‘You will be joining us for Christmas dinner?’ she asked stiffly.
Thinking of the fine French brandy, roasted turkey and Mrs Stackland’s plum pudding, Luke was of a mind to say yes. ‘No,’ he replied. He expected an argument, a practised pout; instead he was left alone with his adamancy. He watched her gently swaying figure, the lightness of her step, the graceful way in which she caught a handful of her skirt between her fingers to lift it above the dirt of the backyard. He thought of the warmth where her arm lay against his and knew he’d already been back at Wangallon too long.
Sarah crunched brittle lawn under her riding boots as Bullet completed a triple roll on the grass. He trotted back to where Ferret limped slowly from around the corner of the house, gave an encouraging bark and rushed back to Sarah. The grass, fragile from three consecutive frosts, was now pale. Like the surrounding countryside, most of the plant life was dormant. Sarah walked to the far end of the garden where the fence was bordered by towering cacti. Bullet trailed her, snapping at imaginary insects and sniffing at the base of peeling lattice which, in the warmer months, provided support for a trailing potato vine. Turning from the paddock, she looked back towards the homestead. Sarah could imagine her great-grandfather, Hamish, reclining on the verandah. At the thought, her gaze was drawn to the oldest part of the house, the original bedrooms. She shook her head. Only she would imagine a shadow at a window. As if agreeing, Bullet barked and then busied himself snuffling at a group of geranium-filled pots clumped next to a wooden garden seat.
There was no breeze and the trees were quite still. She held her palm millimetres from the surface of a lemon-scented gum and, closing her eyes, sensed the energy hovering beneath her skin. Beneath the ground the tree’s roots travelled for many metres, spreading out like tentacles to suck up every available millimetre of water around them. She gazed through the shrubs and hedges, imagining the gravel drive that, up until fifty years ago, had been the main entrance into the homestead. What, she wondered, would her ancestors have made of Anthony’s project? Certainly they cleared Wangallon. With teams of men, axes in hand, they had cut a swathe through the more heavily timbered areas allowing grasses to grow, homes, yards and fences to be built, and in return the country became more productive, more fertile.
Sarah’s grandfather had referred to this massive undertaking as the civilising of the bush, yet in the same breath he’d laughed at his use of the word. The Gordons knew no one could tame this land. It was intimately tied to the vagaries of the weather. After a small flood in low-lying areas, the belahs would grow up thickly across paddocks already selectively cleared maybe twice in this decade alone. The cost of keeping such paddocks clear of regrowth was both costly and time consuming and if left unattended, would render a paddock useless: The woody plants would decrease natural pasture, decrease stocking rates and ultimately become a breeding ground for feral pigs and the kangaroos that could eat out a paddock in months if they were not culled annually.
Yet the large scale clearing of Boxer’s Plains did not sit easily with her. She could see the benefits Matt pointed out, but apart from the all-consuming and limiting factor of cost, large scale cropping wasn’t in their blood; conservative grazing was and had been since the property’s settlement. That was the reason for Wangallon’s longevity. Boxer’s Plains was also the last property the Gordons had ever purchased and that made it important in the family’s history, although for some inexplicable reason Sarah also knew it was a special place. It just shouldn’t be touched. Her stomach knotted. All these thoughts were compounded by Anthony’s actions. He’d kept the proposed plan from her and in doing so fractured the basis of their love by destroying the trust between them. Through the fence two wallabies were nibbling grass. They were timid, reclusive creatures, preferring the scrub to the open. For a moment Sarah wished that she too could duck back into the bush to hide.
Anthony walked around the corner of the homestead. His arrival was heralded by Bullet who barked twice.
‘I’ve been looking everywhere for you,’ Anthony said with a touch of annoyance in his voice.
He looked harassed. His hat was cocked back on his head and there were hollows beneath his usually clear eyes. Sarah readied herself for an argument as she walked towards him, aware that by now Anthony would know that she had stopped the clearing. They met halfway near an orange tree, the silence magnified as Bullet scruffed the lawn before sitting next to Sarah, his paw resting on her riding boot. Anthony stared at her strangely.
