‘You scared me.’ Sarah draped the camera over her shoulder.
Anthony slid from Random, who nibbled his shoulder in an effort to court attention. ‘Sorry.’ He plucked a long blade of grass, tickling her ear. ‘I haven’t seen a koala for ages.’ They peered up through the foliage. Anthony draped his arm about Sarah’s shoulders and together they watched the koala scramble higher. Random snuffled their hair and tried to wriggle his head between theirs.
‘What is it about this horse of yours, Anthony,’ Sarah asked, scratching the gelding between the ears. ‘I think he’s suffering from a lack of attention.’
‘Well I know how that feels,’ he countered, giving her a kiss on the forehead. ‘So I see you’ve taken up your hobby again.’ He touched the camera strap.
Sarah patted the camera case. ‘Actually I’ve missed my photography. I think I got a great shot today too. Remember that wallaby we saw?’ Sarah pointed to the peppercorn and the broken timber railing. ‘I captured him just there and the light was magical.’
Random gave a whinny of impatience that set Sarah’s horse Tess to striking the sandy ground with a hoof. Anthony smiled. ‘Well I’m pleased you’re back into photography again. You always loved it. There’s no reason why you can’t enter a few more competitions like you did before –’
‘Before grandfather died?’ Sarah completed his sentence. ‘Didn’t feel like it before now.’ She walked to her horse.
Together they rode through the peppercorns and out into the cloud-streaked sky. The evening star had risen and it was towards this bright glow that they spurred their horses. They rode side by side; diverging from the normal dirt road back to the homestead to follow one of the many sheep trails that crisscrossed Wangallon. Sarah often wondered what these trampled single-file dirt paths would look like from the heavens; leading to and from watering points and feed.
‘Nice action,’ Anthony commented as Sarah trotted through a gate in front of him.
She could tell by the directness of his expression that he wasn’t talking about her riding ability. She pouted cheekily. ‘Interested in seeing it up close and personal?’
Leaning from the saddle, he chained the gate closed. ‘Before or after dinner?’
‘Hmm. Depends on your appetite,’ Sarah replied, breaking Tess into a canter.
They rode back to the homestead, reaching the stables as the horizon blurred between day and night. The coolness of autumn seeped upwards from the ground as they unsaddled Tess and Random. Anthony did the honours with the curry comb, giving each horse a quick brush down as Sarah put a ration of feed in their stalls. Having planned on a leg of mutton for dinner, roasted with some potatoes, carrots, pumpkin and lashings of gravy, time-wise it was looking more like spaghetti bolognese, with that special sauce only she could concoct: straight out of a jar.
‘Done.’ Sarah bolted the half-gate on Tess. Contented munching sounds echoed through the still air. ‘Shelley’s flying up this Friday. You didn’t forget?’
Anthony extricated his shirt sleeve from Random’s teeth and gave a final shove to the stall gate, bolting it closed. ‘Geez, you’re getting an attitude,’ he commented. Random turned away from Anthony in disgust.
‘You did forget, didn’t you?’ Anthony seemed to have relegated her city life into the wastepaper bin. Whether it was due to her time in Sydney being associated with her ex-fiancé or purely because he disliked the city and couldn’t relate to it, she’d never been sure.
‘Is she coming with or without the suit?’ A glimmer of mischief crossed Anthony’s face.
The suit in question was a fast-talking advertising executive, Robert, with an ex-wife, a brand new apartment and a walloping expense account that suited Shelley, aka recently crowned Lady-Lunch-a-Lot, just fine. ‘Without.’
Even in the half-light she could tell he wasn’t disappointed.
‘Well even without him that buggers up my recreational activities for the weekend. Guess I better make up for them now.’
Sarah found herself thrown uncomfortably over Anthony’s shoulder. ‘You Neanderthal.’
He laughed, smacking her hard on her backside. ‘That would be me.’
Sarah flung open the double doors of her bedroom and breathed in dawn’s chill. The air caught at her throat and lungs, pinching at her cheeks. Young Jack Dillard, their jackeroo of twelve months, had taken particular care in fertilising the lawn during spring and summer, the result obvious in the prolonged green tinge carpeting the expanse of garden around the homestead. Within a week, however, the lawn like the rest of Wangallon’s garden would begin to shut down for winter. Sarah grinned happily as she scraped her hair from her face, twisting it nonchal antly before securing it with an elasticised band. Every season on Wangallon was filled with wonder. The crisp breath of frosty mornings, birds ruffling feathers to warm themselves and bush creatures foraging amid sleeping trees were just as welcome to her as the new shoots of spring.
