A Changing Land

by Nicole Alexander

  She needed to get outside for a few hours before readying to meet the Sydney plane and she needed to see Anthony. If they didn’t try to patch things up soon, there would be an awfully large hole to jump. She needed to hold out the olive branch while ensuring the development ceased. No matter what else may have occurred, Frank Michaels was right. Wangallon didn’t need any bad press. Not if they went to court. The question was, should they go to court or should she take everyone’s advice and just accept the inevitable.

  A light fog clung to the waking day. Trees were blurred by the chilly whiteness of the air. Bullet was by Sarah’s side immediately, yawning, stretching and rubbing his head against her calf muscle. ‘Where’s Ferret?’ Bullet flicked his head towards the tank stand. Ferret was begrudgingly dragging himself upwards. ‘Come on then.’ Sarah tapped the dog’s water bowl with a stick, cracking the thin layer of ice on top, then with the two dogs in tow, they walked across ground hard with cold. Sarah listened as the rising wind carried the sounds of sheep crying across the paddocks, calling for their early born lambs. Elsewhere the bellowing of a bull reverberated across the rustle of grasses as the moist scent of the earth mingled with whiffs of herbage: some grown brittle by cold, others gathering in intensity as they awakened to a new day.

  The Landcruisers were parked in the machinery shed and Sarah headed there. She thought she’d catch up with the musterers before they dispersed across Boxer’s Plains. Maybe see Matt and say hi to Pancake. She was doing her best not to think about Toby. She certainly didn’t expect to see Anthony with his head under the bonnet of the mobile work truck when she walked around the corner of the shed.

  ‘We really need to talk,’ she said.

  He’d not heard her approaching and bashed his head on the hood. ‘Bugger it.’ He rubbed his head viciously. ‘When are you off?’

  ‘Lunchtime.’

  ‘What are you going to do?’

  She shrugged her shoulders. Swallowing her pride she walked towards him, wrapped her arms about his body. ‘I thought we could talk about it.’ He smelled of oil and grease and the reassuring aroma of the man in her life. She kept her arms wrapped around him, willing him to hug her back. His arms hung by his sides. Sarah persevered, nestling her cheek against the raspy cold of his heavy work jacket. You have to give in, she pleaded silently. There has to be a bridging between us. She snuggled closer until her nose pressed hard against his neck. It was then he relented, with the touch of skin against skin. His arms lifted to encircle her and then his mouth touched hers. Sarah wriggled with delight at his touch. His hands pressed firm on her waist, he drew her to him roughly, bent her head almost fiercely and kissed her. She could sense the wanting between them. It hung in the air. They’d been too long apart, too long arguing. They needed to go back to the house and rid themselves of their need. Sarah’s fingers plucked at his shirt tail, her forefinger touched flesh … and then Anthony was physically removing her hands from his body.

  Sarah found herself two steps away from him, cold air encircling her, the burn of embarrassment and disappointment flooding her cheeks. They looked at each other for a long moment, and then Anthony turned away. She stood there feeling stupid, wondering what she should do next. ‘Anthony?’

  He slammed the bonnet down on the work truck, wiped his hands on a filthy rag.

  ‘Anthony, I need you.’

  Leaning through the window on the driver’s side, Anthony turned the ignition, listened to the chug of the engine for a good minute and then turned it off. The stench of black exhaust fumes whirled around them in the increasing breeze. When he finally turned to look at her, there was something missing from his eyes.

  ‘You only need me when it suits you.’ He walked past her, got into one of the cruisers, reversed out of the shed and drove away.

  Sarah waited until the last moment, sure he would stop the vehicle and come back to her. A billow of dust shadowed his departure. Moments later Bullet was licking her fingers.

  Toby Williams walked his horse around the corner of the shed. ‘Morning. Wondering if Ant got the old truck going? We need the welder on the back.’

  Sarah wiped her cheeks with the back of her hand. ‘Yep, sounds like it’s going.’

