What was she going to do now? She could hardly reveal Matt’s role on the property without acknowledging she’d kept it a secret from Anthony, and he wouldn’t give a squat if she argued that the terms of Matt’s employment were part of her grandfather’s will. ‘You two aren’t getting on?’ she asked.
‘Let’s just say that we’re not cogging too well. Matt’s down at the yards about to weigh the steers. Now you’re here you can give him a hand.’
Slightly miffed by the abruptness of his tone, Sarah covered the mutton in plastic wrap and gathered the bread, meat and butter in her arms. ‘You coming?’
Anthony picked up the newspaper from the kitchen table. ‘Now why the hell would you need me?’
Sarah walked through the side gate of the cattle yards. Bullet greeted her with an excited yelp and she ruffled his coat. ‘Good to see you too.’
Bullet gave a low whine.
‘I’ll tell you all about it later. Now you stay here boy,’ she cautioned. Bullet slid beneath the bottom steel railing and took up his front seat position between Whisky, Moses and Rust. They were itching to get into the yards although they were trained sufficiently to know that unless they were called by name, the cattle yards were off limits. Sarah marvelled at the dogs’ resolve. Climbing over the rails into the next yard, she waved as she approached Matt and Jack. They were standing at an aluminium table, checking the digital readout on the monitor attached to the portable scales. If Matt was surprised by her unexpected return, he didn’t show it. Nor did he mention Anthony’s absence.
‘G’day Sarah. Nice day for it.’
‘Tops,’ Sarah answered. There was a biting southerly ripping into their faces.
Jack reattached the leads to the battery. ‘Hi Sarah. Is that better, Matt?’
Sarah looked over Matt’s shoulder. ‘Hi Jack.’ The monitor showed minus five. ‘It’s out 5 kgs,’ Matt answered. ‘How much do you weigh, Sarah? Jack here put on 3 kgs from the two meat pies he scoffed down.’
‘About 62 plus a stale mutton and tomato sauce sandwich.’
‘Tasty,’ Jack grinned.
Matt cleared the monitor to zero, walked over to the race and opened the side panel. On the ground inside sat the heavy metal scales. ‘Hop on.’
Once she was standing in the centre of the scales Matt checked the monitor. ‘Spot on 62 kgs. Seems to be weighing okay now. Do you want to do the pencilling, Sarah?’
‘Sure.’ Sarah slammed shut the side gate and cleared the monitor to zero again, looking down at the clipboard on the dusty table. There were forty-four steers already weighed, a handful of which were bordering on being a bit low for the feedlots specifications. KA International’s current market was for milk to two tooth steers weighing between 400 and 510 kilograms a head. ‘What do you think, Matt? Knock out the ones under 415 kgs?’
Matt finished rolling a cigarette and lit it. ‘Reckon so. I’ve banged the tails of anything below 415 kg so far. There are a few that are poor. A couple of mad buggers and the rest are just bad doers. I spoke to Edward Truss this morning. He’s happy to book in another road train load at the same price in ten days’ time if you’re interested.’
‘I’m interested if the cents per kilogram go up.’
‘Same price.’ Matt took a healthy drag on his cigarette and gave a rare look that Sarah knew was his excuse for a smile. ‘Won’t do any better in this market. Anything that’s not sold over the next few weeks can be left till late spring. It’s a pity we can’t hang onto all of them, but if it doesn’t rain we won’t get the turn off from the oats.’
‘Sounds like a plan,’ Sarah answered, although she would try and bargain with Edward anyway.
‘Well let’s get to it. Truss will be here this afternoon to have a look.’
Sarah could barely push the reset button on the monitor her hands were so cold, however twenty minutes later she was in her shirtsleeves, harbouring a cold sweat. Jack spent the afternoon in the forcing yard pushing the steers into the race. Once the race was full and the sliding gate was pushed up hard behind them, it was Sarah’s turn to prod the next beast onto the scales. Another sliding gate was pushed behind the scales and the beast was contained just long enough to be weighed.
‘480 kgs,’ Sarah called, writing the weight down.
