A Changing Land (13 page)

The Landcruiser lurched across the paddock. Matt never did mind the odd bump and Sarah found herself clutching at the hand bar on the dash as the vehicle found its way into every pothole on the rough track. A heavy dew was only just starting to dissipate and silvery cobwebs crisscrossed the grass. Beneath the tufts the soil was almost bare. Thanks to the lack of rain there was no clover or herbage, winter feed coveted by both cattle and sheep. From the branches of scattered trees, birds fluffed and preened themselves, silver-crested cockatoos competed with the brilliant red and blue plumage of bush parrots, while small bush budgies darted for insects. Sarah smiled, despite the drying countryside. Ahead the road forked into two. One track led to the creek and the family cemetery, with a wider road diverging off it towards the cavernous woolshed and sheep yards. The other bypassed the ridge and paddock where Cameron had been killed, to circumnavigate the boundary of Wangallon. Matt turned down the latter and stopped at the first of many gates, grinning cheekily. ‘It's the first of twelve.'

Sarah wasn't surprised when she guessed their destination. She just hoped that the overstocking problem she'd envisioned had not decimated the block too much. Boxer's Plains had been the last property purchased by the Gordons. For that reason it retained a special place in the family's collective history. When her father, Ronald, suggested purchasing more land in the late 70s, Angus made it clear he wasn't interested in following the expansionary vision of his own father, choosing instead to embark on a major improvement plan. Money was spent on renewing ageing fences, building cattle yards and renovating staff accommodation; trees were thinned out to allow an increase in natural pasture growth and in turn the stock-carrying capacity of the country increased. Angus Gordon's legacy was that of a highly efficient property, with excellent infrastructure and a stock-per-acre ratio that was envied by neighbours, especially during periods of drought when his management skills weeded out the men from the boys.

Finally reaching the Wangallon River, they crossed the army bridge Angus purchased and erected in the fifties. A wide stream of muddy water moved sluggishly beneath them as they rattled over the wooden boards, disturbing two grey kangaroos on the bank below. Old box trees marked the line of past floods, while a track leading down the steep bank to the water and reappearing on the other side was a reminder that this waterway could easily be crossed in times of severe drought.

It was unlike Matt to be quiet for so long. Although a person of uncommon calm, Sarah knew that prolonged silence in the man usually meant something significant was weighing on his mind. She settled into a guise of steely resolve that she'd been told on occasion was expected by a Gordon. Frankly she didn't quite think those characteristics were particularly well developed in her.

They drove through a stretch of lignum, the thick, woody plants cloaking their view both left and right. As always, Sarah felt
unsettled visiting this part of Wangallon. It was as if she were entering another country, one cut off from the world, and imagined it was the wide river boundary that set the block apart. Then the road broadened out to run beneath a canopy of trees before revealing an open expanse of sky and land. Sarah heard the metallic hum of machinery as Matt pulled up under the shade of a box tree and handed Sarah a pair of binoculars.

‘You'll get a better view of things if you stand in the back,' he suggested.

Stepping up into the Landcruiser's tray, Sarah raised the binoculars to her eyes. For a moment she felt she was part of a dream. Two large tractors were pulling heavy discs behind them, cutting and turning the rich black soil beneath. To their left a shimmer of metal caught her attention. ‘My God!'

‘Yep.' Matt joined her and together they stared out across the wrecked paddock in the direction of the two D9 bulldozers. Sarah heard a crack and then a second later a tree tumbled to the ground.

‘They started two days ago,' Matt volunteered. ‘They reckon we'll get about 2000 acres of cultivation where these offset discs are working. No trees to knock down so it's pretty cost-effective.'

‘Cost-effective,' Sarah repeated. All she could think about was the beautiful grassland that was being ruined and the trees on the horizon that had provided shade in the summer and protection in the winter for their sheep and cattle. ‘Where are the ewes? The cows?'

‘Out there somewhere,' Matt waved a hand in a vague northerly direction. ‘Pushed up against the far boundary, I reckon, trying to escape the intrusion.'

‘It was overstocked.' It was more a statement than a question but when Matt nodded Sarah couldn't help herself. ‘Why didn't you say something to me?'

Matt frowned. ‘I queried Anthony on two occasions about the
stock numbers. And I've been out here the last couple of Sundays to check on things. Actually I intended to tell him today that we would have to start moving stock out, and then I saw this.'

‘But Matt, this is too much. Are you telling me Anthony did this?' What a stupid question. Who else would it be?

Matt studied the moonscape before them, avoiding the ticklish situation of an emotional woman. He began the painstaking process of rolling a cigarette. He could crack a snake's back like a stockwhip and hang onto a snarling wild cat by the tail, but a slow discharge of sadness was beyond him. ‘I couldn't go to you on a hunch, Sarah. Nor can I play favourites. I'm a hired hand.'

‘Jesus, Matt, first and foremost you work for Wangallon.' Sarah jumped out of the back of the vehicle. ‘Drive over. I want this to stop immediately.'