  He hesitated. ‘Are you okay?’ He fiddled with his bridle, made a show of scratching his mare between the ears.

  ‘Fine.’

  He nodded in the direction Anthony had left. ‘You know what they call ’em in Wangallon Town? The jackeroo.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘I’ve still got a half-share in my place: a million wild acres in the territory. There’s no chip on my shoulder. Hey Pancake,’ he shouted. ‘The truck’s a goer. I’ll leave it with you.’

  ‘No worries,’ Pancake yelled from somewhere behind the shed.

  He rode across to her. ‘Do you remember what I said to you last night?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Toby tipped his hat, gave her a look that would stop a woman at a thousand paces and rode away.

  Great, Sarah thought. Just as well he was going out on the stock route. He cantered off, leaving Sarah to wonder how much of the scene between her and Anthony he’d witnessed. She figured their lovers’ tiff would make good campfire talk on the route tonight, except that it was a great deal more than a tiff.

  ‘Come on fellas.’ Bullet jumped into the back of the cruiser and Sarah lifted Ferret up to join him. ‘Time for a drive.’

  At the sheltered clearing waking birds tweeted, fluffed and preened themselves against a background of leaves rustling in the wind. Sarah opened the latch on the wooden gate and Bullet brushed past her legs into the cemetery, bush quails fluttering upwards in fright at their sudden disturbance. The clearing, silvery with the remnants of the frost, appeared to shiver with morning energy. Sarah stared at the headstones. The ageing monuments appeared to guard each other. There was a sense of sadness here, it was true; however, more often it was hope that seemed to hover in this special place. Above her, through the canopy of trees the sky brightened with the rising of the sun. They were all here. All of those who had come before her: three generations of Gordons both known and unknown to her. Overhead, a flutter of wings accompanied the mournful call of an owl. The frogmouth left the tall gum tree to soar above her, its wings increasing in beat until the owl swooped, gliding through the tightly packed leaves that wept the scent of eucalyptus. It landed lightly, its claws grappling the headstone of her great-grandfather Hamish Gordon.

  She studied the stonemason’s handiwork, the height and depth of the H and G. There was no date of death noted on the gravestone, only a date of birth with a hyphen beside it, as if he was destined for immortality. Sarah squatted amid the grasses. There were too many issues in her head; too many problems that needed to be sorted and then addressed in order of importance. Her thoughts returned to Anthony. She loved Anthony yet he’d been unsupportive and inconsiderate and seemed now to be beyond discussing anything with her. She needed someone who would live with, care for and work beside her; not a man who became emotionally challenged and stubborn when his management was questioned. She was the Gordon after all. Anthony needed to understand and respect that. If he couldn’t there was no future for them as a couple. Sarah twisted off a blade of grass and chewed on the pale green sweetness of it. Maybe he wasn’t meant to be a part of her future. Maybe he had come into her life for a reason and now the time had come for him to leave. She wasn’t the grief-stricken teenager or the ignored daughter anymore. She had grown up, was learning to live without the solid presence of her grandfather, had let go of her unstable mother and was capable and prepared to lead Wangallon into the future.

  Sarah blew on her chilled fingers. There was little point compartmentalising everything; only one issue could be addressed at a time and the most pressing was the threat that Jim Macken posed. What was she to do? Sell part of Wangallon or fight to retain it all? Her hand reached automatically into the depths of her pocket to touch the ancient fob watch. ‘What would you do Great-grand
father?’ But of course there had only ever been one answer. It came before love and joy and companionship, for without it none of the former could exist. She loved Wangallon more than anything else in the world and she would fight to not only retain it, but control it – her forefathers wouldn’t expect anything less. She was the custodian of Wangallon now. The choice was clear. Sarah whistled to Bullet and he ran through the frosty grasses like a canine movie star from a dog food commercial.

  ‘Cute.’

  Bullet gave a showman’s yawn, stretching out his front legs. Together they walked back to the cruiser where Ferret was waiting. Once behind the wheel, Sarah gritted her teeth and accelerated – it was time to return to Sydney. She would call Frank before her departure and let him know of her decision.