Sarah folded her arms across her chest, all thoughts of discussing the situation rationally disappearing. ‘How long did you actually think you would be able to keep your new project a secret?’
‘New project?’
Sarah let out an agitated sigh. ‘The dozers at Boxer’s Plains? Did you honestly think you could get away with such a major undertaking without discussing it with me first, and what the hell would make you launch off and do something like that? Did you not give any consideration as to how it will affect Wangallon? We can’t afford such a massive undertaking, apart from the fact I’m not interested in growing bloody wheat!’
‘We can’t afford not to do it,’ Anthony replied soothingly. ‘We need to manage this place better and faster to ensure Wangallon continues into the future.’
‘Damn it, Anthony. What has got into you? I can’t believe you would go off and do something like this. It’s almost as if you don’t give a damn about Wangallon or my opinion anymore!’
Anthony held up an envelope. ‘You and Wangallon are the only things I ever think about.’ He passed her the letter. She plucked it from his fingers. It was creased and smeared with a blob of grease. Although unopened it was clear he’d been carrying it around for some time. ‘We are in debt, Sarah. You know that yet you seem to be living under the misguided impression that Wangallon can keep functioning as it always has in the past.’
‘All big stations work on overdrafts. But we do make a profit most years and we always make our interest payments. Even if we have a bad year the banks will carry us. Wangallon is like a great ship that keeps sailing straight ahead regardless of the weather.’
‘Yeah, well,’ Anthony nodded at the letter, ‘here’s your iceberg.’
Her eyes focused uneasily on the airmail letter. She looked at the postmark. It was from Scotland. Sarah felt her stomach turn.
‘A good wheat crop would give us a mighty cash injection,’ Anthony said slowly, ‘if we managed six bags off 2000 acres and if the price stayed at two hundred dollars we would repay this year’s development cost in a season. In a couple of years with 5000 acres in and the possibility of a ton we could be looking at a return of …’
Sarah looked again at the Scottish postmark. ‘Minus tax, minus chemical costs, minus the infrastructure required.’ She tore open the letter. ‘Minus the fact you didn’t bother to consult me about it first.’ She read the letter.
Sarah,
Having reconsidered my initial inclination of allowing a solicitor to handle this mess, I have decided to pay Australia a visit. I do not do this lightly, nor with enjoyment. I do, however, having discovered and reconciled myself to the fact that we are half-brother and sister thanks to the dalliances of your father, wish to visit Wangallon. If you ever returned my sincerity I hope you will welcome me. You have seen my parents’ poor crofter’s cottage and met the woman that your father deserted. I believe through my inheritance I can put right the wrongs done to her. I arrive on the 8th of next month and have booked a charter flight that will land me at the small strip at Wangallon Town. This I know cannot be a glad reunion, yet I hope for the best.
Jim
‘Sincerity?’ Anthony was reading the letter over her shoulder. ‘Was he in love with you?’
Sarah crumpled the letter. ‘A crush.’ There was little point denying it.
‘I see.’
There was no possible way Anthony would understand. Her trip to Scotland two and a half years ago made in an effort to find herself
had unintentionally led her to the place her father Ronald had had an affair 25 years earlier. Sarah and Jim met through chance and spent a week traversing the lochs and hills around the most northerly tip of Scotland. And while Jim developed a crush on her, Sarah had soaked up the joy of being free.
‘So sometime between then and now this bloke’s discovered that the woman he was keen on is actually his half-sister, his father is not his real father and his mother was unfaithful.’ Anthony turned to look about the large garden, his face unsettled by thoughts. ‘Then he discovers he’s been left a share in a big spread in Australia.’ Anthony looked directly at Sarah. ‘Well, Jim Macken was named in your grandfather’s will. It’s all legal as I keep on telling you.’
Sarah crushed the letter into a ball. As the months went by and they heard no word from the Mackens, she truly believed that his Scottish family chose not to reveal his association with the Gordons in Australia.