Rubbing sleep from her eyes, Sarah waited until a glimmer of the new day appeared in the east. Rays of red-tinged light infused trees, grass and geranium-filled pots until finally the ancient bougainvillea hedge with its straggly trails of flat green leaves and desert bright flowers of pink and red were saturated with light. Pink in the morning, Sarah thought, shepherd take warning. Her grandfather would have predicted a shower of rain within three days at the sight of this morning’s sky. Let’s hope so, she murmured, for this morning they would begin to discuss their winter feeding plans. Selecting a rusty brown sweater from the cedar wardrobe, she slipped it on.
‘Morning,’ Anthony said groggily.
Sarah’s eyebrow lifted in amused accusation. Shelley and Anthony had gone for the pass the port routine after dinner last night. Sarah, never having liked any type of fortified wine, stuck with her preferred poison, a soft merlot, and consequently was feeling pretty healthy. ‘Choice of beverage not agree with you, honey?’ Sarah covered the few short steps to the side of the bed and planted a kiss on Anthony’s sun-brown cheek. He struggled up from beneath the warmth of the bedclothes, his arms folding quickly across his bare chest.
‘What’s with the blast of cold air?’ He frowned, glancing at the alarm clock.
‘What’s with the sleep-in?’ she countered, softly nuzzling his neck.
Anthony squinted against the morning glare, focusing on the antiquated dresser belonging to Sarah’s great-grandfather, Hamish. It was an ugly old thing made out of packing cases with large cut-off cotton reels for handles. He’d never liked it. ‘We need a blind on that verandah.’ He tweaked Sarah’s nose playfully before trapping her in a great bear hug. ‘Better still, let’s move into Angus’s room. It is bigger, plus it has an ensuite.’
Sarah, recalling last night’s intimacies, found her thoughts quickly grounded. ‘We’ll survive.’
He buried his face in her neck. ‘You smell of sandalwood. You always have.’ He held her, his strong hands clasping her shoulders, his fingers lifting to trace her cheek. Knowing how easy it was to succumb, Sarah placed her palm against the warmth of his chest and then ruffled the rusty brown sheen of his hair. Their usual weekly meeting was due to start in half an hour. Anthony, as if reading her mind, glanced at the alarm clock.
‘No,’ she said strongly.
‘Hey.’ Anthony picked up her ruby engagement ring, twiddling it between his fingers. ‘It’s about time this ring had a gold band to sit beside it.’
Taking the ring, Sarah sat it back on the bedside table. His grandmother’s ring and two hundred thousand dollars represented Anthony’s share of his family’s property and she knew he deserved every penny. ‘Come on, it’s a work day.’
Padding down the hallway in her socks, Sarah glanced into her grandfather’s empty bedroom. On impulse she entered, drawing the heavy burgundy curtains aside. Instantly a rush of light leapt into the room. Crystal ornaments and a silver-backed hairbrush sitting on the mahogany dressing table caught the light, refracting myriad dancing squares across the still li
fe of hydrangeas hanging above the king-sized bed. On the hardwood bedside table a picture of her grandfather with his half-brother, Luke, caught her eye. The yellowing image showed her great uncle on horseback. Her grandfather, far younger in age, stood beside him with a rifle and a brace of ducks over his shoulder.
Next door Anthony could be heard moving about their bedroom. Cupboards closed noisily, drawers stiff with age creaked on opening. Anthony’s own belongings, including a number of antique items left to him by his grandmother, were still sheet-covered in one of Wangallon’s many spare rooms. At some stage she would need to find homes for them, although with the house already stuffed with Gordon furniture, each piece a tangible link to their history, she was at a loss to know where they’d go.
Glancing again at the dressing table, Sarah opened one of the drawers and placed the silver hairbrush safely inside. It was a small step towards accepting that her grandfather was never going to use these items again. She made a promise to herself that during winter she would open the wardrobe and pack his clothes away for good. It was time, Sarah decided. Outside the bedroom window a willy-wagtail fluttered against the glass. The small bird, intrigued by his reflection, hovered momentarily before darting between the glossy green leaves of the hedge. Sarah turned slowly, silently wishing some of her grandfather’s wisdom would seep into her.
