Claire brushed at the line of ants crawling across the picnic rug and shifted her position. Her whalebone corset was troubling her today, a usual occurrence during summer, and she pined for the coolness of her bedroom. She untied the chiffon scarf securing her curved brimmed hat and let the air waft about her.
‘Mr Stevens has invested in timber,’ Mrs Webb began by way of conversation, cutting through Claire’s daydreams. ‘I find the very concept of a trade abominable. Do you not, Mrs Gordon? The very thought of such a life, well,’ Mrs Webb gave a convulsive shiver. ‘Some say he is clever. Who can be clever in a small town is my response, for there is none to compare the man with.’ She ate a morsel of salted mutton and sipped at a warm glass of punch. ‘I find him altogether too shrewd, particularly as the foundations for another hotel are being laid almost diagonally opposite the current one. Besides which those that own a general store always know who has money and who does not. To my thinking that is most unpalatable.’
‘A big fish in a small pond?’ Claire remarked.
‘Exactly.’ Hilda patted Claire’s gown. ‘I saw that very ensemble in the Grace Brothers’ catalogue. I myself have never been one for all white.’
‘Mother thinks it decadent,’ Henrietta stated prettily. Jane took a bite of her parrot pie, the pastry crumbling down the front of her somber grey blouse. ‘Decadent,’ she repeated as if the food she ate had somehow intrinsically weaved its way into her vocal chords.
Claire, having never seen Hilda in anything other than black, patted the older woman’s hand. ‘Nonsense, white would suit you very well.’
Hilda gave a dimpled smile and then pounced on the arrival of Jacob Wetherly. ‘My dear husband promised us some entertainments today, did he not, my girls?’
‘Yes, Mama,’ Henrietta and Jane answered with the synchronicity of rehearsed obedience.
‘A fine style of a man, Mrs Gordon,’ Mrs Webb observed. ‘He’s been employed down south on a highly regarded property for some fifteen years. They say he fell afoul of the owner.’ Hilda leant conspiratorially towards Claire. ‘There is talk of a liaison with no other than Mrs Henry Constable.’
‘No,’ Claire whispered. ‘How impossibly salacious.’ And not at all surprising, Claire decided, as both she and Mrs Webb lifted their fans and under cover of much fluttering stared blatantly at the new arrival. ‘Mrs Henry Constable must be –’
‘Forty-five in the shade my dear, with five children. Oh he is a fine form of a man,’ Hilda said breathily.
Claire couldn’t disagree. Jacob Wetherly was tall and wore his clothes well. Dark-haired and straight-backed with a becoming dark tan to his skin, his was a welcome addition to their gathering.
‘There is also the whisper of an estate in England.’ Mrs Webb tapped Claire on the forearm, ‘although there is disagreement as to his actual worth. It would seem Mr Gordon has taken to him.’
It was true, Claire observed, fascinated as Mr Webb provided introductions. Hamish led the man aside, gesturing with his hands animatedly. Claire had witnessed such persuasion before although at the moment she was unsure as to the nature of this particular exchange. Jacob Wetherly’s expression alternated from surprise to interest to momentary quiet. Finally the two men shook hands. Claire lowered her fan. Mr Wetherly was looking directly at her. She averted her eyes, for once grateful of Henrietta and Jane’s prattling and her curved brim hat. Claire busied herself with the fried fish Mrs Ovendale helpfully suggested was for those with a tendency towards overheating.
‘They are coming over to join us,’ Mrs Webb announced with an excited tremble to her voice.
Claire dabbed at her greasy lips with a white linen napkin. Hamish and Mr Wetherly were indeed walking towards their shady retreat, with Reginald following.
‘Sit up straight,’ Hilda advised her daughters. ‘Don’t say anything silly,’ she challenged Jane. ‘Remember you are both unmarried and it is a disappointment to me,’ she patted Henrietta’s arm, ‘but it is a disappointment that could be rectified with effort.’ Henrietta plastered on a serene smile. Jane brushed crumbs from her bunched skirt.
