At the stables Sarah unsaddled Tess. Picking up the curry comb she removed her gloves and blew on her fingers before brushing down the mare; long rhythmic strokes that ran the length of the animal from neck to rump. Tess whinnied and shook her head from side to side. Bullet barked from his position on the cement step leading into the tack room. There was only a grudging respect between dog and horse; Sarah knew that friendship did not enter their respective animal vocabularies. Bullet wasn’t one for sharing and Tess’s comradeship only extended as far as letting Bullet benefit from a ride home after a busy day.
‘Sshh, the two of you.’ Filling the feed bucket, Sarah walked into the stables. Tess followed her, snuffling in anticipation, her nostrils breathing in the hair of Sarah’s ponytail. Once Tess was inside and eating, Sarah slid the bolt on the half-gate. Immediately Bullet was by her side, wagging his tail and giving his best impersonation of a dog grin. Sarah patted him. ‘Cheeky bugger,’ she commented. Tess stuck her head over the stable door and whinnied once. Bullet barked. Next door four other stalls were full. Toby Williams and Pancake had their horses stabled in readiness for the big muster tomorrow. A mob of five hundred cows was in the road paddock and they would be joined by the Boxer’s Plains’ cattle tomorrow before being walked out to the stock route. As Sarah roughly calculated the cost of keeping Wangallon’s cattle alive, a Landcruiser pulled up. In the half-light of approaching darkness she recognised the owner by the sheer number of dogs on the tray.
Toby Williams flicked off the headlights and shrugged on his fleecy-lined jacket. ‘Damn cold out here.’ He slammed the car door, setting the dogs off barking and Bullet growling. ‘Friendly, that mutt of yours.’
‘Protective,’ Sarah answered. ‘You should have called. I would have fed them for you.’
Toby pulled a hessian bag off the vehicle’s tray and lugged it to the stables over his shoulder. ‘Ahh, but they’d pine. My girls never did take to being apart from me for long periods of time.’
‘Yeah, right.’ Sarah stood back as Toby began pouring feed into a bucket. One by one he fed each of his charges, Sarah listening to his man–horse conversation. Soft murmurings to one, a reprimand to another, an acknowledgement of a good day’s work to the third and then a noise that sounded strangely like a kiss. Sarah rolled her eyes. She knew drovers liked their horses and dogs, but …
‘So now that the girls are settled, it’s time for us.’ Toby sat down on the cement step and patted the cold stone beside him. ‘I’m quite friendly you know. Of average intelligence, but I am house-trained.’
‘Comforting to know.’ Sarah sat beside him.
He looked in the direction of the homestead. ‘Must be lonely living all the way out here in that mausoleum.’
‘I’m not alone.’
‘Ah, the jackeroo. That’s right, I forgot about Anthony.’
Somehow Sarah doubted that.
‘But it means there is hope for the rest of us busted-arse cowboys.’ He pulled out a packet of cigarettes, offered her one.
‘No thanks.’
‘Yeah, thought you looked too dewy to be a smoker.’ He lit the cigarette and took a few deep puffs. ‘So I hear you’ve got a few probs with a half-brother roaming the streets?’
Sarah wanted to tell Toby to mind his own business. ‘Something like that.’
‘Well we’ve all got our crosses.’
‘What’s yours?’
He stood, ruffling her hair. ‘Women that don’t have a head on them like a packet of half-chewed minties.’ He stretched out his back, making a show of leaning from one side to the other. ‘Something else you should know. ’Bout Boxer’s Plains.’
God, Sarah thought, don’t tell me the development is still going.
‘Not my bees wax, I know, but,’ Toby took a drag of his cigarette, looked at the glowing end of it and then stubbed it out on the bottom of his Cuban heeled riding boot. ‘Long ways ago there were problems out on that block.’ He stuffed his hands in the pockets of his jacket. ‘There’s an old wreck of a house out there in the middle of the ridge: Fenced off. Your grandfather wanted it left that way, but if those dozers get in there … Well, just thought you should know. Most people have either forgotten about what happened back then or they don’t believe it. The thing is nothing was ever proved. I’d reckon it’s better if things stayed in the dark.’