‘Righto,’ Matt answered. He opened the sliding gate at the front wide enough for the steer to stick his head through, then slammed it shut before lifting the head bail under the steer’s chin to keep his head up. The beast snorted, grunted and sprayed Matt with mucus as his mouth was prised open for his teeth to be checked. ‘He’s a baby,’ Matt called. ‘Milk tooth.’
Sarah put a tick beside the weight, wrote milk in the corresponding column while Matt read out the steer’s ear-tag number, which was also written down. She waited until the beast had been set free to join those steers already processed, then reset the monitor and prodded the next animal up the race.
By the time Edward Truss arrived a little after 3 pm they were nearly finished.
‘Sarah, Matt, Jack.’ They all shook hands.
Edward Truss was a short skinny man with knock-knees and teeth on him like a Moreton Bay shark. He was also known for his penchant for size 16-plus women. It was a strange phenomenon, yet women loved him. He had already meandered through three marriages, two de facto relationships and a string of one-nighters, most of which were consummated in Brisbane. In that regard he was quite fussy and rarely paraded his affections locally. Don’t shit in your own backyard, had been his advice on first meeting Jack. Ever since, Matt made a point of leaving a roll of toilet paper on the top step leading into the jackeroo’s cottage if word got out that Jack was playing up.
‘What have you got for me then?’ Edward scrambled up atop the railings and looked down at the processed steers. ‘Nice even line. What are the weights like?’
Sarah scanned the clipboard. ‘418 to 515.’
‘That heavy fella can go in. He’ll lose those extra 8 kgs in the yards overnight. The trip up in the road train will fix any kgs left over.’ He climbed down the yard slowly. ‘Matt told you about my offer?’
‘Sounds good,’ commented Sarah. ‘I’ll have to check the competition though, Edward.’
Edward scratched the back of his hand. His sunspots were giving him curry today. He glanced at Matt. ‘You won’t find better.’
‘The rural news is talking up cattle prices,’ Sarah continued. ‘And as you said they’re a fairly good line and there’s another four hundred of similar weight ready to go within the next fortnight.’
He narrowed his eyes, pulled out his red notebook and pencilled a few calculations. ‘Four hundred you say?’
‘Give or take.’ She fiddled with the monitor, made a show of checking the leads. ‘By October there’ll be more coming up.’
Edward scratched his groin, walked over to the processed steers and took another look. ‘The spring mob will be on oats?’
Matt nodded. ‘These early ones are not quite finished to ensure we’ve got enough oats for the rest.’ He turned to Sarah. ‘He won’t like to miss out on anything,’ Matt whispered.
Sarah rolled her eyes at Jack. There were only fifteen head left to put through but the cattle needed to be walked back to their paddock and she figured the men had been out in the cold long enough already.
‘Two cents extra a kilo.’ The skin around Edward’s mouth puckered. ‘Tops.’
Sarah shook his hand. ‘Done.’ She offered him hot tea and homemade biscuits that she didn’t have, knowing he wouldn’t stay. He hadn’t stayed since her grandfather had passed.
Edward hesitated. ‘Next time. I’ll be having some of those scones your grandmother used to make.’
After Edward had off with an escort of barking dogs, Matt shook Sarah’s shoulder. ‘Sharp as your grandfather. But you’ve started something now. You’ll be feeding him for the rest of his life.’
‘Maybe not. He hasn’t tasted my scones.’ Sarah laughed.
Luke mad
e camp down on a bend in the creek. The day’s gradual unravelling had been similar to the course of the sun across the sky. Having started softly with a promise of clarity, it had turned poker hot, eventually becoming unbearable. He gathered long strips of bark, prising them free of their sturdy trunks with a small axe. The action helped to calm him. He rested the bark lengthways against a three-piece frame, the centre branch of which was wedged into a gouge on the trunk of a large tree. Each movement helped to dislodge the anger inside him. He pictured it fragmenting, wished it would disappear, knowing how unlikely it was that he’d ever be free of it.
Tying the bark at the top, Luke surveyed his rough dwelling. It was open at both ends and high enough to crawl into, but it was a shelter of sorts. Satisfied, he unstrapped his bedroll from Joseph’s rump and tossed it into the lean-to, unsaddling Joseph so he could feed. His two pack horses were not so trustworthy. Ned and Ellie were known wanderers, so having unpacked their respective loads of cooking utensils and stores, he walked them to a grassy verge where the tree-edged creek bank bordered patches of sweet herbage. Here he hobbled them and let them be.
