A Changing Land (23 page)

Frank Michaels looked at his appointment book and squinted, as if wishing he were blind. Sarah Gordon was slotted in for 3 pm, Mr Harvey Jamieson, a personal friend and prominent entrepreneur with a recalcitrant wife and messy divorce looming, had a thick line through his name. He would have to take the old boy out for a scotch to make it up to him, Frank decided. God knew he would probably need it. He was on his third wife. Pushing his reading glasses onto the bridge of his nose, Frank studied the facsimile received earlier.

Mr Woodbridge advised he was acting on behalf of one James Robert Macken of the village of Tongue, Northern Scotland and that his client wished to receive his full entitlement as bequeathed to him by the late Angus Gordon. Further, his client wanted a full cash payment and a thirty per cent share of both the livestock and the contents of Wangallon Homestead. James Macken would therefore be contesting the last will and testament of Angus Gordon accordingly. Frank placed the facsimile to
one side, removed his reading glasses and leant back in his black leather office chair. Tony Woodbridge was capable enough. The man knew how to argue a case. Unfortunately he was not averse to underhand shenanigans either.

‘Ronald, old chap,' he said aloud, addressing Sarah's father, ‘you should have kept your dick in your pants, old boy'. Frank wasn't one for dramatics but he felt disturbed by James Macken. In his experience there was nothing worse than dealing with someone who was comparatively poor with a grudge, and it was clear by the Macken boy's demands that he did begrudge the Gordons. His second concern of the day came via another telephone call that caused him to drop his blue enamelled Sheaffer ink pen on the office floor. Were it not for the knock on his door announcing his personal assistant, Rhonda, with Sarah Gordon in tow, he may well have added a little whisky to his morning coffee.

‘It's nice to see you again, Frank.'

‘And you, my dear,' he replied, composing himself as he cleaned his spectacles. The last time he'd seen Sarah was at Angus's funeral. He adroitly summed up the situation, reading Mr Macken's requests, wondering if the renowned Gordon temper would flare. ‘As you can see, he is now contesting the will and if he chooses to go to court, Mr Woodbridge will represent him and …' Frank leant forward for emphasis, ‘he is very good'.

‘Damn it. You know he arrived at Wangallon two days ago?' asked Sarah.

Frank linked his fingers together.

‘I can't lose one acre of Wangallon, Frank.'

‘Hmm. What does Anthony say?'

Sarah rolled her eyes. ‘I'm having a few issues there. His idea is to develop Boxer's Plains.'

‘Boxer's Plains?' Frank set about cleaning his spectacles again.

‘You know, increase productivity from a decreased holding. I don't want Boxer's ploughed up, Frank, it was the last block
purchased by my great-grandfather and it's prime grazing country.'

‘I agree.' Frank studied Sarah's tapping fingers. ‘I think you had better tell me everything.'

Sarah hadn't really discussed life on Wangallon for quite a while. Even her telephone conversations with Shelley were sanitised versions of her daily life. She told Frank about the management issues, lack of teamwork and Anthony's handling of the clearing project at Boxer's Plains. ‘And I told him to stop doing anything else on the block.'

Poor Anthony, Frank thought, the lad did have the foresight to know an increase in productivity was warranted. Unfortunately his timing was lousy, his lack of courtesy towards Sarah troubling and his choice of block unbelievable. ‘Well there's only two thousand acres ploughed so far, so not too much harm has been done but I agree the project has to stop immediately. The bank won't lend the money at this point in time to pay for any land development, and –'

Sarah looked at him suspiciously. ‘How did you know how much country had been cultivated? Or that the bank won't lend us the money to do it?'

Frank cleared his throat. ‘Secondly, there is lobbying going on from the environmentalists to bring in clearing legislation. We don't need any negative publicity coming from that angle and I imagine Mr Woodbridge will do his utmost to paint you and Wangallon in a very poor light. If you decide to contest your grandfather's will, he will make this private matter very public.' And that, Frank decided, could place Wangallon's and the Gordon's reputation in jeopardy.

Sarah ran her fingers through her hair. ‘I have to do something.'

Frank wondered if Angus Gordon had done the right thing including Ronald's illegimate son in his will. He and Sarah's grandfather had spent long afternoons discussing his proposed
instructions. Every argument produced a counterclaim and more than a bottle of Scotch had been consumed during their diatribe. In the end, however, Angus was not prepared to go to his deathbed without ensuring that the mistakes of the past were not repeated. It was a revelation to see his cantankerous old friend develop a sense of decency at the end of his life, especially considering the number of scrapes Frank only just managed to get Angus through over the years.

