‘Defamation is a serious issue,’ Frank countered. ‘I doubt your client would have the funds to pursue a second court case.’ Frank looked pointedly at Jim.
‘If you could let me finish,’ Woodbridge complained, ‘any information that reflects on the character of Ms Gordon would, I imagine, be quite admissible.’
‘You are drawing a fine line,’ Frank intervened.
Woodbridge puffed out a breath of air as he collected his papers and shuffled them into a neat stack. ‘And your client’s offer is not acceptable, despite the passion with which it was delivered. We will have our day in court and we will win.’
Sarah stood, her hands clutching at the fob watch. ‘We shall see,’ she said icily.
‘Oh Frank, what the hell do we do now?’ They were back in Frank’s office, sipping coffee and feeling glum. ‘And what is this crap about dubious activities Woodbridge is talking about?’
‘Forget it, Sarah. The man’s an arse of the tenth degree. He loves to send a rocket out to a feisty opposition.’ Frank looked across at the young woman with the great burden on her shoulders, wondering how it had befallen her generation to right the wrongs committed in the past. ‘It would seem we will go to court.’
Sarah thought of the sprawling acreage that had been in her family for generations and mentally mapped out the property. Every single paddock held a story, told of the lives of those that had gone before hers. There was not one part of it that wasn’t valuable in terms of productivity. Not one speck of it that wasn’t important to the past and future life of Wangallon. Sarah knew she should be considering her only other option, to sell and pay Jim out. ‘You do understand, Frank, why I have to pursue this?’
‘Think it over.’
‘I have.’
‘Go home. I’ll advise your father that he needs to have a blood test.’
‘Unless Jim comes to the party, Frank, we won’t be settling out of court.’
Hundreds of kilometres away, people not of Gordon blood were heading out to work to manage the land left in her care. It was not right, Sarah thought flatly. Her grandfather should have known better, should have done better. Everything about his life revolved around the continuation of Wangallon. Why then would he risk everything their family had built over the decades by recognising her father’s illegitimate child? It didn’t make sense.
‘It will take a while for the test results to come through. Jim won’t dally. He’ll want this finished.’ Frank sorted through his file and passed Sarah a business card. ‘Your appointment is at 3 pm at the surgery of a specialist GP.’ Frank patted Sarah’s hand. ‘I’m only buying time, Sarah. Everything we discussed today involves a lot of ifs and Woodbridge knows it. Our best bet remains with young Jim deciding not to drag out this business and to negotiate a reduced settlement.’ He escorted her from his office through the cream and chocolate furnished reception area with its vases of palm fronds and orange bird of paradise flowers. ‘Now go home to Wangallon. And here.’ He gave her a parcel wrapped securely in paper and bagged. ‘It’s the Gordon family Bible.’
‘But how?’ Sarah looked in the bag and thought of the tin chest. ‘Who gave you this?’
‘My father.’
‘Why?’
Frank pushed the button for the elevator. ‘I don’t know, Sarah. I wasn’t born at the time. All I know is that it’s been in the safe in my office for as long as I care to remember.’
‘What else do you know, Frank? I know your firm has looked after my family since the time of my great-grandfather. I’ve seen the documents. What happened on Boxer’s Plains?’
The lift door opened.
‘Nothing I’m aware of. Now, my dear, you really will have to go. I have another client.’ Frank forced a kindly smile as the elevator doors closed and, returning to his desk, closed the manila folder. He’d seen that forceful type of character before, in Angus Gordon: the determined chin, the ruthless streak that made words powerful, the overriding need to protect Wangallon. Frank was not surprised to see Jim Macken visibly flinching at Sarah’s words during their meeting. The seeding of a forceful personality was a powerful event to witness.
