The cattle walked slowly across ground made uneven by past flooding. From where Jasperson rode on the wing, there was a clear view of the mob; a couple of hundred head, many of which were cows with half-grown calves. They’d gathered them up from where they wandered beneath the bright night sky as if they were catching butterflies. Jasperson almost considered increasing the numbers they took, though experience taught him otherwise. Once a man got too cocky and diverged one small step away from the original plan, trouble was the only outcome. No, he would stick with Hamish Gordon’s plan and his reward would be success.
Already the moon was past its midpoint. Ahead the cattle continued their onward progression. Their current route was exposed with only a light scattering of timber across an open plain. Jasperson would have preferred to walk the cattle through a more wooded area, instead of the clear, open path they followed which was the best option for getting the cattle across the river and into Wangallon before dawn. Besides, time was getting the better of them. Behind him cows were bellowing for straggling calves. They’d dropped twenty cows and small calves three miles back and some of the old girls left in the mob still bellowed to their young, making sure they were close by. Apart from the noise, which could carry for miles on such a still night, they couldn’t afford the river crossing being marred by cows looking for their offspring. At least Boxer promised the river would be easy to cross, although when they had ridden across the bridge at Widow’s Nest the black had frowned at the moving water and pointed at small bubbles on its surface. Jasperson didn’t need to have the brains of Charles Darwin to realise that it had rained up north. The question was, how much?
Across the mob on the right flank Jasperson made out McKenzie’s slight form. The boy slipped in and out of his vision, obscured by the hovering dust cloud following the mob. He’d proved capable of taking instruction, in more ways than one, Jasperson smirked, and although he wasn’t the most proficient of stockmen, the ability to keep one’s mouth shut was invaluable. Jasperson twisted in his saddle, aware of his space being intruded upon. Boxer was beside him.
Jasperson’s nose twitched irritably. Having told the old black to hold his position at the rear of the herd and to stop shifting about, here he was, ignoring his commands as if he knew better, sidling up to him like some shadowy spectre come to frighten the moonlight.
Jasperson twitched Boxer’s arm with a short wooden crop, the action drawing blood.
‘Can you not obey a simple order?’
Boxer snarled, his thick bottom lip dropping to reveal what remained of his teeth. ‘Trackers.’
Jasperson lifted in his saddle, looked about the flat grassland. The cattle moved at a steady pace. Boxer pointed to the left into the wind. ‘Smell blackfella.’
With the wind in their quarter they had a slight advantage, however there was precious little time. Whoever followed them would come across a trail of dropped cows and calves and immediately know they were out here moonlighting. Their best chance of success was to push the cattle hard towards the river and cross them where they could. Trying to meet up with the Boss was no longer a priority.
‘Get them moving, Boxer. Head straight for the river. We will cross where we can.’
Boxer argued. ‘No plan stays good once changed.’ A lone stockwhip echoed.
‘Damn him.’ The McKenzie boy’s stupidity had just given the trackers their exact location. ‘Go.’ Boxer galloped towards the tail end of the cattle as the mob broke into a trot.
A film of dust rose into the air. Jasperson’s eyes began to water as he kept pace with the mob on the wing. Cows were calling out. Calves caught up in the rushing mob were left disorientated. The cattle reached the trees bordering the river with a crash, their hides pressed close to each other as they snorted and bellowed, foaming at the mouth. Jasperson winced at the chaotic stampede. He pictured the frightened animals as his horse kept pace through the thickening trees. He knew calves would drown, that the stock would break free of their ranks to run along the riverbank instead of crossing it. He had a disaster on his hands, one that could lead to a hanging. He was entering the tree line when something caught his eye, a flash of metal perhaps in the moonlight or a distant light, he couldn’t be sure. Without hesitating he dug the heels of his boots into his horse’s flanks and followed the rushing cattle through the trees.
