A Changing Land (14 page)

Mrs Stackland shooed the two maids out of her way and opened the oven door on the cast iron stove with a thick piece of towelling. She swiftly turned the loaf of bread and cinnamon biscuits out onto the wooden table; the aroma of freshly baked goods circulated with the scent of burning wood. Mrs Stackland prodded at both bread and biscuits, a slight smile the only indication of her pleasure. With a beckoning nod of her greying head she gestured to the younger and less clumsy of her helpers, Margaret, showing the girl how to prise the warm biscuits off the baking tray and place them to cool on a wire rack.

‘Mind you don't break any. We don't serve broken biscuits at table,' Mrs Stackland reprimanded her newest recruit as the thin, agile fingers placed the biscuits carefully on the rack. She dabbed at her brow with the length of her apron, uncomfortably aware of the moisture soaking the back and front of her bodice. ‘Butter and dripping, Margaret, and be quick, girl.' The
kitchen would be a furnace by midday if she didn't have the majority of her menu prepared by eleven. There was little time for dawdling.

A large scrub turkey, plucked and ready for roasting, sat wrapped in a swathe of calico. Lifting a heavy pan from a side table she unwrapped the freshly killed bird and sat it tenderly in it. She surveyed the pile of vegetables to be peeled, then there was the plum pudding that had to be reheated in the steam boiler and an apple pie to be baked, for Mr Gordon demanded pie twice a week, Christmas or not. And Lee, Mrs Stackland realised with some irritation, was late with the preserved lemons for the custard and the bush quail she intended making into a tasty pie. She cut the fresh bread smartly in two and placed half the loaf onto a large tray, adding a plate of the biscuits. From the shelf above the stove she took the teapot and added a good handful of tea-leaves and then water from the steaming kettle. A quick glance confirmed the near completion of sizzling meat in a large skillet. Martha, the older of the maids, poked at it disinterestedly, as if she had something better to do than to ensure Mr Gordon's meat was perfect.

‘Come, come. Hurry up, girl.'

The rebuke was addressed to Margaret, who was returning from the food safe located on the shady eastern side of the homestead. ‘Did you top-up the trays?'

‘Yes Ma'am.' The girl held a pad of butter in one hand, a container of dripping in the other.

‘Good.' The safe was constructed like a cupboard with hessian walls sitting in drip trays of water. The water soaked into the hessian and if a light wind blew, it created a remarkably cool atmosphere. Trying to explain the importance of keeping food cool and unspoilt, however, was a daily challenge. ‘And I think of those city folk with their fancy ice chests. Why they've no idea.' Mrs Stackland set the butter on the tray with the bread, biscuits and
tea. ‘Right you are then, lass. Take that into the Master and Mrs Gordon and do try not to slop anything.'

‘Yes Ma'am.'

‘And do stand up straight.'

‘Yes Ma'am.'

Mrs Stackland observed the girl's studied concentration and slightly wobbly progression with undisguised concern, before turning her attention to the skillet. With a bustling movement of her wide hips, she sent the sullen Martha in the direction of the vegetables. Wrapping her towel around the burning hot handle, she served up the meat.

‘Have I not told you to tidy yourself before entering the dining room?' Mrs Stackland tutted irritably at Margaret on her return. Dabbing at the girl's shiny face, she set the plates on the tray and handed it to the girl. ‘They don't wish to have their meals served to them by a maid dripping in sweat. Mr Gordon first and then Mr Luke and then –'

‘I'll be having mine right here,' Luke announced, lifting a plate from the tray.

‘Right. Well, then,' Mrs Stackland stammered in surprise as her kitchen found itself with the unusual presence of a male who was neither Chinese nor child. Luke Gordon, gone near eight months, was a rare sight at Wangallon indeed.