‘Know what?’
‘Look, it’s no big deal. I just reckon people like to keep their family stuff private. Anyway, kiddo, I’ll be seeing you.’
‘Hang on, Toby, you can’t start telling stuff like that and then leave. What else do you know and who told you?’
Toby gave a crooked smile. ‘I had a great uncle who worked out here on Wangallon. Not a real family favourite from what I hear although I never met him myself. Seems there were a few shenanigans going on and there was a fight with a neighbour. From what I hear it was pretty messy, but your family would know more.’ He tipped his hat.
‘Wait.’
He walked up to her, close enough to go beyond the boundaries of her personal space. ‘You’re a good woman, Sarah. You need someone by your side that’s going to support you; who understands the old ways.’
‘And you’d be that person I suppose.’
‘Well, I don’t spend my time at the local pub playing up, girl.’ Toby put his hand on the back of her head and kissed her flatly on the lips. She had the distinct impression a branding iron had just been seared into her skin.
‘I’ll do your droving job and then I’ll be back. Not for the bloody land either.’
‘Look Toby, I –’
‘One day you’ll need me and I’ll come,’ he said confidently. ‘You can rely on that.’
Bullet took Toby’s position on the top step, as Sarah sat heavily beside him, both of them watching as he drove away. ‘Strange.’ Her voice sounded inordinately loud. Bullet turned towards her, for once silent. She touched her lips as the tail-lights of Toby’s truck vanished through the trees. She retied her hair, played with the zip on her jacket and wondered at the uniqueness of having only the third man in her life kiss her. Jeremy had loved her and comforted her after Cameron’s death; Anthony was the man who’d been in her soul for years, and Toby? Toby was a man’s man. He was tough, in his forties and … Bullet nudged her in the arm and huddled closer. Well, Sarah decided, I won’t think about this now. Bullet snapped at something unknown in the air, the sound of Toby’s truck dwindling in the distance.
‘Did you see that swagger? That man gives skinny-hipped cowboy a whole new meaning.’ If Shelley were here Sarah knew she would be salivating and she would be inclined to agree. ‘Come on, Bullet.’ She was not looking forward to returning to the homestead and she resented the fact that Anthony had made her feel unwelcome in her family home. She rubbed her shins briskly. She would be pleased when spring arrived and the days began to lengthen. The winter was nasty this year, with biting winds and plant decimating frosts and the country seemed stagnant with cold. It was a cold that seeped through her bones and into her blood. It was as if the girl of her youth was now frozen and she doubted if upon thawing she would even recognise her own reflection.
With a shake of her head she walked towards the homestead, wondering what drama had unfolded at Boxer’s Plains years ago. How would she ever discover if what Toby talked about was true? It was always a bit difficult to wring reality from a good bush story. And the problem was that there was really no one left to ask. Except that Toby’s concern shadowed the adamant stance of both her father and Frank Michaels. Neither of them thought a development on Boxer’s Plains was a good idea. She was beginning to think that their opinions had very little to do with farming. Then she recalled the station ledgers that Angus had packed away years ago. There was a tin trunk somewhere. With a choice of freezing to death or facing Anthony, Sarah walked briskly towards the homestead. The lights were on. The winter sun, having dipped below the horizon, left a mass of cold dark earth on the moonless night and the chill pene
trated Sarah’s boots. She thought briefly of the deal struck with Edward Truss that afternoon, of her horse ride down to the winter stillness of the creek and the soothing quiet of a land unburdened with problems.
After her next trip to Sydney, when she had more time, she’d go out to Boxer’s Plains and see if there really was an old house in the middle of the ridge.
Sarah opened the back door and took the stale mutton bone from the fridge. There was still a large portion of meat on it and Bullet hopped on his back legs in anticipation as she took the bone to the meat house. The screen door squeaked noisily on its hinges as she sat the mutton leg directly in the middle of the massive wooden chopping block and, meat cleaver in hand, struck the joint directly down the middle. The cooked bone broke apart easily. ‘Presto! Dinner, Bullet.’ She threw one bone on the cement path and set about washing down the chopping block with icy water from the garden hose. Bullet was waiting patiently for her to finish. ‘Ferret?’ Matt’s dog walked stiffly along the path, the cold weather making his steps painfully slow. Ferret sniffed at the bone and then clamped his teeth around it. Bullet picked up his own and together the two dogs walked back to the sandy protection of the tank stand. In the darkness she heard them growl, crunch and whine with delight.
