A Changing Land (15 page)

They strolled silently beneath the trees in the orchard, dappled light creating moving patterns on their clothing. Leaves, sparse grass and twigs crunched beneath their shoes as they walked first up one short avenue of trees and then turned to walk down the next. Beyond the orchard the open countryside beckoned. A murmur of a breeze stirred the branches above, the scents of the bush growing more distinguishable as they ventured to the end of the orchard. Luke could smell the brittleness of the grasses contrasting with Lee's recently watered vegetable garden and the faint scent of rotting fruit. Claire's arm remained pressed against his and for a moment he considered resting his free hand over hers, his sense of contentment was such.

‘This is for you.' He placed the tortoiseshell comb in the palm of her hand, the pleasure of his giving increased by the delighted smile on Claire's face.

‘Oh, Luke, thank you. It's so very pretty.' She tucked the comb into her hair beneath her hat. ‘Well, what do you think?' She pirouetted like a young girl.

He searched for a suitable word. ‘Very becoming.'

She giggled, took his arm once again. ‘You're spoiling me with these yearly gifts you bring. In this household one is lucky if your father even acknowledges the day. I can't understand the fascination the Scots have for celebrating New Year's Day. For me the festivities are over by then.'

Her words broke the quiet enjoyment of the moment. Luke turned abruptly towards the homestead, dropping her arm simultaneously. ‘Couldn't we just once have a conversation without my father shadowing everything?'

‘I only meant that … I'm sorry.'

Luke slowed his pace.

‘I'm sorry for the recent loss of your grandmother,' Claire offered, a little out of breath.

He thought of the emporium. ‘Well, I didn't know her, so her passing means little.'

‘Still, she was family,' persisted Claire.

‘There have been greater losses in my life, Claire.' He held her eyes for just a moment, the intonation of his comment creating a bridge between them that Claire's widening eyes acknowledged. What had possessed him to speak of his feelings? They walked on, their companionable silence replaced by awkwardness. What a fine facade this would develop into. Now they would have to continue on as if nothing were said until he left Wangallon for a new life in Ridge Gully. That was it then; clearly his subconscious had made the decision to depart.

‘You will be joining us for Christmas dinner?' she asked stiffly.

Thinking of the fine French brandy, roasted turkey and Mrs Stackland's plum pudding, Luke was of a mind to say yes. ‘No,' he replied. He expected an argument, a practised pout; instead he was left alone with his adamancy. He watched her gently swaying figure, the lightness of her step, the graceful way in which she caught a handful of her skirt between her fingers to lift it above the dirt of the backyard. He thought of the warmth where her arm lay against his and knew he'd already been back at Wangallon too long.

Sarah crunched brittle lawn under her riding boots as Bullet completed a triple roll on the grass. He trotted back to where Ferret limped slowly from around the corner of the house, gave an encouraging bark and rushed back to Sarah. The grass, fragile from three consecutive frosts, was now pale. Like the surrounding countryside, most of the plant life was dormant. Sarah walked to the far end of the garden where the fence was bordered by towering cacti. Bullet trailed her, snapping at imaginary insects and sniffing at the base of peeling lattice which, in the warmer months, provided support for a trailing potato vine. Turning from the paddock, she looked back towards the homestead. Sarah could imagine her great-grandfather, Hamish, reclining on the verandah. At the thought, her gaze was drawn to the oldest part of the house, the original bedrooms. She shook her head. Only she would imagine a shadow at a window. As if agreeing, Bullet barked and then busied himself snuffling at a group of geranium-filled pots clumped next to a wooden garden seat.

There was no breeze and the trees were quite still. She held her palm millimetres from the surface of a lemon-scented gum and, closing her eyes, sensed the energy hovering beneath her skin. Beneath the ground the tree's roots travelled for many metres, spreading out like tentacles to suck up every available millimetre of water around them. She gazed through the shrubs and hedges, imagining the gravel drive that, up until fifty years ago, had been the main entrance into the homestead. What, she wondered, would her ancestors have made of Anthony's project? Certainly they cleared Wangallon. With teams of men, axes in hand, they had cut a swathe through the more heavily timbered areas allowing grasses to grow, homes, yards and fences to be built, and in return the country became more productive, more fertile.

