A Changing Land (26 page)

Sarah opened her eyes to a strip of light. She focused slowly, feeling a crick in her neck. The room was in semi-darkness and the light came from the bottom of the door, beyond which muffled laughter sounded. She straightened slowly in the chair, recalling a late lunch of packaged sandwiches, uncomfortable at her father's insistence at her staying in the room with her mother while he returned home to shower and change. Streetlights lit the drawn curtains behind her, footsteps sounded in the corridor. Sarah wanted to leave, yet she was aware that once she stepped beyond this room where the woman who should have loved her lay, she would not return. This would be the culmination of her long goodbye; one that had started many years ago.

Hesitantly Sarah walked to her mother's side. Vividly she recalled the day of her brother's death. The carrying of his body to the Wangallon dining room table and the outpouring of grief as they stood gazing in shock at his wrecked body. Her mother
had blamed her for Cameron's death because it was Sarah who had wanted to go riding that morning. And before that blame had been years of disinterest. Why? Because Sue Gordon loved and lost a man who was not her husband and then she lost her love child.

‘You should have loved me,' Sarah said bitterly to her mother. ‘You were so caught up in your own world that you lost something precious –' she reached over and flicked on the night light – ‘me.' In the soft light her mother looked almost serene. There was a curve to her lips and the vertical lines that fanned from her mouth in a web of disappointment had smoothed. Her eyes were closed, her breathing steady. ‘I needed love too. I needed your support.' Her mother's eyes opened so slowly that Sarah imagined her waking from a deep sleep, one that spanned hurt and betrayal and love. Despite the improbability of her mother returning from the mental abyss which engulfed her, Sarah leant forward and lifted her hand as if to test her mother's sight, although she doubted if Sue had any synapses left that could join form and reality.

‘She can see you.'

Her father stood beside her, a paper bag of takeaway in one hand, a thermos in the other. ‘It's time to let go of the past and move forward, Sarah,' he said wearily. ‘You need to do it for all our sakes.' He placed the items on the chair near him.

Sarah wanted to argue with him, yet somehow the words were already dissolving.

Ronald took her by the shoulders, turned her towards him. ‘She's not like you, Sarah. She never could be like you. Can't you forgive her?'

Sarah shook her head. ‘I can't Dad. At least not at this moment.' Too much had occurred in her life to date to make forgiving or forgetting easy. Maybe when she was older with a family of her own she would come to understand her mother's attitude, but not now. Everything still seemed so raw.

‘You will one day, Sarah.' Ronald moved a step closer to his wife's side. ‘In some respects I blame myself for your mother's troubled life,' Ronald revealed quietly. ‘She never loved Wangallon. She didn't fit into the bush.'

With her father's words Sarah understood the heart of her parents' troubled relationship. Her father loved Wangallon enough to spend nearly his entire life there while knowing his own father would never pass on the reins to the property. And he had loved Sue, wanted Sue, even knowing that his life was not for her. Sue's time on Wangallon had eaten away at her until the final irrevocable loss of her child, Cameron. Sarah suddenly understood that Sue Gordon had no room in her heart for her daughter because it was broken before Sarah was born.

‘She was a city girl,' Ronald said fondly. ‘Used to parties and socialising and getting dolled up to go out. She was beautiful when we married, Sarah. Fun and vibrant and everything a man could want.' He swallowed loudly. ‘I took her out to the bush and from day one she was like a plant that could never get enough water. I think she thought we'd live in the main homestead, have staff like my parents, visit Sydney regularly. Worst of all she grew bored; firstly with station life and then with me.' Ronald glanced at Sarah and then turned back to his wife. Sarah could feel her father's sadness. It filled the room.

Sarah knew her mother was dead. There was a small gasp, like an intake of collective breath at a cinema when the unexpected appears on the screen, then silence filled the room. She looked at the woman before her, watched her close down like a wilting flower. Sarah was ragged with exhaustion, however she wondered what Sue witnessed at her final crossing and who she would meet once she travelled to the other side. It would be Cameron, Sarah
surmised, and his father, Sue's lover: Reunited in death with the only people that mattered to her.

‘It's for the best.' Ronald sounded unconvinced. He wiped at his eyes and blew his nose loudly. Eventually he took his wife's hand and, kissing it gently, sat beside her on the bed. ‘I'll wait,' he said shakily, ‘while you bring the nurse. I don't want her to be left alone'.

Sarah nodded. There would be no burial for Sue Gordon at Wangallon. Her mother's wishes were for a cremation and for her ashes to be sprinkled around the rose garden at the crematorium. Even in death she would be apart from the Wangallon Gordons. Sarah kissed her father on the cheek and walked from the room without a final glance at her mother. There was no need to. She had said goodbye years ago. Despite her best intentions tears came to her eyes.