‘Sounds like he’s not coming for a social visit. Well, what’s he like? Can we sway his mind?’ He’d crossed his arms defensively, stuck out his chin a little.
‘How the hell would I know? Your thoughts are as good as mine at this point.’
‘Well actually you probably have the edge, after all you’ve met him on his home turf and he didn’t fall in love with me.’
For a moment Sarah felt like screaming for everything to just stop. She took a deep breath. ‘It’s the 8th in four days,’ she calculated. ‘Shit, I can’t believe Grandfather did this to me. Dividing up the place like a piece of cake. It’s made everything impossible.’
Anthony stared back at her, shoved his hands in his pockets. ‘It must have been a real shock to learn Wangallon wasn’t going to be left solely to you.’
They stood for a moment facing each other. A flock of tiny jenny wrens flew past them. Bullet jumped up and chased them into the bougainvillea hedge.
‘Well, I’ll let you arrange things with the solicitor.’ Anthony’s voice was flat. ‘You do know that we will have to sell part of the property to pay him out?’
From inside the homestead Sarah heard something breaking, like a glass being dropped. She turned towards the noise. They both did.
‘Probably the wind,’ Anthony stated. ‘We’ll need to make more money off the remaining property because our debt will remain the same. Have a think about how we might do that before you crucify me for trying to do us both a favour.’
Sarah looked at the crumpled piece of paper in her hand. When she looked up Anthony was gone, Bullet was sitting waiting for her and the house was silent.
That night Sarah lay quietly in bed listening to Anthony’s soft snoring. He’d returned late and the whiff of cigarette smoke and stale beer signalled a night at the pub. Sleep eluded her as she struggled with the weight of the past few days. Finally she left the bedroom to walk down the hallway to her grandfather’s room. The low wattage light overhead illuminated the room in a yellowish tinge as Sarah sat in the middle of the large bed. It was cold in the room and she felt uneasy, as if she were invading someone else’s domain. A light wind blew; it rustled the trailing vine and the hedges outside the window and sent a scattering of leaves across the corrugated iron roof. Sarah was about to pull the thick brocade bedspread about her when a low growl sounded and then a deep warning bark. Quickly pushing up the window she flicked on the outside light. Bullet stood some five feet from her, his gaze fixed on an unknown form among the darkness of the trees.
‘What is it, boy?’ she called softly, wrapping her arms about her.
Bullet looked briefly over his muscled shoulder. A streak of golden red flashed between tree trunks.
‘What is it?’ she called again.
A fox appeared from between the trees as if in answer to her question. The animal was large and powerfully built, with a solid body, glossy pelt and penetrating eyes. Sarah blinked under the fox’s stare, glad of Bullet who was sitting between them as if on guard. The two animals watched each other for long seconds before the fox finally withdrew, backing into the shadows.
Sarah, discovering that she had been holding her breath, took a gulp of the wintery night air and closed the window. She had the strangest feeling that she was not alone as she drew the heavy curtains closed. She was aware of the creaks and groans within the old homestead, of the spirits that roamed the land that was Wangallon because they loved it so much they could not leave; so what would happen now that one of the chosen custodians was embarking on a project that would change the very face of the property? What would happen now a third Gordon sought his inheritance?
The thought chilled her more than the tiny pinprick goose bumps on her skin and she thought of her great-grandfather. Years ago she’d recognised the cycle of continuity that was Wangallon. In the past it had been fed by the ambitions of her forefathers and their obsessive need to protect the Gordon land, and she’d witnessed this all-encompassing desire for security in her own grandfather’s actions. Succession for the Gordons had never been messy. Why was it now? Suddenly Wangallon was being challenged on two fronts and Sarah didn’t know what to do.