They moved slowly across the uneven ground, once or twice bogging down in the freshly turned earth, Matt accelerating to bring them clear. Only when they drew level with the dozers did Sarah see the extent of their work; great trees and stringy saplings all bowed down between the great lumbering chain linking the dozers together. The metal links, each as large as a football, crawled across the ground collecting everything in their wake.

‘The country will be far more valuable once it's cleared, Sarah.'

‘Not everything is about money,' she snapped back, instantly regretting her tone.

‘Maybe not, but even if Anthony didn't intend to farm it, imagine the increased stock numbers we would be able to run once the dozers get into that heavily timbered country. He is doing very selective clearing. Once the trees are gone the grasses will grow back tenfold.'

Sarah considered Matt's comments. He was not one to speak idly. ‘Well, Matt, I don't agree with this, especially considering the way it's been handled. Besides which, it's being ploughed up.
Where the hell are we meant to run the cattle and sheep that usually graze here?' She ran irritated fingers through her hair. ‘Then there is the monetary side. How much is this going to cost?'

‘Upwards of two hundred thousand dollars, with the work to be done in two stages. At least that's what the contractor tells me. I haven't spoken to Anthony about it.'

Sarah felt physically ill.

‘His intention is to clear all of Boxer's Plains eventually. Personally I don't think it's a good idea. Farming is costly. You've got spraying and machinery and the vagaries of the weather. Then there is the infrastructure: you need silos to store seed, trucks for cartage to the rail lines at harvest …'

‘The list goes on.'

‘Pretty much.' Matt drew up to the side of the one of the dozers and got out to speak to the driver.

In an hour these men would be hunting down Anthony, querying him furiously as to why a stop-work mandate had been suddenly imposed on them. ‘This is going to be difficult,' Sarah admitted as they headed back to the homestead. ‘Can we get those cows from Boxer's Plains out on the stock route pronto?'

‘Sure thing, Sarah.'

‘Good. And the sheep?' They drove through the house paddock gate.

‘They'll be right. We can feed them out there.' Matt's knuckles were white, gripping the steering wheel.

‘I'll get the corn delivered asap. We can store it in the portable 25 tonne silo and then fill up the sheep feeder when needed.' Sarah knew that like her, Matt was mad as hell. Yet beyond her anger lay something far more distressing; there was a terrible unravelling within her. Anthony had broken her trust.

Jim Macken finished reading the file and closed the manila folder. He glanced uneasily at his mother, who smiled at him nervously. He knew her opinion. She believed he should be leaving well enough alone. With her usual quiet movements she walked into the kitchen and closed the door. Jim heard the rattle of the water tap as it came to life and the solid click of a kitchen cupboard. She would be making tea, strong and hot, perhaps pouring a nip of whisky into hers to ward off the melancholy that stalked her these days. It was true that his mother wished Sarah Gordon had never come to their country. And it was equally true that neither of them would have believed that he could be heir to land in Australia.

‘The place has been willed to you fair and square by Angus Gordon himself,' said Robert Macken, chewing on the stem of his pipe.

Jim flicked back through the folder. ‘I still can't believe you waited so long to tell me.'

‘Probate took some time, I told you that, lad; and there was a clause in the will that gave us until next month to respond. I was not of a mind to use it, but your mother insisted. She didn't want to rush things. We only want what's best for you,' his father persevered.

‘Do you?' Normally his father would begin arguing. They had always argued and the past that grows between father and son is always difficult to erase, no matter whether it has been good or bad. Yet their relationship was now altered. For three weeks Robert had not been his blood father and although Robert knew of his wife's pregnant state before they were betrothed, the revelation of Jim's natural father caused a marked alteration in their reasonably contented existence.

‘Now what type of a question is that?'

It was one Jim decided was plain enough, for he knew where his mother's preference lay. She would sooner see him a pauper than open himself up to grief. As for his father, or his Scottish father as he'd mentally begun addressing the man who'd clothed and fed him, he was beginning to see the makings of what pride could do when there was the opportunity of mixing it with a little revenge.

‘You owe them nothing, lad. Think of the money.'

The sentence was punctuated by the re-entry of his mother, carrying a white plastic tray. Her eyes met his as she placed the cups of tea on the wooden table with a slight clatter of crockery. When she sat again in the wooden rocker that once belonged to her own mother, her hands were wrapped securely around the hot tea. Her cheeks were tinged a becoming red, her eyes soft. More than a nip had been consumed, of that Jim was sure.

‘Jim's existence has been acknowledged, surely that is enough.' She blew carefully at the steaming tea; the rocking chair ceased its gentle sway. ‘Besides,' his mother continued softly, ‘it is Jim's decision.'

Robert huffed loudly, the noise of his teeth chewing at the pipe filled the room. ‘This is a will, woman. There is no decision. I know we've all had much to come to terms with,' he nodded in his son's direction, ‘but it's past the time for waiting. It's not fair to them –' his large thumb pointed at the folder – ‘nor us. This is a lot of money. The whole family could benefit from it.'

