A Changing Land (17 page)

Sarah shut the bedroom door and looked across the hallway. Diagonally opposite were two bedroom doors – one once belonged to her great-grandfather, the other to his first wife, Rose. She opened Rose's door tentatively. Inside was a washstand with a matching ceramic bowl and water jug, an old wardrobe, dresser and a bed. The yellow curtains were drawn closed and the room smelled musty. Sarah sprayed some lavender scent about the room. It was a custom her grandfather had taken to and now the lavender scent in its plastic bottle was a permanent fixture on the dresser. Some months ago she'd found herself walking straight up the main hallway, only to detour into Rose's room. Now the airing and scenting of the room formed a part of her weekly routine. Sarah smoothed the creased pale pink bedspread and left the door slightly ajar to air.

Next door was her great-grandfather's room. Sarah's fingers hovered over the doorknob, before clutching at the tarnished brass to turn it. Nothing happened. She turned it again but the door wouldn't budge. Strange. Intrigued enough to consider placing her shoulder against the aged cedar and giving it a good hard shove, she reconsidered. Only once had she stepped across the threshold into Hamish's room and even then her grandfather had led the way. Sarah recalled an almost overwhelming male scent and glimpses of dark furniture, fluttering curtains and a yellowing photograph hanging crookedly on the wall. Angus had tutted in annoyance before steering Sarah out of the room.

Hamish achieved almost folklore proportions when Sarah was little. To her it seemed that the strength of his person had permeated every atom of Wangallon. The position of every building, yard and fence division had been planned by him, and his pain staking plans and details of the management of the property were all carefully recorded in copious leather-bound ledgers. Angus had packed them away for safe-keeping in an old tin trunk. One day, Sarah promised herself, she would read them. Taking a step back, she glanced from her great-grandfather's room across the hallway to where Jim was. She needed a plan. Any plan. She wondered what Angus would do.

Hamish and Angus walked through the yard of rams. An easterly kept the sheep-refined dirt flying. It sneaked into crevices, swirling into the whorls of ears so that it took a persistent finger to clean out the sweat-moistened gluck. Angus breathed hot air through the handkerchief tied about his nose and mouth and glared defiantly at every ram turning towards him in interest. Having been knocked over last year, he knew the pain of a broken rib. At the gate, he stamped his foot in reply to a ram's cloven-hoofed annoyance and was relieved when they finally approached the drafting race.

A row of peppercorn trees overhung the race, providing some shade, and beneath the largest tree on a rotted stump sat Boxer, sweat running down his face. Boxer swiped his arm across his mouth, took a swig of water from the canvas bag hanging off a branch above him and greeted Hamish with a broken-toothed excuse for a smile. Wetherly jumped the race easily and met Hamish halfway across the yard. Another Aboriginal stockman,
Harry and the Scottish boy, McKenzie, waited nearby. Andrew Duff barely tipped his hat.

Hamish studied the rams pushed tight in the narrow race. The vibe from the men was strained. It was to be expected with the recent changes, however he wouldn't tolerate any attitude – no one was indispensable.

‘An ordinary day for classing,' Wetherly noted.

Hamish ignored him. ‘No need for you to be here, Boxer,' he said kindly.

Boxer looked around the yard. ‘Long time dead, Boss, and mebbe you still need old fella.'

Hamish nodded. ‘Maybe.'

‘I've always been a firm believer in keeping sheep out of the yards on days such as this,' Wetherly persevered. ‘It does a fleece no good to be subjected to such dusty conditions.'

‘Then you won't find it a problem ensuring the rams are taken back to their paddock as soon as possible,' Hamish answered curtly. Already the big animals panted and snorted, their curly horned heads catching on their neighbours or becoming wedged over the top of the wooden rails of the race. Hamish walked to the lead.

‘I'd be happy to do that,' Wetherly offered, shadowing Hamish as he parted wool over a ram's shoulder.

Hamish brushed the wool closed gently with the palm of his hand. ‘I'm classing out thirty of the better rams to be joined with a mob of maiden ewes.'

Angus regarded Wetherly with a doubtful incline to his head and repeated what his father had recently told him. ‘They're a particularly good drop.'

‘And you're figuring on some growthy lambs by the spring after the ewes are shorn,' announced Wetherly, inserting his foot between father and son so that he slipped in beside Hamish.