Luke, aware his intrusion had momentarily thrown the usual precision order of the kitchen into disarray, winked jauntily at Wangallon's cook, then grinned at the maid. Clearly she was a half-caste, for her lighter skin contrasted obviously with the ebony of her companion. Her large brown eyes cast him a direct glance and then she was gone, her footsteps padding lightly across the polished cypress pine floorboards. Luke cocked his left eyebrow. The girl was a new addition and a pleasant one at that. Positioning himself at the far end of the table, he cut into the mutton chops with relish, appreciatively nodding at Mrs Stackland as she sliced
two pieces of bread for him. He dropped the bread onto his plate, scraping the thick crusty dough through the juices. Adding a slice of meat, he chewed hungrily, reaching for the dripping to smear a thick layer of it onto his second piece of bread.

‘The missus says the biscuits are good.' Margaret directed the statement to no one in particular as she re-entered the kitchen, although she made a point of looking at Luke.

Shooing the girl back with a wave of her hand, Mrs Stackland gave both maids firm instructions as to how the peel the vegetables. ‘And make sure there is a good dollop of dripping in the pan, but don't put them on until I tell you. I want that bird half-cooked before they go in. Yes, Margaret you can put it on now. Well, Martha, don't stand there like a dumb cluck. Open the oven door. For goodness sake use some towelling or you'll burn up so bad you'll lose the use of your hand. And tie back that long hair of yours.'

Luke glanced at Martha. She was a bigger build than her lighter-skinned companion, with rounded hips and breasts and a slow way about her movements. He figured this was Mungo's woman, with her long dark hair and newness to the tasks required of a maid.

Mrs Stackland poured tea for both of them. ‘I confine myself to two glasses of water a day,' she admitted. ‘The first laced with a little cod-liver oil for the digestion –' she looked across at the maids and lowered her voice – ‘the second with a teaspoon of brandy for the constitution.' She held up a tin of condensed milk. ‘Truly this is the greatest of inventions.'

‘Merry Christmas.' Lee appeared, dumping two full cast iron buckets on the wooden table, the movement shuddering the table's contents; rattling cups and saucers, pots and skillets and spilling the tea in Mrs Stackland's cup.

‘And Merry Christmas to you too, Lee,' Luke replied as the maids screeched at his unannounced entry and the cook admonished him for disrupting her domain.

Lee, appearing to ignore the remarks, began to empty the contents of the two buckets. There were two glass jars, one of preserved lemons, the other oranges, two small cabbages, some potatoes, carrots, onions, two plucked quails and an assortment of wilted-looking herbs. Lee separated the clutch of herbs, dirt spilling out from the furry roots onto both table and floor. He pushed the quails and a bunch each of sage and parsley towards Mrs Stackland. ‘Put inside,' he stated, waving a scrawny finger from the herbs to the quail.

‘We're having pie,' Mrs Stackland answered as she meticulously sorted through the fare as if she were selecting goods from a street vendor in George Street, Sydney.

‘Put inside,' Lee repeated, the long nail on his pinkie finger extended at the birds.

‘Thank you for the lemons,' Mrs Stackland said brusquely. ‘They will do nicely for my custard.'

‘Put inside.' Lee smiled, forcing his cheeks into circles of puffy flesh.

Luke slurped down his scalding tea as their argument continued over the herbs and then moved on to the caterpillar-chewed cabbages. He watched Margaret select two cut lengths of timber from the wood box and place them smartly into the slow combustion stove. Her dark hair was tied back into a thick bun on the nape of her neck and she was a slim, lithe little thing.

‘After lunch I want you two girls to busy yourselves beating out the dirty carpets, then sweep the hall and change the linen on young Master Angus's bed,' Mrs Stackland ordered in between her arguing. ‘And don't be forgetting the cleaning of the silver and Margaret the copper will have to be fired up for the washing and Martha do clean the flat-iron …'

‘Oh, Mrs Stackland, are you there?'

Claire's clear, light voice carried sweetly towards the kitchen. Luke glanced at the doorway and thought of the nine months
since he'd last seen Claire Whittaker Gordon. All of a sudden he needed air and space. He slipped silently out the back door.

‘Mrs Stackland tells me you prefer the company of our staff, Luke.'