For the second time in a week Maggie strode towards the ruin, emboldened by the hearty walk and a sense of daring unknown to her for years. It rose above the surrounding countryside to sit proudly upon the summit of the hill, and whispered to her of bloody siege battles in one age and illicit liaisons in another. The wind whipped her hair into her eyes, stinging her with the icy scent of the North Sea as she circumnavigated the tower and approached the cliff face, exhilarated. Below lay a distant inlet and a long low bridge carrying cars across it. Beyond a sleety mist was banked on the rocky shoreline across the water. She turned back towards her own home country, the sea wind biting at her neck. Cottages dotted fields, curling smoke rose prettily from every house and chunks of peaty land were cut away from the hills as if a giant had stooped down to take a bite from a tasty morsel. She walked cautiously towards the ruin, a jumble of rocks making her leapfrog slowly from one uneven surface to another. Another day she would have jumped them. Another time she would have hitched her skirts and stretched her legs across slabs scarred by centuries. Not today. Maggie drew air slivered with cold into her lungs and whistled a sketchy tune as she stepped up onto the narrow threshold of the ruin.
She ducked her head through the opening to smell musty earth and unused space. It was dark inside. A small crack in the wall let in a line of light that crept across the dirt floor to trace the stone on the opposite side. Maggie stretched her arms wide to touch either side of the ancient doorway. It was a jump down, aye, she remembered that, for at the time excitement consumed her and she was too distracted to consider the gap between daylight and darkness. Her hands ran along the rocky walls seeking support. Gingerly lowering her body she sat squarely on the entry stones, her feet solid on the ground below. She stood unsteadily as if the light had taken her balance and with it the years between then and now. She was a girl again, her body lithe, her feet supple and her need great.
They met for the third time at the ceilidhs after Ronald’s return from Edinburgh. Having enjoyed a string of afternoons together before his departure, Maggie was relieved on his return. There were whispers of him simultaneously outing with Catherine Jamieson and Maggie doubted she could entrance Ronald Gordon like the older beauty. Yet there he was walking into the whitewashed hall with the other villagers, and there she was walking towards him. They met in the middle of the hall, a crinkled-eyed smile greeting her nervous anticipation. Her words of greeting were lost among a small throng of locals drawn to this strong featured, gregarious man. Having recently seen the Northern Lights, Ronald held the circle gathered about him spellbound. He talked of dazzling shafts of colour, of violets, blues and red, the enchantment in his words eliciting pride from those who’d grown up with this natural phenomenon.
They managed to dance once, then twice. His hands warm against hers, the stories of his home country floating between them like summer cider. And the words he spoke of: bush and mate, grazier and city slicker, cattle and dingoes. It was a world apart and a world Maggie needed. She cuddled up to him, oblivious to the hard stares of Tongue’s matrons. Here was a man who was willing to listen, who could save her from the torment of the last few months and a difficult future. It was so grand a dance that she considered her new life in Australia a certainty. For who would not dream of leaving this rock strewn place with its town hierarchy and a population incapable of forgetting one’s poor beginnings. Especially now, especially now that she owned her fine pair of running shoes – but at what cost.
So she giggled and pleaded and dreamt the Northern Lights so spectacular from the hill where the ruin was perched that Ronald laughed at her descriptions. Maggie smiled so widely that her lips ach
ed. The ruin, she whispered into his ear, her toes straining as she stood on their tips; the ruin. This was how such things were done. How problems were rectified. He nodded, as a man to a child. He was talking to some of the menfolk. Maggie left him alone to dawdle by the hall. She pulled her cardigan about her summer frock and looked up at the stars. The night squeezed her chest with anticipation. She could be patient, although her mother doubted it, calling her silly and shrewish on occasion. She skirted the hall, kicking at pebbles and dirt, twirling in the fractured light from the hall windows.
Slowly she moved from the shadows. The dance was ending and people were spilling from the hall, some yawning, others laughing and chattering. She did not mean to grow impatient, yet she walked closer to the men haloed by the hall light. Ronald’s broad back faced her and Maggie edged around the groups of people standing like cairns, squeezing through them until she was positioned in Ronald’s direct line of sight. Finally she caught his eye and waved. He looked at her for a brief second, nodded and then returned to the publican who was demonstrating his fishing technique. It was enough for Maggie. It was a declaration of Ronald’s intent.