Frank cleared his throat. ‘You asked me how I knew about the clearing.' He leant back in his chair, made a pyramid of his fingers. ‘Your grandfather set a number of mechanisms in place prior to his death. You know how obsessed he was with the property, with its continuation. He wanted to ensure its survival. To that end Wangallon's yearly financials are forwarded to me; I, in turn, discuss them with Wangallon's agribusiness financial advisor.' Frank leaned forward. ‘You never would have received approval from the bank for the cattle truck loan.'

Sarah looked at him, dumbfounded.

‘My dear, many large grazing properties have trusts in place to run the business until the successor reaches a certain age. Wangallon's arrangement merely keeps an eye on financial matters.'

‘So Anthony and I were never in charge?' Even now her grandfather was controlling them from the grave.

‘Of course you were, or are, I should say.' Frank pulled out a manila folder, flipped it open. ‘Checking figures is not the same as running the property.'

Sarah felt decidedly uncomfortable. There was a lack of trust on behalf of her grandfather that made her feel ill. ‘What about the funds needed to pay the contractors for the Boxer's Plains development?'

Frank looked her directly in the eye. ‘Sarah, I've seen no budget or projections. Banks just won't lend money willy-nilly, you know, and until your cattle sales start and your shearing proceeds come
in next month, you haven't got a great margin to be playing with. And if we go to court it will be expensive. Have you seen any costings for the development?'

Sarah shook her head. Matt had mentioned the inordinate sum of $200,000 plus.

‘Well we don't want to place Wangallon in financial difficulty or put the bank offside. I suggest you tell Anthony that you've spoken to the bank and that they're not willing to support the project. In the meantime I'll see if they're happy to increase your overdraft in order to pay for the work already done. Sarah looked peaky. ‘Would you like a glass of water?' Frank walked over to the cream sideboard and poured water from a plastic jug. ‘Here.' He passed Sarah the glass and perched himself on the edge of his desk. It was unfortunate to have to take such a hard line, yet quite frankly Anthony's clearing of Boxer's Plains could have serious ramifications, not least of all to his own family firm. ‘Look, I'm not saying the development can't be done at some later stage,
if
both of you are agreeable to it. After all, increasing productivity through selective clearing increases the value of one's asset base. Although I am extremely surprised Anthony didn't present his plans and budget to the bank.'

Sarah took a long sip of water. It was room temperature and, unlike the sweet rainwater of Wangallon, tasted of chlorine.

‘Once you have contacted Anthony and clarified why the clearing has to stop we can concentrate on this inheritance tangle. The development project can be revisited properly next year. But not on Boxer's Plains.'

‘Why not?'

Frank adjusted his reading glasses on his nose. He was convinced this part of his body was also shrinking with age. ‘Because the block is already extremely valuable in terms of grazing potential.' Which was true. ‘Choose an area on the eastern boundary.'

Sarah could only imagine Anthony's response: A directive on
where he could and could not develop, coming from a solicitor.

‘My dear, you have just sat there and complained about a lack of teamwork and not being consulted about the development. And I agree with you.'

Sarah looked down at her short oval fingernails, at the pale moons that extended from beneath the softness of her skin.

‘You must explain to him why this decision has been taken.' Frank returned to his chair and the comfort of the padded cushion that eased his bony backside. ‘By the way, Sarah, Matt Schipp was employed by your grandfather. He is on Wangallon to keep an eye on things as you well know, so if you have any concerns management-wise, speak to him.'

Sarah nodded. If Anthony knew half of the control mechanisms in place she doubted whether his commitment to both her and Wangallon would have lasted beyond the reading of her grandfather's will. ‘I guess Matt told you about the development?' Frank gave a dip of his chin. ‘Well now he and Anthony are arguing.'

‘The man signed a contract. Matt isn't going anywhere.' The girl had the look of a startled deer about her which reminded him that for all her on-farm capability, she was only in her mid-twenties. ‘Now you're here for advice, so here it is. You have two options. One, sell thirty per cent of the property to pay out your half-brother, or two, sell ten or fifteen thousand acres elsewhere. With that sale the bank would happily finance the rest of Jim's entitlement.'

‘Sell?' Sarah repeated. She had come here for help.

Frank lay his long knobbly fingers on the top of his desk. ‘This will only get more stressful and Wangallon is a large property. ‘Fulfill the terms of your grandfather's will and get on with your life, Sarah. It's the only logical solution. And stop that development on Boxer's Plains.'

Sarah gulped at the water. She felt like she was going to be sick.