Luke heard the rustle of her skirts. It was a sound from his earliest memories of the girl who would eventually marry his father. He left the upturned bucket where he had been enjoying a quiet smoke and stubbed the thin roll-your-own out with the heel of his boot, purposely busying himself with the action. ‘I never was one for airs and graces,' he answered flatly, keeping his broad back to Claire. Now she was near him again after so many months, he wished her gone.

‘Where have you been? Your father tells me you arrived yesterday.'

‘Busy.' He'd never quite seen the point of all the civilising his father enjoyed and his years droving had bred into him a preference for quiet meals with little talk. ‘Are you enjoying your Christmas, Auntie Claire?' He did not mean for the words to come out so tightly and he cursed himself inwardly. He turned towards her, steeling himself lest any outward sign of his thoughts should be revealed. She was dressed all in white. The material draped gently over her bust and was inlaid with lace and net chiffon. On her head she wore a large hat with a curved brim. She was a study in decadence for a woman who lived on a remote station. ‘I remember you sitting in the schoolroom with that fancy tutor from Sydney,' Luke said, ‘learning all those languages and me with my readers in the corner.'

There were fine wisps of grey fanning out from her forehead now and the line of her proud jaw was softening. ‘I never thought you would stay, you know,' he continued. The high-spirited teenager
with the lustrous black hair and winning smile always appeared so ill-suited to both Wangallon and Hamish Gordon.

Claire gave a small confused frown. ‘I never considered leaving.' She removed a finely embroidered lawn handkerchief from the sleeve of her bodice and dabbed at her neck above the high-topped blouse. ‘You will join us for Christmas lunch, Luke. Your father would be so pleased.'

‘He has you and Angus,' he smiled wryly, ‘and Jasperson for that matter. There's no one else coming to be needing me for appearances' sake.' Last year he had argued with Jasperson and he would not on his life ruin another Christmas for Claire. He found the man's company abominable. Luke thought of the men and women who had crossed his path during his life to date. There was always some imperceptible sign that gave their true nature away. An undeserved remark, a lie for self-gain, or the physical reactions of the human body, such as the careless whore in Wangallon Town who, having overestimated her importance, had frowned at the extra coin he'd been prepared to give her. Apart from the man's predilection for young boys, the other hated truth of Jasperson was his meanness of spirit. Luke's fingers touched the tortoiseshell hair comb in his trouser pocket.

Claire sighed. ‘Must you always be so stubborn? Come walk with me.'

The warmth of her slim arm through his was accompanied by a bittersweet stab of pleasure. Luke smelled lavender water and the sweet musky scent that was indefinably hers. Claire smiled up at him as they walked through Lee's garden and out into the orchard, which Lee had watered daily for over thirty years. It was a sight Luke would always remember for the patience and sturdy persistence it required; the bow legs and flapping pigtail and the long pole slung over his slight shoulders, which carried the two buckets of water.

Claire was walking in short stilted steps. ‘Have we grown so poor, Claire, that there is not enough money to buy enough material for your dress?'

She gave a laugh. ‘The fashionable ladies call it a hobble skirt for its lack of movement. And I admit to not being partial to its constraints.'

‘Then why wear it?'

‘Why, to be fashionable, of course.' Claire gave his arm a quick squeeze. ‘It is good to see you, Luke. It has been an abominably boring year. When it stops raining, everyone seems to disappear; no parties, dances, balls. I have given only five soirees, with few attendees, and was staggered to see a number of my companions in last season's gowns. Are things so very bad?'

Luke patted her hand, her skin dewy beneath his calloused fingers. ‘Not everyone has the advantages that come from a substantial property such as Wangallon, and there have been a few rumblings with some of the Aborigines a little south of us and you know how quickly that makes folk shun travelling.'

Claire's mouth drooped prettily. ‘You think me shallow. It is only that there is no one with whom I can discuss matters of importance. And with Angus growing so quickly time seems to be spreading out before me. Our regular highlight is the interminable church picnic Hamish insists we attend. I'm not being disagreeable; however, I long for interesting, educated conversation.'