‘And what happened, Robert Macken, to being happy with our life? How many times in the past have you sat at this very table and told Jim not to wish for greater things, to appreciate his life,' she held up a quivering finger to his obvious desire to interrupt, ‘and I agreed. We have food and a roof over our heads and the things that have been most blessed to me remain so. My family, this place where I shall live and die, sleek cattle, the pungent scent of peat …'

Robert gulped at his own tea. ‘Don't be idiotic, woman. Your son is a descendent of the Gordon clan. He is entitled to his inheritance. How, as his mother, could you possibly ask him to ignore this?' He waved a typed letter in the air, the thick creamy paper crackling with the action.

‘The money doesn't belong to you, Jim.' His mother continued sipping at her tea.

Jim admired how a woman of such impoverished birth could turn down the chance of wealth, yet it also surprised him she remained so adamant.

‘Rubbish.' Robert folded the letter carefully, placing it on the narrow mantlepiece above the fire.

Part of Jim wished that Sarah Gordon had never visited his country; for it was only through their chance meeting and friendship that they both eventually learnt of his blood ties to her family. At moments it had been too much, his wayward mother, the father who was not his father, every important element in his life had been controlled by someone, even the timing of when he should learn of his real father's identity and the contents of Angus
Gordon's will. Jim listened as Robert and his mother argued. It was no longer just about the will, it was about lost love for his mother and the harbouring of resentments for Robert.

‘Think of the money, Jim. It is rightfully yours,' Robert argued, gulping the scalding tea as if his mouth was lined with asbestos.

To Jim it was money borne of sadness. His clearest memory of Sarah was the day they walked in the heather, gradually ascending one of his favourite hills until, at the rocky summit, they had looked out into the distant lochs below, stringing out like small puddles of water that a child could jump. For indeed that was how he felt. On first meeting the Australian he'd experienced the most comfortable of sensations. It was like coming home after a long journey. ‘It doesn't feel right. It's like something the English would do, taking over something that isn't rightfully theirs. Like here where they've resumed land and forced us to eke out a living on these tiny blocks; generational Scots relegated to bed-and-breakfasts and scrounging for a living.'

‘Then do something about it,' Robert interrupted with an impatient wave of his fist. ‘The Gordons are worth millions. You've been offered a thirty per cent share. Get your money and come back and do something positive. Stop you and yours from bowing at the feet of the likes of Lord Andrews and his family.'

Frankly Jim could see little that was positive. He'd spent three months pining for a girl who turned out to be his half-sister. And even though loneliness had made him believe he cared for her, it didn't stop him from feeling stupid and uncomfortable at the prospect of sharing in her inheritance.

Jim's mother shook her head. ‘You love Scotland, Jim, almost as much as I do. You don't need to say anything, I can see it in your eyes. You smile at the wild landscape, feel the comfort of home when you step upon her springy heather and breathe in the bracing air when the wind blows across the loch. How you feel for your country, how you worry for the people of the north is what makes you Scottish.
Remember that, for if you go to Australia and take your share, you will be destroying Sarah's home. Imagine how she will feel.'

‘Enough of your melancholic women's tales.' Robert was on his feet, tugging at his homespun woollen jumper. ‘Regardless of your inclination, the facts remain the same, lad. You only need direct the solicitor to give you the value in cash. Either you make the call or I will.'

‘I'd imagine Sarah would have to sell a part of the property.' His mother's softly persuasive tone resonated through the cramped confines of their living area.

‘And who are you most concerned about, Sarah or her father?' Robert left the small crofter's cottage, slamming the door behind him.

Jim looked from his untouched tea to his beloved mother. Having already discussed the possibility of him flying to Australia, it was now becoming increasingly important to him as the days progressed. He would prefer to have never known about his true parentage, yet he needed to meet his real father. And there was another part of him, he guessed the Gordon part, that wanted to see the land that a Scot managed to carve out for himself over one hundred and thirty years ago. If only his mother were not so against the idea.

He walked outside to a day grown bright. From their small house on the edge of the hill, patches of heather extended outwards, interspersed with rocks and dirt. The landscape extended downwards towards the loch that shimmered invitingly in the midmorning light. Hands shoved deep in the pockets of his corduroy trousers, Jim walked the slight distance between house and water, his sturdy lace-ups crunching pebbles underfoot. His mother was right – he did love this land.

He was unaware of her presence until her warm hand linked itself through his arm. Together they stared out at the loch, at the treeless hills surrounding the water's grey beauty.

‘If you go to Australia you may get your inheritance, Jim,' she touched his cheek gently, ‘but you will lose your Sarah forever and you will never be the same on your return.' She squeezed his arm tenderly. ‘She won't be able to forgive you if she is her father's daughter.'

His mother's voice trembled. Jim patted her hand. ‘Yet he is my father as well.'
And you loved him
he thought sadly. He leant down to select a smooth pebble at his feet. ‘He wronged you.' He turned the pale grey stone in his fingers, weighing the cool rock carefully. There were unsaid words within his mother's pale eyes. He sensed a need for her to unburden. Jim waited for her to speak, imagined a shifting of memories, a sorting of explanations dulled by time and censored by a mother's love. The moment was blown aimlessly away by a lift in the morning breeze. Angrily he flung the pebble expertly across the loch's surface. The rock skipped effortlessly across the face of the wind-rippled water, and on the fifth bounce it sank from view.