is good?’ Hamilton topped up their champagne saucers.
‘Excellent,’ Gloria confirmed. ‘I’ve quite shied away from buying up soldier settler blocks from the government. You know, some of that country is beyond marginal. And the labour involved for those families …’ She gave a huff of annoyance.
‘A bit of outdoor exercise never hurt anyone.’ It certainly wasn’t harming his children. ‘You forget, a life in the countryside was recommended by doctors for the healing of injuries sustained in the war. It’s a fine social experiment.’
‘Poppycock,’ answered Gloria, ‘absolute poppycock.’ She drew ferociously on the cigarette so that the tip glowed red. ‘Sending people out to the bush with no experience. Why, I’ve heard of families living in tents made of hessian bags.’
‘Plenty of timber to be had in these parts,’ replied Hamilton.
‘Compassionate soul, aren’t you?’ Gloria stubbed out the cigarette.
Hamilton envisaged his lover standing on a soap box in London’s Hyde Park.
‘And you, Hammy, how is that money-lending business of yours doing?’ Gloria spilt champagne with an animated wave of her hand and dabbed at the silk chemise.
Hamilton stared at the prominent nipple through the now sheer material. ‘The district’s been feeling the strains of the economy for a few years now. The smaller borrowers are all clamouring for an extension on their loans.’ Hamilton took a gulp of the champagne and, keeping his gaze fastened on the burnt pink areola disappearing behind the drying silk, removed his jacket and hung it in the wardrobe. ‘I’ve stopped extending credit until things improve.’ Unbuttoning his vest, Hamilton lay his pocket watch on the dresser. ‘It’s the pastoralists that have the money.’ He tugged at the knot in his necktie, loosening it. ‘Invariably they come to me for privacy, and with their asset base I’m assured of repayment.’
‘I do love a man skilful in negotiations.’ Gloria held out her glass, her lips curling in satisfaction as the bubbles rose to the surface. ‘Why don’t you close up shop for a while?’ She stifled a yawn. ‘We could take a cruise. Head to Europe, England. It’s been three years since I returned to Devon and the family seat. We could visit the distillery in Scotland.’
Hamilton didn’t bother answering. In the street below a team of horses dragging a heavily laden wool wagon turned slowly into the wide thoroughfare. Pedestrians, riders on horseback, sulkies and automobiles quickly made way for the twenty-foot-long dray and its team of twenty-four horses. The ship of the outback swayed and creaked. The bales, tightly secured by rope, were stacked three high. There must have been nearly five ton of wool on board.
‘And what has captured your attention?’ queried Gloria.
The heady smells of lanolin, horseflesh and saddle grease reached his nostrils as a woman raced from a nearby shop to gather up a runaway child. Hamilton scanned the bales, noting the station name stencilled on each pack. Wangallon. That was one family who didn’t need his services, the Gordons of Wangallon Station. The driver, who was heading the team on horseback with the well-trained lead horses steering the load, kept up a steady pace. Behind them they deposited a trail of manure and the scent of money. ‘Wangallon wool,’ he offered by way of explanation. Turning his back on the impressive sight, Hamilton focused his thoughts on one of the main reasons he enjoyed visiting town.
‘It’s that time of year,’ answered Gloria, unfastening the suspenders clipped to the top of her stockings.
That was Gloria; she was never one to be impressed by money. The truly wealthy never were. Undoing his cufflinks, Hamilton sat them on the dresser along with the now furled necktie.
‘Frankly I see Australia as a country of empty spaces which will never be filled. But if you’re so enthusiastic about dirt, does that mean you’re finally going to expand?’ Gloria made a show of lifting each leg onto the bed and pointing her toes carefully, rolling the silk stockings to her ankles before removing them with a theatrical flourish.
‘No. Not after the battle I’ve endured with that blasted pear. I have Aiden and Edwina putting out insect eggs today.’
Stepping out of her chemise, Gloria stood quite naked except for knickers and suspender belt.
The saliva gathered in his mouth as Hamilton took in the sight of her full, dangling breasts. He gave the smallest of nods, waiting for the remnants of her silk and lace attire to be disposed of. As if reading his mind, Gloria undid the suspender belt, dropping the flimsy garment to the floor, and stepped out of her knickers. The fuzzy darkness of her reminded Hamilton of one of his favourite Ziegfeld Girl collector cards.