When Hamish did not return by the evening of New Year's Eve, Claire sent word to discover what had become of him. No one knew. Most of Wangallon's stockmen were out in the further corners of the property mustering Wangallon's cattle in readiness for the next drive south. By midday a feeling of nausea had settled in Claire's stomach. She'd never known her husband to miss a New Year's Day luncheon. She berated herself for being unable to eat, seethed at Hamish's selfish, uncaring attitude, and then the vomiting began. She blamed the phantom child for her sickness, and silently willed the brief painful cramps to continue when they stopped. She spent the afternoon lying on her bed, the dull heat layering her body with droplets of moisture. She was thirsty, yet her throat would not take the water she held to her lips. She found herself wishing for Luke, but he did not come. She sent word to Wetherly only to discover he too had vanished. She wished again for Luke and dry-retched at the guilt of it.

Only when darkness stripped her room of light did Claire rise.
She thought perhaps a little moistened bread may help, and a sip of sweet madeira. She wondered why Mrs Stackland had not come to check on her needs. As her bare feet padded on the polished floorboards, the object of her thoughts appeared before her. Mrs Stackland carried a tray of food, her puffy white face registering awkwardness.

‘Are you feeling better, Mrs Gordon? I've come twice to check on you and you've been asleep.'

‘What's this?'

Mrs Stackland glanced at the tray she carried. ‘He does not wish to be disturbed.' Both women glanced at the strip of dim light beneath the cedar door of Hamish's study.' Mrs Stackland was clearly uncomfortable. ‘He has much business to attend to.' Her voice softened. ‘You look unwell, Mrs Gordon.'

Claire grasped the tray gently. ‘I will take it to him.' She smiled gingerly at the older woman. She felt weak from her sickness, yet refused to allow the housekeeper to fulfil Hamish's request or usurp the consolation of duty. Mrs Stackland looked doubtful, yet released the tray into Claire's hands. The housekeeper knocked once on the study door, opening it so that Claire could enter, and then closed it behind her.

Claire sat the tray down on the desk. A lone candle gave off a yellowish light that flickered across a desk littered with papers. There was a lump of dirt sitting in the middle of a handkerchief that may once have been white, Hamish's gold fob watch and an empty cut crystal decanter. The immobile figure of her husband stood vigilant at the window. Beyond him a swathe of stars hung so close that Claire imagined being able to reach out and touch them. ‘Where have you been?' She lifted the silver food warmer from the dish beneath. Mrs Stackland had prepared jugged wallaby
accompanied by fresh damper and black tea. There was the slightest of noises and the sound drew her to the clasping and unclasping of Hamish's hands behind his back. She cleared her throat. She felt akin to an invader. ‘Hamish?'

‘I asked not to be disturbed,' he answered tersely. He turned slowly, and Claire caught a shadowy glimpse of his haggard face. The scent of sweat, horses and tobacco wafted across the desk to where she stood; familiar smells grown potent by time, dirt and tiredness.

‘I've not seen you these past two days.' Remembering she still held the silver food warmer, she covered the congealing food. ‘Hamish, I –'

Hamish struck his hand in his fist. ‘That is the dirt from my brother's grave.'

Claire flinched at his tone and supported herself on the armchair nearest her as he pointed to the filthy handkerchief.

‘Aye, I can feel your examination, Claire. You wonder that I have not mentioned such a keepsake when the closeness of our lives creates a compulsion in you to share, misguided as that may be.'

‘Misguided?' Claire recalled the innumerable times she'd been unable to draw him away from his ruminations and into conversation, into her world. Had her attempts been considered so trifling? She could feel the sickness seeping into her again, and with it a dulling sensation as if a dense cloud engulfed her.

‘We are so unalike, you and I, yet we coexist. Perhaps it has been the disparity of age between us, perhaps affection.' His voice faded, sounded unconvinced.

What was he telling her? That he no longer wanted her? While Claire was under no illusion as to the fractured state of their marriage, she was not one to be thrown aside.

He looked at her with the hard stare that would cut through a blanketing dust storm if he so wished. ‘You have grown used to the
routine of a respectable husband.' His words curled with disgust. ‘I tell you now that it is an illusion. It is an illusion that has been carefully cultivated and I myself have tilled the soil. I too wanted respectability, but there are those who will not give it, not to the likes of us at least. And I wonder now at this pandering of ours in the hopes of being accepted by polite society.'

‘Hamish, I don't –'

‘Lethargy brought on by success has made me forget my reasons for first coming to this new world.' His filthy forefinger prodded the handkerchief. ‘I did not come here to reach the giddy heights of society, knowing that our acceptance would be determined by the very people who helped destroy Scotland. I will not live by another's leave and that includes the condescension of those like the Crawfords.' He gave an exaggerated sigh. ‘I'm sure you were quite a pretty project for Oscar's wife. I'm sure that she tutted and tweaked with her friends about your less than admirable beginnings and I've no doubt they admire your transformation from settler's wife to Government House invitee. Tell me, Claire, is it not inane to you? It is to me. I have physically and mentally curtailed my nature in order to be accepted by society. Well, I tell you now I will not have it. I have few years left to make a mark on this world I have created and make a mark I will. There are those who will suffer for their treatment. This is a reckoning I will have.'