Sarah's grandfather had referred to this massive undertaking as the civilising of the bush, yet in the same breath he'd laughed at his use of the word. The Gordons knew no one could tame this land. It was intimately tied to the vagaries of the weather. After a small flood in low-lying areas, the belahs would grow up thickly across paddocks already selectively cleared maybe twice in this decade alone. The cost of keeping such paddocks clear of regrowth was both costly and time consuming and if left unattended, would render a paddock useless: The woody plants would decrease natural pasture, decrease stocking rates and ultimately become a breeding ground for feral pigs and the kangaroos that could eat out a paddock in months if they were not culled annually.

Yet the large scale clearing of Boxer's Plains did not sit easily with her. She could see the benefits Matt pointed out, but apart from the all-consuming and limiting factor of cost, large scale cropping wasn't in their blood; conservative grazing was and had been since the property's settlement. That was the reason for Wangallon's longevity. Boxer's Plains was also the last property the Gordons had ever purchased and that made it important in the family's history, although for some inexplicable reason Sarah
also knew it was a special place. It just shouldn't be touched. Her stomach knotted. All these thoughts were compounded by Anthony's actions. He'd kept the proposed plan from her and in doing so fractured the basis of their love by destroying the trust between them. Through the fence two wallabies were nibbling grass. They were timid, reclusive creatures, preferring the scrub to the open. For a moment Sarah wished that she too could duck back into the bush to hide.

Anthony walked around the corner of the homestead. His arrival was heralded by Bullet who barked twice.

‘I've been looking everywhere for you,' Anthony said with a touch of annoyance in his voice.

He looked harassed. His hat was cocked back on his head and there were hollows beneath his usually clear eyes. Sarah readied herself for an argument as she walked towards him, aware that by now Anthony would know that she had stopped the clearing. They met halfway near an orange tree, the silence magnified as Bullet scruffed the lawn before sitting next to Sarah, his paw resting on her riding boot. Anthony stared at her strangely.

Sarah folded her arms across her chest, all thoughts of discussing the situation rationally disappearing. ‘How long did you actually think you would be able to keep your new project a secret?'

‘New project?'

Sarah let out an agitated sigh. ‘The dozers at Boxer's Plains? Did you honestly think you could get away with such a major undertaking without discussing it with me first, and what the hell would make you launch off and do something like that? Did you not give any consideration as to how it will affect Wangallon? We can't afford such a massive undertaking, apart from the fact I'm not interested in growing bloody wheat!'

‘We can't afford not to do it,' Anthony replied soothingly. ‘We need to manage this place better and faster to ensure Wangallon continues into the future.'

‘Damn it, Anthony. What has got into you? I can't believe you would go off and do something like this. It's almost as if you don't give a damn about Wangallon or my opinion anymore!'

Anthony held up an envelope. ‘You and Wangallon are the only things I ever think about.' He passed her the letter. She plucked it from his fingers. It was creased and smeared with a blob of grease. Although unopened it was clear he'd been carrying it around for some time. ‘We are in debt, Sarah. You know that yet you seem to be living under the misguided impression that Wangallon can keep functioning as it always has in the past.'

‘All big stations work on overdrafts. But we do make a profit most years and we always make our interest payments. Even if we have a bad year the banks will carry us. Wangallon is like a great ship that keeps sailing straight ahead regardless of the weather.'

‘Yeah, well,' Anthony nodded at the letter, ‘here's your iceberg.'

Her eyes focused uneasily on the airmail letter. She looked at the postmark. It was from Scotland. Sarah felt her stomach turn.

‘A good wheat crop would give us a mighty cash injection,' Anthony said slowly, ‘if we managed six bags off 2000 acres and if the price stayed at two hundred dollars we would repay this year's development cost in a season. In a couple of years with 5000 acres in and the possibility of a ton we could be looking at a return of …'

Sarah looked again at the Scottish postmark. ‘Minus tax, minus chemical costs, minus the infrastructure required.' She tore open the letter. ‘Minus the fact you didn't bother to consult me about it first.' She read the letter.

‘Sincerity?' Anthony was reading the letter over her shoulder. ‘Was he in love with you?'