Hamish spat dust from his mouth. ‘Keep your head clear,
Angus. Plenty of men have been injured in the past, either having been knocked over in the yards, as you well know, or headbutted while leaning over the race.' Behind Hamish, McKenzie followed with the raddle. ‘Give it to Wetherly,' Hamish barked. That would take the new stud master down a peg or two. Wetherly marked a line of blue down the muzzle of the selected animal. Hamish parted the wool on the side of a large ram and beckoned Angus closer. ‘Good staple length and colour. See that whiteness?'

‘Good growthy size and height about him too,' Wetherly added.

Hamish continued on down the race to the end. Boxer then drafted the classed rams out the top end through a pivoting gate, sending the selected rams to a yard on the left and the remainder to the right. Once the race was empty, McKenzie, Andrew and Harry filled it from the adjoining yard at the other end. Hamish classed six pens of rams and, finally satisfied with his selection, ordered them to be walked back to their new paddock at dust. He didn't intend joining them until March but was a stickler for rotating mobs of sheep. He believed rotational grazing assisted with nutrition, disease prevention and stopped paddocks being eaten out.

The men moved the selected rams into another yard. There was little talk between them as they whistled their dogs up, pushing the disgruntled rams through a narrow gateway. The last twenty head ran in the opposite direction, stamping their feet in a combined show of anger and agitation. McKenzie walked in the opposite direction to the way the milling rams needed to head. The sheep ran back and quickly joined the mob.

Hamish gave the slightest of nods. ‘Well, McKenzie,' he asked, ‘what did you learn?'

‘They should be tight in the race so as not to cause injury, Boss. But not so tight that they might go down and s-suff-'

‘Suffocate?' Angus finished.

‘Yeah, suffocate,' agreed McKenzie.

‘There's a bit more to it than that, boy,' Wetherly pronounced.

Hamish looked McKenzie up and down. ‘Speak to Jasperson about some decent boots.' Half the sole appeared missing off one. ‘And when you get them, polish them. The leather will last longer. And don't leave them out in the sun – quickest way to ruin them.'

‘Yes, Mr Gordon.'

‘So that will be all?' Wetherly asked with an imperious tone. His face carried a streak of blue from the raddle.

Hamish grunted. ‘You, Tambo and Andrew can walk the rams back.' Across the yard one of the Aboriginal stockmen fell over in the dust of the yard. McKenzie was laughing, his stocky leg stuck out like a low hurdle.

Hamish wiped at the dust layered across his face and sat down at his desk. There were papers to be locked away, including the thick envelope on his desk. The letter written with the unstudied elegance of an educated man outlined the circumstances of Lorna Sutton's demise. Luke's grandmother had passed in her sleep, having partaken of a five-course dinner the preceding evening. Hamish lifted his brandy glass in mock salute. It was nearly fifty years since he'd first set eyes on Rose Sutton, Lorna's only child. Mistakenly Hamish believed that the young girl would give him a measure of respectability, instead Lorna had played him at his own game: Rose was the daughter of a whore.

The fabric of their marriage was unceremoniously revealed when Hamish learnt of his mother-in-law's activities and Rose gradually became aware of how her new husband was acquiring his wealth. Yet Hamish still believed the marriage could have endured were it not for Rose's unforgiving nature and delusions of
grandeur. And then of course she formed a child's attachment to an Afghan trader.

Leaving his reflections behind, Hamish returned to the letter. The solicitor outlined in detail Lorna's substantial legacy. There was the fine brick residence in Ridge Gully, a large number of household items including solid silver cutlery, candelabra, crystal stemware and no less than two fine English dinner services, as well as a collection of oil paintings. The inventory extended to her immaculately maintained stables: three geldings, four mares and a fine buckboard. Hamish inclined his head upwards to Lorna. His decision to make her the owner of the emporium and provide her with his Ridge Gully home had not been ill-advised. She had been well paid for the service requested of her following Rose's departure to Wangallon.

Hamish reread a copy of the letter he'd made from the original, mailed some weeks prior.

