It was a well known Sydney matron who whispered sweetly behind the sanctity of her fan at a ball one evening:
Your husband is most charming, Mrs Gordon. I must compliment you on subduing the brigand of New South Wales.
It was such a short statement, yet that one word carried so much potency that Claire would never forget it. And so she had made Hamish promise that however he accrued his fortune, henceforth she wished to hold her head high in public. Indeed they both did the following year when, at the introduction of the doyenne of society, Mrs Oscar Crawford, they were invited to Government House. To Claire’s mind the Gordons’ rise in society had taken far too long; however, having been taken under the rather ample arm of Mrs Crawford, their place would not be rescinded. Yet it came too late to be enjoyed for any length of time. Hamish had drifted apart from her. Although they played at their relationship, only in appearance were they successful. In truth she was like a cat scrabbling with an inanimate toy.
‘Things have been good for the family, Luke. I don’t want anything to jeopardise everything I’ve worked for.’
Luke slipped their horses reins about the smooth railing and, tying a loose knot, joined Claire in one of the wicker chairs ‘You think Hamish has something on his mind apart from the purchase of Crawford Corner?’
‘Crawford Corner?’
At Claire’s repetition of the property name Luke faltered. ‘You didn’t know?’
‘No,’ she replied, smoothing her skirt over her clammy knees. She undid the row of buttons on the jacket of her riding habit, would have escaped to the coolness of her room had she not realised how desperately alone she felt. She’d done her best at being his wife. Rarely had she earned his scorn, except perhaps in the matter of child-bearing. What was it about his man she’d entrusted her love to?
Luke poured her a glass of water from the pitcher on the table, replacing the doily over the top of it to keep the flies out. ‘He has always been changeable in character. You know this. The wonder of it is that you have been happy for so long and for the last ten years or so he has behaved himself.’
‘In matters of business?’
‘Look, the mail has arrived,’ Luke diverted. Knowing the delight Claire received from a newspaper or fashion catalogue, he passed her the bundle sitting on the wicker table. As she sorted through the pile he considered telling her of his plans, of sharing his excitement of his proposed new life in Ridge Gully.
‘Luke, there is one for you.’
The letter was addressed in handwriting unknown to him, although the address given was that of Ridge Gully. He peered closely at the cramped writing, deciphering the name Shaw-Michaels. His chest tightened with excitement. This then was the news of his new life. At the thought he looked across at Claire.
‘They expect Deakin to be elected prime minister again,’ read Claire from the newspaper headlines. ‘Oh, and Dame Nellie Melba is planning on giving a series of concerts this year.’
He sat forward in his chair, opened the envelope. There were two letters inside.
May God bless you, Luke,
Although we have never met I imagine you strong and fierce like your father and perhaps a little soft like my daughter, your mother, Rose.
Luke glanced down at the signature. It was from his grandmother, his dead grandmother.
‘And what do you think about this, Luke, the government of New South Wales is thinking about reintroducing assisted migration.’
I’ve not been one for travelling nor correspondence so you must forgive me that, as I forgive you. The doctor tells me I’ve not much time though I doubt his knowledge for it only comes from a book and I’ve never placed great store in another’s words. Still if the learned man is right then I best have my affairs in order. It is important for me to safeguard that which was manufactured by my own hands and you have your own responsibilities. Your father is in agreement.
My Rose and the little ones departed this life so long ago, God bless them. Visit your mother’s grave for me, say a prayer lad, say good-bye,
Your loving grandmother
Luke reread the contents before reading a second letter from his grandmother’s solicitor. He had been left out of her will. The entire amount had gone to some acquaintance of his grandmother’s. Stunned, he reread her letter again. Your father is in agreement.
‘Did you know?’ Luke finally asked when the reality of the letter sunk in. ‘Did you know I’d been robbed of my grandmother’s inheritance?’
‘Inheritance?’ Claire let the newspaper drop to her lap. She was just beginning to feel a little better. ‘What inheritance?’
‘Did you know?’ Luke demanded, his fingers scrunching the envelope.
‘No, no … I had absolutely no idea.’ Claire touched her temples.
‘You’re sure?’
‘Of course I’m sure, Luke. What are you talking about?’ Yet she didn’t want to know, not really. There was already too much in her life. In the space of a week she’d discovered she may be pregnant, wished her baby dead, silently admitted to her girlish infatuation regarding Luke, fallen ill and been berated by her adulterous husband. Now there was another element for her brain to contend with, a loneliness that appeared to have crept up on her like a snake and she could have wept with the realisation that her life was a mirage. Claire took the letter with shaking fingers, managed to read the brief contents though the words shifted and weaved into almost unmanageable forms. ‘Your grandmother must have good reason for this, Luke.’
‘My grandmother? I think you are mistaken, Claire. It is my father who has had the final say in this matter. Have you not read that properly?’
‘Of course I’ve read it. I just don’t believe that your father would –’
‘You don’t believe it? It’s there in black and white!’