Sarah crumpled the letter. ‘A crush.' There was little point denying it.

‘I see.'

There was no possible way Anthony would understand. Her trip to Scotland two and a half years ago made in an effort to find herself had unintentionally led her to the place her father Ronald had had an affair 25 years earlier. Sarah and Jim met through chance and spent a week traversing the lochs and hills around the most northerly tip of Scotland. And while Jim developed a crush on her, Sarah had soaked up the joy of being free.

‘So sometime between then and now this bloke's discovered that the woman he was keen on is actually his half-sister, his father is not his real father and his mother was unfaithful.' Anthony turned to look about the large garden, his face unsettled by thoughts. ‘Then he discovers he's been left a share in a big spread in Australia.' Anthony looked directly at Sarah. ‘Well, Jim Macken was named in your grandfather's will. It's all legal as I keep on telling you.'

Sarah crushed the letter into a ball. As the months went by and they heard no word from the Mackens, she truly believed that his Scottish family chose not to reveal his association with the Gordons in Australia.

‘Sounds like he's not coming for a social visit. Well, what's he like? Can we sway his mind?' He'd crossed his arms defensively, stuck out his chin a little.

‘How the hell would I know? Your thoughts are as good as mine at this point.'

‘Well actually you probably have the edge, after all you've met him on his home turf and he didn't fall in love with me.'

For a moment Sarah felt like screaming for everything to just stop. She took a deep breath. ‘It's the 8th in four days,' she calculated. ‘Shit, I can't believe Grandfather did this to me. Dividing up the place like a piece of cake. It's made everything impossible.'

Anthony stared back at her, shoved his hands in his pockets. ‘It must have been a real shock to learn Wangallon wasn't going to be left solely to you.'

They stood for a moment facing each other. A flock of tiny jenny wrens flew past them. Bullet jumped up and chased them into the bougainvillea hedge.

‘Well, I'll let you arrange things with the solicitor.' Anthony's voice was flat. ‘You do know that we will have to sell part of the property to pay him out?'

From inside the homestead Sarah heard something breaking, like a glass being dropped. She turned towards the noise. They both did.

‘Probably the wind,' Anthony stated. ‘We'll need to make more money off the remaining property because our debt will remain the same. Have a think about how we might do that before you crucify me for trying to do us both a favour.'

Sarah looked at the crumpled piece of paper in her hand. When
she looked up Anthony was gone, Bullet was sitting waiting for her and the house was silent.

That night Sarah lay quietly in bed listening to Anthony's soft snoring. He'd returned late and the whiff of cigarette smoke and stale beer signalled a night at the pub. Sleep eluded her as she struggled with the weight of the past few days. Finally she left the bedroom to walk down the hallway to her grandfather's room. The low wattage light overhead illuminated the room in a yellowish tinge as Sarah sat in the middle of the large bed. It was cold in the room and she felt uneasy, as if she were invading someone else's domain. A light wind blew; it rustled the trailing vine and the hedges outside the window and sent a scattering of leaves across the corrugated iron roof. Sarah was about to pull the thick brocade bedspread about her when a low growl sounded and then a deep warning bark. Quickly pushing up the window she flicked on the outside light. Bullet stood some five feet from her, his gaze fixed on an unknown form among the darkness of the trees.

‘What is it, boy?' she called softly, wrapping her arms about her.

Bullet looked briefly over his muscled shoulder. A streak of golden red flashed between tree trunks.

‘What is it?' she called again.

A fox appeared from between the trees as if in answer to her question. The animal was large and powerfully built, with a solid body, glossy pelt and penetrating eyes. Sarah blinked under the fox's stare, glad of Bullet who was sitting between them as if on guard. The two animals watched each other for long seconds before the fox finally withdrew, backing into the shadows.

Sarah, discovering that she had been holding her breath, took a gulp of the wintery night air and closed the window. She had the strangest feeling that she was not alone as she drew the heavy
curtains closed. She was aware of the creaks and groans within the old homestead, of the spirits that roamed the land that was Wangallon because they loved it so much they could not leave; so what would happen now that one of the chosen custodians was embarking on a project that would change the very face of the property? What would happen now a third Gordon sought his inheritance?