I’ll meet you there, she whispered to herself. And so she left, running along the main street partnered by her moon shadow, her heart skipping breathlessly as her legs carried her to the path that led to the ruin. Onwards and up she half-ran and half-clambered. She knew it were better if they went separately and thought little of her lonely race until she reached the hilltop and spied the dark silhouette of the place once inhabited by Vikings. Breathless, she clambered over the rocks strewn before the dark gaping entrance. Maggie huddled against the rock wall, deciding it better to wait outside where she could be seen than venturing into the dark of the ruin. She hoped Ronald would find his way quickly, for the dark abyss of the cliff scared her and her bare legs were freezing. She glanced back towards the path that lead to Tongue, her excitement diminishing as the minutes drew on. Then finally she saw him appearing over the rise of the hill.
Maggie sat back on the stone ledge. Remembering the past was always messy. One had a habit of sifting the good bits out so that the bad floated away with time. Here in the ruin she had laid with Ronald Gordon nearly three decades ago and to this day the seeping cold of the earth against her bare buttocks, his wet kisses and a howling wind that encircled the stone walls about them were the three things she recalled. It was hardly romantic. The rest of the night dropped away from her as surely as she’d stepped into the abyss beyond the cliff, for Ronald told her he was leaving Scotland and although she pleaded until not a shred of pride was left within her, he was to go alone. Maggie could not blame Ronald. Not then or now. He was a man like any other, and he took what she so foolishly offered. And she was the woman who believed irrationally in the strength of her wanting.
Afterwards, having begged him not to leave her, Ronald touched her cheek, wiped a tear from her clammy skin with his thumb. His own skin was tough and calloused and his tenderness left a scratch of concern where his kiss once was. ‘You will be a great runner,’ he praised her, lifting her clutching fingers free of his arm. ‘One Scotland will be proud of.’
She’d not the heart to tell him that her cherished dream would never eventuate; she’d not yet admitted it fully to herself.
He left the ruin at daylight and Maggie followed his receding figure as if he were a hallucination. Ronald Gordon was the embodiment of many a Scot’s dream. His forefathers, having left during impoverished times, were now equal to many of the lords of England in their Australian holding. They were an example of what could be done. They were what the Scottish youth in the north country aspired to; for Hamish Gordon had accomplished what seemed impossible, why couldn’t another?
Not once did Ronald Gordon look back at her. Not once did Ronald show regret. But she regretted. Maggie sat on a cracked stone slab. Irregular patches of springy turf were interspersed with wind-bared soil. Tiredness was inching its way through her and the thought of the long downhill trek brought tears to her eyes. She thought of the unwanted child borne of her wishing and planning: There was real love there now. She could only hope Jim came home safe and that their lives remained intact. For her mother always believed that one couldn’t escape their destiny. And that was what Maggie was most afraid of.
Sarah strode purposefully along Elizabeth Street. The rising wind whipped her auburn hair into her eyes and mouth and she plucked at the fine strands, blinking at the midday chill. She tasted the grit of smog, listening to the deafening hum of cars, trucks, people and horns as she sidestepped rolling soft-drink cans, paper, people and a small white dog. Instantly she thought of Bullet, of her horse Tess, of the birds, the space, the air. Here Sarah only sublet the space she walked in and even that was curtailed by the width of the pavement and the press of bodies. The cold shadows of a great city emphasised the towering offices and she wished for quiet and space and unpolluted air. Clutching Frank’s parcel to her chest, Sarah walked on until she found a restaurant. She requested a table and then asked to use their telephone. Twenty minutes later Shelley walked into the restaurant.
‘Well this is a surprise,’ Shelley announced, her excited voice cutting through the air as she walked to the window table where Sarah sat. She was wearing a blue and white hound’s-tooth suit with padded shoulders, a short skirt and a silky white blouse. High-heeled white shoes completed the look. She looked very Princess Di. They hugged briefly.