In the months of instability and grief following her grandfather’s death, Sarah worked at keeping busy. They all did. There was much to come to terms with. Angus Gordon’s passing left a deep hole in their lives. It was as if a great tree had been rooted out leaving everyone without both direction and stability. Sarah didn’t know when she’d awoken from grief’s stupor. It was as if each new day brought with it a renewed clarity, allowing her mourning to settle into a livable although still tender state. What she did appreciate was the sense of growing maturity within her. She felt ready to embrace the next part of her life, ready to lead Wangallon into the future. In this future there would be children, heirs for Wangallon, and Anthony would be their father: A fifth generation on Wangallon. Sarah knew her ancestors would be pleased.
Luke Gordon hunkered down in his swag and dug his side into the rocky ground beneath. A rock poked at his hip and he thought of his father. He expects the old man would be up by now, his boots striking the wide verandah of Wangallon Homestead as he strides towards the stables. He imagines his bed still warm, a fan of hair with the black–blue gleam of a crow’s wing dark against sun brightened sheets. Though it is still some hours from piccaninny daylight, Luke has been awake intermittently through the night. Aborigines have been following them and despite the steady crawl of exhaustion, he stays alert. Mungo, Boxer’s son, is standing guard with two others. Out there Mungo never sleeps. He stays awake to keep the dark at bay, thinks of the girl he loves and would lie with if given the chance.
Luke hears a rider approaching the camp side of the mob. There is the crackle of twigs and the rustle of leaves as Mungo’s companion arrives to wake the horse-tailer, Percy. There is the familiar sound of boots being pulled on, a coat shrugged into and the splash of urine in dirt. The fire’s still hot and soon Percy is slurping his tea, his swallowing mingling with the lowing bullocks and the tethered night horses tramping the ground.
Percy’s footsteps are clearly heard as he leaves the camp and heads past the night horses to where the day horses are camped. Luke opens his eyes reluctantly. He can smell fresh beef frying as the old cook coughs his lungs up. It is the thought of another thick frost that has him rising quickly to dress; boots, hat and coat. He rubs crystals of sleep from his eyes, stretches the knots in his lower back and relieves himself. A tin basin of water, iced over, sits on a log nearby. Luke cracks the ice with his pocket knife. The water stuns him awake, droplets run like ants between his neck and shirt as dawn begins to rob the countryside of its black silhouettes. The sky grows grey. It will be sometime yet before the sun takes hold of the rim of the earth and tugs itself upwards and into view.
There are grunts as five slumbering forms stir, roll up their bedding and pull on boots. Some drag their bedrolls to the fire’s rim and sit silently beside the warmth.
‘Food’s on,’ the cook calls at the top of his voice.
As boss drover, Luke takes the first plate and pours himself tea, adding two lumps of sugar from the sack where the provisions are stacked. He squats in the dirt, chewing slowly, his pannikin resting on the rocky ground before him. They are past halfway through the trek southward to market. In a month or so he plans to be feeding the bullocks in the valleys. They’ve done the hard part, the real snap of winter, although the mountains tend to curry favour with wind and ice and he will be pleased to be free of their cold shadow. With luck he and his team will reach the markets safely. So far in the near five months they have been on the stock route, their losses have been minimal: six dead, including the one that dislocated its shoulder crossing the gorge yesterday. Luke chews on the hunk of beef, relishing the juices. It’s a fine change from salted mutton. He has told Cook to render up some of the fat for dripping, promised him another day in this same spot.
Behind him the men are silent, concentrating on waking and eating simultaneously. Luke clears small rocks from the dirt, draws a bit of a map with a greasy forefinger. By his reckoning they are about one hundred and fifty miles south-east of Ridge Gully. He’s never been to this town where his mother, Rose, was born, never met his grandmother. Maybe after Christmas he’ll postpone the yearly drive south, venture down that way. If he doesn’t go soon his grandmother will be dead. He thinks about her emporium. It has been like a cool drink on a hot day for most of his adult life; someday the emporium will be his, then he will have an option other than this. Wiping his fingers on his doeskin trousers he remembers his dead brothers, his beloved mother. He loves droving, yet hates it. It gives a man too much time to think.