Jacob Wetherly declared himself honoured to be included at their picnic and commented on the becoming nature of Mrs Webb’s daughters, who in turn dropped their mouths open so that pink tongues and white teeth became the extent of his remembrances of them. It was only after pleasantries were exchanged that Claire enquired as to his visit to Wangallon Town.
‘New and I might add unforeseen prospects,’ he answered mysteriously. His eyes were grey, made more intriguing by a deep scar etched on his forehead and an aquiline nose a debutante would die for. Claire was positive a wink escaped in her direction, but unsure as to whether this was a premeditated manoeuvre or some undiagnosed tick she took refuge behind her fan. She could not, however, escape the brushing of his lips across her hand, nor the positively languorous way in which he released his grip. It was proving to be an entertaining afternoon, she decided.
‘And what are your plans for Christmas, Mrs Gordon?’ Mrs Webb enquired when the men strode away to another group of picnickers and their foursome had calmed themselves sufficiently enough to accept Jane’s offer of slices of apple pie. Claire was pleased to find herself discussing her thoughts of a large scrub turkey with roasted vegetables.
‘Yes, and mutton,’ Mrs Webb added. ‘We can look forward to mutton chops for breakfast, roasts for dinner and cold cuts for tea before it is salted, cured and placed in the meat safe. Oh, when do you think we will have one of those glorious ice chests such as the city folk enjoy? Now that is something the shopkeeper should be investing in, not timber.’
‘We could have ices, Mama,’ Henrietta suggested.
‘Oh yes, with fresh lemon cordial.’ Jane sprayed her sister with morsels of apple and pastry.
Henrietta brushed at her blouse. ‘You are not fit for polite society.’
Despite her best intentions Claire found herself glancing in Jacob Wetherly’s direction, before drifting off as Mrs Webb began an extended explanation on the digestive benefits of stuffing and gravy.
Reclining on her side, Claire was beginning to doze in the afternoon sun when a disturbance awakened her.
‘Oh, what has happened?’ Mrs Webb enquired, reaching for her smelling salts. Henrietta perched on her knees in anticipation. ‘Well go on, Jane,’ Mrs Webb pointed her sharply closed fan in the direction of the kerfuffle as Jane ran off to investigate. ‘Come back instantly once you have ascertained the drama of the event.’
Minutes later the minister and Mr Wetherly marched the three young master Ovendales and Angus Gordon out of the timber bordering the clearing. The minister had a firm grasp of Angus’s collar and all four boys were covered with mud from their short pants to their feet. The rest of the picnickers were agog with interest, quickly forming a tight circle and blocking any further view.
‘It is Angus,’ Jane spluttered, looking apologetically at Claire. ‘He tied one of the boys up a tree. Mr Wetherly said it was at an impressive height.’
Claire gave an indulgent sigh. ‘I’ve no doubt.’
Anthony drove along the edge of the bore drain. In the distance he could hear the mechanical rumbling of the excavator as it scooped out the two feet of packed earth that sealed the fodder inside the silage pit. About to head in the direction the excavator was working, his attention was diverted by a cow bogged in the bore drain. She was an older cow. One who’d managed to sneak in a calf before she could be sold, and was now struggling to maintain condition due to the combined effects of age and the simple fact that she was cooking for two.
After only a few hours in the cold water of the drain, the cows usually lost strength and movement in their hind legs, any longer and hypothermia set in. Anthony took one look at the old girl, with her wild-eyed stare and shaking head, and thought she was a goner. Mud was piled up around her from repeated struggling and the bore water ringed the dark red of her hide. Taking a heavy chain from the Landcruiser’s tray, he attached it to
the vehicle’s roo bar and approached the cow. She bellowed and snorted, twisting her head repeatedly so that every time Anthony tried to loop the chain around her horns, he missed; the chain dropping into the mud of the drain. Finally he managed to get the chain secured. He reversed the Landcruiser slowly. The chain grew taut, the cow bellowed. Anthony kept reversing until the cow was clear of the drain, then he drove forward quickly to slacken the chain, jumped out and removed it from her horns. To his surprise she clambered to her feet, snorting mucus into the air. Her scared eyes met his, her body shook uncontrollably and in an instant she was charging him. Anthony scrambled into the tray as she looked at him for a long minute before finally walking away. Further along the drain a calf appeared and mother and child were reunited.