Claire was staring at him. Despite his disappointing first marriage, Hamish did believe in companionship and Claire was the most resilient and caring of the few women he'd known. Perhaps he'd been too hard on her. Sitting at his desk Hamish considered how to broach the gulf between them. Claire's coddled life should not cause him to feel resentful when he thought of his own dear mother, especially when Claire's greatest gift to the Gordon legacy was their son, Angus. Hamish formulated more kindly words and was endeavouring to articulate them when Claire left his study.

Removing the crystal stopper from the brandy decanter Hamish poured himself a good measure of the amber liquid. He drank the fluid down in one gulp, poured another glass and settled himself in his chair. He stabbed at the jugged wallaby with a fork, slurping at the rubbery juices, pausing to lick his fingers. He hoped Lee managed to provide him with a little entertainment later. He was sorely in need of some. Pushing his tea tray aside, he unfurled a yellowing map that showed the Wangallon River as a series of finely pencilled squiggles, a watery boundary between Wangallon and Crawford Corner. Hamish traced the waterway closely. He added a series of small circles where the timber grew too thick to pass and then drew a line that crossed the river from one side to the other. This was the only known point that was shallow enough to cross. They'd been diligent in their reconnaissance, checking the riverbank and surrounding bushland. Boxer believed there had been rains further north earlier in the month, however Hamish witnessed no rise on their return from Crawford Corner. As long as no more rain fell they were assured of safe passage.

Jasperson, McKenzie and Boxer were already in Wangallon Town. From there they would ride north-west to cross the river at Widow's Nest and continue on until they circumnavigated Crawford Corner. Crawford ran a fine herd of cattle on his far western boundary and it was these animals that Hamish now targeted. Once they managed to get past the boundary riders they would simply drive the mob east. With luck they would be across the river before dawn, before Crawford began berating his unfortunate manservant for his late breakfast. Hamish slammed his fist in his palm, gulped at his brandy in anticipation. He would be waiting with Luke to take delivery of the stolen cattle on the Wangallon side of the river.

With the concentration of a man convinced of the rightness of his task, Hamish took the large almanac down from a library shelf and sat the volume on his desk. He turned the pages, slowly
reaching the calendar section that was marked with a silk tasselled bookmark. Beneath the neat squares showing each month's dates, there was a bordered section showing the phases of the moon. It was this that Hamish referred to constantly, for the illuminated passage of a full moon was the only means for man and beast to travel at night. Jasperson and his team had to reach the far boundary of Crawford Corner on the brightest night of the month. It also meant they had little time to waste. Hamish wasn't of the disposition to wait another full month before he could seek retribution.

Tomorrow his men would cross the river at Widow's Nest, by night they would be on Crawford's property and by the almanac's reckoning the night would give them safe passage. Besides which, Boxer was with them, assuring the expedition that at the very least they would be able to find their way back home. Hamish closed the almanac and rested a large thick hand on the cover. Now all that was left to do was to send for Luke. He would want the boy ready to move in four days with the mob. Hamish intended incorporating Crawford's cattle with his own sale mob and no one would be the wiser. With a satisfied belch, he located his pipe and the makings for it and walked out onto the verandah. He was almost ready for a strong cup of tea.

Dawn was still some time away. The scent of grass and smoke from the kitchen hearth mingled in a manner Hamish considered to be quite homely and he walked out across the gravel drive to a stand of box trees. The world had changed, and Crawford was about to learn a lesson or two about the new world he now had the misfortune to inhabit next to Wangallon.

Claire lay on her bed in her chemise. There was a drift of noise seeping through the darkening rooms from the gradually quieting
kitchen, the sound of footsteps on the verandah, the shutting of a door. She imagined Mole by an English river, everything so cool and green and fresh, a breeze blowing. She dabbed cologne on her lace handkerchief and patted her wrists and forehead. How she longed for the coolness of a sea breeze, any breeze. Yet finding such relief could only come from a bone-jarring coach ride of many long, tiring days. Something was scrambling on the roof. There was the patter of feet similar to the scattering of leaves. Claire followed the noise with her eyes, imagining the creature stalking backwards and forwards beneath a warp of spinning stars.

The last spasm had left her quite faint. She gazed down over the sloping mounds of her breasts to where the gentle swelling of life she had so rashly hated now lay dormant. It was beyond her as to how the pains could come without a final exiting of her unborn baby.

The unmistakable tap of Mrs Stackland's knuckles was followed by the woman's entry into her bedroom. Without waiting for approval she pushed the door wider with her ample hip and sat a tray on the edge of Claire's bed.

‘You'll be excusing me, Mrs Gordon, however it's high time you took a little nourishment. There's mutton broth, a slice of bread and a glass of madeira.'

Claire glanced at the tray and nodded her thanks.

‘And I've brought you some Beecham's pills. Now I know you've been poorly, what with the recent kafuffle, and Mr Beecham is just the thing for whatever ails you. Wind, stomach pain, indigestion, insomnia, vomiting, sickness of the stomach, scurvy, heat flushings, liver complaints, lowness of spirits …' Mrs Stackland raised a scraggly eyebrow. ‘Well here you are then.' She tipped two pills from the glass bottle and handed them to Claire, administering water from the glass on the bedside table as if she were a nurse. ‘Now you swallow those. Mark my words, you'll be feeling better in the morning.'