  Frank placed the telephone down on his desk and looked at the large oil painting covering the wall safe. It was a particularly good work by an early Australian artist and was similar in style to Frederick McCubbin, in that the work showed a softer, more lyrical style. It was a gift to his grandfather for services rendered on behalf of Hamish Gordon with regards to one Lorna Sutton, Sarah’s great-grandfather’s first wife’s mother. The painting was a river scene, all blue-greens, stately trees and tranquillity. Such an illusion, Frank decided, as he pushed the intercom button. ‘Rhonda, can you call and confirm the meeting with Tony Woodbridge and his client, Jim Macken, for eight-thirty in the morning?’

  Instead of Rhonda’s efficient voice travelling back to him, she was standing in person in his office within moments, the door closed firmly behind her. The problem with sixty-year-old immaculately groomed personal assistants that had been with an employer for over thirty years, Frank mused, was that one invariably slept with them.

  ‘Sarah Gordon is prepared to fight?’ she asked rather too enthusiastically, twisting the long strand of opera-length pearls that had been his gift to her last Christmas.

  ‘Yes, unfortunately,’ he said dourly, momentarily regretting their pillow talk, although he knew she would take everything to the grave. ‘It is to be expected. Genetics will out.’ He was glad to be retiring at the end of the year. ‘Clear my appointments in the morning will you, until eleven. I think I’m going to need some time.’

  ‘And her chances?’ Rhonda asked.

  ‘She will lose.’ Frank looked once again at the magnificent oil as Rhonda discreetly left the room. In a yellowing folio within the safe hidden behind the painting lay Luke Gordon’s hastily written letter from 1909. One needed to have the eyesight of a ten-year-old to read most of the scribble, however Frank’s own grandfather had managed to decipher most of the missive and it didn’t make for pleasant reading. Frank poured himself a whisky from the decanter in his cabinet and took a restorative sip. He would be the last Michaels to work here at what was once his family’s business. His son, a sixth-generation Michaels, was a surgeon and his daughters had married and were living abroad.

  Still, one only had their reputation in life and although his family was to soon cease association with the firm, damage was still possible to his family’s name and the company. The safe needed to be cleared out.

  Removing the picture, Frank sat it carefully on the floor. The work was redolent of the mythology of the Australian way of life, an artistic style that surfaced in Australia in the late 1880s leading up to Federation in 1901. The painting spoke of a life bound to the pioneer, pastoralist and explorer, all of which were displayed almost heroically on canvas. Frank turned the dial four times until a click sounded.

  The safe door popped open. Reaching inside he removed the Gordon family Bible. Inside the tooled leather cover was Luke’s letter. It was an incredible slice of history. An account of how business was done by driven, determined men at the turn of the century. In a leather folio beneath the Bible were the directives given by his grandfather on behalf of the Gordons. It amounted to being an accessory to … He wasn’t even going to think the word; besides, every man eventually got his dues.

  Taking another sip of whisky, Frank placed the Bible on his desk and, removing a single document for safekeeping, tipped the remaining ones into his wastepaper bin and lit the pile. ‘Must be my convict blood,’ he muttered grimly. He was sorry for Sarah, he guessed she had a right to know the truth, and he would tell her one day, however there were enough details burning in his wastepaper bin to fill a newspaper for a year and those media types loved a story with blood. What did they say? If it bleeds, it leads. Frank sipped at his whisky as the pile burnt out. That was it. There was no other evidence. Only what he knew and one day he too would be ash.

  Claire sipped at tea diluted with a little sweetened condensed milk. Although only late afternoon, she’d already consumed two discreet glasses of French brandy and managed a plate of boiled eggs. The effect was one of immediate stupefaction, which, considering the morning’s events, was a pleasant result. Her brain remained muddled from overtiredness and her limbs sagged with exhaustion, but she would survive. Scrunching an embroidered handkerchief between her fingers, she sent a wish of love to the slip of life so recently departed.

