Sarah thought about Wangallon: the expanse of sky that so totally engulfed the land, day and night; the sweet, unpolluted breath of the aged trees that stood sentinel along waterways; and the rich soil with its wavering vegetation that billowed across the great landscape like waves on the ocean. That was love, pure and unconditional. It was the type of love she once had for Anthony. Now only Wangallon remained constant.
‘What are you going to do?’ Shelley dabbed at the cream sauce on her bottom lip.
Outside the window the street looked cold and bleak. ‘There has to be a test to confirm Jim’s parentage and then we will go to court.’
‘Confirm his parentage?’ This was like listening to something out of The Bold and the Beautiful.
‘It’s a pretty standard thing in cases like this.’
Shelley took Sarah’s hand, pulling her attention from the window back to reality. ‘And what if you lose? Sarah, what if you lose part of Wangallon and Anthony. What then?’
Sarah shook her off. ‘I can’t think about that. I have to go to court and I have to win.’
‘What about your father?’ Shelley persevered. ‘Surely he has some suggestions.’
‘Yes, but not what I want to hear. And … Mum’s dead. Can you believe it? On top of everything else.’ She folded her hands in her lap.
‘Oh I’m sorry, Sarah. Can I do anything?’ Like grieve on your behalf, Shelley offered silently. She knew there was no love lost between mother and daughter yet surely there was some remaining bond left that warranted at least regret. Maybe not, Shelley decided. Sarah’s violet eyes were unblinking, except that she was looking a bit like a rabbit caught in a vehicle’s headlights.
She shook her head. ‘Dad thinks it’s best for Jim to get his share so everyone can get on with their lives.’
Shelley was beginning to think the same. ‘Go home, talk to Anthony. Whatever has happened between you two, you know he loves you. Anthony has always been there for you, Sarah. He’s always been at Wangallon. You can’t tell me you would want to live out the back of Woop Woop without him by your side.’
Sarah drained her wine glass. ‘You understand that I have to do this. I can’t let some upstart from the other side of the world take any part of Wangallon. My family created Wangallon. They toiled for her, built her,’ she swallowed, ‘and some died for her.’
Shelley thought immediately of Cameron. ‘You mean died on the property,’ she corrected. ‘What’s that?’
Sarah opened the palm of her hand. ‘My great-grandfather’s fob watch.’ She clutched at it. ‘I’m the custodian of Wangallon. It’s up to me if no one else wants to help fight to protect her. I can’t help it, Shelley. I feel responsible.’ She looked at the watch. ‘I feel driven.’
Shelley pulled out her wallet to pay for lunch. ‘Just be careful you don’t lose anything precious along the way, Sarah. Be careful you don’t lose yourself.’ Sarah was staring out the window again. Shelley put fifty dollars on the table and sighed. She knew people eventually needed to grow up and accept their responsibilities, however surely Anthony and Ronald wouldn’t let Sarah carry this burden alone. She was worried for Sarah and concerned for her future. There was a determined set to her jaw and it was with dismay that she recognised a similarity to Sarah’s own grandfather, the tetchy Angus Gordon. ‘Promise me you will consider things carefully before making the decision to go to court. Promise me you will talk to Anthony.’
‘I have to go. I have to try to get on a flight home and I need to be at the surgery by 3 pm.’
Shelley experienced a sense of foreboding. ‘Take care.’ Her friend gave her an excuse for a smile. Shelley grabbed her wrist. ‘Please call me if I can help.’
Sarah extricated herself and gave Shelley a brief kiss on the check. ‘I will.’ They both knew she wouldn’t.
The chardonnay left a sour aftertaste in Shelley’s mouth as Sarah walked out of the restaurant. Her friend hitched her handbag over a shoulder, clutched a brown paper bag to her chest and dipped her head into the wind. Shelley shivered, recalling the old saying about someone walking over your grave. The dictates of Sarah’s ancestors were haunting her from their tree-shaded plots and Shelley knew that no matter what anyone advised, Sarah would take the hardest path. She always had. The girl was drawn to Wangallon and was clearly determined to protect it. But then with a history like the Gordons, what did she expect. There was going to be some fallout, Shelley decided as she winked at a dark-haired man near the restaurant door.