John Shaw-Michaels had been Hamish's solicitor for many years and was intimately involved with the particular machinations that
built Wangallon. Folding the letters, Hamish unlocked the tin chest in his study and deposited the paperwork carefully inside. If Luke were to receive the measly 3,000 pounds willed to him and not the emporium, he would discover the majority of the estate had been verbally gifted to someone else nearly three years ago. Rose's death had closed a door on that part of his life and ensured an impenetrable succession plan. Hamish thought only momentarily of Luke. His eldest was bound to Wangallon and the future, not a past that could dislodge the natural order of things.

Anthony sat the chequebook on the bonnet of his Landcruiser and wrote the figure down carefully. Even though he was convinced his actions were correct, it was a lot to part with, especially when he was taking full responsibility for the project. Tearing the cheque free he passed it to the contractor. They had worked twelve-hour shifts to get the new cultivation ready for planting. All they needed was a good fall of rain. Three inches minimum was required to plant a summer crop. Anthony had already discussed the specifics with an agronomist and although he'd advised to wait until next year, he was determined to plant 1000 acres to grain sorghum and fallow the remaining cultivation until next year. By then Anthony hoped to have more acreage cleared and be ready to plant wheat. He looked at the landscape around him. It was the same over most of Wangallon. The little grass that was left was brittle. What the lack of rainfall started, the cold of winter finished. He needed good rain to plant.

‘Thanks, mate,' Colin Harris grinned as his grease-smeared hands imprinted themselves with an inky stain of ownership on the pale blue paper. ‘When do you reckon you'll want us back?'

Anthony looked across the freshly cultivated grassland in the direction of where the two bulldozers were working: stage two of his project. Once the trees were knocked down, they then had to be raked into piles and burnt. ‘It'll be at least a month before we have a block squared off and ready for ploughing. I'll give you a call in a few weeks and let you know how we're travelling.'

‘Sounds good. And everything's okay now?'

Anthony knew Colin was referring to Sarah's instructions for all work on Boxer's to stop. ‘Yep, fine. As I said, unless you hear direct from me, Colin, everything goes ahead as planned.'

As the contractors packed up their gear, Anthony drove around the edge of the new cultivation. The offset discs had dug deep into the ground, bringing up buried logs, old branches and sticks. These would have to be picked up by hand, placed into piles and burnt before a sowing rig was brought onto the cultivation. It was another costly job and one that would need a team of good stick-pickers.

At the opposite end of the new cultivation two dozers crawled slowly through the scrub. A clump of old belah trees was left standing nearest him and such groupings were scattered over stage one of the development. There were other spots on this initial 5,000 acres that he'd personally marked out to be left undisturbed. It was pointless clearing ridgy country, for the soil was too hard-packed to be any good for cropping; and it was important to leave scattered stands of trees, both for the wildlife and livestock. He was also conscious of the need to ensure the continuation of as much of the natural habitat as possible, having been reared on the yet unproven theory that trees attracted rain. To that extent belts of trees would be left where possible across the entirety of Boxer's Plains.

From the esky on the passenger seat, Anthony pulled a mutton and tomato sauce sandwich free of its plastic wrap. Since his argument with Sarah in the garden, his vehicle had become both his office and sometime home. He bit hungrily into the doughy bread, pouring black tea from his thermos. A 5 a.m. start borne of a desire not to face Sarah made for a long day, especially when he was waiting for dark before returning. Well, he had his wish. The sky was striped with the colour of cold steel, the paddock darkening as if a blanket had been thrown over the landscape. He finished his sandwich.

The Landcruiser bumped across the bridge, shuddered as a tyre hit a pothole and then swerved to miss a wallaby. Of course Anthony knew he should be going straight back to Wangallon, but the thought of facing Sarah on Jim's first night was more than a little off-putting. Jim Macken was legally entitled to his inheritance. Anthony could only hope that Sarah would be able to come to grips with losing part of Wangallon, for even with this current project underway there was no possibility of borrowing all the money required to pay Jim out. All Anthony knew was that they needed to increase productivity and quickly. The only positive aspect of Jim's arrival was that he would take all of Sarah's attention, so hopefully the work on Boxer's Plains could continue on without further stoppages.

Best they have a bit of time together, Anthony decided. Besides, he wasn't in the mood to meet the man; a man who had as much right as him to be in the Wangallon Homestead. What he really needed was a beer and the bright forgiving eyes of the young backpacker Anastasia Kinder, with her gentle voice and general disinterest in all things farming. Besides which it was $12 roast night at the pub.