He was just beginning to start the makings of a fire when Mungo appeared like a wraith out of the timber.
‘Live here now, Luke?’ He pointed at the rough shelter and shook his head disbelievingly.
‘It’ll do.’ He only needed a bit of protection from rain for he was more inclined to sleep under the stars. From around the corner of the creek five women approached, their melodic voices carried by the breath of air hovering above the water. They were bare-breasted, their loins covered in short skirts. At the creek’s edge they squatted and began scraping up mud. This they placed in lengths of bark that was then carried to the lean-to. They set about slapping the mud onto the bark, effectively sealing the gaps and cracks with the sludge from the creek. Luke gave his thanks amid a women’s gaggle of laughter as they squatted at the creek to wash themselves free of the caking mud, flicking their hands dry before straggling back to prepare evening meals.
Mungo sat cross-legged by the unlit fire after removing his riding boots.
Luke stretched out beside him. ‘Thanks.’
Mungo gave a series of slow nods. ‘The fox is cunning. He plays with his cubs, teaches them to fight and hunt. But this fox, mebbe he doesn’t want to let you go. Mebbe he wants this cub to fight for him.’
The light was dwindling as they crunched twigs and grasses, a flame springing up immediately once a match was held to the dry tinder. Although the sky remained bright, the sun’s rays couldn’t penetrate the timber bordering the creek and the shadows grew long, the sky a berry-red haze. Luke poked at the fire with a stick, concentrating on the glowing flames, on the coolness of the sand against his palm. ‘This will be my last drive, Mungo.’ Luke had little choice. He must do the drive one more time to get money in his pocket and then he would look for work elsewhere.
Mungo flexed his toes and then busied himself pulling on his boots, not bothering to brush the sand from his feet. ‘And then?’
‘Best water the horses.’ Luke walked through the timber, found his pack horses by their gritty chewing and led them back to the creek’s edge. As the animals mouthed up the brown liquid, Joseph meandered down to join them. Luke scratched his old mate between his ears, rubbed his muzzle, ran a kindly hand along his faithful flanks.
The two men stood together on the creek’s edge, looked up at the rapidly darkening sky. When the day grew to the point of ending, Mungo gave Luke a wry grin. ‘You’ll come back. Boxer says everyone comes back.’
‘We will leave when the moon’s full next month.’ He felt his friend’s eyes regarding him.
‘Mebbe.’ Mungo looked back up at the sky. ‘Mebbe I go walkabout. The old people call me.’ Luke understood that, like him, Mungo had a need to be free. Both chose to leave their fathers behind and in their own unique ways forge something of a life for themselves beyond the constrictions of Wangallon. This was the true basis of their friendship, a mutual understanding of their respective needs regardless of their father’s wishes.
‘What about your people?’ The air between them drew taught. Luke sensed a constriction of words grown unspoken by disappointment.
Mungo spat on the ground. ‘She wants us to leave, to make a life for ourselves beyond the tribe. I fear we will be outcasts. Mebbe it would be all right for me, but not her, not a woman. It’s safer here. But to have her I must leave.’ He wiped spittle from his chin.
‘So you do love her?’
Mungo squished moist sand beneath his leather boots. ‘Mebbe,’ he grinned, ‘I want her.’
‘Have you told her yet?’
Mungo gave one sideways nod of his head. ‘She goes to the old one tomorrow on the fullest night of the moon. I’ll tell her before then. Mebbe we leave then. Mebbe I catch up with you and she come with us on the drive?’ His voice faltered at the suggestion.
‘Maybe,’ Luke agreed. They both knew Luke was against women on drives. ‘You’re a good friend.’
‘And you.’ Mungo shook his hand. ‘Like brother.’