Claire read the letter again. ‘Luke, I know you’re upset, but you have Wangallon. You are a part of Wangallon, it’s your home. You can’t honestly have wanted to leave here.’ How could she placate him? A wrong had been done, but surely it was not Hamish’s doing. ‘Luke, where are you going?’ His riding boots struck the wooden floorboards sharply as he strode away from her. ‘Luke, please?’ Claire went to follow him.
‘This is the person you married, Claire.’ He turned, took a step towards her. ‘Do you really want to know what he is like? Do you?’
She backed away from his temper.
‘He has stolen, cheated and murdered for his own gain!’ He flung his hands outwards in exasperation, ‘and you worry about respectability, about what people think. You would need at least another generation to dilute what has come before and even then, the name Gordon will always be tainted.’
Ready tears came to Claire’s eyes. She willed them back. ‘Everything your father has done, he has done purely for the wellbeing of his family.’ In reality she wasn’t sure anymore.
‘He has done for himself,’ Luke said sharply. ‘How is colluding with my own grandmother going to help me?’
‘How would it help him?’ Claire countered softly.
‘Look around you, Claire. After Hamish passes, someone is needed to safeguard the property until Angus comes of age.’
Claire couldn’t respond immediately. For as long as she had known Hamish, Wangallon came first, before everything.
Luke snorted. ‘He cares for his own ambition.’
‘That’s not true.’ Claire walked steadily towards him, took his rough, sun-dried hands in hers. ‘It’s not his fault that your mother and brothers died,’ she soothed. ‘As for your inheritance, there must be some good reason why –’ She stopped mid-sentence as his hand stroked her cheek. He was very close to her. No man had come closer except her husband. His hand moved to the nape of her neck. His fingers plied the soft skin. Claire, vitally aware of the need to break free, found herself looking into violet eyes of her husband’s making. It was there, that steely resolve. The unflinching look of a man who knew what he wanted. Claire’s breath caught in her chest. It wa
s not land, money or power that he wanted; at least, not at this moment. Hamish had taught her how to decipher the difference.
‘You are his redemption, Claire. You have chosen to see only goodness in the world.’ Instinctively his arm encircled her waist. ‘Perhaps it is because you were so young when you first came to Wangallon. Or perhaps you feel obliged to him.’ He was oblivious to the sharp escape of her breath as he bent his head and kissed her.
This is wrong her mind screamed. You forget yourself, stop. Yet she couldn’t, not when her arms were pinned so tightly. Eventually she rested her hands against the firmness of his chest and extricated herself from his embrace. Her lungs could barely gather in enough air to speak and she was aware of tears falling to moisten her cheeks, of her lips numbed by pressure and of something far more dangerous, a wanting. She backed away from him.
Luke held out his hand and then let it slowly drop. ‘Tell me this, if not for my father –’
‘If not for your father,’ Claire found herself barely able to draw breath, ‘if not for your father, neither of us would be standing here today.’ She placed her shaking palm against her stomach. ‘Heavens, Luke, what have we done?’
He watched her collapse into one of the wicker chairs, her slim form heaving as tears consumed her. He waited some minutes, unable to decide as to the best course of action. The boundary between them that had been broken would never be crossed again, for he could not stand to see such pain on Claire’s face. Luke looked out towards the garden at the gravel road that led him to and away from this woman whom he had loved since his teenage years. He could not have her, perhaps now he did not want her. For like his own father, Claire burdened him with pain and he was angry for it.
‘My mother was still very much alive when my father decided to become your secret benefactor. I often wonder what he would have done if Rose had not died prematurely.’
Claire looked up from where she sobbed quietly, smoothed the folds of her skirt and wiped carefully at her eyes. ‘What?’ They both knew the words did not have to be repeated. The insinuation was clear.
‘It’s my penance to care for the woman who supplanted my mother.’
With shaking hands Claire removed the tortoiseshell comb from her hair and sat it on the wicker table. If her imaginings had remained just that, she could have gone on. She could have swallowed her pride and somehow set out along the new path Hamish had defined for her. However, she had gone against the natural order of things and in doing so realised that there could be another love beyond husband and wife, beyond right and wrong. Claire straightened her shoulders and walked indoors. The structure of her life was crumbling and she had not the materials to rebuild it.
Luke retrieved his grandmother’s letter from where it had fluttered to the scratched floorboards. He folded it carefully, his fingers patiently creasing it into a diminishing square. Finally he shoved it securely into the pocket of his moleskins. He looked out at the trees shimmering in the haze, at the pale lifeless grass swaying meditatively, and experienced the sharp bite of anger that only frustration could create. Removing a plug of tobacco from his pocket, he plied the wad into the semblance of a cigarette, used his thumbs to roll it into a slip of paper and lit it with a flinty match, drawing back heavily. Luke wanted to hit something, hit it so hard that it smashed into a million pieces. The cigarette flared and then calmed itself into a thin stream of smoke. Beside him on the table sat the tortoiseshell comb, his monument to stupidity. He touched the fine prongs, lifted it to his nose and sniffed at the scent of her. Then he let it fall from his fingers to clatter on the wooden boards. Margaret appeared soundlessly and began to gather the discarded newspaper and mail. She looked apologetically at Luke. ‘Mr Gordon wants the mail.’ ‘My father’s here?’ Luke asked, his eyes flicking towards the study window.