In the elevator Sarah looked at the business card and thought of Anthony. What could she say to him? Her finger pressed the ground floor button for the third time. Damn it, how did someone so meticulous end up stuffing things up so badly and in the middle of when their livelihoods were at stake? He should be supporting her efforts to save Wangallon, not chasing his own reckless agenda. Sarah stepped out of the chrome and glass swinging door and turned into a strong head wind. What a mixed bag Wangallon’s inheritors turned out to be. Anthony inherited a share in the property due to his ability and loyalty and because Angus hoped that one day they would marry; she’d been left a share because she was a direct descendent, and Jim? Sarah shook her head, it was all too simple. She came from a line of men that demanded testicles for succession and Jim had Gordon blood. Sarah walked down the street looking for a restaurant, any restaurant. She needed a drink and a friend.
Lauren spooned the rest of the rabbit stew into her mouth, scraping at the watery juices with a piece of hard bread and her finger. She couldn’t recall eating such a feed before, especially one cooked and served by her mother. She lifted the plate, licking at it appreciatively until her tongue grew numb.
‘More?’ Mrs Grant heaved the cast iron pot from the hearth to sit it on the rickety table. She stuck the ladle into the bubbling contents and stirred the overcooked rabbit. Lauren considered another spoonful but having already consumed two platefuls she glanced guiltily at her young sister and baby brother. They were sitting on the dirt floor, grinding feathery peppercorn leaves between their fingers, smelling the pungent peppery scent before throwing the crushed leaves into the air. They would be sharing one meal tonight.
‘You’re sure then? You won’t be getting a decent feed for a good day I’d imagine.’
Lauren prodded at her belly. ‘I’m fit to bursting.’
‘Good. Now dab a little of this behind your ears.’
Lauren took the glass bottle of lavender water and did as she was bidden. Then, removing the filthy towel from about her neck that served as a napkin, she stood for inspection.
Mrs Grant pulled her roughly by the shoulders, turning her from left to right. A haze of dust sprinkled the wedge of light shining through the timber walls of the two-roomed hut. Lauren imagined it to be fairy dust and flicked at the shimmering particles with her hand, stirring the air so that her mother let out a tremendous sneeze. The baby immediately began to cry, which set Lauren’s young sister whining.
‘God’s holy trousers, Lauren,’ Mrs Grant complained, blowing her nose on the hem of her stained skirt. ‘Be quiet the both of you,’ she directed at the squealing children, ‘or I’ll send you to live with your slut of a sister, Susanna.’
Lauren watched with admiration as her mother’s raised hand elicited immediate silence.
‘Shoes.’
Lauren lifted the olive green skirt seconded from the washing pile and pointed each of her feet in turn. Although patched with mismatched leather, the stitching was barely noticeable. Lauren had spent a brain-numbing hour polishing the leather with bees wax so that her shoes were glossy, and even her repaired gloves were benefiting from the spit and polish her mother had so industriously undertaken.
‘And you’ve food?’
Clearing the dirty dishes, soiled nappies and needle and thread to one end of the table, Lauren opened the small traveller’s bag. Inside were two changes of smalls, a new skirt made from the length obtained at the store before Christmas, a white blouse, her hair brush and a loaf of bread wrapped in calico. Her waterbag hung on the packing case chair nearby.
‘Good. Now you’ve remembered everything I’ve told you, girl.’
Considering her mother’s instructions were now scalded in her brain, Lauren longed to say no. ‘Yes, Mother. I leave now; that will give me a good two hours of daylight by which time the full moon
will be up and I’ll be within Wangallon’s boundary. I’ll find somewhere to camp and not move until daylight. That way I won’t lose my way.’
‘Good. Follow the tracks, travel slowly and arrive exhausted. That way they’ll be compelled to look after you.’ Mrs Grant lifted the pot and sat it back on the hearth.
‘Yes, Mother.’
‘And don’t leave once you’ve decided which one you’re having. It will be months before the minister returns. By then we might be ready for a wedding and a christening.’
Lauren grinned.
Mrs Grant sat the lavender water in her daughter’s bag and added a bottle of cod liver oil. ‘Have you everything, girl?’
‘I think so, Mother.’
‘Good. Give me a heave with the log then will you.’
Lauren walked outside and pushed at the great length of timber that poked through a hole in the hut’s wall. Inside her mother positioned the burning end of it over the fire.
‘Then go with my blessing and send word when you’re ready for me to join you.’ Her mother sat a battered straw hat upon her head and nodded goodbye.