‘Are you coming in or what?’
Sarah imagined Bullet lifting his dog brow at the tone of Anthony’s voice. Stepping out of the garden shadows, she turned off the hose and dropped it on the cement near the meat house.
Anthony sat at the end of the kitchen table, a half drunk can of beer in his hand and four empty soldiers lined up to his left. Sarah opened her mouth to speak.
Anthony shook his head and lifted his hand in silence.
‘That’s not very democratic, Anthony,’ Sarah replied, pulling her arms and head free of the thick navy cable jumper. It was damn hot in the kitchen. The old Aga was going and she was a fierce old woman who puffed smoke through cracks when she got over-heated. Sarah sniffed at the fumes gathering in the room. She’d only arrived back from the coast this morning and Anthony had ensured they’d barely talked, by making himself absent.
‘Here’s my summation of events.’
‘Great.’ Sarah sat at the table, rubbing her hands to warm them. Anthony never had been very good at holding his alcohol.
‘I waited for you to come back after Cameron died, waited for you after your engagement to Jeremy fell through. Hell, I’m still waiting for you to marry me.’ He took a sip of his beer and then sat the can on the table as if it had become distasteful. ‘Your father and I waited for you to get over Angus’s death and then –’ Anthony clicked his fingers – ‘ta da, suddenly you decide you aren’t involved enough in Wangallon’s management, suddenly you decide you want to be in charge.’ Anthony collected the beer cans and deposited them with a tinny crash on the sink. ‘But it gets better. Knowing there’s a recalcitrant half-brother floating around in the ether, poor old Anthony decides to rescue the situation. He devises a sure-fire way of making Wangallon more productive, so that when, and I emphasise when, a portion of the place has to be sold to pay out said half-brother, Wangallon will survive. But does Sarah listen to him? No. In fact Sarah pulls rank and has a chat to the bank. I bet that was an interesting conversation. Did you tell them it was me putting Wangallon’s affairs at risk? Did you tell them it was my fault, that I’d been overspending and now an increase was needed on our overdraft? I’m wondering, does Sarah know how offensive that is to me? Does Sarah even care how offensive it is to me?’
‘Of course I care. But what did you expect me to do? You’re sitting there accusing me of wanting control and your actions don’t exactly scream teamwork. And for heaven’s sake, Anthony, no costings? No projections for the bank? What, are you stupid?’
‘Clearly I am.’ From the kitchen bench Anthony pulls a sheaf of papers. ‘There are the projections.’ His finger stabs at each piece of paper as he sits them on the kitchen table. ‘And there is the documentation. And yes I was stupid because I did it for you and for Wangallon.’
Sarah looked at the paperwork. ‘My god, you used your own money? The money from your share of your family’s property? You never said anything.’
Anthony stared at her. ‘You never gave me the chance.’
‘That’s because –’
‘That’s because you just kept saying no, like a bloody tape recorder. God forbid if anyone, anyone should try to take the Gordon mantle away from you.’ He picked up his wallet. ‘You forget, Sarah, that I was only trying to help.’
‘Where are you going?’ She touched him on the shoulder. ‘Anthony?’
He turned to face her. ‘I’m having dinner at the pub. I can’t do this anymore.’
‘You can’t do it anymore? I’m the one who’s been seeing solicitors and fighting my half-brother.’
Anthony shrugged. ‘Well you didn’t listen to me on that score either. Good luck.’
‘Good luck? Geez, Anthony, what’s got into you?’
He opened the back door. ‘Reality.’ Then he was gone.
In the kitchen Sarah sat near the Aga. He’ll come back. She cushioned her head with her arms on the kitchen table. He will come back, she whispered. Hadn’t her grandfather told her that same thing many years ago? Everyone came back, they couldn’t help themselves; Wangallon got into your soul.