  Claire leant her head on the arm of the couch and stared numbly at the piano and her portrait above. There were decisions that needed to be made; clothes to pack, a booking on the Cobb & Co coach and bloodied clothes to burn. Instead her mind reflected on the still clearing at the bend in the creek. Amid the drift of shadows and sunlight, a row of stone slabs marked the sleeping places of Rose’s children and her own. You will have to walk away from that place, she admonished, no good can come of remembrance. A dull ache eased its way back into her heart.

  When Mrs Stackland announced Wetherly, Claire was dozing. She rose unsteadily from the couch, brushing at the creases in her brown skirt, dismissing her light-headedness and assuring the housekeeper of her wellbeing. Claire wished to see Wetherly. With all that had recently transpired, she desperately required a distraction and although she barely knew the man he was most definitely that. Ensuring her balance was equal to the task of walking, Claire straightened her shoulders and tucked the wisps of hair mussed by her sleeping. She patted at her cheeks in the hope of restoring a brief glow. He’d stood in this very room with the type of intention aflame in his eyes that made women swoon. Swooning wasn’t in Claire’s nature although nor was she immune to such blatant signs of manly interest.

  Despite her tiredness, the late afternoon captivated Claire. Light streamed through the bougainvillea hedge, its rays sweeping across the drowsy garden showering butterflies, birds and two mischievous rabbits with light. She walked directly towards Wetherly, sitting quickly in one of the wicker chairs, not quite trusting her strength.

  ‘Good afternoon, Mrs Gordon. I trust I find you in good health.’

  Claire noticed his usually immaculate attire was dusty. His shirt tail was untucked beneath his waistcoat and his eyes were shadowed with tiredness. Were it not for the fact that he only resided some half mile from the homestead proper, she would have believed he’d been travelling for some days. ‘Mr Wetherly, you look quite out of sorts.’

  ‘While you are as fresh as dew.’

  Claire’s cheeks coloured with the compliment despite knowing she must look ghastly.

  ‘I was hoping to find Mr Gordon. I was left a note last night and it appears he wishes me to take charge of the cattle for the route. However I’ve no experience in that regard.’

  What of Luke, Claire wondered. ‘Mr Wetherly, if my husband trusts you to attend to this task, then clearly that is his preference.’ She gestured for him to sit but he placed his hat on the wicker table, clearly distracted.

  ‘If you could tell me where he is I would talk to him about the matter.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Mr Wetherly –’

  ‘Do you know where he is or not, Claire?’

  Claire took a breath in anger. ‘I’ll ask you not to address me in that tone.’

  Wetherly hesitated, took a couple of steps towards her and then smiled. ‘I apologise. It is important I speak to him
and I would be grateful if you could tell me where he is.’

  Claire felt her body begin to ebb with tiredness, she began to feel ill. ‘I cannot help you, Mr Wetherly.’

  ‘Jacob,’ he corrected her. ‘Call me Jacob.’ Kneeling, he took her hand. ‘If we are alone …’ His thumb circled her palm. ‘I find I cannot remain in my current position.’

  He was so close, flecks of dust were obvious in his moustache. He grasped her hand more firmly. ‘I have already made a fool of myself in affairs of the heart. I cannot do it again.’

  Claire pulled her hand free. ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘Oh I know I should not ask such a thing. It’s just after our talk in the garden the other night, I felt, I thought, that you were unhappy. Am I wrong?’

  Claire gave a little shake of her head. Horribly, a gasp of sadness escaped her.

  He took her hand again, squeezed her fingers. ‘Then in your drawing room there was this utter moment of complete surrender between us.’ He paused. ‘Am I wrong in my imagining?’

  ‘I think you have mistaken …’

  ‘It is strange is it not? We’ve only been alone three times and yet when I saw you at the picnic with that dreadful Mrs Webb and her poorly conceived daughters –’

  Once again Claire freed herself of his grasp, ‘You mustn’t say such things.’