Jim waited patiently on the opposite corner of the street near Hyde Park, feeling guilty at his newly acquired skill. His decision to follow Sarah after the meeting with their respective lawyers had been borne of both anger and frustration. There was a fight looming, one he wanted to avoid if possible. He had planned on confronting Sarah without the ‘suits’ and suggest they try to discuss things amicably, although now he realised how naive he had been and his initial readiness to confront her had been replaced with indecision and tiredness.
Jim watched as Sarah left the restaurant alone, eventually dawdling in front of the David Jones department store window. Her long, glossy hair blew in the wind as she readjusted her handbag, before turning the corner. Jim dashed across the lanes of traffic to follow her, narrowly missing two taxis and a bus. Sarah walked quickly and Jim found himself ducking between pedestrians and apologising for his rudeness as he circumnavigated the crowds at the next set of traffic lights and stepped blindly in front of a lady in a wheelchair. Eventually he found himself in Pitt Street Mall. There was no sign of Sarah.
Jim sat heavily on a wooden bench and listened blankly as two young office workers discussed the death of a friend’s parent. The widow was taking it very badly. So badly that sedatives were being used and their girlfriend was moving back home on the advice of their family doctor. Jim pulled a piece of paper from his pocket and unfolded it carefully. Tony Woodbridge had located his birth father’s address in Queensland. Ronald Gordon lived on the Gold Coast and his wife, Sue, Sarah’s mother, was recently deceased.
‘They’ll be grieving for months, that lot.’ The rather rotund girl commented on Jim’s left.
‘You’re not wrong, Kylie. Once you lose someone close it takes months for people to get over it,’ her friend added, ‘if they ever do’.
On the flight from Scotland, Jim had wondered what it would be like to meet his birth father. He’d had visions of a welcoming reunion, of being literally embraced by the man who was his real father. Now he knew the reality was very different. Ronald Gordon had known of Jim’s existence for years and he hadn’t bothered to make his acquaintance before this. The death of Sarah’s mother was unlikely to change Ronald’s attitude. The real barrier between them, Jim guessed, wasn’t time and absence. It was Wangallon. Sarah was obsessed with the property and she was her father’s daughter, and Jim Macken was the unwanted lad from Scotland who could ruin a close family’s heritage.
There was a young busker standing only a few feet away from where Jim sat. He was singing along to music from a tape recorder. His voice verged on the ordinary, yet any coin that came his way was greeted with such a wondrous smile that he invariably found the donation doubled. There was a person, Jim decided, who was happy in his own skin. He was making his own way in the world and not taking anything that he hadn’t made himself. Jim thought of his Scottish parents and wished he was back home. Next week, he promised himself. Next week, after the tests are back he’d book his return flight home. He wasn’t going to stay here with no friends to support him. He was paying his lawyer a fortune so Woodbridge could handle everything in his absence.
Sarah approached the busker and dropped coins in the hat at his feet. The man stopped singing and spoke to her for long minutes. Jim watched as Sarah laughed and then walked away. He followed her once again, trying to rehearse in his mind what he might say. He would like to talk to her one more time, yet somehow the words wouldn’t come and instead he found himself thinking of the eerie night he’d
spent in Wangallon Homestead with the sprawling paddocks beyond. When Sarah crossed at the lights, Jim didn’t follow. He knew that not only did he not belong in her world, he was unwanted. He shoved his hands in his trouser pockets as the early afternoon shoppers and hurrying office workers milled around him. He should never have come to Australia at Robert Macken’s urging, he decided. He should have listened to his mother.
Hamish looked intently from the dark current of the river to the trees on the far bank, willing the cattle to show themselves. Removing a rope from his saddle, he borrowed both Harry’s and Angus’s and tied all three ropes together, securing one end to a thick-trunked gum.
Mungo shook his head. ‘Better stay, Boss, mebbe cattle not cross here.’
‘When they cross I want you to return with the cattle,’ Hamish ordered. ‘Join them up with the droving mob on the far boundary. I’ve got Wetherly in charge of them until you arrive, then you’re in charge, Mungo. You’re boss drover.’
‘Me, Boss? What about Luke?’
‘Luke no longer works here.’
