‘You don’t talk much.’
What the fig was there to talk about, he wondered. When he had completed his brief ablutions he rolled a cigarette and lit it, throwing the matches in the general direction of the girl. With a slowness borne of repetition he took a long, relaxing drag and then coughed up a mess of yellow sputum. He swallowed the lumpy parcel. Through the window Luke glimpsed a bullock dray ambling down the dirt road. From the hallway he heard footsteps, groans, and a woman’s yelp. On his reckoning he’d been in Wangallon Town for near three days. It had to be three for he was feeling imprisoned this morning, like some brumby chased down and yarded after months of roaming free. He was also pretty positive that he’d seen Jasperson skulking about the place not two days ago. Trust his father to send the weasel out to check on him.
Luke listened absently to Lauren as she talked of the green tree in the church, of hymns she had heard sung last Christmas, of the joint of mutton she hoped to eat with her family on the morrow. He was looking forward to some decent food, to Lee’s ramblings and his young half-brother’s infectious enthusiasm. As for Christmas, well, it was a day like any other day; besides, other matters weighed on his mind. His fingers brushed the small tortoiseshell hair comb purchased in Sydney.
‘Tell the cook I’ve need of some breakfast.’ Luke jingled the coin in his pocket, settled another coin on the edge of the washstand. A thin curl of smoke angled from the corner of the girl’s mouth.
‘You don’t have to do that.’ She bit at her bottom lip, gave a teased-out smile.
Perhaps he’d paid her too much? Certainly it had been enough for a week’s service. Scooping up the coin he pocketed it before opening the door. He gestured with his arm for her to leave and then began gathering his belongings. Lifting his bedroll, he sat it on the lumpy mattress.
‘When will I see you?’ the girl asked. ‘I’ve been good to you, Luke Gordon,’ she argued, clutching her hands against her breast. ‘Haven’t I been good to you? And I waited and I lay with no other all these months you’ve been roaming the bush.’
Luke gathered her skirt and blouse and watched the girl dress. Patting her rounded behind, he gave her a gentle shove out the door. Strangely enough the lass looked as if she might cry.
‘Take me back to that station of yours.’
‘I promised you nothing.’ Luke shoved his hand in his pockets.
Lauren stood on the bare floorboards of the hallway, her cheeks flushed. She wiped at her nose. ‘I’m a respectable girl, I am.’ She straightened her neck and shoulders. ‘You were pleased to see me.’
Luke tried to shut the door, finding a foot and palm quickly wedged between him and silence.
‘I’m a polite and proper young lady. If my father hadn’t fallen prey to the demon drink I’d be strolling down the main street in a swish new skirt with a matching parasol if you please.’
Luke pushed at the door and with a final shove managed to close it in the girl’s face.
‘You’ll be back, Luke Gordon,’ she called from the hallway. ‘You’ll be back.’
Not two miles from Wangallon Homestead, Luke’s attention was drawn to the flicker of movement. He was on the final leg of his journey, having almost completed his progression through the winding track that led through the ridge. It was a route cut by his father forty odd years previously and it connected Wangallon Homestead with Wangallon Town, the settlement which had sprung to life in the early fifties. Now as he ducked to miss an overhanging branch, the stillness of the surrounding trees brought into relief the outline of two figures. They were on the very edge of the ridge where the pine trees thinned gradually before being dwarfed by an open plain of grassland.
Luke reined in his mare, and steadied the other two horses he led. He squinted against the glare made more ferocious by the recent shelter of the ridges’ thick canopy. His eight-year-old half-brother Angus was struggling with a black boy a good foot taller in height. Luke leant back in his saddle and grinned in amusement as Angus managed to free himself from the boy’s grip. A sharp chase followed. Angus ducked and weaved away from the older boy but Luke was soon clicking his tongue in disappointment as the black boy dived, catching Angus around the ankles and bringing him crashing to the ground. Luke touched the flanks of his mount, walking forwards. The boy’s hijinks had developed into a good scuffle. The wiry black boy now had Angus pinned by one shoulder and as Luke neared the twosome he could see Angus’s legs kicking out fiercely as he screamed furiously. The black boy was rubbing sand in his face while Angus spat, kicked, yelled and spluttered.