Percy returns with their horses. He has fifty-two under his watch. With eight men on horseback and two horse changes alone in daylight hours, his job of caring for their team is the most important. The men saddle up, bursts of steam rising like small clouds from their horse’s nostrils. Eventually the men straggle off in the direction of the mob.
‘Feed ’em into the wind,’ Luke advises, knowing the stock would walk into the southerly naturally. ‘We’ll water them at Ned’s Hollow.’ Luke does a quick check of the wagon, counts the pack horses. ‘Supplies right, Cook?’
The grey-haired poisoner, as the men call him, salutes. Luke takes a drag of his roll-your-own, blows the smoke clear of his eyes. Cook was in the army years ago, so he says. The men hint at a convict past. Luke doesn’t care, he just needs someone who can cook without killing anyone, although there had already been sore stomachs aplenty this trip. He looks at the mountains to the east of them; great monolithic tombs of stone that block the view of the flat country on the other side. He is restless for the open plains of Wangallon, knowing full well that once he gets there he will feel the need to leave. It has been like that for a very long time; the wanting of the property, the need to be on Wangallon soil, then the reality of what it means to stay. With a final sip of his tea, he tosses the remains in the dirt, turns the collar of his coat up against the nippy southerly, the tread of 1500 cattle filling the air.
Luke turns his horse Joseph north towards the rear of the mob as the cattle walk slowly southwards. Mungo is hunched in the saddle, his hat pulled low over his dark skin. He smiles the smile of a long lost brother.
‘Time for some food, Mungo.’
‘Fresh cooked by a woman,’ Mungo answers as if there was a choice. ‘Black duck, mebbe some potatoes.’
Luke laughs. There is beef at their camp, however Mungo is more concerned about the cook who would feed him, in particular a black-haired girl Luke has never seen. ‘She’d be lucky to have you.’
The Aborigine grins. Luke slaps him lightly on the arm. He has told Mungo that he’s in love although his childhood friend refuses to agree with him.
‘She was promised to an elder. He died. Probably by now she is promised to another.’
Luke understands his friend’s feeling of frustration. ‘What will you do?’
Mungo shrugs. ‘She would leave the tribe.’ His voice is shaded with disbelief. ‘Her eyes are soft as a rabbit’s, but her heart is strong. She says that this is not our land anymore. I say it is not for the owning.’ He glances over his shoulder to the line of dense trees behind them. ‘Them fellas out there, Boss. Might be they come too close.’
There had been little trouble with Aborigines this trip, apart from the usual skirmishes and a bit of bartering for safe passage. Luke glances at the trees behind him, pats his carbine rifle, gestures to Mungo with a quick incline of his head. They have been followed these past two nights. Both of them have been waiting for the blackfellas to appear. They have sat under trees drooping with coldness, hugged rawhide gloved hands beneath their armpits and wiped at their snotty noses between sips of tea and snatches of conversation. Luke wonders about his friend’s woman. He wants to tell Mungo to speak to his father, Boxer, who is an elder. He doesn’t for fear of offence and the cautionary thought that it is blackfella business.
The familiar red and white of a bullock’s hide flashes through the trees. Mungo looks knowingly at Luke as a loud bellowing announces trouble. The tail of the mob are a good three hundred feet from the tree line. Luke doesn’t feel like an altercation today. Having woken a little less stiff than usual and with a portion of Wangallon beef stuffing his belly, he was hopeful of a more leisurely start. Instead he finds himself following Mungo.
They walk their horses into the timber, ten feet, twenty, thirty … Luke pulls quietly on Joseph’s reins, Mungo points to the right. They walk single file through the trees, Luke with one hand on his rifle. There is the crashing noise of a large animal charging through the dense woody growth. The sound echoes loudly for long minutes. An ambush is a distinct possibility, especially here where the trees grow so tightly they appear to have been planted in rows. Another thirty feet on, Mungo heads left. Luke grimaces at the noise of hoofs on leaf litter, his eyes searching for a patch of sky in the canopy above. Joseph pricks his ears and halts midstride. Three Aborigines block their path.
A Changing Land Page 3