The first thing one noted when sighting the Crawford's homestead was the impressive lawn that surrounded the building. Established fruit trees were arranged in a grid formation to the front right of the house while a generous patch of herbs sat squarely opposite. The remainder of the substantial space was bare of trees, although immaculately maintained and surrounded by a startlingly white picket fence. The house itself was imposing, rectangular in design, of the same mud brick and plaster construction as Wangallon Homestead, but, Hamish concluded, probably one-third larger in size than his own home. Resting his hands on the pommel of his saddle, Hamish shifted forward a little, the action freeing the cramp in his right calf muscle.

‘Big place, Boss,' said McKenzie as they approached. Their horses trailed single file along the narrow dirt road up to the large verandah that encircled the homestead.

‘His holding does not match the grandiose view he holds of himself,' Hamish stated with a patronising tone, although he had
to admire the English for their ability to add regimented beauty to the Australian bush. ‘Jasperson, we are here as friends.'

His overseer raised a grey bristled eyebrow.

Once Hamish had craved success, then respectability, and now he had both. The gaining of it meant deliberation must now replace ruthless action, for the Gordon name needed to be protected. He chewed at his top lip, pulling at the hairs of his moustache; he was suppressing his innate need for revenge with a far more advantageous course of action. It was a pity the event didn't feel more rewarding.

At the hitching rail they tethered their horses and Jasperson turned to survey the grounds. ‘Take a lot to maintain this, Boss.'

‘Indeed, Jasperson. Although I'm sure the domestics and gardeners will be keen to stay.' At least for a while, Hamish concluded. There was little need for another homestead on Wangallon and the uptake of this one would be costly; besides, there was no one to live in it. Luke was beyond the niceties of a homestead such as this. For the moment he would continue to keep the household running and use it as a base for when he visited the property. It would make the five-hour round trip more bearable to know that there was a semblance of comfort at the end of the journey.

The wide verandah and sloping roof invited the three men into its embracing coolness. Hamish noted two hard-backed chairs, a table with books piled high upon it and an expanse of wooden boards.

‘Yes?' A manservant in a black cloth suit, with a pointy chin lifted higher than his position demanded, was standing in the open doorway of the homestead.

Jasperson stepped forward, straightened his shoulders and gave the man his most withering look; a direct gaze of sunken cheeks, sun cracked skin and eyes that spoke of loathing. ‘Mr Hamish Gordon of Wangallon Station to see Mr Oscar Crawford.'

The manservant took a step back and opened the door wide for the trio to pass. They allowed their hats to be taken although on Hamish's lead they refused to remove their riding boots and spurs.

‘Please follow me,' the servant addressed Hamish.

They stood in a twelve-foot-high ceilinged hallway. The floorboards were highly polished, the tongue and groove walls whitewashed and hung with paintings. Undoubtedly these portraits were relations of Crawford. Hamish studied the florid face before him with its chin that resembled a sole dangling from a shoe. It still amazed him that men of this elk conquered Scotland. With a final glance at the dead, Hamish readied himself for business. He tapped dirt-stained nails against the carved wooden frame of the oil painting. Success, he decided, combined with respectability, was boring.

The manservant knocked once at a cedar door and waited until an impatient
yes, yes
answered. Hamish signalled for McKenzie to remain in the hallway outside the office as the door opened and they were announced.

Oscar Crawford was clearly not dressed to receive visitors. He wore a buttercup-yellow silk robe over which was another silk robe of the same quality material, this one in forest green. His remarkable white gold hair was just visible beneath his silk candy-striped smoking cap that gave a slight clownish air to a fair complexion ruined by sagging jowls. There were sheaves of paper to the left of his magnificent leather tooled desk and a number of folders secured with ribbon on his right. Before him sat a silver salver containing a selection of small glass bottles that he was studiously frowning at.

‘This is god early for a visitation, Gordon, especially when you come uninvited.'

Hamish sat down in the leather chair opposite, crossed his legs and smiled. ‘Might I have some tea?' The servant looked from Hamish to his master.

Oscar removed his smoking cap in annoyance, dropping it on his desk. ‘Yes, yes, tea for all. And take this,' he gestured to the salver, which was quickly removed. ‘The negative aspect of age,' he said by way of explaining the potions. ‘I see you are still in service, Jasperson.'

Standing at Hamish's right shoulder, Jasperson nodded.

‘And just as reticent. Well, sit. I don't need another servant hovering around like one of the infernal flies that inhabit this landscape.'

‘I'm here to make you an offer to purchase Crawford Corner,' Hamish began, never one to circumnavigate a subject. ‘It is my third such offer on my reckoning and it will be the last.'