Lauren mussed the hair of her two siblings in a brief farewell and, with her bag and water over her shoulder, traipsed out to the waiting dray and the broken-mouthed horse. A buckboard would have been preferable. Leather seats were more to her liking. Throwing her bag into the tray she hoisted her skirts and climbed aboard. She looked about the dusty street ready to give a practised nod to anyone stickybeaking at her departure. Regretfully there was no one around. Lauren shoved at the hat perched on her head and with a jut of her chin flicked the reins. She’d never had time for the folks of Wangallon Town anyway. The dray trundled out into the middle of the dusty street. Lauren didn’t plan on returning or contacting her family again unless her plans went astray. If a lady such as herself had plans to better herself, first she had to extricate herself from those who could only be a continual reminder of her less than impressive past.
Angus wasn’t quite sure about running away now he was about to do it. It was hot and sticky and the length of the day’s heat made him weary and wishing for bed. Rivulets of sweat tumbled down his back and he wriggled at the hot itch of it, irritated by the closeness of the air. Now he understood why his father always left in the middle of the night, returning either by midmorning or in the cool of the late afternoon. The moon had already risen as he stepped off a log and mounted Wallace. His horse gave a gentle whinny and shook his neck like a frill-necked lizard. Crickets were calling out and, as he walked Wallace out past the stables, Angus looked over his shoulder as the familiar building began to grow distant. He was pleased for the guiding light of the moon and for a land he knew equally well, whether day or night. Yet when he passed the ridge that was the dividing point between the homestead and the creek he reminded himself of why he was leaving and the basis of his plan.
Wangallon Town was his first stop. Once there he figured he could speak to some of the townsfolk about some form of employment. He didn’t need much money, just enough to buy a bit of food for he intended to spend his nights under the stars with Wallace. Eventually he hoped his father would recognise that he had some ability as a stockman, even if he was a bit small, and decide not to send him away to boarding school. Besides, why would he want to go to the Kings School? He wasn’t going to be a king and he certainly didn’t want to meet any boys that were going to be kings.
He picked at the bread in the saddlebag, patted the hunk of hessian-wrapped meat and the bundle of flour. The thought of Mrs Stackland going crook at one of the maids for his thieving made him giggle. Across the moonlit landscape a number of shapes came into focus. Wallace pricked his ears. Angus figured they were some of their Aboriginal stockmen out hunting, however he recalled his father had sent them all mustering a couple of days ago. Intrigued, Angus gave the reins a flick and Wallace broke into a trot.
There was no breeze and his vision was partially obscured by trees that peppered the countryside. Whoever it was galloped away from him and there were at least three men. ‘Come on, horse.’ Angus pulled his hat down low, leant forward in the saddle and nudged Wallace in the ribs. The horse sped off like a whirlwind. Ill-prepared, Angus let out a yell before twisting the reins about his fingers. Wallace galloped over the ground, the eerie light of the moon-mottled bush merging together in a blur of hot rushing air. Angus found it difficult to keep steady in the saddle. His small body bounced from left to right and he became worried he would lose his grip and fall. He pulled his knees tight against Wallace’s flanks and tugged on the reins to the left. Like magic the horse followed his instructions. He leant back on the galloping animal, entwined his fingers through the horse’s mane and pulled hard. It wouldn’t do any good if he galloped straight past them like one of those new fangled automobiles he’d seen in a catalogue.
‘You damn recalcitrant,’ he yelled, copying his father. Wallace slowed to a trot.
The moon, having risen to a point above the tree line, illuminated the country in a veil of white as the three riders walked their horses through box and ironbark trees. The horses moved easily through the light-flooded grasses, barely pausing in their strides as the trees grew thicker. A belt of belah indicated they had reached country subject to flooding and soon the traveller’s moon shadows were lost among the close-knitted trees as they weaved through and around the woody plants. Hamish rode ahead of Mungo and one other stockman, Harry. He ducked beneath a low branch and caught his face and hat in a mess of sticky web, a large bush spider scrambling away in fright. He wiped the tacky threads on his thigh.