Brushing mud from his hands, Anthony continued towards the pit. They would have to start regular drain runs to ensure they didn’t lose any other cows, which meant, he begrudgingly admitted, that they should have opened the pit earlier. Sporadic trees punctuated the otherwise open country and within minutes he was nearing the silage pit that rose like an ancient burial mound from the flat landscape. The sky was dulled by cloud and out towards the west, a mist of rain fuzzed the tree line.
Outdoors everything seemed so simple. The bush was labour intensive yet it rewarded you if you weren’t averse to risk and you were savvy management-wise. So why wasn’t his personal life as easy? On his arrival at Wangallon as a young jackeroo, Anthony had found himself drawn to Sarah and her brother, Cameron. And while his self-esteem grew commensurate with his journey up the management ladder, from the beginning a sense of belonging permeated his days on Wangallon. It was his desire to remain on the property that helped salve his dismay at Sarah’s leaving after Cameron’s death, and his attachment to the Gordon’s great mass of land almost compensated for Sarah’s long absences from the property. Once or twice he considered leaving, although the property had seeped into his veins. And then there was Sarah and the simple fact that one day she might return.
While Anthony could never fathom Angus Gordon’s manipulative personality he did understand the magnitude of good fortune that lay in the shape of the thirty per cent share of Wangallon bequeathed to him. He was very much aware of his responsibilities and had been running a tight ship for a number of years now. He could only see disaster ahead if Sarah began questioning his management style and Matt continued on his ‘delusions of self-importance’ path. Matt was a good bloke and capable, however he was only an employee. Taking advantage of Sarah’s weak spots to further his management aspirations, or wangling his way out of station work by pleading a perpetually useless hand weren’t endearing qualities.
Anthony pulled up some feet away from Matt’s vehicle as rain flecked the windscreen. Matt couldn’t wait for the fine weather expected tomorrow. He had to prove a point. The excavator had removed the top layer of dirt from the pit and was now filling two tip trucks with chopped sorghum. The scoop swung from the mouth of the pit across to the first truck and dumped its load in the back. The truck shuddered at the weight, the rear tyres bulging and then resettling.
Matt walked around the side of the tipper, kicking at the rear tyre as if checking the air pressure, his signature cigarette looking like an eleventh finger. Anthony nodded at the spits of rain. They couldn’t afford for the silage to get wet. ‘There are tarps in the back,’ Anthony pointed over his shoulder, ‘and you’ll need some tyres to secure them.’ He didn’t bother to remind Matt that waiting another day for the fine weather predicted would have been a better alternative than having tippers and excavators sitting down.
Matt took a drag of his cigarette. ‘No worries.’ His voice carried over the two-way radio in the Landcruiser as Anthony drove away. ‘We’ll have to knock off until the rain passes,’ he advised everyone.
In the rear-view mirror a line of bulbous grey–blue clouds appeared in the distance. It would be raining tonight although Anthony didn’t expect much out of this cold front moving through. The vehicle bumped over a stock ramp, jolted through a series of potholes on the road and then turned towards a gateway. There were some early calving cows to check on, and then a number of telephone calls to make. Anthony opened the gate, pausing to reflect on what he was about to do. He’d been deliberating over an idea for some months. A project which he was convinced would ensure Wangallon’s continued longevity and prosperity. Having been on the verge of mentioning it to Sarah he was now loathe to, especially after the stock route and silage pit argument. He tapped his fingers on the aluminum frame of the gate. Sarah wouldn’t be happy. Ahead a bore drain twisted away to the right, to his left a startled emu appeared from amid dry grass and bolted from a nest in an effort to lead Anthony away. Anthony pulled his akubra a little further over his eyes; this was one project that couldn’t be delayed.
Sarah stared glumly through the kitchen window at the misting rain, her fingers entwined around her morning coffee. She thought of Shelley, imagined her planning her Thursday night out and briefly wished there was a nice little restaurant around the corner where she and Anthony could go to. She was finding the station book work a chore and it was her own fault. The bookkeeper had been let go a few months after her grandfather’s death, at Sarah’s insistence. It seemed silly to pay for something she could manage herself and there was no better way of understanding the running of the property. Unfortunately the task of keeping the station office running required a good two and a half days a week and once summer arrived the constant watering the garden required would take up any spare moment. She felt her paddock time being gradually eroded.