Coiling the length of rope, Hamish walked his horse towards the water. The animal shied and reared up, begrudgingly entering the water under tightened reins and the prick of spurs. The horse found its feet on the sandy bottom and cautiously walked out into the deepening swirl. The water inched up Hamish’s thighs and then the bottom of the river slipped away and the water was running over the horse’s back. Hamish urged the animal onwards as his mount swam across, whispering to him, coaxing to him to keep going while simultaneously wondering how fast the water was rising. The rope was still feeding out behind them and although the current carried them diagonally, they landed on the far bank without injury. Hamish egged the horse up the sandy slope and tied the rope around a box tree, ensuring his return. The unmistakeable sound of crunching branches and a rushing tearing sound reverberated along the riverbank. His horse’s ears twitched nervously. Hamish signalled to Mungo. The cattle were moving too fast. Something had gone wrong.
He managed to gallop his horse along the sandy riverbank just as the first of the cattle hurtled towards the water. The leaders ran directly into the glassy surface, while others slowed on approach. Some were pushed into the river by the weight of those behind; others thought better of the task ahead and turned either left or right to run along the bank. Casualties were immediate. Two carcasses were floating downstream while a third animal lay on its side on the opposite bank, the animal’s hind legs kicking at the sand as cattle scrambled over the top. A number of calves were calling out frantically. Hamish caught sight of Boxer and McKenzie as a single rifle shot sounded. He glanced quickly over his shoulder, unsure of the direction it came from, and then headed to where the rope was tied.
The nulla-nulla hit Boxer between the eyes, the impact driving him from his young colt and sending him sprawling in the grass. Hamish watched his old friend fall to disappear behind the moving cattle. Moving quickly to the rope he charged his horse down the bank. Behind him he heard a scuffle and then a yelp. He glimpsed the butt of Jasperson’s rifle and saw a white man drop to the ground.
‘Go,’ Jasperson yelled.
Behind him an Aborigine appeared through the trees. Hamish caught sight of a tall warrior with a skin dragged over his shoulder and spurred his horse down the bank. He entered the water as a spear entered his thigh, the impact shunting him sideways. With the spear dangling from his muscle Hamish overbalanced as his horse was swept from under him. With clenching fingers he held tight to the rope. He glanced over his shoulder. Jasperson was darting through the trees, an Aborigine in pursuit. Then the rope went slack and he sank beneath the surface. Hamish splashed uselessly as the current pushed him towards the last of the cattle crossing the river. His one chance was to grab hold of one of the cows, maybe clamber onto a back or hang onto a tail. His chances were slim. The current was pulling at his damaged leg. He tried to swim and gulped at the muddy tide, felt the water bash at the spear still dangling from his thigh. Then he was pulled under again.
Mungo watched in horror as the Boss went under. He ran along the bank, calling to him uselessly while on the far bank Aborigines were running in the same direction. These men weren’t trackers. They were renegades. A rifle shot sounded. Mungo dived into the dirt, spitting grit from his mouth as cattle bellowed and lost calves cried out. McKenzie appeared on the far bank, chasing the blacks for a few scant seconds before turning his attention to a body. He dumped it in the water and returned with another, hiding the evidence of their crime. A final body appeared on the riverbank. It too was dragged unceremoniously into the water. With a stab of painful recognition, Mungo watched as Boxer floated away and for the briefest of seconds he had a terrible suspicion that his father was still alive. Lifting his rifle he cocked it, pointing the barrel across the water directly at McKenzie’s stomach. Very slowly he squeezed down on the trigger.
‘Mungo?’
‘Go get Mister Luke. You tell him –’ Mungo lowered his rifle, wondering how long Angus had been standing there. ‘Tell Luke,’ he hesitated, not willing to bring reality to that which he’d witnessed. ‘Tell him there’s bad blackfellas loose. Tell him –’
‘That my father didn’t come out of the river.’ Angus remained rooted to the spot.
‘Go. Bring him back.’ Mungo helped the boy mount up and then ran back to where he’d left his horse. He still had a job to do and Boxer had told him that no matter what happened to stick with the plan.
Thick tree trunks glided by so close that Angus felt the rough tear of bark on skin. He caught sight of leaves, spider webs and low hanging branches. The ground rushed beneath him. There were ant hills, tufts of grass, rabbit holes and logs; a mob of kangaroos was startled into action. His cramping leg muscles spoke of an interminable time in the saddle and the sky now showed a dull pink where once a grey pall had hung. The moon still watched over him although now it hung low in the sky and storm clouds crossed its path. Soon a light rain began to fall.