Oscar sat back in his chair and joined his fingers together in a peak. ‘I see. And this, after you have absconded with my stud master?'

‘He left willingly.'

Oscar waved his hand dismissively.

William Crawford entered his father's office, dressed for a day outdoors. The boy was fit-looking and tanned, clearly not the bookworm Hamish expected. Indeed his handshake spoke of a determined confidence.

‘Crawford Corner is not for sale, although we are of course flattered by your offer.'

‘My boy,' Oscar said by way of introduction, ‘refuses to be parted from the family seat.'

A surge of annoyance shot through Hamish. ‘A lawyer choosing to live up here? On a paltry selection of –'

William's bland face stiffened. The Crawford's have interests in more than
just
land.'

Hamish's forehead creased into a row of parallel lines, each deeper than the first. He had been insulted by the finest; once by an aide to the Governor for sitting prior to the Queen's representative at a state dinner. As Hamish reminded the gilded youth at the
time, she was not his Queen and he was hungry. As for this young pup, William, well he had some learning to do. ‘And that would be the reason for the selling of 50,000 acres further west some ten years ago to repay a debt for commercial property in Sydney. Yes, I can see how important it is to have interests in more than
just
land.' He flicked an imaginary fleck of dirt from his trousers.

Crawford coughed into a white handkerchief. ‘Let us have peace, gentlemen.'

‘My profession,' William emphasised, ‘allows me a number of choices, Sir, none of which involve selling our land.'

Hamish lifted a formidable eyebrow. ‘You don't have to justify yourself to me, William. However, if you do intend remaining on this land I would hope that you will appoint a suitable head stockman in your absence so that the property is properly managed.' Hamish knew he had stepped beyond the boundaries of propriety. For a moment the room was quiet.

William brushed a strand of dark hair from his face. ‘I think you have explained the purpose of your visit, Mr Gordon.'

Hamish ignored the boy. ‘What do you intend to do to rectify your water situation? Diverting water from the bore drain system is illegal. And I will not tolerate the possibility of Wangallon stock dying of thirst because of it.'

William looked directly at his father. Clearly Oscar had not fully briefed his prodigal son on his recent doings.

Hamish continued. ‘Then there is the additional problem of missing stock.'

William's mouth gaped.

Oscar stood, pushing his chair back with such force that it toppled over, striking a small table. Littered with black and white photographs in gilt-edged frames, all fell to the red carpeted floor.

‘How dare you, Hamish Gordon! You, who built your holding on deceit and stock theft, come here and have the audacity to
accuse me of, of … you Scottish upstart. It is an embarrassment to be of acquaintance to you.'

‘I expect reparations for the damage you have done me, Sir. The water has already been diverted back to Wangallon, at my own cost. However, you will be in receipt of an account for the cattle I am missing. Some fifty head, I believe.

‘I'm warning you, Gordon …'

Hamish turned to Oscar's son. ‘William, I wish you luck in your endeavours.'

‘You damn upstart,' Oscar yelled. ‘We should have starved you all out of the Highlands when we had the chance.'

It took only the few ill-judged words of an Englishman to send Hamish spiralling back towards the edge of the loch. Winter was coming. The scent of herbage, the season's last before winter assaulted his nostrils as he looked across at the mounds of stone on the edge of the water. His brothers and sisters lay cradled in the cold clay and rock of his homeland. Beyond him in their one-room hut lay his beloved mother, dead. His family had slaved for the English, died for the English.

Hamish flew from his seat, drew his hardened fist and struck Oscar Crawford in the cheek. There was a crunch, the bruising jar of skin, bone and gristle. The strength of the punch sent the older man tumbling to the ground where he struggled like a floundering yellow-belly, gasping for air. There was a startled gasp from the son. Hamish turned on him at once, readying his fist. Unexpectedly the youth cowered. ‘See what you have bred?' Hamish glowered at father and son before exiting the office. Barely halting in his stride, he barged past the returning servant, knocking the salver from his hands. Jasperson followed, sidestepping the spilt tea and smashed crockery.

‘Get the horses, McKenzie,' Hamish growled.

When Hamish turned to face his overseer the muscles around his jawline were bunched, a large vein throbbed powerfully in
his neck. ‘The day I take possession of Crawford Corner,' he spat through gritted teeth, ‘I will burn this house to the ground.'

The men mounted as one and rode out of the homestead garden. Jasperson let Hamish take the lead as they cantered off. ‘Now you will see how such men are made, McKenzie.' Jasperson's lip curled upwards as he nodded at the rider in front of them.