Margaret saw the comb lying on the floorboards, picked it up and held it out to him.
‘Mrs Gordon does not want it anymore.’ Luke folded her fingers over it. ‘Take it.’ The girl bit her bottom lip. ‘Take it,’ he said harshly.
Margaret held the comb close to her chest. ‘Thank you, Luke.’
He was reminded of soft rain as she padded, barefooted, away from him, the mail under one arm, the comb clutched to her chest.
The Dash 8 aircraft flew low across the countryside. Sarah studied the landscape as they crossed kilometres of green crops, areas being tilled by large tractors pulling wide machinery, and hundreds of cattle and sheep. There were also open bore drains crisscrossing the country, feeding water across the land, dams and tree-shaded waterways. She pressed her head against the window, mesmerised by a mob of kangaroos bounding off into the bush as they approached the airstrip. The animals left a trail of dust that puffed up into balls of dirt. They skirted past trees, reached a fence line and halted in their progress just long enough to squeeze beneath the wires, then they zigzagged across a paddock before finally disappearing from sight into a clump of trees.
Leaning back in her seat, Sarah squeezed her eyes tightly shut and pictured Wangallon; imagined circling above the sprawling homestead with its large garden. There was the vegetable plot, the remains of the property’s ancient orchard and a number of outbuildings, large machinery and worksheds, the jackeroo’s cottage. Further away sat the stables with their original bark and timber interior walls and adjoining horse yards. When she opened her eyes again the plane had landed.
She hurried through the one-room terminal, collected her bag and was one of the first passengers to reach the car park. There was a meeting organised with Jim Macken in three days and Sarah desperately wanted to see Anthony. She’d missed him despite their disagreement and she needed to sit down with him, smooth things over and decide what the best option was. The three men currently in her life all favoured paying out her half-brother and saw benefit in a development of some sort. Maybe it was time to stop fighting everyone.
‘So you’re back?’ Anthony was sitting quietly at the table having an early lunch. Sarah shut the back door and dropped her bag. Pleased to be finally home, the excitement drained at his tone.
‘Hi.’
‘Have you eaten?’ His back remained turned towards her.
She’d been ready to swoop on him with a hug. ‘No, but I’ll get something.’ Somehow Sarah didn’t think Anthony was going to make it for her. She busied herself carving a few slices of meat from the leg of mutton on the sink and then buttered the white bread that was almost past eating. ‘It’s good to be home.’ Sarah added meat and tomato sauce.
‘Nice of you to call and let me know you were coming.’ He didn’t look up from his sandwich.
Sarah took a bite. The meat was tough and the bread hard. ‘What happened to your hand?’ The knuckles on his right hand were strapped and a ghastly blue-green bruise spread out from under the narrow taping.
Anthony lifted his hand and turned it slowly, as if only just discovering he was injured. ‘Smacked it in the yards.’
‘Oh.’ She took another bite. ‘Well, I visited Dad.’ The moistened dough clung to her gums and she ran her tongue across her teeth to free the sodden clumps. ‘Mum died.’ She rubbed her eyes, surprised that after so many years she felt so sad.
‘I’m sorry.’
‘It’s for the best.’ Sarah left the remaining sandwich on her plate. ‘She was pretty sick at the end. It’s hard to reconcile the person in the hospital bed with the woman who used to stand in the West Wangallon kitchen ordering me about.’
‘Some people are just different, I guess.’
‘Everyone seems to think we should pay out Jim.’
‘Well, it looks like my opinion didn’t count for much.’
‘Maybe you should have listened to mine, or at least asked it. It cuts both ways, Anthony.’
Anthony wet his finger and dabbed at the crumbs on his plate. Sarah knew it was a waste of time trying to discuss Jim or the development at the moment. ‘How’s everything going?’ There were dirty plates and coffee mugs on the sink and
a trail of sugar ants tracking their way towards the toaster.
‘Ask Matt.’
‘I’m asking you.’
Anthony lifted his plate and carried it to the sink. Their eyes met briefly. ‘I’m not much interested.’
Sarah swallowed the remains of the bread and mutton. ‘What do you mean you’re not much interested?’ Tension fizzed between them. ‘Well?’
‘As I said, ask Matt. Your precious stockman has taken to giving me advice in your absence. Bloody hide of him.’ Anthony squeezed his thumb and forefinger together. ‘He’s this close to getting booted off the property.’
Sarah gasped. ‘What? You can’t fire Matt.’
‘Why the hell not?’
‘Because.’
Anthony shook his head. ‘Not good enough. He seems to be swinging on your grandfather’s coat-tails. I had to remind him that the bloody old master and commander had kicked the bucket.’
A Changing Land Page 25