‘Trust you to find this hole in the wall,’ Shelley glanced around the small space, ‘although I like the clientele.’ The restaurant was filling slowly with businessmen dressed in regulation black and charcoal grey suits. Shelley smiled brightly, enticing a couple of admiring glances. Giggling, she patted her carefully coiffed blonde hair and straightened her back. ‘Boring lot. Anyway, what are you doing down here?’ Sarah was gazing out the window. ‘What? Something dreadful has happened, hasn’t it? You look exhausted and sad.’
Sarah ordered two glasses of red wine from the disinterested waitress.
‘Anyone would think we were in Europe with that attitude,’ Shelley scowled as the girl sauntered away.
‘Annoyed, pissed off, furious is how I am,’ Sarah admitted after taking two sips of the wine. It was hot and peppery. What she really needed was a glass of water. ‘Think about the very worst thing that could happen to me.’ She swirled the wine in the glass and gestured to the waitress.
Shelley grimaced at the taste of her own wine and put her glass down. ‘Oh, not Anthony. Don’t tell me you two have had a shocking argument over that bloody property. Sarah, I’ve told you in the past if you want to keep him you have to defer to him just a little. Men like that.’
‘Defer to him? Defer to him?’
Shelley looked over her shoulder, now they were getting attention, the unwanted sort. ‘Shh. He adores you.’
‘Waitress,’ Sarah called loudly. The girl approached warily. ‘This wine is undrinkable.’
The girl flattened her lips and placed a thin bony hand on her hip.
Shelley’s eyes widened in surprise at Sarah’s tone. ‘Umm, maybe you could get us two glasses of chardonnay,’ she asked politely. ‘Something really chilled, and two of the fettuccine and chicken.’ She glanced at Sarah for confirmation and received a dull-eyed stare in return. The waitress smiled tightly, wrote down their order and left. ‘You better tell me what’s going on.’
‘Jim Macken has arrived in Australia. He wants his thirty per cent of Wangallon.’
Shelley found herself lifting the barely drinkable wine and taking a big gulp. Sarah’s eyes were wide as organ stops, her usually tanned face devoid of colour except for two bright spots on her cheeks.
‘The bastard thinks I’ll just bow down and take it up the proverbial.’
Shelley spluttered. ‘Excuse me?’
‘Well he’s got another thing coming.’ Sarah’s voice dropped.
The chardonnay arrived. ‘Bring the bottle,’ Shelley stated with an urgent nod to the waitre
ss.
‘He thinks he’ll get it too. You should have seen that solicitor of his insinuating that Wangallon was built on dubious activities. For god’s sake, everyone stole a few head of stock back in the 1800s. He’s got another thing coming too.’ Sarah met Shelley’s concerned stare. ‘We’ll be going to court.’
‘Geez, to court, Sarah? You’re not going to contest your grandfather’s will?’
Sarah took a sip of wine. The action calmed her.
‘You’re going to contest Angus Gordon’s will.’ Shelley could barely believe what she was hearing. Angus’s word had always been law in the Gordon family. ‘You can’t do that.’
Sarah’s eyes hardened.
‘Hey, I’m on your side. Remember? What does Anthony say?’
‘You don’t want to know.’
‘So he’s against it?’
‘Anthony has his own problems at the moment. I’m his and he’s mine.’ Sarah drained her wine glass as the fettuccine arrived. She stabbed at the steaming bowl with her fork, chewed three mouthfuls in quick succession and then pushed the bowl to one side.
‘Talk to Anthony. He’s always supported you in the past.’
Sarah laughed and poured more wine for the both of them. ‘Not anymore. Those days are over.’
Shelley shook her head. ‘Sarah, you two love each other. Surely you can work together on this. Isn’t your relationship worth it?’
Sarah’s love for Anthony was absolute, however a relationship fractured by deceit was difficult to repair. Yesterday morning was proof of that. ‘Quite frankly, Shelley, I don’t know if it is.’
‘Sarah, Anthony and Wangallon are your life.’
A Changing Land Page 33