At midnight, with the moon suspended directly overhead, Hamish halted. Boxer, unusually reticent about joining Hamish on this escapade, had passed on his trail suggestions to his son Mungo, and the boy now turned from the agreed route mapped out days ago.
‘Are you sure you know where you’re going?’ Hamish asked with a low growl as their steady pace led them through coolibah and brigalow timbers. One of the horses whinnied. There was the sound of equine teeth mouthing at a bit. Every noise seemed to be magnified by the night’s stillness as twigs and leaf litter crunched and the soil became sandier in composition.
Mungo coughed, masking the noise with a cupped hand. Hamish sensed trouble brewing and wondered at Mungo’s ability, having been unable to prevent Luke’s spearing by the renegade warrior down south. A quiver settled unpleasantly in his stomach and he turned his neck from left to right. They were not the only ones travelling stealthily under guidance of the moon. Having worn the cloak of the hunted, one never forgot the feeling. At a small clearing they waited silently, their carbine rifles loaded and aiming in the direction Mungo pointed.
The noise of the unknown intruder carried through the air for some minutes; the steady clop clop and the crackle of leaf litter growing louder. The horses in the clearing shifted uneasily. Hamish reined in his mount, drew his rifle tightly to his shoulder and touched his finger to the trigger as Mungo held up his forefinger to signal one rider approaching. The moon shone down upon them like an encircling spotlight, making the timber look dark and forbidding as they backed their horses towards the shadows.
A lone figure entered the clearing. Hamish drew his forefinger down on the trigger as Mungo raised his hand. It was Angus.
‘Damn it, boy. What are you doing? Do you want to get yourself killed?’ Hamish rode forward, intent on chasing the boy away, but Angus was whispering to Mungo and giving practised gestures with his hands.
‘What is it?’ Hamish drew his horse close.
Mungo held up his hand, pointed to his right, indicated a circling motion. Hamish nodded and doubled back in the direction they’d come, Harry and Angus following. Dismounting, Mungo examined the soft imprints they left in the sand and then very carefully flicked dirt across both their entrance to and exit from the clearing. Any reasonable tracker would easily decipher Mungo’s camouflage attempts however the buying of time was a valuable commodity.
‘Well?’ Hamish was
waiting near a large coolibah tree, his rifle in his hands. They were close to the edge of the river where the force of previous floods had eroded the bank to a steep-sided drop. Angus stood to one side, his young eyes wide with anticipation. Harry looked wary.
‘Someone track us, Boss,’ Harry stated.
‘Crawford,’ Hamish hissed. He’d not expected the fool of an Englishman to guess at his plan. It was impossible to warn Jasperson.
Mungo disagreed. ‘Not whitefellas, Boss. Blackfellas.’
Hamish looked at his son sitting astride Wallace. ‘You must leave,’ he said in a low voice. ‘You were a young fool to follow.’
Mungo shook his head. ‘The boy is safer with us. Besides his horse is fast and he knows how to find his way back to the crick and help if trouble finds us.’
Hamish considered his options. He wished he had more men. Men like Luke who knew how to move stock and weren’t afraid of a fight. Still he did have Jasperson, McKenzie and Boxer across the river, a unique combination of experience, loyalty and cunning. ‘Keep an eye out.’
They weaved through the trees, the moon shining down through the canopy, illuminating the tree trunks in a ghostly veil. Occasionally they caught glimpses of the river, its black glassy surface paralleling their path. Hamish said nothing of the stretch of water. Boxer’s cautionary reminder of the possibility of more rains up north had eventuated. Rabbits foraging in the quietness scattered as they passed by. Overhead an owl hooted at their approach. Mungo halted. ‘Here.’ The riverbank sloped gradually, allowing easy access to the water’s edge. It was the best place to cross for both man and animal. Mungo frowned. Dismounting, he picked up a small stick and walked quietly down the sandy bank, throwing it into the water. The piece of wood was carried quickly away on the current. Hamish looked at the river and could only guess at the pull of the water under the surface.
A Changing Land Page 32