Returning to bed she huddled close to Anthony, the heat from his body warming her immediately as she cocooned against his back. His warmth sped through her as she aligned limb against limb, traversing each small gap between them until only a breath of air infiltrated the spaces between their bodies. Sarah listened to the rise and fall of his breathing as she wrapped an arm around him. She willed him to wakefulness, praying he would turn towards her encircling arm and gather her up as he’d done so many times in the past. At night there could be a coming together, for surely here within the confines of the room in which they’d grown to know each other so intimately, need would reunite them. It was not possible for Sarah to forgive his behaviour, at least not immediately; nor could she ignore the basic longing that consumed her. This was the man she loved and needed. Anthony was part of the landscape of Wangallon, he was her family. Outside the verandah Sarah heard Bullet’s low growl. Anthony gave a loud snore, coughed and then rolled onto his stomach. Sarah moved back to her side of the bed. The flannelette sheets were cold.
‘Excellent, Mrs Gordon.’ Jacob Wetherly rested his damask napkin on the polished wood of the dining table and twirled the stem of his glass. ‘You cannot imagine the pleasure of being at a cultured table once more. And I believe I’ve not had roasted boar for some time. My compliments to your cook and no doubt to you as well, Mrs Gordon, for a table is only as remarkable as the mistress that rules over it.’ He raised his glass and, finding it empty, gave a small frown.
‘Our previous stud master, Andrew Duff, will now assume Boxer’s position as head stockman,’ Hamish announced irritably. ‘I advised the men today, Wetherly.’ Hamish pushed the crystal brandy decanter across the table to his left and watched as Wetherly topped his glass past the level of decorum. ‘Duff is better acquainted with sheep, however he’s really too valuable to lose.’
‘And Boxer?’ Claire enquired.
‘He has earned his rest.’
‘The man has been indispensable for over forty years, Mr Wetherly. A great mark of loyalty towards my husband,’ Claire revealed, sliding a morsel of custard onto her spoon. ‘Do you not agree?’
Wetherly nodded politely, his own dessert spoon rounding his shallow bowl with renewed concentration.
‘I think we should withdraw to take brandy,’ Hamish announced, his hands grasping at the arms of the great carver chair.
So soon? It had been some time since Claire had enjoyed the company of such a cultured guest and although Wetherly was somewhat obvious in his attempts to charm, his was an amusing diversion. She waited patiently as Mr Wetherly passed the decanter back to Hamish, hoping he might be inclined to sit at the table for just a little longer. It was a convivial evening after all and no one could deny the elegant setting. Their candlelit surrounds highlighted a pair of skilfully painted emu eggs perched either side of a French marble clock on the mantlepiece and although her husband’s
grandiose oil portrait tended to dwarf near everything else in the room, she could hardly complain when her own imperfect rendering hung in the drawing room. She patted at her hair, pleased at the effect she’d managed to achieve without the services of a maid. Built up over strategically placed pads, her dark hair curled and puffed out most becomingly.
‘And are there many social engagements one can look forward to here, Mrs Gordon?’ Wetherly moved his arm to allow the maid to clear his dessert plate. There was a clatter of porcelain and silver.
Claire took a sip of water. ‘I usually hold a number of soirees a year. Unfortunately 1908 has proved exceedingly dull.’ She looked directly along the length of the table to where Hamish glowered.
As if sensing the change in his host’s demeanour, Wetherly tapped his nose knowledgeably and turned to Hamish. ‘There is some wild Aborigine causing mayhem just south of here.’
‘A renegade?’ Hamish asked, his fingers tapping the table with interest.
‘Apparently so. He has been travelling northwards. The constabulary thought they’d caught him at Ridge Gully but the black they’d chained to the tree for three days died before the land-holder for whom he worked could vouch for his innocence.’
‘Oh dear.’ Claire shuddered. ‘How terrible.’
Hamish poured more brandy.
‘It happens.’ Wetherly drained his glass. ‘However, Mrs Gordon, if you have suffered for a lack of entertainment you can be sure this savage assisted in the decision of many a hostess this season.’
Hamish gave a belch that carried down the length of the table. Claire turned her nose up distastefully. With that singular announcement he scraped the tapestry-backed chair across the polished wooden floor. ‘Yes, well, enough with the pleasantries. If you will excuse us, Claire.’
A Changing Land Page 13