Angus prayed for guidance, for strength for his horse; winding his fingers tighter about the reins, he lay down on Wallace’s neck. Beneath his body the long extension of muscles flexed as Wallace’s powerful legs sped them onwards. Wallace’s sweat-heightened aroma seeped into his nostrils until Angus began to imagine that he and the animal were one. He muttered a string of indecipherable words into Wallace’s ear, urging him onwards. A glimpse of a cloudy moon dipping through the trees cleared his thoughts.
‘For my father, for my father,’ he repeated. The phrase became his mantra. ‘Go, Wallace, go.’
There was a loud gasping sound, then the horse whinnied and slowed.
Angus slid from Wallace’s back, his muscles thick with tiredness. ‘Maybe we walk a bit.’ Wallace heaved against the reins, straining to be let alone. He was foaming at the mouth, his hide a gleam of sweat. ‘We have to keep going. We have to.’ Angus burst into tears. ‘Damn horse.’ Wrapping his arms around Wallace’s neck he sunk his face into the pungent hair and sobbed. Wallace stood quietly, his head bowed. ‘Damn horse’. Angus drifted back to the chaos of the river and his father sinking below the watery surface. He tugged once again at the reins and digging his heels into the dirt began to drag Wallace. The horse followed reluctantly, Angus groaning at his effort. They fought this way through acres of timbered country, disturbing sheep and cattle, frightening emus and scattering birds. Angus couldn’t feel his feet anymore. They felt scraped of flesh and moist against the heel and toes of his leather boots.
As the sun rose, Angus led Wallace to the nearest stump and remounted. ‘You have to do this, Wallace. I can’t walk any further,’ he spat bile into the dirt. ‘You have to get me home.’
He wrapped the reins about his hands dug his knees in tightly and jabbed the heels of his riding boots in deeply. Wallace answered by rearing upwards. Angus held fast, patting the horse between the ears. ‘Please, for my father. For Hamish.’
They galloped through trees so quickly that Angus lost all se
nse of direction. It was only for the red smudge of the rising sun that he knew his course remained reasonably true. Wallace nevertheless could not be steered and when the horse veered savagely to the right it was all Angus could do to hang on. Specks of saliva flew from Wallace’s gaping mouth into his face. His hands were blistered from the leather reins and he was sure the soft inner parts of his thighs were red raw. Yet he gritted through the pain. He needed to find his brother. He needed Luke.
Angus woke as Wallace trotted past the stables, cutting through the orchard to Lee’s vegetable garden. He could see trampled plants, heard Lee’s voice rising in agitation, then he was slipping from Wallace’s sweaty back into Lee’s arms. He glanced over the Chinaman’s shoulder. ‘Thank you, Wallace,’ he mouthed. His beautiful horse collapsed to the ground.
Margaret broke off a wedge of damper and added it to the plate of fried salted mutton.
‘They won’t miss you?’ Luke thought it odd. The girl should be at the homestead. Not that he was complaining. Margaret chewed on a piece of stringy meat, a long black hair stuck stubbornly across her cheeks. The girl picked at a piece of meat deep in her mouth. ‘No.’ Wiping her hand on the bodice of her dress, she walked to the creek’s edge. Having only seen her by the light of the campfire and in the glow of the moon, Luke halted midway in his eating as she stripped. She walked slowly into the creek, her moon-shaped buttocks clenching at the coolness of the water, her back ribboning out from the base of her narrow waist as she stretched, then disappeared beneath the surface. She emerged darkly wet. Water clinging to her shape as she dragged her dress on and returned to sit beside him, her long black hair dripping water down her back, her dress patched with wetness. She picked up the tortoiseshell comb and slipped it into her hair. Margaret nibbled on a piece of damper, watched him watching her. Luke understood the naturalness of her actions. She lived in a realm of unchanging behaviour, where the white man only interrupted what to them was utterly unchangeable. Theirs was a world governed and set out by their ancestors, where everything had its place; the stars, moon, wind, rain, animals and plants.
A Changing Land Page 34