Seconds later, Angus was whacking his torturer in the ear with a broken belah branch. Luke winced at the sting the raspy, thin plant would deliver. Finally Angus managed to push the boy off him. He took advantage of the altered odds quickly and straddled him long enough to deliver two sharp blows with the branch, but the win was slight, for soon Angus found himself receiving a series of hard shoves that sent him reeling to the ground. Luke was beginning to think better of his decision to wait for the final outcome. The black boy was laughing and mimicking Angus as he dragged himself up from the ground. Luke’s fingers felt for the rawhide stockwhip curled at his side. He broke his horse into a trot. Boxer’s tribe in the past had always been fairly reliable, however now they were no longer comprised of the pure blood relatives of past decades. Intermingling had occurred and, as the inhabitants of Wangallon had discovered, such mixing of blood could and did lead to violence. The black youth was dancing around Angus now, kicking sand in his little half-brother’s face, his straggly limbs dancing wildly as if he were partaking in some type of deranged corroboree.
Feet away, Luke dismounted and unfurled his stockwhip. Angus was throwing something and Luke could only watch as the black boy, struck in the face, tottered on his spindly legs and then fell to the ground.
‘Angus!’
Angus lifted his fist above the fallen youth, a smooth rock clearly visible in his grasp. Luke cracked his stockwhip. The sharp snap echoed loudly through the ridge. Birds, stilled in the noon day heat, flew with a rush from nearby trees. Kangaroos camping beneath the shade of a nearby gum tree hopped away. Angus dropped the rock immediately and turned in the direction of the whip crack.
‘What do you think you’re doing, boy?’
Angus’s face turned from a concentrated red to a wide grin as he left the boy lying on the ground and ran towards him. ‘Luke, Luke, you’re back.’
Luke held the eight-year-old at arm’s length. Beneath the filthy clothes and grimy face the boy had grown during his eight-month absence. His arms and legs were reasonably thick for his age and his young frame had all the makings of the barrel chest that marked the Gordon men. ‘What are you doing out here?’
Immediately the boy grew defensive. ‘Nothing.’ Angus kicked at a tuft of grass. Feet away the boy was beginning to stir. He straggled upright into a sitting position, obviously dazed. A line of blood oozed from a cut above his right eye and one side of his face was slashed red by the belah branch.
‘I’d get a move on if I were you,’ Luke said good-naturedly to the youth. ‘I’m reckoning the boss, Mr Gordon,’ he emphasised, ‘won’t be too pleased when he hears about this.’
Angus drew a mouthful of spittle into his cheeks and spat in the dirt. The boy glowered back.
‘Go.’ Luke backed his words with a gentle flick of the stockwhip. As the black boy walked off, Luke pointed to one of the pack horses. ‘Hop up, Angus.’
‘That’s Willy. We had a fight. He stole my slingshot.’ Angus held the slingshot proudly aloft.
‘Ah.’ Luke ruffled his kid brother’s hair. Angus tucked his head deep into his shoulders to escape. ‘The spoils of war. Well next time I’d be doing the fighting a little closer to home, just in case you need a hand.’ Considering the height and speed advantage of young Willy, Angus’s win was impressive.
‘I would have managed,’ Angus answered petulantly.
‘With a stone? You think killing the boy would ha
ve been the answer?’ They were riding side by side, Luke’s three spare horses trotting obediently on a lead behind his mount.
‘They’re only blacks. They’re here because father lets them be here. He feeds them, clothes them, gives them work to do. Jasperson says that if it wasn’t for father they’d still be savages.’
Luke thought of the bullock speared out of hunger while droving some months back. ‘Did Jasperson also tell you that they were here before us, before Wangallon?’
The boy rode on sullenly.
‘That’s what I thought.’ They rode on silently, reaching the trampled earth that marked the beginning of the final approach to Wangallon Homestead. To the right, the track forked out across to the creek where the blacks camped. Closer lay a row of timber huts housing the black stockmen. A few miles to the left lay the woolshed and adjoining yards and the huts that housed the white stockmen on the property. Ahead the iron roof of Wangallon shimmered in a haze of heat. The early mist had been deceptive; by midafternoon it would be hot. Christmas Day promised to be a scorcher.