Outside the lemon-scented gum’s trunk was streaked with rain. Sarah watched as a topknot pigeon huddled its head on its breast, a puff of white and grey clinging to a branch. Things were changing. She could feel it as surely as if a new door were open before her, yet a niggling sense of annoyance was competing for her attention. Last Monday’s meeting lay as an unsubtle reminder of her discontent. Maybe Anthony was right and she had suddenly developed an opinion – one she wanted heard. And wasn’t that how things should be? She certainly didn’t want to cause an argument, yet sometimes he made her feel like a bystander in the running of her family’s property. And being relegated to second-tier management was beginning to sit uneasily with her. Now she had added reasons to be upset. One of this morning’s accounts was for twenty-eight thousand dollars; two new loading ramps and a set of portable cattle yards. She sipped contemplatively at her coffee. She could live with that; however, the equipment finance loan application for one hundred thousand dollars worth of a body cattle truck was getting a little out of hand. Sarah rubbed her forehead; neither of the items were mentioned in the station diary as possible future purchases.
In the office Sarah sat down at the large oak desk and looked out the casement window to the garden. This side of the homestead held her grandmother’s cuttings and herb garden. Grandma Jessica had died of an asthma attack out there. The bush she adored had killed her through the combination of an environmental allergy and isolation. Angus had been out mustering at the time, returning to find her lying in the garden unconscious, her wide straw hat and wicker basket lying by her side. The garden was her passion and encompassed a small area of dirt once tended by a Chinese man. His vegetable garden supplied much of the homestead’s requirements for nearly forty years until his death. Then there had been extensions and renovations to the rear of Wangallon in the twenties, fifties and the eighties; an office, kitchen, pantry and a walk-in cool room with adjoining fridge and commercial-sized deep freeze now covered the majority of the garden he once tended.
At various stages during the year the vegetable garden boasted rows of neatly planted cabbages, tomatoes, pumpkin, carrots and cucumber. Not particularly adventurous fare, but easy enough to grow, at least. Parsley, mint and rosemary completed the herb section. It was not that Sarah didn’t care for the garden, indeed pottering around the moist beds amid the wavering trees was amazingly therapeutic; it was simply that she loved
what grew beyond the back gate more. Out there was the rich soil that ensured their survival. Out there was the land that her people had lived and died for.
Clearing away images of a pigtailed man digging up the Wangallon soil, Sarah returned to the remaining unopened mail. There was the monthly fuel account, the molasses statement for the supplement they fed to the cows prior to the spring calving and the usual junk mail. Throwing the flyers for the supermarket cut-price specials and furniture store deals in the wastepaper bin, she jumped when the telephone rang.
‘Sarah, it’s Dad. I’m afraid I’ve got some bad news.’
She waited for the tremble in his voice to subside. There were only two things he could be calling about.
‘It’s your mother.’
Relief flooded through her, quickly followed by guilt.
‘She’s declined a bit over the last day.’
Sarah wondered if she should jump in the car and begin the long drive north. ‘I’m sorry, Dad. Is it bad?’
‘Well, the doctor can’t give me any specifics. How about I let you know if there’s any change.’ The cheery tone in her father’s voice sounded forced.
‘Okay. And you’re all right?’
‘I’m fine.’
Sarah turned their conversation to the weather and the opening of the silage pit. She was concerned for her father, however this wasn’t the first telephone call over the last couple of years heralding her mother’s increasing ill health.
‘Hey, honey.’ Anthony strode into the office, his jeans bloody. ‘Can you find me a syringe? One of the cows aborted and she’s prolapsed. I need to give her a shot of penicillin.’
‘Gotta go, Dad. I’ll speak to you later.’ She hung up the phone and selected a syringe and a sixteen gauge needle from the stainless steel cupboard. ‘The penicillin is in the cool room. I’ll go –’
A Changing Land Page 6