That night Sarah dreamt of Wangallon. She hovered above the countryside, darting down like an eagle hawk to inspect dams and fences, swooping low over grassland to check sleeping ewes and resting cattle. She breasted the wind and let it carry her high into the stratosphere and then folded her wings against the updraft to plummet down to where men on horseback walked a single trail. The men carried their need to protect Wangallon like the rifles slung across their thighs, carefully but with determination. When she awoke in the pre-dawn Sarah understood this necessity – there was much to lose. And there was something else that unexpectedly came to her: the tin chest that contained her great-grandfather’s ledgers was in her grandfather’s massive wardrobe.
‘Is it not too early for you to be wandering about?’ Hamish addressed the lone figure stalking the garden as the first tinges of light illuminated the eastern sky. Claire was dressed only in her chemise and wrap. He took his wife by the elbow and together they walked the perimeter.
Claire ran her fingers across the top of the white paling fence, feeling the sharp prick of splinters in her soft skin. The fence divided their two worlds as perfectly as any boundary. ‘This is a pleasant fiction,’ she said evenly as her slipper-encased feet stepped over twigs. ‘Have you tired of me, Hamish? Do you wish me to leave?’ It was the only feasible solution unless they could come to some form of understanding.
‘I will be away for some days.’ Hamish steered her towards the length of bougainvillea hedge that was now large enough to block the westerly winds.
‘Do me the courtesy of an answer,’ she said, patting at her lacklustre hair.
‘I have tried to ensure your happiness, yet it is undeniable that we have grown apart.’ The fine leather of his boots kicked at a fallen branch. ‘You came here as a young carefree woman. I wonder what became of the person I admired.’
‘So you do not love me?’
Hamish breathed in the earth about him, imagined the being of his land rising and falling in sleep. ‘I have, during my lifetime, Claire, utilised whatever means at my disposal to carve out a place for myself in this new world. You have benefited from my efforts.’
‘I do not deny that.’ Her fingers clutched a little tighter at the shawl about her shoulders. ‘You loved me once, I think. I remember your smile, your body next to mine for weeks on end.’ She glanced coyly at his weathered profile. ‘I think perhaps you liked the idea of love, of being loved. Or maybe you just like possession.’ Claire felt him stiffen at her words. ‘We have a divide between us, husband, one made gaping by your single-minded interest in this great property you have created.’ Claire placed the slightest of pressure on his arm.
‘Your obsession with Wangallon has led you away from the comforts of hearth and home, from the wife who would welcome gentle conversation. We could bridge the divide between us if –’
‘When my time is over my descendants will benefit from the substantial legacy I leave. The Gordons will be remembered. I don’t believe I owe anyone,’ he looked at her, ‘any more or less than that.’
‘I see,’ Claire replied tightly. Although used to his harsh demeanour, there was an unmistakeable edge to his words. ‘So you care not for our small family, for those who have supported your endeavours and assisted in giving your family name a measure of respectability.’
‘I am beyond caring about respectability. It means nothing. A man can raise himself up to the highest echelons and still be considered no better than a dog by some.’ Having paused at the furthest end of the garden, Hamish removed his arm from hers and looked out across the wavering grassland. A mob of kangaroos was travelling slowly across his field of vision.
‘Hamish, what has happened to create such a fury within you? I have seen it growing like a watered seed these last months.’ His brown hands stretched wide across the weathered fence. She reached tentatively towards him, then thought better of the action. ‘You are angry at something that has no bearing on our relationship. And I have not been at my best these past weeks. Between the two of us our marital difficulties have tripled through circumstances that will surely pass.’
Hamish gave such a sigh that Claire’s eyes moistened. She turned aside, wiping angrily at her tears. ‘We have had common interests,’ she sniffed. ‘Respectability for one: Why, you courted Sydney society for years and now we have friends among the most prominent families in the country. Have you forgotten the length of the time it has taken for us to be accepted? When I think of the weeks spent in Sydney during the season when only a sprinkling of invitations were ours to choose from. When I think of the effort I myself went to –’
A Changing Land Page 27