‘Luke.’ Mungo called out loudly as his horse trotted from the direction of the creek. ‘Where have you been?’ His blue shirt flapped about his waist where it had come loose from his trousers, a curled stockwhip hung from his shoulder.
‘I’m hoping you don’t need a description.’ Luke reined in Joseph on his friend’s approach as Angus cantered away, scowling.
‘Ah,’ Mungo raised his eyebrows knowingly and grinned. ‘Same girl?’
‘Same girl for the last time,’ Luke replied, watching as Angus entered the Wangallon Homestead yard. ‘Eventually they all become a problem. How’s your mob?’ He dipped his chin towards the camp on the creek.
‘Boxer is a bit old now.’
It was true. Those that were at the founding of Wangallon nearly fifty years ago had long left their youth behind. ‘Like Hamish.’
‘The Boss? I don’t call him old. I call him the fox.’
Luke laughed. Joseph moved his hoofs restlessly in the dirt. ‘And your woman?’
‘She becomes my father’s cousin’s woman.’
He’d hoped that as Boxer’s son, Mungo would be the recipient of greater consideration. ‘I’m sorry.’
Mungo looked ahead to the homestead. ‘It is the second time in her life. She doesn’t go to him until the next full moon. Until then she works in the big house.’
Luke smiled. ‘The big house, eh?’
Mungo pointed at Luke’s shoulder. ‘It is good now, I think.’
Luke moved his arm up and down slowly. ‘I owe you.’
Mungo grinned. ‘I know.’ He flicked his reins, turning his horse away. ‘I must catch her between old men.’ With a swish of his hat Mungo galloped off, riding to a stand of box trees where a slight figure in a pale dress waited. The girl’s long black hair swayed as he helped her up to sit behind him on his horse. Luke lifted his hat in salute.
Sarah took special care with the evening meal. The old family dining table, the scene of Gordon mealtimes since the 1860s, was set for two people. Solid silver cutlery shimmered amid the turn of the century English dinnerware and the cut crystal stemware. She moved the heavy silver candelabra to the opposite end of the table and gave the five-foot-long gleaming mahogany sideboard, with its glass decanters, silver salvers and ancient punch-bowl, a quick polish. Then she boiled potatoes, mashing them up with butter and full-cream milk, and added a teaspoon of honey to the freshly steamed carrots.
‘Smells great.’
Anthony’s hands gripped her shoulders as he kissed her lightly. He waited as she plated up the juicy T-bone steaks.
‘Want me to set the table?’
‘I thought we would eat inside.’ She sensed his frown, knowing his preference would be a can of beer in front of the television.
‘What’s the occasion?’ Anthony followed her into the dining room.
‘Do we need one?’ For a moment Sarah considered forgetting her concerns. ‘I helped Matt and Jack muster the steers this morning.’ She sat the plates on the table. Anthony pulled out her chair so she could sit. ‘You should have seen Bullet. He was the star, after Moses, of course.’
Anthony rolled his eyes. ‘Moses isn’t the wonder dog Matt likes to think he is.’
‘I met Toby Williams, our drover.’
‘Toby Williams? Now there’s a name I haven’t heard for a while.’ He poured red wine into both their glasses. ‘He’s a bit of a ladies’ man, but a damn good drover.’ He raised his glass. ‘To us.’
‘To us.’ Sarah took a large sip before cutting into her steak. ‘How do you know Toby?’
‘He’s been around for a while. Actually he did quite a lot of work for Angus in the seventies. There was talk of him being a descendent of someone who worked here on Wangallon in the early 1900s.’
‘How intriguing. I wonder who?’
‘Don’t know. I mentioned it to Angus one day and he told me not to listen to gossip. Anyway we’ll have to be on the lookout when we start mustering. Toby’s a bit of a tear-arse. You know, move the stock by the quickest route and if that happens to be through a few fences, tough. Angus always said he was a good stockman but reckoned you needed a clean-up crew after he’d been on a property and he’s a bugger for leaving gates open.’
Sarah took a sip of wine. ‘So where were you today?’