At the campfire Luke made damper. He mixed flour and water, added a pinch of salt and kneaded the mixture roughly on a tin plate. When he’d formed it into a rough loaf he dropped the dough into a cast iron pot, placed the lid on it and sat it squarely in the embers. He filled his billy from the hessian waterbag hanging from a branch in the tree and sat down by the fire for a smoke. Hunger was a state of mind he was used to controlling. However, experience taught him that an empty belly at bed often led to a ruinous morning. So he would eat the bit of damper when it was cooked, swallow his tea and hope that sleep would come.
Overhead a flock of bats winged their way across the silent depth of water and took up residence in a nearby tree. Their squeaks heightened the solitude of the camp. Luke thought of Joseph contented in a comfy, quiet hollow. He threw a handful of tea leaves into the billy of boiling water, waited a couple of seconds and then, removing his neckerchief, wadded it against the red hot handle, pouring the brew into his pannikin. The damper proved a little more eventful; he dropped the pot and spent some time brushing coals and dirt from his dinner. Finally he sat, chewing his way through his meal, moistening each bite with a swallow of scalding tea. It would have been good to have a brother closer to his own age, Luke decided as he settled himself for another quiet evening; or a sister perhaps. Someone to visit, someone else out in the world living and breathing who was of his blood; it was a small thing to want but it would have filled such a void.
Luke relieved himself a few feet from his camp, dragged a night log onto the fire and splashed creek water on his face before lying down on the sand, his hands cupping his head, the tree-edged sky as a blanket. This self-imposed ostracism would last until they were ready to go droving. Luke knew it was useless confronting his father about his inheritance. What could you say to a man who was obsessed with the land he owned and the protection of it, who was block-brained to the idea of a person wanting something of his own, even his own son? He would leave with the next drive south, not expecting to return. How could he? Not only did he feel totally alienated from his own father, he had broken something that should not be broken. He’d shared one single intimate moment with the woman he loved, his father’s wife, his stepmother, and broken the law of what was permissible within one’s family. Yet all this meant little when he thought of the unravelling within his heart. He had shattered his life’s ideal.
‘Luke?’
Someone spoke his name. It was a soft low voice. A voice he barely recognised. The figure appeared across the campfire. Luke’s fingers felt the cold metal of the carbine’s barrel as he grew instantly wary. Whomever it was squatted before the campfire, the outline thrown into relief by the glowing embers. It took a moment or two before he recognised Margaret. He wanted to turn her away, would have turned her away, but she was crawling towards him, past him and into the darkness of the lean-to. He shuffled up into a sitting position, half-expectin
g the girl to reappear. The comforts of a woman were something Luke only ever received upon payment and he wondered what was expected of him, and then thought of what she could offer. He ducked his head and crawled in beside her.
She lay naked on his bedroll. Her long limbs stretched out as if in supplication, her hair spread about her like a halo. The campfire showered filaments of light across her body as her right hand fluttered like a small bird on her stomach. Luke studied the slight mound of her breasts, ran a finger down her chest to her hollow belly, encircled the angular hips with a fascinated sweep. Slowly he removed his shirt and trousers. All he could think of was lying atop this warm brown body, feeling the press of his skin against hers, tasting the sweetness of youth and trust. He moved slowly, so worried of crushing the fragile creature beneath him that his thighs and calves grew tight with control. As if aware of his reluctance, Margaret lifted her head, clasped her hands to the side of his face and brought their lips together. When the lengths of their skin met, a sheen of moisture sealed their limbs together.
Later that night, when stillness descended to engulf the creek’s inhabitants, Margaret crept from the lean-to, dragging her maid’s uniform behind her. Luke watched her silhouette from within the lean-to. She lifted a hand, delicately brushed back her hair and slipped the tortoiseshell hair comb in place, before dragging her dress over her head, wriggling her hips as the shapeless form obscured her. Although Luke couldn’t see her eyes he knew Margaret was seeking him within the dark of his bark shelter; then she was moving, skirting the campfire and running into the night. He tried to listen to her leaving, strained his ears for the soft shush shush of her slim brown feet in the sand of the creek bank, but a void crept in and around him. He coughed, the noise sounding recklessly loud in the night’s shadows. For all the wistful moments he’d spent dreaming of Claire Gordon, there had been an equal amount spent in silence in her company while she had spoken. Margaret had wanted him, not asked for anything and had barely uttered a word.
A Changing Land Page 26