‘And when am I going to have the honour of visiting your stronghold, Hamilton, and making the acquaintance of your children? I’ve decided it’s time. This cloak-and-dagger relationship is not to my liking.’
Hamilton slipped striped braces from his shoulders. ‘You know my dilemma.’
Gloria allowed her fingers to drift languidly across her breasts. ‘How is your matchmaking on your daughter’s behalf proceeding?’
Hamilton hoped for an advantageous marriage but, as yet, not one respected family had stepped forward to lay claim to Edwina. Unbuttoning his shirt, Hamilton draped it across a chair. His relationship with the divorced Gloria was, he guessed, not helping Edwina’s chances. A fact his lover had alluded to before. It was a conundrum Hamilton couldn’t breach. ‘Edwina needs a husband’s firm hand. She is stubborn and opinionated, like her mother.’ And like her mother, his daughter was beginning to display the same mood swings and outspokenness that characterised Caroline’s later life.
‘I know you worry about her, but young people have changed, my dear. They have far more wants and needs than we ever did at their age. Blame the war, blame the austerity since then. Everyone is trying to find their place in a new world.’
‘I’ve purposely kept Edwina away from your so-called new world for her own protection. Anyway, when she is married,’ he concluded, ‘we will be married.’ This was not the first time they’d discussed matrimony, not that his lover seemed taken with the idea.
‘If you don’t bring her to town and show her off she’ll never marry. And you did say she turned twenty this year.’ Gloria drained the champagne and crossed the room. Expertly unfastening his trousers, she proceeded to manipulate his manhood with a touch that inevitably made him believe that his lover had undergone some training in the arts. ‘I would so adore you to grow a moustache,’ she breathed. ‘I do love hair on a man. You and your freshly shaved skin, you look like a boy at times, my dear. A very naughty boy.’ She squeezed a little more.
‘Yes.’ The word was a mumble as he plied her breasts.
‘We’ve been fornicating with relish for years.’
Hamilton moaned. ‘Three months a year.’
‘I’m not looking for a gold band, my darling. I would simply like to be treated a little more respectably. In public.’
His hands drifted to her waist. ‘Aha.’
‘The world has changed. Why, the young ones are out dancing and drinking until all hours and I have it on g
ood authority that they pet quite freely with those they are not married to.’
The blood was draining from Hamilton’s head.
‘We are wealthy, lovers, each without partners. I don’t even have the encumbrance of a child. We can do what we please. Society be damned.’
That, however, was the problem. In a world where the success of a business and the right connections went hand in hand, acceptance in the right circles was imperative. Besides, Hamilton couldn’t picture Gloria visiting the farm. Although he’d intentionally maintained a modest homestead for the benefit of his children, keeping the extent of his fortune a secret from them, he doubted Gloria would be impressed by his self-imposed austerity. The woman wasn’t fickle but still, one never knew with the fairer sex.
‘You are overwrought,’ breathed Gloria into his neck. ‘Relax, my darling. Relax.’
‘I purchased the tickets you wanted,’ murmured Hamilton, cupping her buttocks. Gloria was invariably appeased with a gift of appreciation.
She gave a little gasp. ‘For the circus?’
‘Yes.’ That was Gloria. A woman in love with life itself, with the simplest of pleasures that he invariably held in disregard. Flowers, a keepsake left on her pillow, a piece of cheap silk purchased from the Emporium. Or tickets to the bloody circus. Closing his ears to his lover’s excitement, Hamilton pushed Gloria backwards onto the bed, stepping out of his trousers.
‘I love it when you’re in one of your moods,’ she replied, opening her legs with a girlish giggle. ‘Peek-a-boo!’
God, to be young again, thought Hamilton. He would roll Gloria over, take her from behind, tug her hair as he rode her until this woman that he had somehow fallen for cried out in ecstasy. Hamilton collapsed onto her almost desperately, feeling the soft pillows of her breasts, the length of her limbs, the liquid warmth of her centre. Come on, old man, he chastised himself. Hamilton thought of the Ziegfeld Girl as their lips touched and, with a grim smile, he clutched at the sheets and rode the woman beneath him home.
An Uncommon Woman Page 2