‘I had a few things happening early,’ Anthony said evasively. ‘I did come back for smoko and lunch. I wondered where you were? I thought there were enough men to handle that job.’
‘I like working outside, Anthony. I do it because I want to.’ She gave a weak smile, acknowledging how defensive she sounded. Swallowing her mouthful, her eyes came to rest on the formidable oil portrait of her great-grandfather, Hamish, hanging above the sideboard. He was depicted sitting, his fine dark suit and waistcoat failing to detract from his barrel chest and uncompromising violet-eyed gaze.
‘Fair enough. It’s just that we do have staff and I thought you had enough to do already, what with the book work and the garden.’
‘Actually I’m considering rehiring our old bookkeeper. I’ll still do the basic stuff.’
‘Why?’ Anthony took a sip of wine.
‘I would rather be outdoors.’
‘But your time is better utilised doing the things we don’t need to employ more staff for.’
Sarah sighed. ‘Then you take over the book work and the garden.’ He didn’t answer her. Great, she thought. Did she treat this as a stalemate or go ahead and rehire the bookkeeper? It struck her that perhaps there lay part of the problem. Had she been deferring to Anthony a little too much? ‘You’ve made some purchases,’ she began, uncomfortably aware that either way, she was about to ruin the evening.
Anthony nodded, his jaw finishing off a mouthful of tasty home-grown beef. ‘The panels of course and the new loading ramps we discussed. This is great.’
Sarah took a sip of wine, her eyes straying to her great-grandfather. ‘We didn’t.’
Anthony paused, his fork midway between his plate and mouth. ‘I’m sorry?’
‘We didn’t discuss the purchase of the panels, cattle truck or the ramps.’ Her fork mounded her serving of potato into an Everest-type sculpture.
‘Sorry, thought we did.’ His eyes met hers.
‘There’s nothing in the station diary either.’
Anthony put his knife and fork down and took a large sip of wine. ‘And?’
Sarah gave the mashed potato one final stroke before destroying its peak with the flat of her fork. ‘Well, I’ve noticed that you seem to be forgetting to tell me things, important things.’
‘They’re only panels and ramps, Sarah.’
‘Twenty-eight thousand dollars worth.’
‘So you’re concerned about the cost?’ He looked relieved. ‘I have been too. These couple of dry seasons have knocked us about a bit, although I’ve been doing the budget projections on a project that will pretty much pull Wangallon out of debt.’
‘What project?’ Sarah asked dismissively.
Anthony pushed his chair back, his hand straying to his partially drunk glass of wine. He sipped at the glass, his eyes peering at her from over the rim. ‘What’s bothering you?’
‘Don’t get angry. It’s just that you seem to be making major financial decisions without consulting me.’
‘I didn’t realise I had to.’
With precision-like movements Sarah cut a piece of steak, added a sliver of carrot and chewed thoughtfully. The last thing she needed was for Anthony to become defensive. ‘Even our weekly meetings have descended into you talking over the top of me.’
‘That’s not true. Actually I seem to recall you and Matt bonding over coffee and pretty much ignoring my suggestions.’ Anthony finished his wine and looked irritably at his congealing steak.
‘What’s the matter?’ she finally asked.
‘I don’t like my decisions being questioned like I’m the hired help.’
‘And I don’t like being left out of the loop when I’m the bloody Gordon.’
So there it was. The two things that neither of them had any control over. In Anthony’s mind part of him would forever be the jackeroo. ‘Maybe,’ she suggested slowly, ‘we could look at this a different way.’
‘What way? Would you like me to report to you every morning now that you suddenly have decided to become fully involved in the running of Wangallon?’
‘Bloody hell.’ Sarah banged the top of the table with her hand, before taking a deep breath. ‘Look, I don’t like change, okay? You of all people should know that. There has been too much of it in this family. I don’t want to move bedrooms or put awnings on the main verandah. I don’t want Matt Schipp disgruntled because you want him to be more than the head stockman and I don’t want things purchased or Wangallon’s management style changed without us discussing it first, jointly. I’m entitled to have an equal say in the management of Wangallon.’
A Changing Land Page 9
